Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  The smile was forced, but she appreciated his effort to suppress the sadness. In the years of practicing at the center, she only talked with the man one on one a few times.

  “It did.” She sat down on the floor and stretched her legs. “They offered me a full scholarship.”

  “Your hard work paid off.”

  “I don’t want to sound rude, but can we talk about something else? Anything but dancing.”

  “Says the girl in ballet shoes.”

  The man had a point. She started unlacing the slippers, rubbing her battered toes. Her feet were strong, but they lost the war against ballet. Like every other dancer’s, her toes were frequently taped, bruised, and after a particularly long month of rehearsal, missing a toe nail.

  “It helps me clear my mind. When I’m dancing, everything else seems so distant. Right now I need a little numbness.”

  “I understand.”

  Koji attended the funeral along with dozens of community center members. She tried to remember if the small man had shaken her hand and offered his well wishes. The many people repeating the same condolences blurred together and she found it difficult to separate them.

  “I hope you don’t mind being used as an example for my students. They have a tendency to mistake balance for speed. You hold your poses effortlessly.”

  “Says the man holding a sidekick for two minutes.”

  “I’m not standing on the tips of my toes.”

  He nodded at her feet. Heat creeped up her face as her cheeks turned a dark red. While part of her gift for dance came from being a Child of Nostradamus, Koji, on the other hand, had that talents came from a finely tuned body. She admired his hard work.

  “Do you have any place to be?”

  From any other man, the question may be a precursor to some lewd comment. She tied the ribbon of her slippers together in a bow and put them on her shoulder. “I’m avoiding my house.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  He walked toward the practice area where mirrors lined the wall. He gestured for her to follow him. A smile crept onto her face, followed by a wave of guilt. While the mourning period had passed, she found herself conflicted, unwilling to show anything but sadness.

  Sliding off the stage, she straightened her dress and followed Koji to where his class practiced. He faced the mirror and pointed for her to stand behind him off to one side as his students did during practice.

  “Have you ever tried Tai Chi?”

  “I know of it, but never seen it done.”

  “It’s an art form I think you’d appreciate. It was originally designed as a Chinese martial art to counteract existing art forms. Tàijí quán literally translates into ‘Supreme Ultimate Boxing,’ but I find it serves as an excellent method to align your body with your mind.”

  “I thought you were Japanese?”

  “Can the master not be the student?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No offense taken.” His smile alleviated her embarrassment. “You understand tap, interpretative, and jazz dance even though you don’t practice. I have studied Tai Chi for years and prefer its more holistic properties than its martial applications.”

  His hands remained at his side as he took a slight bow. He nodded to her in the mirror. After performing a near perfect dance routine, an art she had perfected for the last decade, she suddenly noticed the awkwardness in her limbs. She followed suit.

  “We’re going to move in a slow, smooth motion, allowing ourselves to focus on each muscle as we position ourselves. The more you attend to your physical self, you’ll find your breathing responds in kind. When we breathe with the movements, our minds will follow.”

  Alyssa appreciated Koji’s attempts to distract her from reality. Watching his reflection, she mirrored his movements. She found herself captivated by how each graceful movement flowed into the next. While she imitated the master, her breathing slipped into a rhythm with her motions.

  With each movement, she listened to her muscles respond. What made her special, the gifts bestowed upon her by Allah, responded. Eyeing him less and less, she allowed her limbs to find a rhythm, until almost ten minutes later they both faced the wall of mirrors again. His eyebrows were raised, giving away his disbelief. She claimed she was a natural, that it was beginner’s luck, and that ballet had similar positions.

  When her abilities took hold, craving new stimuli, a tingle ran through her muscles. Koji may have spent years practicing, training himself, determined to hone his understanding. For Alyssa, in one brief session, her body adapted. If she needed, in a moment’s notice, she would be a practiced warrior, commanding the art form as if she were a master herself.

  “You’re one of them.” His tone lacked accusation. An association with “them” meant her entire world could come toppling down. She didn’t need to ask for an elaboration—her mother ingrained in her, run if anybody discovered her gifts.

  The words froze in her throat. She wanted to argue, to tell him he had no idea what he meant. Instead she started to walk past him, tears welling up in her eyes. This only compounded the fact that everything in her life was coming crashing down.

  “Alyssa, wait.”

  A man grabbing on to her shoulder would normally have caused her to freeze. There was no time to think. Her body reacted, moving in a graceful response to the threat he provided.

  She snatched his hand, spinning his arm behind him. She stopped herself before she thrust her palm into the side of his ribcage. Koji turned around, taking a couple steps away from her, rotating his shoulder. She recognized the expression on his face from when one of his students bested him while sparring. The master held no ego. He brought his feet together and took a low bow. As he raised his head, he narrowed his gate and raised his fists up, ready to spar.

  “Let me go, Koji.”

  “You’re not the first person with gifts I’ve known.”

  Alyssa eyed the stairway leading to the exit. If she wanted, she could be out of there before he could get in her way. If she left, she’d be alone again, and the only place left to go would be her empty house. On the other hand, Koji’s statement served as a possible connection to somebody like her, somebody with abilities. Right now she needed to feel connected.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  With a slight bow, she presented a near perfect commencement form. “When I win—”

  Koji’s body moved in a fluid motion. Alyssa effortlessly stepped to the side, letting the hand pass by her head. Koji repeated, a second and a third strike, each one missing her head by inches. With each step, the tingling in her muscles intensified.

  The man feigned with right hand and lunged with his left. Alyssa swung her fist about, hitting his forearm, knocking the blow out wide. As Koji raised his foot to kick, Alyssa used her foot to prevent him from completing the move. She ducked low and turned, her right foot attempting to sweep him his legs out from under him. He jumped forward, somersaulting on the ground and springing back to his feet.

  “You are a fast study.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  Each foot and hand he attempted to break into her space, she denied. She deflected, thwarted, and dismissed each act of aggression, using his movements against him. Alyssa noted his heavy breathing, the sweat starting to show on his brow. She had no doubt she could defend herself as long as necessary.

  “You only win if you can take me to the floor.”

  “Changing the rules?”

  “My dojo, my rules.”

  Alyssa wanted to ask a dozen questions. How, after a decade of hiding among normal people, had he discovered she was a Child of Nostradamus? She started to wonder if maybe the Sensei meant gifted in a broader sense of the word? Did she give herself away by trying to flee?

  Her abilities provided mastery of the martial art. She led with confidence, certain she could maneuver enough to land a blow even if he dodged. Instead of pushing her arm out of the way, he
grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. A hand under her chin used her momentum to lift her off the ground and slam her onto her back.

  She coughed hard, expelling the air from her lungs, trying to replace it. He reached down to give her a hand. Sensei didn’t hold a grudge, his face seeming almost calm despite the heaving chest. She reached up, taking his hand and rolling backward, pressing her foot against his chest to hurl him.

  The man rolled over her head, landing on his back, and quickly hopped back to his feet. For the first time, she met her match. No dancer outshined her gifts, but this average person was holding his own against her, a living weapon. She didn’t understand why, but as she flipped back to her feet, anger crept in, taking hold, urging her to take the man down.

  Each strike was pushed away. As he responded in kind, she defended. Each time she missed, or fell victim to his modifications of the form, she found herself getting angrier. As her emotions pushed to the surface, the tingling return. Her muscles adapted to the man, learning his offense and developing a new defense. They burned for the first time since her powers developed.

  The scream erupted before she realized what happened. The calm she felt earlier abandoned her. She pressed harder, stepping within his reach, forcing him to back away. Aware he favored his right side, she knew his toes pointed out to prepare for a side kick. She stepped in, using the heel of her hand to push his leg down. Before he could respond, she hooked her foot behind his left leg and pressed with her body, sending him to the ground.

  “Yield.”

  Koji huffed, his face appearing more fearful than she anticipated. Her palm was drawn back and the tension in her muscles would allow her to strike, finishing her downed opponent. Her singular mission to harm the man came to the forefront of her mind; the image of her attacking him mercilessly consumed her. For the second time that night, she found herself on her knees crying.

  Koji sat down next to her, holding out his arm, offering her a place to rest her head on his shoulder. She ignored the fact she was a single female in the company of a single man. Clinging to his torso, she let her cheek rest on his chest, her tears seeping into his gi.

  “It’ll be okay.” The words were soothing, whispered over and over until she thought she almost believed them. The patting on her back helped remind her she was there, alive, breathing. Everything hurt so much, it became difficult to think about tomorrow, let alone her impending future.

  Alyssa fell silent as she controlled her breathing. Koji broke the silence between them. “What is your gift, Child of Nostradamus?”

  Leaning back, she pulled her legs under her body to sit with them crossed, close, but far enough to provide distance between them. He asked the question as calmly as possible, and she believed wholeheartedly the man meant no ill.

  “My body learns things by doing them. My father called it muscle memory. But, how did you know?”

  Both of his hands rested on his upper thighs, the natural resting position for his students. Koji lowered his eyes, focusing on the floor in front of him.

  “I have never seen somebody perform all forty-two forms as elegantly as you. You moved as if you practiced Tai Chi your entire life. It couldn’t be true, but here I am seeing it with my own eyes. Unless you are a majo and you used your magic, there must be another answer.”

  “Are you going to tell?”

  He appeared wounded, his eyes holding a sincere gaze. At a shake of his head, she felt herself let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. “No. It is not my secret to tell.”

  “Koji.” She didn’t want to rush him, but she needed to know. “You said I wasn’t the first person with gifts you met.”

  “Did you know Koji is the name of my grandfather?”

  She shook her head. Until this evening she barely spoke with the man. If asked, she wouldn’t be able to provide his last name. She only knew he was Japanese because of the racial slurs her own instructor used when speaking about the man. The Russian woman had a knack for dancing, but maintained a cold spiked tongue when it came to cultural issues.

  “During the Second World War, my grandfather trained with a young woman not so different than yourself. He spoke of her often.”

  “There were no Children during World War II.”

  He smiled, his facing lighting up as he recalled a memory from his childhood. “My grandfather taught my father martial arts, and my father taught me. Each of us has taught classes, but no pupil has stood out as much as this one did for my grandfather.”

  “But not a Child?”

  He shook his head. “No. She was not. But before there were Children, there were mentalists.”

  Alyssa had not thought of that before. Mentalists existed forever, Nostradamus supposedly being the first ever recorded. For a long time, they became common, functional members of society, even taking high ranking positions in the government. She couldn’t recall all the talents they exhibited, but knew about the ability to read thoughts, predict the future, and move things with their mind.

  “Grandfather had a fondness for Eleanor Bouvier. In a time when women were thought of as nothing more than mothers, she rallied against the norm. She wanted to change the future. Grandfather helped her find her path.”

  “Eleanor?” Alyssa recognized the name, a notorious terrorist who infiltrated the government. It took a moment before she made the connection, recalling the psychic’s name, Eleanor Valentine.

  “You know her as Eleanor Valentine, but her maiden name was Eleanor Bouvier. My grandfather, he aided her in finding clarity in her visions.”

  “The terrorist?”

  “Some would say.”

  “She tried to kill the president.”

  He didn’t deny the accusation. In the early nineties the woman attempted to assassinate the leader of the most powerful nation on the planet. Alyssa’s mind reeled as she processed what Koji told her. She understood why her abilities didn’t seem so scary to the man.

  “I believe she had her reasons.”

  “Maybe.” Alyssa couldn’t imagine what would drive a woman to such extreme causes.

  “My grandfather said she had demons. He trained her to be an indomitable force, both in mind and in body. You remind me much of her at this very moment.”

  “Me? Like her?”

  “You’re not going to Juilliard, are you?”

  It hurt to think about the answer. She worked hard to make her father and mother proud and now that she was given the opportunity of a lifetime, she had nobody to share it with. Dancing now, it served as a distraction more than a passion.

  “No.” Saying it out loud made it real. For the first time since she received the news of her parents’ death, her heart felt lighter. The pain still clung to her chest, but even that small epiphany meant she was looking forward.

  “You are in a dark place, Alyssa. Train with me.”

  “I’m not Eleanor.”

  “No,” he admitted, “you are not. Eleanor knew that too.”

  Her head cocked to the side in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Will you train with me?”

  She had no plans for the future. For at least the short term, having a friend and mentor to rely on would give her a purpose. Right now she needed that. As she nodded, a shiver ran up her spine.

  “Where do we begin?”

  He stood up and held up a finger. “First thing, I believe I have a letter for you.”

  Twenty-Seven

  February 13, 1992

  Dear Samantha,

  I have no time to waste in this letter—a shadow darkens our existence. My heart breaks for the abuse you have suffered at the hands of men. There is a chance to break the cycle and make a new life for yourself. I do not offer you simplicity, or even a pleasant journey in the days to come. I do offer you a chance to reclaim a woman you have come to mourn.

  72-13-26.

  I cannot tell your fate far beyond the wall. In your journeys you will meet an angel. She will need you as a symbol of w
hat she has to gain as she wages a war within. Guide her. If your messenger is slow, go to meet him.

  Sincerely,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  March 13, 2032

  “I hear you shot your old man dead?”

  Samantha continued staring at the floor, terrified to make eye contact. The questioning woman’s neon orange shoes matched every other set of feet in lockup. Sam knew the fluorescent shoes would give way to orange pants, then an orange shirt, then to a woman’s toughened face. More often than she cared to recount, sideways glances from one inmate to another caused a fight. Those in the fight never survived. She didn’t want to die.

  “I did too.”

  Sam risked the subtle movement and peeked at the woman’s face. Her fellow prisoner was a bit heavyset, leaving her face soft and rounded. The softness didn’t reach her eyes; instead, they shimmered like ice, almost sinister if she thought about it. The woman brought up her fist and Sam flinched at the motion.

  “Any man who does this deserves it.”

  It took a moment of the woman holding out her hand for Sam to realize she wanted to bump fists. She ignored the woman’s jab at her demeanor being a result of her husband—she couldn’t make an argument to the contrary. Her eyes remained averted, but she held out a fist, hoping the gesture would make her leave.

  “Got to stick together, this place is no picnic.”

  Shit, Samantha thought to herself. Days had passed since the judge accepted her guilty verdict. From one transport to another, she ultimately found herself in a maximum security prison on the edge of the Danger Zone. A short drive and they would arrive in the Outlands, the ultimate destination of her verdict. She’d pay penance in a radiated wasteland where she would be allowed to live while nuclear fallout gradually killed her. First she only had to survive being housed with several thousand women more than willing to kill her to pass the time.

  She rested her forehead on her palm, returning to staring at feet. Her mind drifted back to the moment she opened the tiny box in her husband’s desk drawer. For a moment, as the smoke cleared the barrel, she experienced a relief and freedom she’d forgotten since she was a teenager. As she stood over the man, watching him struggle to keep the blood in his body, she could finally recall a small bit of joy from her younger self. Killing him gave her satisfaction.