Warrior Saints - Creator

by Carla Thorne

  I motioned for Scout. “Never mind. I need that back.” I drank all the warm soda and gave my cup to Deacon for more. “I saw the whole thing, so when it happened, I wasn’t really surprised, but I was still in shock because I couldn’t believe it really happened. When everyone jumped into action I was stunned, but I knew about the whole thing, and I was devastated I didn’t understand enough to stop it.”

  Deacon returned the cup. “Does your—”

  “Wait. There’s more.” I downed the second cup. “The reason I joined the Purple Arrows is because I had a daytime hallucination about Corey. Don’t ask me to tell you about it because I won’t, but she’s not safe. I’ve talked to Mr. Parrington and I’ve talked to her and that’s all I can say.”

  “You talked to Mr. Parrington about your vision?” Scout asked.

  “Heck no. Only about Corey and the Arrows. And by the way, don’t be surprised if you get a pass to go see him. He thinks we all have information.”

  Deacon shrugged. “We do have information. We know all about that fire, and Mary saw the whole bullying thing in the bathroom that night.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Scout said. “But I’ve been in the office so much I’m behind on the book we’re doing in English. Hope it’s a quick visit.”

  Mary had yet to look me in the eye. She instead chewed her bottom lip and kept a keen eye on the plastic bowl of sloshy fruit.

  “There’s one more thing,” I said. “I also hear a voice when something is about to happen and I feel something on my cheek.”

  That did it.

  Mary’s head snapped up like I’d slapped her. “I knew it,” she said. “That day in the café, you were hearing voices. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Why didn’t you? You could have admitted something too and you didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t the right time, and yes, I totally have something to admit and really, I can’t wait to share now that I know about your thing, but let’s take one supernatural and completely unbelievable and abnormal phenomenon at a time.”

  Scout snickered. “Break it up, girls. We’re all friends here and it’s good to know you both have some fancy thing to share with us guys, but let’s finish unpacking Ivy’s thing first.”

  Deacon laughed. “Dude, the first part was funny, but that punchline… Please stop talking like my dad. We don’t unpack things here.”

  “Leave him alone, Deac. Unpack is a great word for what we’re doing.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  “You heard what I said, right? I have nightmares that come true. I hallucinate things. I hear voices. I’m one outburst away from a straitjacket.”

  “I didn’t hear it that way at all,” Scout said.

  I tilted my head and looked his way in time to see a big piece of dirty-blond hair drop into his eyes. “How do you mean?”

  He swept it away. “Well, to be fair, I knew about some of this before now so I’ve had a chance to think about it, but you’re looking at all this as a negative thing. Same as Deacon did with his hands. You say nightmares, I say dreams—or premonitions. And you say hallucinations—”

  “And we say visions,” Mary whispered. “He’s right. Everything you experience is to be helpful. Like Deacon.”

  “That’s not possible. Mental illness runs in my family like eye color. I have the same thing as my mom. And she has the same thing as her mom did. Aunt Connie knows all about it.”

  “Your mom sees the future in her dreams? And has visions of when people are in danger and feels called to help?”

  “Well… No. Not that I know of.”

  Deacon leaned closer. “Have you asked her?”

  “It’s hard to talk about.”

  “So you haven’t asked her.”

  “Not exactly,” I shouted. “You don’t understand. When you say these things to people it usually ends up with you being numbed by a big fat bottle of pills.”

  “Stop,” Scout said. “Take it easy, Ivy, we’re trying to figure this out.”

  “This is not something you can pick and choose on what to believe, Scout. It’s a fact.”

  “Then let’s look at the facts. What is your mom’s diagnosis?”

  “She’s definitely bi-polar. There have been plenty of manic cycles, and bouts of depression. Aunt Connie says there are probably other issues.”

  “All right, but there are hundreds of different kinds of mental illness like there are hundreds of kinds of cancer. What your mom experiences and what you experience sound like different things.”

  “You can’t separate it like that.”

  “Why not? You’re not on medication now, right?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You get up every day and come to school. You take care of your mom. You have straight As. You think, you act and react, you live…”

  “Hold up,” Deacon said. “I know where you’re going with this, Scout, but be careful. A lot of people with mental illness don’t look like you think they do.”

  I sent him a wicked side-eye. “Are you saying I look mentally ill?”

  “No, and that’s my point. Sick people can look healthy—both physically and mentally. Look. I don’t think for one minute you’re as sick as your mom, but I’m not a doctor. When my mom’s step-brother was suffering from PTSD, no one knew it till he took his life. Have them test you or whatever they do to be sure.”

  I understood, but I wanted a better answer. I knew I wouldn’t get one from a doctor.

  His response also made me wonder about his issue. “Did you see a doctor yet about your hands?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  He shook again.

  “And now we’re back at the beginning.”

  “No, we’re not,” Scout said. “I agree with Deacon, but what I’m looking at is Ivy’s perspective. I want to know why she can only believe this is a bad thing that’ll put her in an institution.” He looked directly in my eyes. “Why can’t you believe your ability is a good thing. That you are good?”

  Mary pounded his arm as an apparent great idea hit her. “Scout’s right. Think about it. Deacon’s hot hands are a simple message.”

  “Excuse me?” He dropped a strawberry. “You try walking around and never knowing when you might burst into flames.”

  “No. Sorry. What I mean is it’s one thing, and you’ve decided to embrace it as a positive sign. Danger appears, your hands get hot, you act and help.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Ivy’s is much more complicated. Everything is in her mind, and it’s all different. She has to decide what is an actual good message and what isn’t. She’s constantly battling to determine what is a gift and what could be signs of real mental illness.”

  “Exactly!” Joy surged through my veins as Mary’s words nailed my everyday struggle.

  Mary dropped from the couch to the floor in front of me. “And listen. The mental illness is only so big in your head because you have so much experience with it. Imagine if your mom didn’t suffer the way she does. You wouldn’t be worried about mental illness. If you had that dream about the café and prevented the accident like you did, you’d say it was a blessing. Some would call you clairvoyant or say you’re a medium or something. And Mr. Berry. Knowledge of that accident before it happened would make you famous. People would want to pay you to tell them their future. You see? Scout’s right. It’s your view of your gift that makes the difference.”

  “But I don’t care about this for those reasons…”

  “No, of course not, that’s not what I mean. You want to help people like Corey, and you’re using your gift to do that.”

  I wanted to believe her, but the sudden remembrance of another episode crowded my brain. “There’s a problem with all that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there was another hallucination.”

  “Vision,” Scout corrected.

  “No. Not a good vision.”

  �
��What, then?”

  “Hey, I’d love to believe I’m gifted or have abilities as Scout would say, but I don’t think that’s it.” I left the couch and wandered to the window to check on the empty pool Scout didn’t want to talk about. “That same day on the parking lot with Mr. Berry, I had another issue. I remembered that I’d seen the whole thing, but my feet were stuck to the ground and I couldn’t get free to help.”

  “That’s understandable,” Mary said. “It was a shock.”

  “Yes, but I mean I really couldn’t move my legs right before and when it happened. I was walking with Scout and I looked down and saw the snake from the garden wrapped around my legs.”

  Scout’s eyebrows raised. “The copperhead came back?”

  “Not the real one. Don’t you remember? I was stumbling… You kept trying to hold me up, but I was fighting an imaginary snake wrapped around my ankles. It’s like it was trying to keep me from moving forward. I hallucinated it. I had to shake it off so I could react. That wasn’t helpful. That was crazy…” I dropped the slat on the closed wooden blind and returned to the couch. “You see? Mental illness. I can’t claim it’s any more than that.”

  Mary’s face went from her usual ghost-like fair complexion to ashy gray and settled on a snowflake white.

  “Yes, you can,” she said. “I know who the snake is.”

  Chapter 29

  Mary

  They all looked at me with a stunned expression. Well, Deacon and Ivy looked stunned and curious. Scout looked… Scout looked constipated.

  Deacon brushed away his cracker crumbs and cleared his throat. “You mean you know a snake personally? Like you’re friends and hang on the weekends and stuff? And it’s all girl, you threw my poisonous butt over the fence… Why’d you do me like that? And then it came back all invisible and tried to trip Ivy?”

  “Venomous,” Scout corrected. “Not poisonous.”

  “That’s not the point, herper.”

  “I know that’s not the point. I’m confused.” Scout turned my way. “What the heck, Mary?”

  Deacon snapped his fingers. “Wait. That weird thing you said. Shanar and the Saint Slayers. The snake is Shanar?”

  Ivy glared his way. “You knew about this too? Who is Shanar?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. It was something she said after that last time we met here.” He gave me the meanest squint he could muster. “And she hasn’t explained herself.”

  Scout looked offended. “I didn’t know about Shanar and the Saint Slayers. Where was I when you talked about that? Related: Who are Shanar and the Saint Slayers?”

  “Enough,” I said. “You do realize I’m trying to tell you.”

  “And yet you’re not saying anything.”

  “Well, Deac, I would if I could get a word in.”

  “Holy crap, let her talk,” Ivy snapped. “Geez.”

  “I drowned when I was three years old.”

  Scout’s features turned into a tortured half-grimace-half-pitiful mask of pain. “I didn’t know that,” he whispered. “What happened?”

  “We have a pool, and I had a babysitter who’d been out all night and fell asleep on the floor while I played there beside her. I got up and pushed the unlatched French door open and eventually walked off the edge and into the pool.”

  “But you’re alive.”

  “Yes, but only after I’d been dead a while. And I remember. They think I remember everything because it was a traumatic event.”

  “Not to be weird,” Deacon said. “But what is there to remember? You were flailing and screaming for help, I guess, but…”

  “There’s no flailing or screaming. Little kids don’t really call for help. They can’t. It happens quietly.”

  “That’s horrible.” Ivy pressed her hands to her cheeks. “How long were you dead, and how did they save you?”

  “Several minutes. I was told the sitter ran out screaming. She or the neighbor called 911 and they yanked me out and started CPR. The paramedics were there in no time.”

  “So, it’s the waking up you remember?”

  “No. It’s the fight I remember.”

  “What fight?”

  “The fight with Shanar and the Saint Slayers. The fight to live.”

  Deacon let out a long low growl and clutched the sides of his head like he had a brain freeze. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know for sure, OK? I’ll try to explain, but when I say what I experience, your heads will explode. It’s something I’ve been doing for so long it’s as natural as taking a breath—and as unnatural as breathing under water.”

  “Please explain it.” He waved his hand as if trying to coax the words from my mouth. “Start talking.”

  “I am, but when I say it out loud to you…”

  “What? It’ll be worse than heated hands?”

  “Or nightmares and hallucinations?” Ivy chimed in.

  They had a point.

  I was the one holding back when I’d spent time trying to force them to talk.

  “OK, here goes.”

  “Finally,” Scout said.

  “When I was under water, I was completely aware of it. I opened my mouth and sucked in water because that’s what happens. I had no choice. But I didn’t know I was dying, or what was supposed to happen when you die… I mean, who knows that for sure? Especially at three. But something happened and I was aware of the life leaving my body. And I didn’t like it.”

  “Wait,” Deacon said. “You said it was quiet and you slipped under the water and you didn’t really fight, but suddenly you knew you were dying and then you wanted to fight? Did you do that thing where you went up and floated there and saw your own body in the pool?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that. It was all in my head, or like maybe in my soul or spirit or something? Anyway, I started seeing things. Black, dark, swirling… Like a boogeyman or something that had come to get me. And I was little, so I felt myself want to get away, but I couldn’t. So, I had to fight.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” Scout said. “The brain does all kinds of weird things when it’s deprived of oxygen. Research says that’s what near-death experiences are really all about. They aren’t attributed to anything spiritual, it’s the nature of what the body does when it’s dying.”

  “I would argue both sides,” I said. “But I was three. My life at that age was love, cuddly things, cupcakes with sprinkles, girly toys… I didn’t know anything.”

  “Yeah,” Ivy said. “Why would you conjure a demon-like being?”

  “Right. But it showed up and it tried to take me and I decided I wasn’t going.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I fought. I guess I’d moved on to a supernatural place because I fought. Not physically, because I was dead. I guess it was spiritually? I don’t know. I don’t understand it. But I started kicking and screaming in my head somewhere and somehow. It was as if I wasn’t three years old at all, but big enough to defend myself. And I wasn’t afraid. I was mad. Determination grew inside me and I got bigger and stronger and I used my own force to push that thing away, or scare it away or something.”

  Deacon moved closer. “You said it was a blob thing. No face? Maybe some devil horns?”

  “No. It was more like a force. It tried to swallow me or smother me… I refused.”

  “How did you know you were actually dead when that happened?” Ivy poked her hair behind her ears and absently chewed on the corner of a cracker as she seemed to let it all soak in. “Like you said, you were so little. What do you really know?”

  “All the facts line up. The account of the neighbor, the sitter, the paramedics… I was dead for a while. No one expected me to come back with brain activity at all. You can get a person’s heart started, but you can’t restart a dead brain.”

  “But your brain’s good,” Scout said.

  “Yes. I’m a medical miracle.”

  “Let me get this straight. You died. And you didn’t see Hello Kitty angels or sparkly
rainbows and go toward the light.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Instead, you went to the dark side as a three-year-old and kicked some devil thing’s butt to get back to life.”

  “Yes. I guess I did.”

  Scout scratched his head. “Huh.”

  “But.” I held up my finger to make the point. “At some time in the battle, I do recall a strengthening force. I didn’t see it, but it seemed there was something helping me. Like I remember getting tired. I wasn’t going to give up, but I did get tired, and whatever was behind me seemed to lift me up and give me that last push I needed to beat that force.”

  “So,” Deacon said. “There was something good there. It wasn’t all black.”

  “It was pretty black for a long time. Whatever good thing that showed up took its sweet time.”

  “What’s the Sha… Shan… and whatever you guys said?” Ivy asked.

  “Remember, I was three. I talked a lot—”

  “You still do,” Deacon teased.

  I punched his thigh. “As I was saying, I was only three, but I talked well, and I was trying to explain the dark person, but all that came out was Shanar from a combination of the names of the people there. They thought I was talking about Shannon the sitter or Sean the paramedic. The name stuck.”

  Deacon rubbed his leg where I’d hit him. “What about the Saint Slayer part?”

  “I’ve been a Stonehaven Saint since Pre-K. One day I was scribbling pictures at the kitchen table and I drew the dark force. My mom kinda freaked out at what she called the dark material I’d been recently drawing. She asked me what all the black swirls and ugly faces were about. So, I told her, that’s Shanar and the Saint Slayers. And that’s when she figured out the same sitter who let me drown also watched a lot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she worked—or didn’t work—that’s beside the point. That’s how Shanar and the Saint Slayers came to be.” I paused and took in all the dumbfounded looks they gave me. “But don’t get me wrong. I don’t think for one minute there are a group of Saint Slayers out there hiding in the bushes. That was a childhood imagination. It’s not like that. It’s just Shanar.”