The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

  Katje's mouth twitched into a small, slightly bitter smile. "Is the nature of the beast," she said. "No one wanted to believe in concentration camps at first, either. We have so much evidence -- they can't disbelieve forever." She didn't sound like she fully believed that, though.

  "If we're gonna convince them, we've got work to do." Miranda stood. "Get cracking."

  Ratiri hobbled out into the corridor, fighting a very Lorna-esque urge to kick something. He'd been naïve enough to think their nightmare would be over once they'd escaped, but they still faced persecution. Would it never end?

  He needed more food and coffee, if he was going to be able to do this. One of the hospital's staff lounges had both, and he ate a few donuts while he tried to calm his temper. He'd never really had a temper before the Institute -- it was just one more thing he would never thank Von Ratched for. Christ, he needed Lorna -- she calmed him as nothing else could, and vice versa. If he had her, he could face anything.

  Katje was looking at him with deep concern. She might not be an empath, but she was more astute at reading people than he liked. "Ratiri, I need to know if you will fall apart on this," she said, sipping her coffee. "I would not blame you if you do, but I need to know now. I do not want you to break."

  The strength of this woman never ceased to surprise him. He'd seen it in her aura, but there was a depth of steel in her that even her aura didn't give away. She was the only one of the four who had really started recovering from the Institute, and she was doing it with a vengeance. Not for the first time, Ratiri wondered why she hid it so well, why she let the world think she was little more than an air-headed hedonist.

  "I'll manage," he said. "I have to. We all do."

  "Von Ratched did more to you than to most of us," Katje pointed out. "Well, except maybe Wrigley, and he is a mess. Do not play He-Man."

  "You're a bit young to know who He-Man is," he said, by way of dodging the subject.

  She snorted. "Do not leave point," she ordered. "If I let you fall apart, Lorna will kill everyone when she get here. You take care of yourself, Ratiri Duncan. You are still human."

  Was he? Smell, vision, and hearing were all superhuman, in a sense. He was territorial in a way he'd never been, too -- not about a place, but about the people in his life. Add in that unfortunately savage instinct, and Ratiri wasn't sure what he was.

  Myself, he thought. He didn't quite know who that self was anymore, but he'd better figure it out in a hurry. He couldn't leave the other three in the lurch while performing their interviews.

  "I'll be fine," he assured Katje. "And if that starts changing, I'll let you know."

  She gave him a smile, one of her radiant Katje smiles that was like a sunbeam. "Good. And when we have time, I will help you with your apartment. Lorna does not need to move into a mess."

  Somehow, that idea did more good than any reassurances Geezer might give Ratiri. It made it a little easier to face the task ahead.

  ----

  The next morning, Lorna forced herself to move. She still felt weak as a kitten, and her leg and shoulder hurt like a bitch, but she had to keep going.

  The huge wolf went with her, padding at her side like a gigantic dog as they followed the creek south. Sticking close to it meant there was less undergrowth to struggle through, and it was going more or less in the right direction. She must be quite a sight, a tiny, scruffy woman alongside an animal whose back came up to her waist, limping her way along with a walking-stick much bigger than her.

  It didn't take long for her to reach a kind of numb Zen-state, where the pain became a background throb, but the whatever-it-was she’d caught from the water had taken such a toll on her that she had to rest about every ten minutes. Despite the chilly morning, she was sweaty with exertion, her steps even more faltering and unsteady than usual, and by the time the sun was high she was so dizzy she had to sit with her head between her knees.

  "Well, fuck." Lorna wasn't so used to feeling so very weak. She was the kind of person who rarely got sick -- the last time she'd felt this awful was a bout of pneumonia she'd suffered when she was twenty-nine. Maybe the rest of this day was going to be shot after all.

  The wolf nuzzled at her hair, and when she glanced up she saw it looking at her with what was unmistakably worry.

  "Sorry," she said. "I know I'm slow, but sure God I can't keep going right now." She might have managed if it was just the water-bacteria, but it coupled with everything else was just too much to handle.

  When she looked up at the sky, she saw clouds moving in. So far there were only a few, puffy and white, but she knew just enough about weather patterns to think it might be best to find somewhere to build actual shelter. It was possible she'd be looking at snow by nightfall, and she really didn't want to deal with that without some kind of roof over her head. There were more than enough branches for her to weave together, if she could summon the energy.

  The wolf nuzzled her hair again, and gave her a concerned whine. It was odd, how very quickly she'd adjusted to the creature's presence at her side -- she no longer found it at all unnerving.

  It crouched down, giving her an inquisitive look, and Lorna realized it wanted her to ride it, like some odd, lethal cousin of a horse.

  "You sure about that, mate?" she asked. True, it was huge and she definitely wasn't, but she was still afraid she'd crush the poor thing if she sat on it.

  If it had eyebrows, she thought it might have raised them at her. "It's your back," she said, abandoning her walking-stick. She could easily get another later.

  Clambering onto the wolf's back was difficult, and she had to practically lay along it to ease her dizzy head, but it trotted off like she weighed nothing at all. Hell, maybe she didn't -- she'd been light enough to begin with, and she'd probably dropped more weight in the last weeks. Stress always had done that to her.

  The wolf's fur was coarse, unlike anything she'd ever felt, and it moved with the smoothness of water. She actually dozed a little on its back, grateful beyond words for the opportunity to rest.

  She didn't even realize they'd left the line of the creek until the beast halted. When she raised her head, she found the clouds had swamped the sky, a leaden grey so heavy they obscured the sunset. Shit.

  Somehow she managed to climb off the wolf's back, her legs unsteady and trembling from hunger. She looked around, eyes straining in the dusk, and when she turned, she knew why the wolf had brought her here.

  They were at the base of a lookout tower, no doubt used by rangers in fire season. It had likely been unused for some time, but it looked sound from this angle, and Lorna laughed out of sheer relief.

  "Thank you," she said, and the wolf actually licked her gloved hand before disappearing into the forest.

  Climbing the ladder was the hardest thing she'd ever done, and she had to pause halfway up. Only the sting of tiny snowflakes on her face got her going again, giving her the impetus she needed. The trapdoor was locked, but her telekinesis took care of that.

  She lay on the floor a while once she was inside, catching her breath. It was cold in here, and it smelled faintly musty, but she was out of the snow. It could come down as heavy as it liked, now.

  Eventually she hauled herself upright to inspect her shelter, or what little of it she could see in the dark. It was a little room with huge windows on all sides, with enough space for a bunk, woodstove, cupboard, and not much else. And, wonder of wonders, an old-fashioned water-pump.

  She found a big Coleman lantern in the cupboard, as well as a stack of freeze-dried food. By the lantern's light she managed to build a fire in the woodstove, using kindling from the small woodpile along one wall. When it was hot enough, she made some soup in a battered steel pot, adding what was left of the meat in her pockets. Nothing had ever tasted so good, and once she'd boiled some water, she drank until she could drink no more.

  "Thank bloody God," she sighed. Tomorrow she'd take a sponge bath, and wash some of her clothing as best she could. For now, she was co
ntent to collapse on the bunk, and sleep like the dead.

  She didn’t know she’d fallen fully asleep until she realized she was dreaming. It had to be a dream; it was too damned weird to be anything else.

  There was still forest around her, but it was a dead, barren forest, glowing weirdly against a starless sky black as ink. The air was still and heavy and silent as the grave, but she wasn’t alone. Someone -- or something -- was watching her, and though the gaze did not feel hostile, it was more than a little disconcerting.

  “Hello?” she called, turning slowly. The trees were like skeletons, bleached bone-white, and they glittered strangely, as though coated with ice. Despite that it was comfortably warm, the warmth of a drowsy summer afternoon. “Is anybody there?”

  No answer. Whatever was out there didn’t want to reveal itself, for whatever reason. “C’mon, I know you’re there.”

  Something flickered in the trees, a shadow in this shadowless place. Others followed, flitting images that darted at the edges of her vision.

  “Hey,” she called. “Hey, wait.” There was nothing frightening about the shadows, and as she watched they gradually took on more detail, gaining form and color. They swirled and danced, snatches of visions that jerked past her bewildered eyes. People, things -- she caught a glimpse of Mairead, and her grandmother, and her nieces and nephews -- her old rickety bus, painted and covered in bumper-stickers -- the tumbledown house she’d grown up in -- a brief flash of her mother--

  --and then Liam, standing still and quite solid before her, smiling faintly in the silvery light. He wore what he had been wearing when she’d last seen him, the day of the accident -- torn jeans, worn blue flannel, and an Ozzy T-shirt that had clearly seen better days. His dishwater hair hung long over his collar, his bright blue eyes gentle as he looked at her.

  “Liam?” she breathed, incredulous. “Bloody God, are you really here?”

  He nodded, but still did not speak. Lorna ran up to him, ready to embrace him, but he stopped her.

  “Remember,” he said softly, touching her forehead with his index finger. “Remember now, Lorna.”

  And, finally, she did. Her great mental barrier, the wall that had so confounded Von Ratched, crumbled like an overwhelmed dam, and all she had worked so hard to repress came flooding back.

  They were on the motorway, she and Liam in their old battered van, driving through the sheeting, sleety rain on the way to Mairead’s to break their news. She was laughing, suggesting ridiculous baby names, and Liam was laughing with her as they approached the bridge that spanned the Shannon. The van was warm, heater blasting and fogging up the windows as Liam reached over to squeeze her hand.

  And then, in an instant, everything went to hell.

  They hit something slippery -- oil, ice, something -- and the van spun out of control, tires screeching as it slammed into the barrier and smashed through. There was an instant of screaming, gut-wrenching terror, and then they were in the water, the icy, deadly water and deep currents of the Shannon.

  Lorna screamed -- she knew that much, out of all the whirling confusion -- and kicked her door open. She reached to grab Liam, and found he wasn’t in his seat -- he’d gone straight into the windscreen, and even through her panic she saw the blood that marred the crackled safety glass. On pure reflex she seized his arm, dragging them both out of the van as the frigid water poured in.

  It seemed to take ages to reach the surface, as she kicked desperately, doing her best to haul Liam’s dead weight. Just when it seemed her lungs must burst she reached the surface, one leg throbbing in with agony, her ribs feeling like they’d been hit with a mallet. She heaved Liam out of the river, onto the slippery, ice-crusted grass, coughing up the water that had invaded her lungs. Liam was choking worse than she was, but at least he was breathing, retching as his lungs fought to clear themselves.

  Lorna tried to stand, to drag them both to higher ground, but her leg exploded in white-hot agony and collapsed beneath her-- she’d broken it, and hadn’t realized it until then, when she was out of the frigid water. Her ribs too were afire with pain, and when she spat out water it was tinted pink.

  “Christ, Liam,” she gasped, reaching for him. “Damn leg’s broken…’ve got to crawl. C’mon, we’ve got to get out'v here.”

  But Liam wasn’t moving -- he was breathing, but he wasn’t moving, and coldness that had nothing to do with the rain filled her chest. “Liam?”

  His eyes opened and found her, glazed with shock. “Can’t…move,” he’d said, the words a choking, breathless gasp, and now that she looked at him, really looked at him, she saw that his neck was twisted at an almost impossible angle. She didn’t know how he could be alive, but he was, staring up at her in dazed confusion. “Lorna…I can’t feel…”

  She stared at him in horror, but only for an instant, and reached out to brush the sodden hair from his forehead with one aching, bloodless hand. “It’s all right,” she whispered, still coughing. “Someone’ll come along soon, an’ find us….”

  She trailed off. She could crawl to the highway, but she doubted she could get much further than that, and she wouldn’t leave Liam alone down here. Even if she made it to the road, it wouldn’t do her any good unless someone came along, and if they did they’d see the broken barrier easily enough. She couldn’t leave him, and she couldn’t have moved him even if her leg hadn’t been broken -- with his neck as badly broken as it was, it was a wonder he was still alive, and if she moved him she’d almost certainly kill him.

  “Somebody’ll come,” she said, shivering as she lay beside him. “Somebody’ll come soon, an’ see where we wrecked -- they’ll find us, allanah. We just have to wait.”

  Liam looked at her, and she saw in his eyes that he knew better, but he didn’t gainsay her. It was an awful night -- few people would be out if they could help it, and it could be hours before anyone else came by. But he let her soothe him, as much for her benefit as his own, and they lay together in the sleet as the darkness slowly deepened.

  Until morning they lay there, and in those torturous hours Lorna slipped in and out of consciousness. She could feel herself draining away, life leeching out of her much like her warmth, leaving her exhausted and ready to let go of the last tenuous threads that held her. The pain had subsided into numbness, and even the cold didn’t bite anymore; a kind of dozy warmth had enveloped her, until it was too much effort even to keep her eyes open.

  Something touched her, something as warm and comforting as the mother’s touch she had not felt in years. Her eyes opened, and she found herself staring up at the most unusual face she had ever seen. It was a woman’s face, ebony-black, with eyes of clearest amber that gazed down at her with mingled comfort and sorrow -- Amadai.

  “Not yet, Lorna.” The words were soft, barely more than a soothing whisper, with an underlying note of command. “Your time has not yet come, little Lorna. There is much you have yet to do.”

  A hand rested on her forehead, smooth and warm, and one by one images coalesced out of her fog of weariness.

  High tundra, sunny and awash with wildflowers, snow-capped mountains looming in the distance--

  --wolves, running and snapping at one another in play--

  --darkness, filled with the susurration of wind through massive trees--

  --a garden, green and peaceful, filled with the light of a golden sunrise--

  --eyes, flat and grey and cold, staring at her with unblinking intensity and a ferocious, churning sea of conflicting emotions--

  --more darkness, this time broken only by starshine, the air filled with the thudding gait of many running feet--

  --a man, tall and handsome and gentle, smiling at her beneath a flowered trellis--

  --another man, old beyond his years, sitting pensive on a balcony with a cigarette in hand--

  --a woman, a tall, beautiful blonde Valkyrie of a woman, laughing at some unheard jest--

  --a giant crowd, standing at the base of a towering building, bearing poster-
board signs and chanting--

  --another crowd, this one much calmer, bearing candles that glowed bright against the encroaching gloom--

  And, last and clearest of all, two children, small and black-haired, playing beneath a weeping willow, the long grass about them gilded silver in the afternoon sunshine.

  The soothing voice broke through her reverie, scattering the visions like smoke.

  “Forget, Lorna,” it said softly. “Forget, and keep it safe, and remember when memory is needed.” Again a gentle touch on her forehead, brushing the sleet-soaked hair from her face--

  --and then she woke, really woke, breathing hard in the warm darkness.

  For a very long while Lorna lay, motionless but for her trembling, staring with eyes unfocused at the rough ceiling. Night gave way to pale, snow-dimmed dawn and still she lay, her beleaguered mind attempting to digest the massive chunk of memory that had just been dumped upon it. It was too big, too shockingly, inhumanly big for her to comprehend right away, and she took refuge in inanity as only she knew how.

  “Well,” she said, he voice cracking, speaking to even she knew not whom, “and what the hell was that, now?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Von Ratched was beginning to have doubts. Quite a few of them.

  He'd had enough time to himself to start re-evaluating…well, everything. He still firmly believed Lorna had to die for her own sake, but he was no longer certain he wished for death himself. Yes, he'd destroyed the only potentially good thing in his life, but did he really have it in him to commit suicide? He'd spent far too long valuing his own life over everything else to be sure.

  At another bolt-hole, he'd finally broken down and bathed, washing away his blood and Lorna's. He even took care of his wounds, something he hadn't bothered with until now. That, more than anything, told him he did indeed want to live. Even if he didn't yet know why.

  He smeared some antibiotic salve onto the wound at his neck. While it might be too late, he'd started a course of erythromycin, hoping to kill whatever bacteria her teeth might have introduced. Now that he was clean, fed, and wearing fresh clothes, he was angry. Still with himself, but also with Lorna.