Inkarna

by Nerine Dorman

  Marlise tries her best to educate me, taking me to assorted social networking sites online to show me photographs, to try to illustrate some of the connections, but it’s all a blur of names and faces. While to a degree, I’m more familiar with some of the most recent events in Ashton’s life, I’m not entirely convinced it’s going to help once I start making progress with my investigations. That’s a big if I make any progress, that is.

  The man in the mirror gazing back at me is a haunted echo of who he once was. None of the former self-assurance remains. It is with great effort that I try to stand tall, pull the shoulders out of the slight roundedness that has beset them, and it is almost with a sense of relief that I show up for shift at ten on Thursday morning, to work through until six that evening when the night’s crew turns up.

  How Ashton could stomach this as a career is beyond me, because there’s a fair amount of grunt work involved: stacking glasses, counting out the float in the till, tallying up stock and ordering more from the store rooms when particular brands run low. I learn all about some of the latest cocktails thanks to Davy’s cheerful education and I find myself liking the young man despite his grungy style.

  Damn, and I must stop making these comparisons. He’s only a year or so younger than Ashton, perfectly happy with his lot in life working in this den of iniquity, where I watch people get increasingly sozzled during lunch hour.

  Pierre remains aloof. Every time he passes the bar, he glares at me. Davy tells me not to worry, that the man’s just full of shit.

  I just find it difficult to fathom that this is what my life has been relegated to, a mind-crippling job that certainly isn’t going to be easy to escape.

  Shortly before we finish, Davy asks that I go to the store in the basement to fetch another case of Windhoeks—hardly a daunting task, and one that I should be able to manage. The subterranean room runs the length of the main bar area and carries that unmistakeable fusty scent underpinned with aeons of spilled beer.

  Shadows are almost physical here, tenebrous puddles of darkness that shift and coil of their own accord. My hackles are up immediately. A buzzing in the air, a certain heaviness, besets me. I’ve had an inkling this building is spiritually active on some level, filled with so many memories, of so many lives who have passed through, but it has never hit me so hard.

  I pause on the bottom step and scan the gloom, reluctant to take that first step. Piles of crates lean almost haphazardly, row upon row of kegs lining the walls. My very being screams that I mustn’t go farther into this space, my lungs tightening. The single naked bulb doesn’t do much to provide illumination. It could be my imagination, but I’m pretty sure the thing has a slight swing, as though a breeze stirs the room.

  All the breath is knocked out of me with such ferocity I can do nothing to protect myself. An invisible force sends me skidding onto my side into a pillar. I lie there, stunned after the impact, while my vision goes black. On a daimonic level I sense it: an implosion of power and an unearthly howl of rage so filled with dark torment I shrink into myself, half-expecting blows to rain upon me.

  Nothing of the sort happens and I lie still, gradually taking inventory of my physical well-being, my ears ringing. An eternity passes before I can get up and stand, leaning heavily against the wall for support. My left side is ablaze, each breath screaming agony. I allow myself a low groan, nothing more. There is no need to draw unwarranted attention to myself.

  This is how Davy finds me, with tears of pain wetting my face.

  “You okay, dude?”

  “I-I must have slipped on a damp patch of concrete.” Believe me on this one, I will. The floor is damp, but it’s not that dangerous. My head throbs in time with the ache in my side.

  Davy frowns and pushes his shoulder-length brown hair from his face. “I’ll chat to Gavin about getting that seen to.” He narrows his eyes. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  “Oh.” I swipe at the trickle of blood and stare at it stupidly. At this rate my brain will be haemorrhaging out of my sinuses before the body hits its mid-twenties. Lizzie never had this much trouble.

  “You’d better go see a doctor tomorrow. Just in case it’s cracked ribs or something. Lisa would have my hide if you’re lifting and carrying in that condition.”

  “She will?”

  “Ah, fuck off.” He turns and walks back up the stairs, which makes me very glad so he can’t see me limp to the bathroom.

  Cold water does little to ease my now-raging headache, but mercifully the bleeding stops. My reflection is paler than usual and I bare my teeth at Ashton’s face. “Bastard,” I mutter.

  What in the Tuat’s name attacked me? In all Lizzie’s time as the mistress of House Adamastor, I never encountered anything quite like that, filled with so much violence. Ghosts, genus loci, inexplicable entities… Those I’d run across from time to time, but they are not central to the work of the Inkarna. They are mere curiosities that, as long as they don’t impinge on our ability to work and study, are relegated to journal entries.

  After all, it is our abilities to manipulate the stuff of our own souls, our selves, that requires primary concern. If we were to become distracted, we would lose the grip on our ability to pass through the Black Gate with our memories intact.

  Lisa comes onto late shift shortly after I exit the bathroom. She takes one look at me and immediately figures out something’s up, getting the bones of the small drama out of Davy with little effort. She’s the one who, despite my pleas not to, calls Marlise to collect me.

  “You’re not going on the train looking like a wreck. If I find out you didn’t go to the doctor tomorrow, there’s going to be hell to pay.” She tosses her dreads the same way an angry cat flicks its tail just once, warning me not to cross an invisible line.

  “Sure, sure.” I do, however, take an involuntary step back.

  Davy snickers from the opposite end of the bar.

  * * * *

  Back at Marlise’s place I find myself embroiled in a tug of war with the woman.

  “No! I’m not taking off my shirt! I’m fine!”

  “You look like you’re gonna pass out every time you get up or sit down. At least let me look.” Marlise has a death grip on my right wrist, but I’m hurting too much to jerk away.

  “I honestly don’t know what you looking at a few bruised ribs is going to do to make it any better.”

  “Ash!”

  “Don’t keep saying my name like that, woman!”

  Marlise flinches at the anger in my words, lets go of my arm and takes a step back from where I’m seated on the bed.

  My guilt nibbles and I place a weary hand over my face. “Oh for goodness sake…” I lie back with a groan, my feet still on the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m just…in a lot of pain right now. If you want to help me, rather find me some anti-inflammatories and some painkillers, okay?” What would she say if I told her the bit about the homicidal entity? Oh, I got sideswiped by an angry ghost, nothing serious, just a few bruises…

  That’s the kind of humour in which Ashton would no doubt engage, tormenting the poor woman with a flippant attitude, despite the severity of the situation.

  The mattress is pressed down as Marlise climbs onto the bed, once again keeping a careful distance between the two of us. Her eagerness to be near Ashton, to touch him, to be needed, washes over me, and I pull back on my daimonic awareness. The last thing I want right now, aside from a hysterical woman, is another nosebleed.

  Softly she begins combing my hair with her fingers and I let her. When last did someone brush my hair? A memory of Leonora returns to me, of us sitting in the living room overlooking the bay, the southeaster outside whipping the sea into submission. I had been so secure in my knowledge back then, thinking that, despite my age, I was well off, and all was secured for the future—for many futures.

  I lose myself in the recollections, Marlise’s fingers deftly unsnagging tendrils and, with them, some of the worries that have been festering. Perhaps it is
a good thing to rest a while. The entire situation may look less dire. I can call a few more of the Van Vuurens, get some rest and, it can be hoped, enjoy some dreamless sleep.

  Soft lips close on mine, the kiss chaste. Reflex allows me to return the kiss, not quite so chaste, before I realise what’s happening and shoot up amid a fresh stab of pain.

  Marlise stares at me, fingers touching her lips, then I’m doubled over from the agony in my ribs in a fit of coughing.

  “Oh sweet Amun,” I say once I catch my breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in extreme pain.”

  The mattress springs back as she gets to her feet. I remain in my hunched-over position.

  “I’ll get those painkillers,” Marlise says.

  “Please.”

  What the hell just happened? Not her kiss. That could be expected. After all, it’s clear she’s still madly in love with the ass Ashton. No. With me. I’d responded to that kiss and it had felt like… It hadn’t felt wrong.

  I sit up carefully and raise my fingers to my mouth, tracing the skin lightly. This is wrong in so many ways. I’m supposed to be staying here for a short while only, until I can save enough money to find my own place, not take advantage of this poor gullible girl. She’s so very innocent. Ashton has done enough damage. I don’t want to contribute to that special brand of hell he must have put her through.

  Marlise returns with the medication, but it’s quite obvious something between us has shifted. We’re too poised, too wary in one another’s presence. When we go to sleep that night, we’re even more careful about not touching each other accidentally. It’s like those olden-day stories about young married couples sharing a bed with a sword lying between them. I’m tempted to go sleep on the armchair, but that would be a little too obvious, not to mention bloody uncomfortable.

  * * * *

  By Saturday afternoon I finish calling the Van Vuurens and have given a lot of my spare cash to Marlise to pass on to her father for the use of the telephone, accompanied by some cock and bull story about trying to get my life on track. It’s a small mercy she has an extension here in her room, but someone’s still going to get upset once they see the phone bill.

  I’ve had absolutely no luck, although granted one or two of the names I called were no longer listed. A cursory search on the internet brings up no mention either.

  “Why are you getting so worked up about this? Who is this Catherine girl?” Marlise wants to know.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She’s overheard the gist of my search, however, and eyes me with suspicion.

  “Look, if it’s any consolation, it’s not what you think, okay? And it was a hunch I had to follow up and it’s failed miserably.”

  “Ash, something very weird is going on here.”

  “You’re telling me?” I laugh and try to imagine telling her the entire story. “I’m not myself, I know.” Further laughter peters out when I focus on her expression. She does not find my attitude at all amusing.

  * * * *

  The great thing about working on a Saturday evening at The Event Horizon is that I’m so busy I don’t have any opportunity to be maudlin. The beer flows, bottles clink into the black bin behind the bar counter and money changes hands. A week of good food and plenty of rest has imbued me with a sense of well-being as I get into the rhythm of continuing with the ruse of Ashton’s former life.

  How people can still manage to follow conversation above the din of what passes for music among this crowd is beyond me, but they seem to be having a good time. The dance floor is a mess of bodies as people propel themselves around on the black-and-white chequered surface. The strobe light is most likely sending them into a near-transcendental state, in any case. The best part is the confusion of those old friends of Ashton’s, when they try to strike up a conversation and I end up looking at them dumbly with a puzzled “Do I know you?” expression. The only blessing is the music’s too loud for me to go through the Routine.

  Marlise arrives at ten, with two of her friends. I’d said I’d get a lift back, but she tells me she’s glad to be out. She’s dressed to the nines in a tight velvet corset and long, flowing skirt trimmed with scarlet lace, quite a transformation from the long jerseys and tights which seems to be her uniform, otherwise. I can’t help but notice the swell of her breasts and the way she moistens her lips whenever she glances at me. That’s another thing I need to get used to, the way women flaunt themselves wearing little more than underwear.

  Why does it bother me that Marlise looks so unutterably gorgeous? My face warms and I feign interest in wiping down the bar counter.

  No. Don’t go down that road.

  When the girl makes an effort, she’s striking, and I can see why Ashton would have maintained a relationship with her. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. I shrug away the thought. Serial monogamy seems to be the norm nowadays.

  But the pain in my side is enough of a distraction every time I bend to open a fridge and liberate bottles of beer or cider, or reach up to pour hard tack. Lisa notices my hesitation whenever I have to move and she raises a brow in query. That look asks: Did you go see the doctor like I said you must?

  I have not gone to see the doctor. It’s not just the money issue. The idea of one more medical professional poking and prodding at me, asking all sorts of questions and probing into my past, is not one I want to entertain. My first days of wakefulness in hospital certainly delivered enough of that, thank you very much.

  Gradually the place becomes quieter. It’s half-past two when Davy turns up the house lights and the DJ kills the music. It’s time for the stragglers to go home and I’m so pathetically grateful, because each step I take brings fresh, blazing agony.

  Marlise makes small talk with Davy or Lisa or the DJ—I think his name is Chris. I don’t like the way he stands so close, leaning on one arm, a bit too near her. His teeth flash white; he smiles too much at what she has to say. Why does this bother me so much?

  I’m only too glad when we lock up at half-past three and can get the hell out of this place.

  “You’re looking a bit grey,” Marlise comments as we step into the night.

  “All the better to go home.” I feel the wad of cash in my pocket: this week’s pay with a share of the tips. It’s not much but it’s something. More than I had when I walked in on Monday.

  “You sure you’re okay?” She looks up at me while we walk to where she’s parked in Long Street. I don’t protest when she links her arm with mine. I welcome the contact because it speaks of friendship, nothing more.

  “I’m hurting a bit, that’s all. Need to get some rest.”

  “You could ask for some time off.”

  “I can’t. Need to get stuff done. Need to get my life on track.”

  “Jesus, Ash! You’ve just come out of a months-long coma. You were as good as dead. Give yourself time to recover!”

  “I don’t have enough time!” I say with more force than I intend, my tone harsh enough for her to flinch.

  “Enough time for what?”

  “I don’t know.” That much is true. Exactly why, I have no idea, but my daimonic senses prickle, tapping into some undefined awareness, of the way fate will play out if I can’t disentangle the threads of wyrd trapping me in a knotted tapestry of destiny.

  We don’t talk until we get to the vehicle, where Marlise pays the car guard and unlocks. It is bitterly cold out, the clouds pulled away to reveal a spattering of stars. Not many folks are still out on the streets. A particularly nasty wind leeches the warmth from the world, and I can hardly wait for Marlise to start the engine so the heater can kick into action.

  “Thank you for doing this, for coming to collect me,” I say.

  “It’s nothing.” She keeps her eye on the road. Not many cars about this time of the morning, but those that are, are headed mainly out of the city centre, much like us.

  “I could have waited for the first train.”r />
  “Ash.” Her voice holds a warning tone. “You’d have been sitting around waiting for the cows to come home for at least three hours. In this cold. And you’re not well.”

  I let out a hiss. To be so helpless, to have to rely on others without being able to recompense them for their time… “I feel shit for being like this…that you’re going to so much trouble for me when— When I treated you like rubbish.”

  “It’s okay. Really. Things are better.” Marlise squeezes my hand and holds onto me until she has to change gears. Her skin is warm compared to mine.

  How do I explain to her? What if I never get to the bottom of this situation and I’m stuck like this, in this Kha, in a less than ideal economic situation? What do I tell my fellow Inkarna one day when this flesh goes the way of all mortals?

  It’s my duty to continue, however. If all is lost—and many libraries have suffered the same fate as Alexandria’s—then it is my task to rebuild, to make sure that House Adamastor endures. I sift through my memories of the past few years. Was I wrong in trusting Leonora? She passed the tests, seemed so earnest in her search for the mysteries. This is always the risk when taking on new initiates. Some fail the first time they pass through the Black Gate to be lost in the Sea of Nun.

  But then she stood me by so well, so attentive. I doubt any mother could claim a daughter so devoted. It can’t be any fault of hers.

  Of me, then? Did I somehow betray the House?

  House Malkuth and House Montu both maintain a presence in the city but are as secretive in their business as House Adamastor. The former is too embroiled in worldly affairs and the latter with their philosophy and martial arts, as we are with our books and secret knowledge. Neither would seek the other’s downfall unless a rogue House has intruded to upset the balance. That is a possibility.

  How shall I seek them out? Details of postal addresses would have been kept at our chapter house, and that resource is no longer available to me. With so many options closed to me, I can only approach a library in Wynberg, run by the Rosicrucians, where we sometimes pinned messages on a board. That may well work… It’s a slim hope, but it’s better than nothing.