Like Moonlight on Water: Chapter 6
Wounds
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Wounds
“Ow!” I shoved Pebbles to the floor. “What was that for?!”
In answer, she hissed and stalked to the door, her tail lashing Sal’s leg as he let her out.
“You offended her,” he translated.
I squeezed my forearm and spots of blood bloomed. “Well, she could’ve told you to tell me instead—”
“Just stop!” Eileen interrupted. “What’re y’all not telling me?”
“Sal can talk to cats. I thought you knew—”
“No, Mother. That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She turned to Sal, who crossed his arms and looked pointedly at me.
“Honey,” I sighed, “I have no idea why Peb—”
“Why didn’t you hear her clawing the screen?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, you’re mad at me because I was in a deep sleep?”
“No, I’m mad at you because you’re lying!”
“I’m not lying! Jesus!”
Eileen spun away in disgust. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight!”
The sound of her slamming door was still throbbing in my skull when she threw it open again. Head high and robe in hand, she flounced into the bathroom and slammed that door. Once the shower was running, I exhaled.
“Wow…” I managed a shaky laugh. “Another fun evening with the humans, huh?”
Without a word, Sal started gathering the dishes from the table.
“Hey, now…” I put out a hand to stop him. “The cook doesn’t clean. I’ll get this.”
He stepped back to lean against the counter, arms crossed again.
“Well, don’t make it weird or anything.” My tease fell as flat as his expression, and sensing a lecture brewing, I busied myself with domesticity.
My stomach growled as I wrapped up the bread. Like, pack-of-dogs growled. With a wan smile for Mr. Stoic, I stuck my half-eaten dinner in the microwave and zapped it back to a semblance of edible. Rosemary perfumed the kitchen; and between bites, I portioned the leftovers and rinsed the plates—even licking the serving spoons.
“Mmm.” I popped the last bite of flatbread in my mouth and made a show of chewing and swallowing. “Delicious!” I brushed the crumbs from my lips and added the plate to the dishwasher.
“Alright, I’m ready now.” I mimicked his pose. “Spit it out.”
His eyes narrowed. “You did not vomit this evening.”
“Wow, you think your cooking is that bad?”
“And your hands do not pain you.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s getting kinda late, so if you want to make a point…”
As if on cue, the shower stopped and the curtain screeched over the rod. Eileen was still in a mood. Unperturbed, Sal began counting on his left hand.
“Point number one,” he raised his index finger, “lying to yourself is lying. Two, for an extraordinarily perceptive human you are obtuse. And three, your use of deflective humor is wearing thin.” The three fingers formed a W.
“I fell asleep.” My tone teetered between petulant and pitiful; and with slow theatrics, Sal pointed to his middle finger—prompting me to hold up mine. Perceive that!
Muffled whomps and slaps interrupted our little standoff, and he turned in concern.
“Towel and lotion,” I informed him.
Casting his eyes to the heavens, he stomped past me. “After she is asleep, we begin.”
What was left of the screened door banged as Eileen yanked the bathroom door open.
“Stop right there, young lady!” I ordered.
Shocked, she froze mid-step, arms up to twist a towel around her wet curls.
“You owe me an apology,”—I cut off her protest—“but I don’t want one.” I crossed the room and fixed her with what I thought was a calm, yet stern, eye. “I just need you to tone down the drama. All of this…” I gestured toward the alien on the porch, “…is dramatic enough.”
Her arms dropped and she clutched the towel to her robe.
Oh, my baby. I reached for her—but she whirled away and shut her bedroom door in my face. The lock clicked, and the house fell silent.
You are failing her, Lila!
Tell me something I don’t know.
All too conscious of Sal’s preternatural hearing, I fluffed a pillow on the couch, straightened the notepad and pen on the coffee table, and carried a forgotten mug back to the kitchen. I felt hollow, like one of the eggs my grandmother used to paint. Two tiny holes pricked in my shell and my insides blown out in a gooey mess.
I’d been too young to ask Mimi why she’d spent days at a time on each egg. Hadn’t thought to ask what inspired her, or to compliment her on her fine brushwork and meticulous detail. But I remembered them now. Dozens of solemn, doll-like faces in every hue, peering from elliptical worlds of painted flame and ash. Terrifying and fragile. Too fragile for an angry ten-year-old.
She cried when you did that.
Did she? Probably. It was the morning she boxed up my things.
My knees buckled, and I found myself on all fours blinking at chunks of pottery. That wasn’t my memory.
The porch creaked, and I scrabbled at the mess. “Tripped,” I mumbled without looking up. Sal thumped back outside.
That wasn’t my memory. I did not have that memory. I was just slowly going insane. That’s all.
I took a deep breath, dumped the mug bits in the trash, and started fixing some coffee. My brain certainly didn’t need a stimulant, but heat sounded good. I shivered and splashed the pot of water down my front. Lots of heat. Quickly.
Half-wishing Sal would check on me again so he could zap the pot and flash boil the water, I set the burner to high and went to my room to change. For normal people, it was a balmy evening in the middle of May, but I layered up in a dry t-shirt, fleece pajamas, and thick socks. And shivered again.
Heading back to the kitchen, I paused outside Eileen’s room. Squeaky mattress springs told me she was still awake—and still upset. I raised my hand to knock, then thought better of it and left her alone. I’d just say the wrong thing again.
The burner glowed red, but the water was stubbornly motionless, so I grabbed my phone to scroll through the news feed. Not exactly calming. In the past few days, governments had continued to bicker, people had continued to suffer, and nature had gamely soldiered on in spite of everything we did. Except for the butterflies.
This was what Sal and Eileen had been watching on the news. Monarchs migrating north toward the Carolinas had disappeared. Entomologists had lost track of them over the Gulf of Mexico, but coastal communities up through Georgia and most of South Carolina had reportedly seen them. And had photos and video to prove it. Then, as of a week ago…nothing.
Afraid of what I might find, I searched for recent articles on honeybees, but only found a commodities report on decreasing crop yields and a local feature touting organic honey from a farm across the river. Nothing about dead bees, or an outbreak of some kind of bee disease, or a freak overnight drop in temperature affecting our little section of New Hanover County.
The water started to steam—finally—and Sal was still quiet on the porch. I added ground coffee to the french press and sugar to a mug. And after a brief moment of moral deliberation, I scooped sugar into a second mug as well. Dinner was delicious.
My phone vibrated.
Eileen won’t answer me. Adam had texted. Is she okay?
Poor man. I typed an explanation, edited it, erased it, and decided on simplicity instead. In bed.
His response came too quickly. Sorry to bother you.
You didn’t.
Too cold, Lila!
He deserved better, but the more I said, the more questions he’d have.
After a second, two new messages appeared. Can I come over? Morning?
Anytime. Always, my subconscious sighed.
Anytime. Always. I replied.
“Shit!” I yelped and clutched my stupid phone, willing my text to bounce or the cell tower to be struck by a miraculous bolt of lightning—but a tiny checkmark appeared. Message delivered.
I was losing my freaking mind. Fingers flying, I typed “Love to see Cara and”—but before I could finish, the screen flashed again.
Thank you.
Just that. Two words of polite acknowledgment, nothing to indicate he’d misread my own two words.
But from the corner of my eye, the air was now alive with sparks of white light.
Sal turned at her curse and felt Eileen’s heartbeat spike and then settle into its regular rhythm. The child would never go to sleep if Lila kept making noise. Tripped. She lied so easily she could be his Female Giver. Eileen’s anger was justified. Though problematic.
They needed each other. And he…he needed to preempt a tragedy. And then another one, and then another—as many as he could before this world collapsed, too.
From the dark porch, he watched through the windows as Lila struggled with the simple task of brewing coffee. Saw her sideways glances and heard her mumble, “Not okay at all.”
Indeed, she was not “okay.” Blotting more spilt water with a towel, she burned her left wrist on the edge of the heating element—and still neglected to turn off the stove. When she finally walked away with the beverages, he slid his palm along the house until he sensed wiring and pulsed his modulators. No one would benefit from a house fire.
He met her at the doorway, but the ripped screening held her gaze.
“How long?” she asked.
He pulled the door open. “Approximately twenty minutes.”
The cups dipped and he steadied her hands, drawing her outside. Her expression was shadowed and he wished he had thought to turn on the porch light. Or that he still possessed the technology to see as clearly as he used to.
No, not that. After thousands of years, keeping what he saw for himself was a gift.
He chose the coffee in her left hand, sliding his fingers up her sleeve to the cat bite and burn. Her skin quivered at the pulse of his modulators and he withdrew quickly.
“Oh! That’s…I thought you were mad at me,” she said.
“I am.” He guided her to the top step to sit. “I have been meaning to query you…is there a reason you do not own outdoor furniture?” He caught a flash of a smile before she turned her head.
“Where’s Pebbles? Is she still mad at me, too?”
“No.” He pointed toward the wooded area by the marsh. “She is tracking her meal.”
Lila sighed. “Another death on me. I forgot to feed her.”
He opened himself to the cat’s impressions of slithering movement and the scent of warm blood. “A rat with an injured foot. Some days ago, Pebbles killed a copperhead that attacked its litter. Now its remaining young have a chance to mature.”
Lila turned back to him in surprise.
“With animals, there is usually balance,” he explained. “A trait we apparently bred out of humans.”
“Does your kind…your family…have balance?”
A burst of heat flared and streaked along his muscles.
She shivered and edged closer to him, her elbow grazing his hip. “Care to elaborate?” she asked softly.
He closed his eyes and pulled at the fire, amplifying it with his Tactile Enhancers. “I told you enough this morning. And I should not have insinuated that you caused the deaths of the bees.” The burn was at the perfect level of excruci—
“Stop that!” she scolded. “I’ll sic Pebbles on you.”
The sensation ceased and his modulators resumed passive maintenance of his health.
“Obtuse and irritating,” he grumbled. “You are the one who needs to elaborate on your experiences.”
“Why? Because you set such a great example?” Her tone was tart, but she stretched her legs down the steps and flexed and pointed her feet. “But what you said…I do deflect.” She shifted her mug to one hand, and held the other up to the meager light from the doorway.
He drank his coffee, sensing she would speak when she was ready. The brew was strong and sweet, and the night air humid and warm. Eileen slumbered deeply now, though her heart rate occasionally peaked—most likely with restless, half-formed dreams. Soon, though, she would be unable to dream at all.
“What’s wrong?” Lila asked. “Is Eileen…?” She twisted to look through the doorway.
“She is asleep. She is safe.” He turned to place his cup by the railing, hoping to hide his lie. I will make her safe.
“Why do I always feel like you’re keeping something from me?”
“Because you are as suspicious as Madeline. Must be your genetics.” He forced a smile, but now she was looking toward the dim glimmer of the Pleiades above the horizon.
“I dreamed I was drowning,” she said. “I don’t remember getting sleepy. I was awake and then…I was in the ocean.” She pulled her knees up and locked her arms around her legs. “I’m a decent swimmer, but I just…couldn’t.”
He extracted her cup and set it beside his own. “And you heard nothing until…”
“Eileen.” She laid her cheek on her knees, shadowed eyes watching him. “I scared her.”
“Yes.” In his mind, he again heard the child’s unvoiced scream. “She believed you to be dead.”
“Jesus,” Lila breathed, “I’m racking up the mom points today.”
“She is emotional,” he acknowledged. “The modulators compensate for biochemical imbalances, but the cause and effect relationship of external stressors and internal thought processing can still create…feedback loops.”
“Feedback loops?”
He elaborated carefully, mindful of his pulse and breaths. “Modulators regulate health, constantly adjusting for the body’s optimum needs. Facilitating more dopamine, less adrenaline—whatever serves the body best at given time, within a given set of circumstances.
“But when humans subconsciously desire imbalances because they have grown accustomed to certain experiences…” His throat tightened involuntarily and he coughed a laugh to distract the Servants. “Puberty is challenging for humans.”
“Ugh!” Lila rubbed her forehead across her knees. “Don’t say that word again.”
“Which word? Puber—”
She smacked his leg. “Talk about something else. Something not related to my child hating me.”
“What were you thinking before you Wandered?”
With a groan she straightened. “Before I what?”
“Wandered,” he repeated. “When your consciousness stays with your fractal in this reality, that is Wandering. When you travel to parallel realities, you Traverse.”
“For advanced lifeforms, your names for things are kinda stupid.”
“Deflection, Lila." You try translating concepts into thousands of languages. “What do you remember before—”
“Damn it, Sal! I don’t know. Half of what I remember isn’t real, anyway.”
So stubborn. How was he to help if she would not contribute information? The most direct method would be to merge, which would allow him to sift through her memories, but if she assumed control again and directed his thoughts toward Eileen…and if she learned what the risks were for her child…
No. He could not allow that. Not until he had a solution. Besides, experiencing her rage and fear firsthand would compound his own emotions—and then suppressing them would be that much more difficult during the next dual-time.
A twisted sort of fortune had ceded last night’s dual-time to the sadistic delights of two of his siblings. One had orchestrated the release of an avian-borne virus decimating populations around the globe; and the other… He swallowed the bile and coffee rising in his throat. Recovering his sense of self had taken longer than usual after those memories.
He shunted his attention back to Lila and realized tears ran in dark channels on her face.
“Are the other realities so terrible?” he asked. She seemed unaware of stroking her stomach. “It would help if you spoke of what you have experienced.” He positioned an arm around her, but she hunched forward to cradle her misery. “Lila, please. Describe what you are remembering.”
She shuddered.
“I do not wish to pry, truly I do not.” In fact, he would rather not know the details of her relationships with Adam. “But…I have known others.”
“Who?” she gasped.
“Oh, none quite like you.” His wry laugh made her slump again. “But others have had similar gifts. The ability to see beyond this one existence, even if reliant upon a psychoactive—”
“Please. I’m not a shaman! Or some…some mystical spirit walker or something!” She displayed her hands on her knees, palms up. “I’m just a freak.”
“I would not use that particular label,” he observed dryly. He wished she would be more circumspect when calling attention to her scars. If the others learned that her consciousness could be captured, isolated, in one of her fractals…and if she continued to be less than cooperative…
“I’ve made you mad again,” she sighed. “You’re hotter now.” She grinned and shook her head even as he frowned.
“What one society disparages as a freak of nature, another reveres as a sign from the gods.”
“And were you? Giving them a sign?” Her tone was too flippant, head tilted to judge his response.
“I was not.” I had other tasks.
“Hey,” she nudged him, “Chill out. You’re making me sweat.” She unbuttoned her top shirt and flapped it like wings.
Tasks such as finding the real aberrations. Not manifestations of uniqueness and diversity, but the humans his kind believed should not exist. Identify, categorize, repair, salvage…lies upon lies for millennia.
She grabbed his wrist. “Stop it.”
Rooting out the traits deemed unnatural—insulating those with genetic markers deemed acceptable. Entire bloodlines supplanted, manipulated…erased.
“Sal…?”
“You asked about others. For a time, I lived among the Picoji—many of whom were gifted. They accepted me without fear or idolatry, including me in their culture as an equal.”
Her fingers swept his temple, leaving a cool, damp trail on his skin.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
“I left.”
“I’ve never heard of the Picoji.”
“No one alive has.” He stood. “Come. I will teach you what I know.”
She rose, but turned her face eastward. “Mmm…smell that?”
“Which?” He could identify forty-seven scents without much effort.
“Juniper…” She inhaled deeply and sighed. “My favorite.”
Her words lingered in the still evening air, damp with a hint of rain and fragrant with nineteen varieties of flora. None of which were of the genus Juniperus.
