Sick Teen

by Jon Jacks

  With a crook of a finger, she indicates that I should follow her into the back of the shop.

  ‘You’ve had hints of what some of your powers are–’

  ‘Weaving baskets?’ I interrupt rudely.

  – ‘but inwardly you’re too caught up within the rules of your world to accept and interpret them correctly.’

  She leads me past the room were the tattoos are etched, heading farther down the dim and narrow corridor towards what turns out to be a locked door. Opening the door with a large key, she shows me into the room, insisting I enter first.

  Inside the room there’s a large table.

  And laid out neatly upon that tables there’s an ancient broadsword, along with a bow and quiver of arrows.

  *

  ‘The work of Koshar, the master craftsman!’ she announces proudly as I marvel at the work that’s gone into each arrow, let alone the magnificently engraved sword.

  The feathers have been dyed, a glorious purple that reminds me of the colour of my birthmark.

  The bow’s all tenderly formed wood, polished to a wonderful sheen.

  The sword and its sheath, well; King Arthur would hand over Excalibur for it any day of the week.

  The blade shimmers, all these rainbow tints flickering along it. There are a number of symbols engraved there too, weaving in between an inscription; and one of them, strangely, is a whirl, a snailshell-like design, that reminds me once again of my birthmark.

  I pick up the sword, amazed at how its heavy pommel balances out the long blade. I should be struggling with its weight, I guess, but it seems fine in one hand, let alone the two it’s obviously designed for; there’s little in the way of extravagant decoration on the long handles, although once again there’s that blood-purple spiral in the embroidery wrapped around the handgrip.

  The bow’s handgrip is similarly decorated, and once again it could have been specifically designed for my hand, for it weighs comfortably yet securely within my grip.

  The embroidery of the handgrips isn’t even slightly worn. It could have been wound around the handles yesterday. The wood of the bow, the feathers of the arrows, the metal of the sword; all similarly appear to be perfectly new, like this craftsman Koshar that Yatpan mentioned has only just finished making them.

  Even so, I sense that these weapons are not only remarkably ancient, but have also been used on a number of occasions.

  Why do I sense that?

  I don’t know.

  They just seem to reek of age, of history; of multiple deaths.

  Weird, huh?

  Maybe I’m just imagining it all.

  Maybe Yatpan only recently purchased all these from one of those bizarre stores that sell these things like they’re not deadly weapons at all but simply perfectly innocent ornaments for mounting on your wall in your sweet little homestead.

  Along with the stuffed heads of any neighbour you’ve decided to try them out on.

  ‘You’ll need them soon; you should take them.’ Yatpan assures me, like she realises my house is in dire need of some form of interesting decoration.

  Either that, or there’s something particularly ominous about the word ‘soon’.

  ‘Your mind is opening up,’ she explains, ‘you’ll soon be able to see things that no others can.’

  Yep, wouldn’t you know it – it’s the ominous version Yatpan’s plumped for.

  ‘I can hardly just walk around with these things!’ I point out.

  ‘Why not?’ she asks, blinking in surprise.

  ‘I’ll be locked up!’

  ‘Why? No one else can see them.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  She nods.

  ‘I don’t know how to use them,’ I insist.

  ‘Sure you do,’ she replies adamantly, ‘you’ll see soon enough.’

  There’s that word ‘soon’ again.

  Great; just great.

  And what started all this off?

  A cute little hare I thought would look really sweet tattooed on my shoulder.

  *

  Chapter 13

  ‘The dream, in which you were hunting,’ Yatpan says as I continue to stare doubtfully at the weapons laid out across the table: ‘that’s a sign that you know how to use these weapons.’

  Thinking back, in that dream I was using a bow and arrow that could well be this one, as well as a sword that had to be of the same calibre as this magnificent specimen.

  Since when, come to think of it, had I been an expert on weapons?

  Previously, I wouldn’t have known an airgun from a sniper’s rifle. Now I’m passing a knowledgeable eye over the type of weapons that Genghis Khan would feel right at home with.

  ‘Tell me,’ Yatpan continues, frowning with curiosity, ‘what exactly were you hunting?

  ‘Well, the usual, I suppose; deer, boar – oh, and a lion too, just to give myself a bit more of a challenge, I think. Oh and the fish, of course; plenty of fish – if that counts as hunting.’

  Yatpan brightens considerably at the mention of the fish for some reason.

  ‘Now when you were seeking out all these fish; did anything strange happen? Think carefully now, please!’

  I pause, trying to recall more details of my dream.

  ‘I thought it strange that, despite the way I was using nets and what have you, I sometimes dived into the water; deep into the water!’

  Yatpan nods elatedly, like this makes perfect sense to her.

  ‘And it was dark in there; yes?’ she asks excitedly.

  ‘Very,’ I say, nodding in agreement, ‘and that really, was where it was far more, well, dream-like than the rest of the dream; you know, all a bit crazier, than all the more realistic parts of the dream.’

  Yatpan nods, urging me to give her more details.

  ‘In that darkness, there was spiralling of what I thought at first could be white foam; a kind of whirlpool. But then, as I swam down closer to it, I saw that it was this massive sea serpent.’

  Yatpan’s already bulging eyes are now wide with delight.

  ‘You swam towards it, yes?’

  ‘Yes, though I don’t why; the closer I got to it, the more monstrous it seemed to me. It was just getting ever larger, just waiting for me, I figured, to get so close that it would strike out for me.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Well, of course; I got so foolishly close, it suddenly whipped its massive head towards me, its huge mouth opening, ready to swallow me – and then, as if it had swallowed me, it was like I was spiralling down through its body. But I must’ve actually been spiralling up, because suddenly I broke the surface of the water: and the monster seemed to have vanished.’

  Yatpan is now almost clapping her hands in glee.

  ‘Good, good!’ she says, like all this nonsense from my dream all makes perfect sense to her. ‘But this means you’re going to need extra protection; you need another tattoo!’

  I wag an admonishing finger before her face.

  ‘Ah ah: no more tattoos, you said – remember?’

  *

  Isn’t this every young boy’s dream?

  Walking down the street, openly carrying a massive broadsword, a bow, and a quiver of deadly arrows.

  Trouble is, I’m a girl; and I’m sixteen.

  I feel a complete idiot!

  I feel like I could die.

  And isn’t the whole point of a weapon to prevent your death?

  Even when it soon becomes quite obvious that no one can see that I’m wearing these ridiculous things, I still remain embarrassed because I still know I’m wearing them.

  If I have to wear these things, maybe I should go the full hog and get one of those pathetically stupid costumes you see fantasy characters wearing; you know, the kind of skin-tight leather armour designed to protect only your bikini line areas.

  Maybe it would be easier if I just had one tattooed on; how more skin-tight can you get than that?

  Truth is, I’m so tattooed now that even if I went
around naked people would simply assume I was wearing some sort of colourful close-fitting jumpsuit anyway.

  See, Yatpan got her way, didn’t she?

  I accepted her offer of what I thought would just be a couple of small tattoos.

  A ‘tiger chest’, to enable me to become ‘tiger-like’ when my enemies approach.

  (‘Enemies?’ I’d repeated worriedly, eliciting nothing more than an exasperated raising of eyebrows from Yatpan.)

  A python, along with a venomous centipede (yeah, I know; but thankfully it doesn’t look anywhere near as bad as it sounds), as both are considered ‘friends of the warriors’.

  Added to all this were yet more flowers, drawing on their links to the spiritual world.

  So, here I am, all dressed up and nowhere to go; isn’t that the expression?

  Whether it is or it isn’t, it perfectly sums up how I feel; carrying weapons and tattooed with every device that’s supposed to grant me all these powers, and all I’m doing – as I’ve done so many times before – is taking a stroll down the street.

  I feel the perfect mug, like someone who’s bought every self-help book and product going and simply finds herself with a stripped bank account.

  Maybe I should ask for my money back?

  Money?

  Wait a minute; the only thing I’ve paid for is that first, original hare and moon.

  Everything else has come free of charge.

  My entire body has been transformed into The Guggenheim art gallery – and Yatpan hasn’t charged me a single penny.

  *

  I glance up into the air, wondering if Yatpan is hanging around up there once again as a hawk, watching – or should that be, as she insists, watching over? – me.

  She’s there; or at least, if it’s not her, I’ve got yet another oddly behaving hawk following my every move.

  The sky around her is rapidly darkening, the signs of a swiftly growing storm. The heavy clouds swirl in hurriedly, the first drops of rain already tumbling, the wind gathering to bolster the force of their falling.

  The wind and rain hit everywhere and everything hard, relentlessly. It sends the people about me scattering for cover, vainly attempting to cover their bowed heads with whatever’s available.

  Even Yatpan’s headed for home, the violently pummelling wind apparently too much for her. I’m tempted to think, Huh, so much for her claim to be watching over me: but there aren’t any other birds or animals around that I can see either, the storm surprisingly ferocious in its battering of anything in its path.

  Soon the only people on the street are me and a boy who, like me, seems to think there’s not much point running for cover now we’re already soaked. The rain’s so heavy, so distorting, that it’s impossible to make him out clearly. Besides, his head’s down against the driving rain, while his hair and clothes are plastered hard against him.

  I might not be able to recognise him, but he seems to think he recognises me.

  He waves, shouts, if a little doubtfully.

  ‘Anat! Is that you, Anat?’

  Obviously, his vision is as blurred as mine by the veiling rain.

  What sort of name is Anat? Odd, too, that it’s the exact reverse of my own name, Tana.

  Then again, maybe he’s someone form the spiritual world, huh?

  Maybe there they all suffer from some odd kind of dyslexia.

  ‘No, sorry,’ I yell back, ‘you’ve mistaken me for someone else!’

  ‘Tana!’ he excitedly exclaims. ‘It is you! Thank God I’m not too late!’

  Now he’s closer, when he smiles, I recognise him.

  ‘Zeb!’ I whisper under my breath.

  It’s the very first time since he died that I’ve been able to say his name.

  *

  Chapter 14

  Zeb sprints towards me, embraces me like we’re long separated lovers, reunited at last.

  Arms tightly around me. His cheek touching mine.

  He doesn’t feel any colder than you’d expect someone to be when they’ve been caught out in the rain.

  He doesn’t feel like he’s dead.

  He doesn’t feel like he’s ever been dead.

  What do I ask him first?

  How come he’s still alive?

  Or what did he mean when he said ‘Thank God I'm not too late’?

  ‘How…I thought you were dead!’

  He pulls back a little, still keeping his hands on my waist.

  (Oh God! I hope he can’t see my bloody sword and bow!)

  He grins, like he’s used to people asking him how come he’s still alive.

  ‘I almost was,’ he admits, not unreasonably, ‘but thankfully, I’ve learned an awful lot about myself recently; about us, in fact! And just look at you! Haven’t you changed?’

  He almost spins me around in his hands, he’s so enthralled by the change in me. His eyes light up: something I would have given just about anything for just a few weeks back, but now I don’t want any of all this – including that tantalising ‘learned a lot about us’ – to distract me from figuring out how come he’s alive and looking so apparently well.

  What makes this conversation so difficult is that we’re conducting it in the midst of a miniature hurricane, the wind drowning out our voices no matter how much we shout, no matter how close we are to each other.

  ‘Changed, yeah,’ I agree, ‘but not to the extent of coming back from the dead. You were in hospital; how could you fool the doctors? Your family!’

  I’m aghast as it dawns on me that his family are in mourning for a boy who’s not dead at all.

  ‘There’s so much to explain–’

  ‘You betcha!’

  ‘But look, let’s get out of all this first,’ he suggests, indicating the raging storm with a wave of hand.

  ‘Good,’ he adds, raising his eyes to scan the skies. ‘No Yatpan!’

  ‘You know Yatpan?’ I say, bewildered.

  Then I realise that of course he knows Yatpan; he’s had the tattoos too of course.

  And yet he was looking skyward when he was warily looking out for her.

  ‘I mean,’ I add hurriedly as we now both rush for cover, ‘you know that Yatpan can be a…’

  ‘Hawk? Yes,’ he states confidently, finishing the fading off of my question for me. ‘But do you know that she killed a child? And just for his bow and arrow too?’

  *

  The bow and arrows strapped to my back suddenly seem a whole lot heavier.

  Surely, though, these can’t be in any way connected with the bow and arrow that Yatpan had killed a child for?

  How could she do that?

  Kill a child?

  We find the best that passes for cover in this storm, the indented doorway to a long-abandoned and now dilapidated store. It protects us from the worst of the wailing wind.

  ‘How’d you know all this?’ I ask Zeb, still unsure as to what I should believe, what I should still consider as nonsense.

  ‘Aren’t there things you know about now that you couldn’t have even imagined a few days ago?’ Zeb says, nodding his head my way as a means of indicating the tattoos hidden beneath my clothes. ‘All down to these tattoos you’ve been having?’

  ‘You’ve been watching me?’

  I’m aghast, surprised; flattered.

  ‘When I could; but obviously, only when I knew no one would see me. These people are so scary, Tana: I can’t let anyone know I’m still alive. Even my family!’

  As he says this, his head drops forlornly. I reach out to comfort him, wrapping my arms tenderly about him, cradling his drooping head against my shoulder.

  He feels so warm. So comforting, too, for me.

  His arms curl about my waist once more.

  ‘Earlier,’ I say quietly, anxiously, ‘you said you were worried you were too late?’

  ‘Because of Anat, of course,’ he says, repeating that odd reversal of my name. ‘I mean, I was worried that the Goddess Anat might have already completely tak
en you over.’

  *

  He senses my bewilderment; the way I jerk uncomfortably in his arms.

  He pulls back a little, locks his eyes directly onto mine.

  ‘All those tattoos, Tana; what did you think they were really for?’

  ‘Yatpan said they break down the boundaries of the body. Allowing contact with the sprits who– ahh.’

  Zeb sees the dawning of understanding begin to bring an apprehensive sparkle to my eyes.

  ‘But– seriously?’ I protest. ‘A goddess? Taking over my body; like some sort of Mummy movie? But at least the pharaohs were real!’

  ‘And so goddesses aren’t? And what about me? You know who they’d prepared my body for? Baal – better known as Baal-Zebub, Lord of the Flies; Satan.’

  ‘Satan?’ I grin wryly. ‘Now you’re really kidding me, right?’ I add hopefully, if a little doubtfully.

  Zeb’s face says he isn’t kidding. He’s deadly serious.

  Well, he is supposed to be dead after all, I suppose.

  ‘I get it,’ he admits. ‘I didn’t believe it all at first either, of course. Only I had the extra – well, advantage isn’t probably the right word – in that they almost succeeded in getting this Baal to take me over; and that’s how come I know so much, if not, unfortunately, everything.’

  ‘So, what went wrong? How did you fight him off, stop him from taking you over?’

  ‘I didn’t; I died remember? So I wasn’t much use to them anymore.’

  ‘The tattoo really became infected? So how come you’re here?’

  ‘I was in a coma; one of these even a busy hospital is going to confuse with death. It also helped me realise that this Baal had been inside me; I felt him leave, sensed some of his memories and thoughts that still lingered behind within me. I woke up at last just after the funeral; working quick, I shoved all kinds of heavy weights into the coffin, wrapping them up so they wouldn’t rattle around when the grave diggers came for me – well, what they thought was me!’

  ‘And so this Anat; how do I stop her taking over me?’

  *

  Chapter 15

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Zeb shrugs miserably. And that’s his answer to my question as to how I can stop all this from happening.