by Ireland Gill
“Go grab yours so you can throw again.”
He walked part of the way with me to the trees to get his own knives, but never bothered to help me grab mine. I gathered them all up again and stood where I’d stood before, knives at my feet. I held my tongue. I felt that if I scared him off, I’d never learn how to throw. And I’m not sure why that bothered me.
A thought occurred to me; Blane called me out that day on his own to teach. It was clearly his idea to do so. Maybe I’d planted the seed by asking him, but it was of his own will to take it further.
I bent down to grab one of the knives and looked over at him.
“Why am I really out here, Blane?”
He studied me. His dark, almost black, eyes bore into mine. “Isn’t it obvious to you yet?” he scoffed, lighting up another Marlboro. “You’re practically a sitting duck now.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Ain’t it funny how roles change?” he said sardonically.
I pursed my lips, angry that he’d been just a cryptic as every other entity I’d met since my role as Soldier of Light. Nothing was ever black or white. Nothing was ever easy to communicate. And nothing was ever as it seems.
Blane held the cigarette in the side of his mouth and threw all of his knives, hitting each of the targets in the torsos and eyes. Dead on. And then he said it. “Looks like I’m the only one who doesn’t have his goddamn head up his ass around here – I know about the deep shit you’re in. Your angel picked a real shitty time to break his wings, don’t you think?”
Immediately, I was seething. I looked up, dark clouds quietly creeping over to cover the sky and block the sun. I realized the weather was starting to match my mood, and I had to control it. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths until I felt the sun beating on my face again.
Blane narrowed his eyes at me. “So you really can control it, the rain.”
I didn’t answer him. I don’t know why I spoke fewer words around Blane.
“For the record,” he gestured to the sky with one of his knives, “I don’t think I’m really the one you’re mad at.”
“I’m not mad,” I said, loosening my tense muscles. Who was I kidding?
“Not a good liar, neither,” his southern accent spat back. He looked down at my hand. “Check your grip.”
I felt a tinge of pain in my right hand in which I held the knife, and looked to find a deep indent of the handle’s design imprinted in my palm. I sighed.
Why was I so see-through? Why was I even out there? What did it mean?
Blane took a few deep puffs of his cigarette, looking me over again. It wasn’t one of those creepy guy look-overs, it was one of calculation. He was studying me.
“Make you a deal,” he started. He walked over to retrieve his knives in the targets. “I’ll try to stop being such an asshole as long as you just learn to throw.”
I looked at him inquisitively. Now it started to sound as if he needed me to learn to throw. I was immediately confused by this new turn in direction. I was beginning to learn that maybe I wasn’t out there just because I’d requested his teachings.
“Why do you need me to learn so badly?”
Blane took one last, long drag on his Marlboro, walked it over to the ashtray and put it out. He sighed and shook his head as he walked back over to our standing points.
“Let me rephrase this. I’ll try to stop being an asshole as long as you just learn to throw...and stop asking questions.”
He gave me an intense stare, and our eyes stayed locked for what seemed like way too long. I wanted to negotiate. It didn’t seem fair that I couldn’t ask questions, especially if those questions pertained to knowledge I needed about throwing. Or maybe I could have questions about him that would tell me more about what he was or why he was chosen as the great “Phantom Hunter.”
“Three questions a day. And you have to answer them,” I demanded. “And then we have a deal.”
Blane chuckled darkly. “Nope.”
“Two then,” I said. “And you have to be honest.”
He cocked his head. “One.” Then he leaned in closer, almost towering over me, and said spitefully into my ear, “and, for the record, I’m always honest.”
I felt small for just a few seconds, standing so close to him. I could smell the old cigarette smoke that emanated from his clothing. And I could also detect there were much deeper things than just his smoking habit that he’d probably never want to reveal to me. There were secrets he was hiding behind that wall of his. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d offended him by asking too much, or ticked him off by assuming he may not be entirely truthful with me when I wanted an answer. I figured I’d let him win the negotiation.
“Deal.” I was hardly audible.
Then the throwing continued.
Chapter Eleven A Question a Day
The crack of dawn was his favorite time of day to teach me. I learned, from Blane, about the “hammer grip,” and to “stand ten feet from the target,” or “shift my weight forward,” or “release here, not here,” as Blane would try to explain at which point I was to release the knife. He tried extremely hard not to touch me, and I believe it was rather hard for him to explain what he meant without just taking my actual arm and moving it the way he wanted. He’d stand there and demonstrate, hoping I’d grasp the idea by seeing his stances and direction, but it was an obvious challenge for him to slow down as much as he had in order to help me to understand.
Blane would often smoke more while teaching me. One day he went through a whole two packs of cigarettes on his own, no help from me. I’d bought my own pack of Ultra Lights just so I didn’t have to mooch off of him. I think that made him respect me just a little bit more. Barely.
He kept his promise and answered one question a day. I eased into the complicated ones as I didn’t want to scare him off and never get to master my knife-throwing skills.
Day one: His favorite food? “Smoked spare ribs.”
Day two: Age? “Mid-forties.” I suspected, anyway.
Day three: Dogs or cats? “Dogs. No contest.”
Day four: Ever married? “Nope.”
Day five: How long has he thrown knives? “Every day for seven years.”
Day six: Where’s he from? “Beattyville, Kentucky.”
Day seven: Job? “Truck driver until the accident.”
Day eight: Next job? “Part time in stock room at Dollar General.”
It took until the ninth day for me to start digging into things I really wanted to know. He was from the Middle Realm. I wanted to know how he’d gotten there in the first place. This one-question-a-day thing was killing me.
Day nine: How did he die? Blane bulked at the question, but answered. “Overdose.” That’s when stuff started to turn heavy. I’d hated that I couldn’t ask more than one question in a day. So I came up with a plan on day ten.
Day ten: Favorite beer or adult beverage? “Corona in summer. Sam Adams in winter.”
The next morning, I prepared our breakfast. We were getting into the so-called “winter” months, but I grabbed Coronas and lime anyways. I dragged out a whole cooler filled with them.
Blane eyeballed my cooler as I parked it close to the edge of the step. “You’re shittin’ me, right?”
“What do you mean? People drink mimosas. Why can’t we have some beer?”
He shrugged and delved right into his first bottle, not bothering to use one of my pre-cut limes.
I grabbed a bottle for myself and gave it a nice chug before warming up to my first round of throwing for the day. The sun had just come up enough to light everything with a soft glow. I threw a round of my six knives at the same targets Blane and I had been using.
“Stop flicking your wrist,” he said as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about? I didn’t that time!”
“You did. Need a playback?” Blane walked over to the camcorder he’d set up on
a tripod for each of our practices. It became annoying. Each time he’d tell me I’d done something wrong, he’d make me watch the playback to show me what it looked like.
“Waste of time to look at that. I’ll just throw again.”
He shrugged and took a big chug of his beer. “You’ll never learn.”
“I can’t learn anything if we stop to watch each round. At this rate, I’ll only get through like three rounds of throwing a day and then I’ll have to quit.” My arms were flailing. “I have to go and save the dead for the rest of the day. Remember?”
Blane scoffed. “Better off working on this shit first. The dead can wait.”
“Ha!” I guffawed and handed him another cold one. “Try telling Hayden that. Then maybe you can go and convince the Council.”
He shook his head, almost flinching at my suggestion. “I ain’t fuckin’ with the Council.”
I studied him before getting into position to throw. He was still getting the recording ready for playback.
“Why is everyone afraid of breaking their rules? They’re angels, not the mafia.”
Blane narrowed his eyes, taking a swig of the bottle. “You don’t know much,” he said, hitting buttons on the camcorder. “Here,” he walked it over to me. “You flicked your wrist on that last one. Take a look.”
I grunted loudly. “Avoiding my question?”
Blane’s brow furrowed as he looked up at me. I could see his jaw tighten.
“Is that your official question of the day? After that, you don’t get any more.”
I rolled my eyes and took a big chug of my beer, then threw my three knives, all without wrist-flicking, all landing somewhere on the targets.
“No,” I finally answered. I didn’t really want that particular question about the Guardian Council to be my one question for the day. I was just biding time until I got Blane loosened up with that beer.
“Don’t drop your right shoulder forward. You’re starting to throw like it’s a goddamn baseball.”
I sighed heavily, biting my tongue. I’d already lost concentration, and I knew I was starting to get sloppy. Once I paid more attention, I was able to correct myself. I focused on my stance, straightened my shoulders and minded my throw. After about ten more throws, I released at the perfect moment, the knife sliding out of my grip at the exact moment it needed to be released to reach where I was aiming. The center of that target was pierced directly in the middle with my knife.
“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Holy shit! Did you see that?”
Blane polished off his bottle, tilting his neck back to get every, last drop. By that time, it had to have been his third or fourth. He wasn’t fazed by my accomplishment. It sort of irked me.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
He guffawed. “Congratulate you? Could you do that for seven years straight, every single day?”
I felt my face contort. I wasn’t sure the direction he was going with that question. What was supposed to be the right answer? I wondered why he’d mentioned seven years. Surely, someone with his skill had practiced longer than seven years to attain that flawless throw. Seven years referred to something else, a different timeline.
I watched him pace, finally stopping for a second to pull out a cigarette and light it. Then I watched him do something I never thought I’d see him do; he took off his trench and threw it over the porch railing haphazardly. The removal of his coat revealed a dirty, white, long-sleeved t-shirt. It was the same style he’d worn since the day he showed up.
Blane hiked up each of his sleeves, revealing the skin of each of his forearms. He dunked a hand into the cooler for another bottle, and it was then that I saw the tracks along his veins. It wasn’t like they were old scars or faded markings that exhibited an old habit, these were dark pink, raised lines all the way up both of his arms, extremely exaggerated, like tattoos meant to stay forever.
He pounded that last beer and dropped it onto the grass at his feet. “On with it,” he said quietly. “What’s your question today?”
I knew I only had one shot that day to ask my one question and I didn’t want to waste it on something I’d already figured out. Surely, it had to be deeper than just a drug problem that ended his life. There was something more to his story.
I knew we had an agreement that I could ask one question per day and that he was to answer me honestly, but I couldn’t help but feel like I’d overstepped by bringing out those beers for the day. I knew nothing about Blane, but it was wrong of me not to just have some patience with him. I walked over to the cooler, shut it tight, and scooted it over the far side of the porch away from him.
He threw his last three knives, hitting the center of each target, staring out at the tree line. It was as if he were waiting for me to ask this one question for a long time. He stood there patiently, not even moving to retrieve his knives yet. He just took long drags from his cigarette until it went out.
I gulped, but I formulated the words and let them spill from my lips. “Why have you been in the Middle Realm for seven years, Blane?”
When he looked straight at me, I was frozen at the sight of his eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen a real sadness in them. A sadness that was so deep and dark that it swallowed me up and let me drown in it with him. A sadness that told a story. I prepared myself for what I would hear next.
He took a long breath before speaking. “I killed my son.”
Chapter Twelve Every Rose Has a Thorn
“There’s just no way,” I said to Jaxon. “Clearly, it has to be a metaphor or something.”
I was still in shock about the whole “I killed my son” thing with Blane the day before. I wasn’t sure Blane was expecting me to react to his candor the way I had. I mean, I was grateful he was truthful, but his answer wasn’t anything near what I’d expected.
I can’t remember much about the rest of that day, only that I had a million questions bouncing around in my head and couldn’t pick one of them to ask. What would it have mattered anyway? I was only allowed one question per day.
I’d skipped throwing with Blane the next morning so I could clear my head and chew on what I’d just learned about him. I was sure he wasn’t a bad guy. I was sure that he would have been placed in the dark realm with Alysto if what he told me was true. There was way more to his story, and having only one question per day wasn’t going to cut it for me anymore. Maybe it wasn’t any of my business, I get that, but Blane was almost like a project for me those past few weeks. In a way, we both did each other favors by being who we were. He offered me a bit more protection by teaching me how to protect myself. And I guess I offered him some sort of outlet, human interaction. I’m not sure I’d call it friendship; it wasn’t that deep between us. Whatever the relationship was becoming, we both got something out of it.
It was after noon when Jaxon offered to take the pony for a wash and to fill the gas tank for me. He said it was his way of thanking me for letting him move in, (even though it was more of a command.) We decided it would be a good time to catch up on things after having been so busy for a few days, so I tagged along and put off “saving” with Hayden. (I was really just afraid to let anyone drive Aurora without my supervising.)
“It could be a metaphor...a sick one, but meaningful,” Jaxon offered. “Or maybe his son was sick, and he feels guilty about not being able to help him.”
Jaxon offered a great point there. Middle realm was where people went to condemn themselves. They were never put there by force. There’s no way it was murder.
“He’s a good guy,” I said. “I know that much. I mean, he can be a super dick most of the time, but his intentions seem right, you know?”
I didn’t want to tell Jaxon about the tracks in Blane’s arms. It was obvious what those were from, but I didn’t even know if that had any relation to why he had been in the Middle realm to begin with, so I never brought it up.
“Yeah, he seems okay.” He nodded. “I don’t know. Just ask him tomorrow. Ma
ybe he’ll spill the story about the whole thing.”
I scoffed. “Like he’ll spill them after the one question I get to ask for the whole day?” I sighed, then slouched in my seat. “Fat chance.”
Jaxon shrugged. “Just figure out the very one question you need to ask him to get the most info about it.”
He was right. I’d have to ask Blane one particular question that would give me the straight answer I needed about what he meant about his son.
“So how is it? The knife throwing?” Jaxon had excitement in his voice.
I bobbed my head. “I love it. I feel like I have so much control when power when I hit a target.”
“You’re already hitting targets? Wow. I checked out the window the first few days and you were all over the yard.” We both laughed.
I gave him a smug look. “I’m getting way better. Blane is less annoyed, at least.”
Jaxon smile and nodded. “Looks like fun. I should try it with you.”
I thought about the first few days I tried throwing and how sore my body was. I’d practiced for hours at a time, putting so much energy and force into each throw. I’d really been taking it seriously. I truly loved my new hobby. And according to Blane, I was doing myself a favor.
“It’s so exhausting to think about. Are we almost there?”
“Yeah, the carwash is only up about a mile. And don’t worry. It’s one of those laser ones, so we don’t have to worry about damage to the car.”
I looked over at my brother and admired how careful he was being with my car. He was adorable. “What's with the blissful look, lil' brother?”
Jaxon’s smile widened into a cheesy grin. He shrugged. “Life’s good, sis. I have new family now, of which consists of an awesome twin who loves the same types of cars as I do. I’m moved into a great new place, sharing it with new friends. Good people.” He paused for a few seconds as he pulled into the lot of the carwash. “And I met –“
“A girl,” I finished for him. “Yeah, you’ve got that look on your face.” I laughed.
