Spirit Wars

by Mon D Rea

  Then one time it was raining hard, I saw a chance to finally make casual conversation with her on the steps of her college building. She was waiting for the rain to stop but it showed no signs of abating. Unfortunately, when I finally plucked up the courage to approach her, someone else had beaten me to it. I couldn’t see who it was, only that the guy was wearing our school varsity jacket. The man held out an umbrella for Sam and she easily stepped under it like they had known each for some time. They both got in his car.

  I was devastated. Without thinking, I walked to where my bike was parked. I didn’t care that it was pelting and I was getting soaked. I rode home, guitar case slung and lugged like some child’s coffin against my back; an erect, recalcitrant finger through the walls of water. It didn’t occur to me right away that I was taking a detour to Sam’s boarding house.

  When I got there, a light was on in Sam’s upstairs room and her visitor’s car was parked in front. I picked up a pebble and threw it at her window, just as I used to whenever I wanted to see her late at night. On my third try, Sam heard and looked out. Her eyes widened when she realized it was me.

  It was a good thing the rain had let up and provided just the opening for what I intended to do. I took out my guitar and started to play.

  ****

  Never had I imagined I’d be singing a song for a girl. In the rain, for starters.

  But I did. I sang as loud as I could so she would hear. The sweet music of the guitar floated through the patter of rain and the words I had written rang with the unique charm of my deep masculine voice, with as much confidence as I trained and hoped it would.

  When the right time comes

  I shall hold you in my arms

  Wrap in mine your hand

  Stroke your hair, my love

  It also helped that I sang with emotion. This I knew because I saw, through all the rainwater dripping down fangs of my hair, Sam covering her mouth as tears soaked her eyes.

  I also found myself crying a little in the cover of rain. I barely noticed when I had started to, but I was thinking of all the times I had to hide my dark feelings behind a fake smile and the giant loneliness that always threatened to knock me down and eat me alive. Sam was the only person who truly understood me. She kept all the sadness and worries at bay. With her I felt free to be who I was: optimistic and scarred and courageous and insecure all at the same time.

  When the right time comes

  I shall whisper words of love

  Shout your name out high

  Let the world know why

  When the other guy heard me singing, he knew better than to stick around. He slipped by and drove away without Sam or me noticing. This was a good call. We were too thrilled over our sudden reunion to care anymore.

  I never told anyone anything, not even Sam, but an irrational, terrifying idea occurred to me then. It even haunted me a couple of times in my dreams. I imagined Sam’s visitor was in fact a completely different person from who he really was and He was a man who had bad intentions for Sam. It was only my song and the talismanic effect it had that drove the blackness away, that pushed back the shift in reality where an alternate dimension peeked out with one glaring evil eye.

  Sam hurried me in and got me a fresh shirt, dried my hair with a towel. She made some hot tea, too. I felt chilled to the bone not only because of the rain but especially because of the epiphany that had briefly touched my mind. Yes, it was an incredible idea but I felt I had just warded off the hair-raising glimpse of an entity that managed to wedge itself between the two of us, sinister and ever so subtle. Miraculously I had overcome it and it was relief from naked fear that sent shudders through my entire body.

  Now with the benefit of hindsight, I suspect Sephtimus had something to do with that particular episode. The only explanation is that as early as then, the Grim Reaper was already interfering with my life and making his preparations.

  The other bit of mystery that supports my theory is how Sam never laid eyes on the DVD of my recorded song. I suppose we were both simply overcome with happiness that we didn’t bother to look deeper into these things.

  As it turned out, our happiness was short-lived.

  I was sitting in the back of a taxi one evening on the way to a dinner date with Sam, crisp jacket hanging from the grab handle as per lady’s request. I was ashamed to think we even had a tiff over it because I rarely wore suits and I wasn’t going to just to enter a fine-dining restaurant even though it was our third year anniversary and all. We ended up sullen the rest of our walk to her boarding house, with the result that Sam didn’t really know what to expect from me on the evening itself. I would probably relent and wear a suit or stand my ground and stay my casual self. It gave me the element of surprise.

  But then all at once inside the taxi, I felt my heart jump hard enough to burst out of my chest as invisible metal bars tightened around it. Like I was being squeezed inside King Kong’s fist. I was experiencing a heart attack so unreal I was watching myself from outside my own body, seeing my forehead get beaded with HD-clear perspiration while all the city lights outside blurred and swam away.

  Next, all the cityscape whizzed back as a barrage of needle-sharp information. At the same time it was as though someone had flicked on a literal Death Computer inside me and I could hear and feel every vibration, every firing of nano-circuit. I was instantly, horribly knowledgeable of the death dates of random people. I couldn’t find the switch to turn everything off and my head was getting filled to overflowing. It was the first time I had ever experienced such awareness. My last thought before I passed out was: All deaths are senseless.

  When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed. The doctor’s diagnosis was severe panic attack. For me, it was the devil’s underhanded blow, the ever ominous complication in my life that finally revealed itself at a perfect, average moment. Being sick and confined by the walls of the hospital gave me a good excuse to stay away. I finally gave up reaching out for Sam and dragging her down with me.

  I was a changed man after the diagnosis. I grew sick of life overnight and gave up all manner of happiness and hope.

  Of course Sam was at our reserved table and waited all night for me. When we finally saw each other again, after at least two weeks of no calls or messages, I simply shrugged my shoulders like she meant so little to me. In fact, nothing and no one mattered to me anymore. I looked at her with flat, lifeless eyes and said the words I had prepared as if from a script: “I’ve changed, Sam. I’m not the same Nate you loved.”

  They were the words I wrote to drive her away and straight out of my life. I was being unbelievably cruel to her and she knew and expressed it through her tears, screams and fists against my chest. She didn’t have to. I could feel it. The fact that I looked at her but didn’t see her the way I did before, I knew it was killing her. And I was sure of it because I was feeling the exact same way. It was torture for me to say those things and act the way I did, but I could do so in the end by keeping in mind that this purposeful, cooling-off heartbreak for Sam was better than even greater sadness for her in the future. She probably sensed it, too, that my taking the teaching post in the hinterlands of Concepcion signaled the beginning of the end of my life.

  And now the park lagoon that used to comfort each of us every time we fought, the lagoon that used to regard Sam and me knowingly like an old woman to young lovers is still as it had been, lying there like a giant stained-glass window in the center of People’s Park. I think if I try diving into it and clinging onto its bottom, the water would shatter into a million pieces and cut me relentlessly – cut through this parody of a man without shape or shadow, without any hope of release.

  As it turns out, it isn’t the lagoon that’s meant to shatter tonight but my mind. As I see on the bench nearest the banks, perfectly hidden by the dark but not from me, a sleeping form wrapped and curled up like a sold pup in a blanket. That blanket.

  My blanket.

  Sam. Dear God.

  Chapte
r XIX: Hell-Breaker

  They’ve talked five hours straight, covered a broad range of topics and shared many laughs. One of the few enjoyable and worthwhile conversations she’s ever had, Lessa realizes. They feel like old friends who got out of touch and just found each other again. They haven’t noticed where all the time went. For instance, right now they’re both giggling at something funny that Chester has said but she can’t quite remember.

  Past a certain point, all the words and reactions from him have started to seem borrowed or made-up; made to be either occasionally impressive or occasionally predictable. This sends a slight tingle on the back of her neck. He’s hiding something. Most of the time he gave the impression of someone polite, eager to hear what she had to say but contributing only what was necessary to keep her going. He’d be the best fortress of secrets a girl could confide to, to be sure, but everything’s just one-way. It builds the attraction but it’s a disguise she’s finally seen through.

  Now it’s time to leave. There’s still tomorrow to think about. This is no life-altering event like the death of a loved one or a love at first sight, in which case she might consider putting everything else on hold. So she says, “Oh, look at the time. I need to get home and get some shut-eye.”

  Chester’s looking at his hands on the table. He falls uncomfortably quiet. Then in a grave tone he tells her, “Please stay a little bit more time.”

  “I can’t. It’s four in the morning and I have a photo shoot tomorrow – today.”

  Chester looks at Lessa and his eyes are pleading but simultaneously firm. There’s a softness and a determination there that have surprised her several times tonight. They give her a hint of happiness like a waft of cool air from some secret waterfall she hasn’t seen yet but she knows lies just around the bend. Could it be what she’s been missing all her life?

  “Why?” Now it’s her turn to demand. Enough with the games. It’s her emotions he’s playing with after all.

  “If I ask you, if I ask,” Chester’s voice falls to barely a whisper, “Please run with me, away from here, away from… your life, will you come with me, Lessa? No question to ask.”

  She looks at him. “I can’t.” These are the words she says but for some reason her heart’s being uncooperative and telling her to get to the bottom of the mystery that’s Chester Imagay. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then please just stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  They’re looking into each other’s eyes, she expecting him to back down and fold like the fake that he is. Interestingly enough, a part of her is still rooting for him and wishing he’d see through her well enough to tell her what to do when she herself can’t.

  Over the years Lessa has learned to ignore that small occasional flutter inside her heart; and perhaps too well. She has had to, to protect herself from all the dirty sugar daddies, their calming father figure, extramarital games and extravagant bribes. And from the more invigorating young men who can never tell the difference between physical attraction and love and has predictably left her unsatisfied. How could she or anyone else hope to find her heart buried under all that callus?

  Chester, in the face of her ultimatum, has the look of a gambler who’s about to lose the last of his nest egg but still attempting a bluff. Leaving himself at her mercy, leaving it up to her to call it.

  “You don’t know why,” she states, sounding a trifle disappointed.

  “No,” he admits. “I don’t know.”

  WHERE ARE YOU, CYHYRAETH?

  This is the answer Lessa expects. She’s looking at the zipper of her bag and her mind moves on to the car keys inside.

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  Sephtimus’ heart is hammering inside Chester’s chest. Ok, Cyhyraeth said not to talk about myself and to only let the woman speak…

  A flicker of Lessa’s eyes reveals that if there ever was a woman torn between heaven and hell, it was her. It’s the sublime moment of indecision.

  “I don’t know many thing,” Sephtimus hears himself say. He’s experiencing a dryness in his mouth so he swallows spit to lubricate his throat and a thought runs wildly through his head: The human mouth is so disgusting. Still he forces himself to concentrate – no, to feel – for the first time in this whole business, like a human being. But how?

  Raw panic has started to set in. I’ve done everything Cyhyraeth told me. There’s nothing else. But now I need something different. Something personal. From the heart. Wherever in blazes that is.

  He thinks back to all the stolen moments when nobody’s watching, away from the invading awareness of the Crows and the childlike naivety of the Helter-Skeletals. Inside his sanctum santorum where lie the broken fragments of a humanity he tries so hard to put together: the TV soaps on Blue-ray that make him laugh out loud one moment and bawl like a child the next, his very own (stolen) pool table and pinball machine, a private monitor showing Chester making coffee day in day out, a baseball autographed by the Bambino himself during the great “Curse,” a cookie tin filled with sewing tools…

  “I know just coffee. Is… Is not so bad…” Sephtimus says. He’s trying to buy a little time and the irony of it isn’t lost on the Grim Reaper. I must think like Chester. Like a human.

  He thinks of filthy pathetic insects scuttling towards an ever receding line of sunshine in Koyaanisqatsi-esque rhythm; always rushing, in swarms or solitary, on trains and off trains without any destination but finding comfort in motion, in filling day after nondescript day with activity – nothing but stabs in the dark – in the hope of storing grains of accomplishments to keep the cold and the emptiness at bay.

  Lessa’s looking into Chester’s eyes. Sephtimus can imagine what she sees there now, pools deep and black enough to drown. She looks at him warily and it pains Sephtimus to see her behave like this towards him. It lands on him like a real blow to the chest.

  Yes, they are very flawed creatures but they also have their moments. Moments that they freeze and stretch and fill with emotion. They can still surprise. Their tendency to look to the future and hope. Their capacity for courage and sacrifice. Their plans may go to waste and all their balloon-dreams wash down the Drain of the World. But there’s an undeniable poetry in the way they all go down swinging.

  It occurs to him then. “Stay for one story. This my last one. Could you p-please?” he stammers.

  She nods because his begging eyes are the essence of kids and puppies.

  He takes a deep breath and says, “When make cappuccino, everything need perfect. If you will make perfect shot espresso, it take maybe 20 second. Then you make milk like foam, very nice layer.” He narrates this with a lot of gestures as if he were behind the Brew Bear counter and not seeing her.

  “You use all sense: eye, ear, taste, touch. By ear, I know what kind layer milk make…

  “To make shape of latte, you need be patient and not rush. There is rhythm, like a little lazy. And you don’t control timing. Time control you. Pouring… you do like this, make thin line.” His finger traces the shape on the tabletop.

  “Shape come out. If… put enough love in coffee, design will keep. Good picture mean love. You give all heart.”

  Chester finally looks up into Lessa’s eyes.

  “Coffee teach people something. Me, I want pour same heart, same passion, in my life. In my Bucket List, first I write is: I will propose to Ms. Celestina Conti. No. 2 is I will put my heart in her cup every morning. I wish I become this person in she’s life.”

  Lessa’s eyes are bright with emotion. “Every morning?” she asks under her breath.

  He holds her gaze. “I can’t promise that I don’t have. I can’t promise my life. I don’t keep my life.

  “But I can promise just one day. One day by one day, I promise to you. Every day I learn how I love you.”

  ****

  She looks at him. At this point she seriously considers either one of two things, to sleep with him or to say
that she has also fallen for him. But the words she finally chooses to say are these: “Thank you for this. This is really… special, what you’ve given me. But I need time. You’ve given me plenty to think about. I’m not ready for them. I’m not ready for you.”

  The hackneyed words sound as false as they come. But they aren’t. They’re in fact the staple in the age-old affair of men undertaking women. For a man to receive these words as an answer is nothing but a normal and good indication that he’s doing fine and he’s doing everything right. But it’s a completely different playing-field for the sons of Adam, a particularly tough one against their bench-playing egos and the omnipresent fear of rejection.

  Neither an approval nor a dismissal from a woman matters. Unfortunately it’s the iron law for a man to protect himself instinctively, to shut himself off and alone with his ego that acts like an advisor and friend but in all actuality has been working against him from the start. And once a man starts listening to his ego, everything falls apart.

  ****

  WHERE ARE YOU, CYHYRAETH?

  There’s this strange feeling welling up inside Sephtimus’ chest. An ominous rhythm like a hundred war drums beating all together. He wants to thrust his hand inside his chest and pluck the feeling out, to stop the hurt. This particular pain is very curious. It borders the physical, something he can perhaps knead smaller with his hand. It makes it hard for him to breathe, makes him feel sick. He can’t understand it but he keeps recalling a scene he witnessed once on the spy screens: a man getting drenched in the rain and shouting to the heavens while pounding his fist against his chest.

  Cyhyraeth has explained to him once that love in the human world makes someone a gentler, happier and better person. But the sudden absence of it makes the same person feel small, turns him into something dark and nasty. Because love’s a drug and sooner or later its effects are going to wear out. Then you’ll be down on the cold, hard concrete like an angel with sheared wings. You’re unlovable, undeserving of attention from the one you love. This magnifies every insecurity, every inferiority you have. All your pores and demons will be laid out for all to see.