Transmigration

by Nicholas Maes

  They’d passed through security and hurried to their gate, looking furtively around to ensure no bolkh was watching. It was only when the plane had left and Vancouver had faded to a speck in the distance that the group had finally settled back. To call less attention to the group, Jenny was at the rear of the craft, while Emma and Clara were seated up front.

  Now that he had slept and they were crossing the Atlantic, Simon was waiting for Emma’s explanation.

  “So ask her,” a voice prompted him. This was Clara speaking. Simon was shocked. He’d never heard her talk before, not like this. She was a mute, as far as he knew, so how could she be speaking like a normal person?

  “You’re right. I can’t,” she said, cluing in to his thoughts. “Not if it means really speaking to people. But I can talk when you’re inside me, or when I’m inside someone else.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”

  “Emma will explain. Ask her anything you want.”

  “How?”

  “She’s been drinking,” Clara said.

  This told him everything. Emma was getting drunk so he could jump inside and converse with her internally. Wondering if the booze had loosened her enough, he vacated Clara and leapt at his nanny. Oof. It took him several tries and his hold was weak, but he did manage to break inside her.

  “Hello dear,” she said. “So here we are.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so tell me what you want to know.”

  “Everything,” Simon gasped, struggling hard to stay in place. Still, the more she drank, the stronger his perch would become. “Who is Tarhlo? What’s he up to? Why’s he anxious to kidnap Clara? Who are these ghosts? Why is Jenny here? And why couldn’t I bring my body along? I’m leaving all my family behind. Why do I have to abandon it too?”

  “I’ll explain what I can,” Emma said gently, “but there are many things I still don’t know. And I’m afraid you’re in for a bit of a shock.”

  “I’m used to shocks,” Simon replied. “Look at everything that’s happened.”

  “Okay,” Emma said, smiling brightly. “let’s start at the beginning. Eighteen years ago I was working in a Halifax store. One day a guy named Terry walked in. We got to talking and he asked me on a date. I was happy to say yes. He’d been everywhere and done everything, never mind he was barely twenty. We clicked and saw a lot of each other. In fact, a few months later he popped the question. Of course I accepted, fool that I was.”

  She reached for her cup. Her hand was shaking and Simon held it steady, otherwise the Scotch would have spilled all over.

  “Our life together was pleasant but strange. For one thing, Terry had peculiar friends: drunks, bums, and injured people. And birds, squirrels, cats, and mice were always lounging on our window ledge. Terry refused to shoo them away. But the oddest part was how he’d sometimes collapse. He’d lock our room and lie down for hours, his eyes wide open, his body stiff as a board. The first time this happened I was sure he was dead.”

  “Does this Terry go by the name of Tarhlo?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s very tough.”

  “Yes. But he treated me well. Especially when he found out I was pregnant. He screamed for joy and danced all over and kept saying, almost drunkenly, that he’d been waiting forever for news like this. Our neighbours almost called the police.”

  The stewardess appeared with the drink cart again. Emma ordered a Coke for Clara and asked for another shot of whisky. The woman was startled — Emma didn’t look like a drinker. Still, she poured the drink and handed it over. When Emma sipped it, Simon’s perch grew firmer.

  “Then the strangest thing happened eight months later,” she said, grimacing at the taste of the Scotch. “I was huge by then, believe me. Terry served me lunch and I got all dopey. Thinking back, I’m sure he drugged my soup. I dozed off and … it’s hard to describe, but I swear a ghost broke into my body. I even heard it speak from far away, ‘You really do have twins,’ it said. ‘The girl must be a hamax.’ When this spirit left, another came in, then a third, a fourth, and lots of others. It was like having a tour group stroll inside me. When I awoke I described this dream to Terry. ‘That’s the last time I serve you barley soup,’ he joked.”

  “Where do I come in?” Simon asked. The tale was interesting but he was growing restless.

  “I’m getting there,” Emma said with a giggle. “I wound up giving birth at home. That was Terry’s idea. He said he hated doctors and his friend would help. She was a half-dead hag with rotting teeth. She’d been tending me for six months and seemed competent enough. But I was expecting twins, on account of that dream. That’s why I was saddened when only a girl emerged. Although she was gorgeous, Clara was, and alert and strong and very healthy.”

  She sipped her drink. Simon couldn’t see her face, but he could feel tears were streaming down her cheeks. He was worried she’d attract someone’s notice.

  “I can’t describe Terry’s reaction. He couldn’t sit still and kept howling with joy, again and again, driving the neighbours crazy. He even threw a party for his pals, the drunks and kooks and homeless souls. Just think of it. I’d given birth and his first thought was to whoop it up. He even forced some booze on me, insisting it would lift my spirits. It’s lucky he did. Because of that drink I heard Clara speak. Can you imagine? There I was, huddled in a chair, when she addressed me in an adult’s voice, except that she was four hours old. ‘Mama,’ she said, ‘it’s your daughter speaking. Listen closely because this is crucial. I’m not your only child. You gave birth to a son. He’s floating inside me in spirit form. We must run away. Terry is dangerous and planning to hurt lots of people. Leave tonight and never come back.’ I thought the booze was making me crazy, but she said it was prying me open, and that’s why I could understand her. Repeating her warning to run away, she persuaded me to take her advice.”

  Emma paused as some turbulence hit the plane. For a moment it shook violently and a group of passengers yelped in fear. Emma merely smiled and took her drink in hand to ensure it didn’t slip from the tray. When the plane levelled out, she quickly continued.

  “I fled that very day, when Terry’s back was turned. I phoned my brother Earl to explain everything. On Clara’s advice I told him to leave. When Terry discovered that I’d run away he would threaten to hurt Earl unless I returned. I also told Earl I’d be in touch — through the poste restante in Montreal. And that was that. I slipped away. I flew to St. John’s, Chicago, New York City, and crossed the continent in stages by bus, before eventually settling down in Vancouver.”

  “Tell me more about your brother. Did he have any kids?”

  “His daughter’s with us,” Emma thrust a thumb in Jenny’s direction, “but he’ll tell his own story when we see him later. Let me finish up. You know the next part, how your mom and I met. She was driving late at night when she banged into a pole.”

  “You delivered me, sure.”

  “Yes and no. I delivered the baby. As I held it, Clara spoke.”

  “How did you hear her?”

  “I was drinking,” she confessed. “For the very same reason I’m drinking now. It was the only way I could talk to her. Anyway, she said we had to help her brother. If her dad tracked her down, he’d catch both twins at once. ‘We have to save him,’ she insisted.

  “I asked her how and she told me to choke the baby — not too hard but hard enough. I told her I couldn’t choke a baby, but she insisted. It was the only way for her brother to be safe. She said he’d take the baby over and no one would find him.”

  “Why would she say that? A kaba can’t jump into a body that’s full …”

  Simon hit upon the answer himself. Cletho had mentioned something about limnls, kabas who had taken over newborns. In the hour after birth, he’d said, a newborn is weak and easy to expel.

  “Go on,” he said. “I understand.”

  “I had no choice,” Emma continued, swallowing hard. “Clara was screaming at me to ch
oke the baby before it got too strong. I told her I couldn’t and she yelled at me to drink more whisky. I always carried a bottle then, so she and I could talk together. I took three swallows. The booze allowed her to control my hands and I watched in horror as they made for the newborn. I tried to stop them but they squeezed its throat. They squeezed and squeezed until the baby turned blue.”

  “Is everything okay, ma’am?” A stewardess was carrying a bag for garbage. She looked concerned because Emma was crying.

  “I’m fine,” Simon heard her say, from a million miles off. “I’m just sad to be leaving the west coast behind.”

  “At least you have your daughter with you.”

  “Yes. I’m very lucky.”

  “And if you don’t mind my saying, you’ve had enough to drink.”

  With a nod Emma lifted her cup and dropped it in the garbage. When the stewardess moved on she spoke again, “I’ll make this quick, before the Scotch wears thin. Clara was right, you know. The newborn was weakened and her twin slipped in.”

  “What about him? The newborn, I mean.”

  “He was robbed. It wasn’t nice but I had to put my son first.”

  “So his kaba melted? The newborn died?”

  “No. Didn’t you see him? When you entered Clara?”

  Again the answer struck. The kaba inside Clara who’d avoided his approach? It belonged to the newborn. It had been lying in Clara all these years, since the night his mother had crashed her car. But if that was so …

  It was as if someone had struck him with a brick.

  “That means …” he whispered.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said. “You’re not Simon Carpenter. You’re Carl Kalkin. I’m your mother and Terry, or Tarhlo, is your father. That body in the airport? It was never yours to begin with. It was his, the real Simon, who, after years of waiting, got his property back.”

  Simon was reeling. He’d guessed that there were gaps in his past, but it was shocking to learn that the people who’d raised him, fed him, praised him, cherished him, loved him, these people weren’t his blood relations. He shook his head. He wasn’t Simon Carpenter. Everything he’d assumed about himself? It was false. All of it.

  Emma was speaking in a rush, aware the booze was wearing off. She’d been hired by the Carpenters, who’d required a nanny and invited her in. Clara had lived with them the first three years. While Clara had many talents, she was far from normal. For one thing, she was mute. There was also a good chance that Tarhlo would find her and Emma if they were seen in public together. That was why she’d been sent to a home, on the grounds that she was severely autistic. This precaution allowed Emma to watch over Carl. The plan had worked for sixteen years, until Simon had brought that rabbit home.

  “You have reason to be angry,” she spoke from a distance as the booze dried up and Simon’s perch started slipping, “but my actions were designed to keep you safe. And even if Terry does catch us now, he can’t rob me of the years we’ve spent together. In other words, I have no regrets … no regrets … do you hear?”

  Simon’s grip was weakening. He still had lots of questions to ask — who was Terry, or Tarhlo, exactly? What sort of shatl had he approached Emma in? And how had a bolkh gotten a lura pregnant? But the booze had evaporated and she could hold him no longer. After circling the cabin a couple of times, he resumed his “seat” in Clara’s depths and used her eyes to glance outside.

  They were over the Atlantic and caught inside a cloudbank. It was difficult to catch their bearings, to tell up from down and north from south. The same was true of him, he figured. He had no idea what his next step was and no longer had anything like a home to return to. All his foundations had been upended. How would this end? What would he do?

  “Don’t worry,” a voice comforted him. “You’re not on your own. Whatever happens, brother, I’ll be there to share it with you.”

  Clara. He nodded and felt a touch better. And before he could dwell on his worries again she started swaying back and forth, until the rhythm gradually soothed his nerves and bit by bit rocked him to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From inside Clara, Simon scanned the crowd. They were standing in the arrivals hall at Schiphol airport, after waiting an hour to clear Dutch customs. The guard had asked them the usual questions, the purpose of their trip, whom they were meeting, and where they were planning to stay in Holland. His tone was cold and officious until Jenny addressed him in fluent Dutch. Smiling in delight, he let them through. Simon was shocked. In all the years he’d seen her at school, he’d heard her speak a dozen words at most. Yet she spoke a foreign language. Go figure.

  “So,” Emma said, “where’s my brother?”

  Other travellers were being greeted by their loved ones. A dad dropped his bags to scoop up an infant. A small Chinese woman hugged a towheaded giant. Siblings embraced, friends embraced, spouses embraced, parents hugged children. A young guy, Simon’s age, was greeted with squeals by his parents and siblings, as a dachshund danced excitedly around him. Inside Clara, Simon flinched. He was thinking the Carpenters weren’t tied to him now. That uncle who was supposed to be picking them up? Simon hadn’t known that he existed until yesterday.

  “I can’t see him,” Emma said.

  “Me either,” Jenny added.

  “But I guess that’s the point. He doesn’t want to be seen. Unless …”

  She left this thought unspoken. Now that they had landed in Europe, their prospects seemed hopeless. They were far removed from everything familiar and had only four hundred Euros, which wouldn’t take them far. Emma had a bank card and could withdraw cash from ATMs, but that would keep them going for a few weeks at best. The worst part was they were being pursued and would never know if some bolkh was watching. They were alone, vulnerable, in very great danger — and returning home was out of the question.

  “Where is he?” Emma demanded with a hint of panic.

  No sooner had she spoken than a figure emerged from the thick of the crowd. The man was common looking. He wasn’t tall or short, fat or skinny, his face was bland, his bearing average. He was wearing a plain suit of clothes and toting a blue, beaten-up knapsack. Overall he was … nondescript. If Simon hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed this gent completely.

  “Is that him?” he spoke from inside Clara. “Ask your mom.”

  “She’s your mom too,” Clara replied. She squeezed Emma’s hand and pointed out the stranger. Emma almost screamed with joy. The man made eye contact, nodded curtly, then wheeled and walked off. The women quickly followed behind.

  He led them along a polished hall, pausing at a flower stand so that they could keep up. He then passed outside and entered a walkway that, after a hundred metres, ended in a parking lot. He climbed a flight of concrete steps. When they joined him on the second floor he was seated in a Citroën, which was (if possible) as nondescript as he was. The group entered the car without saying a word.

  “Welcome everyone,” Earl finally spoke, manoeuvring his way toward the parking lot’s exit. Now that Simon had a better view, he saw that Earl looked a lot like Emma. His hair was russet, his eyes a deep coral.

  “It’s great to see you,” Emma said, her voice suddenly tearful. “I just wish the occasion were a happier one.”

  “We take what we get,” her brother replied, handing money to a parking attendant. “But look at you.”

  He said this to Jenny who was seated beside him. Although Simon could only view her from the side — Clara was seated directly behind Earl — he could tell his cousin was beaming. He couldn’t believe it. Jenny Frobisher was actually smiling! She was also squeezing her father’s hand so hard that Simon could hear the bones crack. He was suddenly ashamed of his recent moping. This pair hadn’t seen each other in over six years and had clearly had it much rougher than him.

  “Clara, I can’t believe how beautiful you look,” Earl said, glancing into the rear-view mirror. “And it’s nice to meet you, Simon, assuming you
can hear me, that is.” These greetings done, his expression hardened. “Okay. We have a schedule to keep. I want to sleep near Paris and the drive is long. I also have some errands to run.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Emma asked. “No one’s on our tail.”

  “It’s just a matter of hours,” Earl replied, as he steered them onto a smaller highway. “The bolkhs will have spotted Simon’s shatl at the airport and guessed you boarded a plane for Europe. Tarhlo knows I live over here and will assume we’re joining forces. I’ve studied the different airline schedules: they tell me his agents will be landing within hours, in London, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, and Paris. Word will spread and things will get hairy.”

  “Hairy?”

  “You’ll see what I mean. Right now we have some business to tend to.”

  He took his hand from Jenny’s and focused on the road. They had left the airport’s precinct and were in the country. The scenery was different and Simon looked at it with interest. The land was flat (so unlike Vancouver) and divided into tidy fields with lines of trees planted on their edges, to act as windbreaks, Simon assumed. The sun was out but there were clouds all over, big, white, friendly ones. They crossed a canal — one of dozens. The grass on its banks was lusciously green and home to families of ducks and geese.

  “Where’re we going?” Emma asked.

  “To Haarlem. It’s close. After you phoned, I saw this item in the paper.”

  “Oh? Saying what?”

  Instead of answering, Earl motioned to some sheep on their left. They were fat, healthy, and contented looking. Emma nodded and said the scene was peaceful.

  “That’s the point,” Earl explained. He wanted them to recall this sight so that they’d notice the change when things got hairy. “Our lives might depend on it,” he added sternly.

  “I like him,” Clara whispered to Simon.