Don’t be paranoid, he scolded himself. Even if Malachai was stupid or arrogant enough to try that, Mom and Dad would know it was BS. He probably thinks I’m a typical teenager who doesn’t talk to his parents.
In fact, Joshua talked to his parents about everything, from the glass of wine he’d had at Sachiko’s dinner party to his troubles with Malachai. In fact, there was only one thing he never talked with his parents about—Lattie. He wished he had. They probably could have helped him avoid that disaster. At least he’d learned from his mistake. He’d told them about his feelings for Sachiko, and about Deryl. They knew full well that he considered Deryl a friend, but also that Joshua was helping the teenage client learn enough coping skills to make it in the real world—and to convince the staff that he could live sanely on his own. That was the only “escape plan.”
So, how’d that work out? He stifled a moan.
Joshua and his guards, and Tasmae with the still-unconscious Deryl in front of her, arrived at the end of the gorge and faced a dead end. Joshua barely had time to wonder what was going on when the unicorns reared, unfurled their wings and half flew, half leapt to a huge overhang partway up the cliff. He hung on for dear life, and only when they at last reached a level point, did he chance a look around. Again, the view surprised him, for the “outcropping” they stood upon could hold a large campsite, yet he hadn’t been able to see it when looking at it from the cliff top. They passed through another of those bizarro living walls, and stopped.
“Whoa!” He gasped as he looked at the incredible plant that twined itself over the outcropping and up the cliff. “Gigantic” didn’t do it justice. The branches, some as thick as ancient redwoods, twisted in a complex pattern that rose over three stories high. A few smaller but still substantial branches stretched toward the fence, ending in nest-like platforms with low walls of twining branches and leaves. Among the brown and green foliage, some spots sparkled in the fading light.
“What is that?” He asked Tasmae. As usual, she didn’t answer.
New warriors pulled Deryl from the unicorn. One of them started to carry him, still unconscious, toward the strange plant.
“Hey!” Joshua jumped off the unicorn and ran after them. Quickly, two warriors grabbed him. “Hey!” He shouted and struggled. “No way! Don’t separate us! C’mon! You can’t do this! No!”
He nearly broke away, and one of the warriors pulled out a dagger and pressed it against his throat so that he could feel his pulse against the blade. Unlike Deryl, he had no doubt this person would not hesitate to slit his throat. Seething, wild with panic, he nonetheless stilled, and stayed passive even when the pressure eased. These guys didn’t know him from Adam and could probably kill him without breaking a sweat. Helplessly, he watched as they took Deryl inside the plant.
He felt a point against his back, more of a nudge, and he obeyed, following one of the warriors quietly. He, too, went into the plant, though he didn’t marvel at the thought, so intent was he on trying to spot Deryl. Soon, he gave up looking; even if he had seen which way they’d taken him, the corridors twisted and branched so much he quickly lost his sense of direction. In a few minutes that seemed to last forever, they came to a large, leaf-shaped curtain. It folded away as if pushed by a gentle breeze.
The guards shoved him into the room beyond.
Chapter 4
Deryl awoke to comfort and an incredible stillness. He couldn’t define it, so he lay quietly, eyes closed, feigning sleep and basking in the peacefulness while trying to figure it out.
There was sound, but not the institutional noises of the asylum where he’d lived the last five years of his life, nor those of the hospital where he’d spent a brief week of freedom after his appendectomy. No sounds of rubber soles of nurses’ shoes squeaking slightly on the tile, no metallic roll of a cart, none of the occasional moans or outspoken words of patients—only birdsong and a voice raised in wordless accompaniment.
Not vocal. Psychic.
Deryl sat up, eyes opening in shock.
A dark-haired man in a green tunic with a red sash regarded him without surprise. He spoke directly to Deryl’s mind, not in words per se, but Deryl understood him nonetheless. I cannot tell you if you are home, but you are safe, came the message, with a flash of wry humor and a gentle reassurance that then turned to subtle warning. That is, as long as you mean no threat to us.
While trying not to be obvious about it, Deryl shielded his thoughts. He didn’t know what this healer had learned from him in his drugged state, but until he knew more about these people, the less he told them about his past, the better. He merely reassured the healer that he felt fine and held no evil intent toward him or anyone.
Nonetheless, the healer rearranged the pillows so he could sit more comfortably, gave him something resembling vegetable soup, and watched as he ate. Deryl sipped slowly, trying not to stare, trying even harder not to let his growing panic show. Where was he? Was any of this even real?
Real or not, the soup tasted wonderful, and he finished it before he’d realized how hungry he was. The healer took the bowl with a smile.
That’s enough for now, or you may regret it later. The thought entered Deryl’s mind with ease. Someone wishes to see you. Wait here.
Deryl waited until the odd door folded shut, then let himself feel his panic.
How had that man communicated with him like that? Quickly, he checked his shields, mental barriers he’d learned to forge over the years and had perfected with Joshua’s tutelage over the past month. They were battered and worn down from the horrific weekend during which Dr. Malachai had kept him drugged. He shuddered. Anything could get through them now.
So why wasn’t he being bombarded with the thoughts and feelings of others? Why hadn’t they overwhelmed him? Why was he still, well, sane?
Or was he?
He recognized the uniform the man had worn—a warrior-healer, a specialty developed by the Miscria, using Earth’s knowledge of triage and army medical techniques. Knowledge she’d taken from his mind by “Calling” Him out of reality and pestering him with questions he was compelled to answer—just one of the reasons he’d been admitted to SK-Mental, and one of the “delusions” that had kept him there for five long years.
I banished her from my mind. Told her I was no longer the Ydrel, the Great Oracle come to save her with my wisdom. So why am I seeing her people? He threw off the covers, discovering he still wore the jeans and T-shirt Joshua had helped him put on. How long had he been unconscious?
What did Malachai give me, anyway? I’m hallucinating. Or maybe dreaming? Come, on, Deryl, wake up!
He shut his eyes tightly, telling himself that when he opened them again, he would see the comforting blue and white walls of his room at the institution. Comforting! Despite himself, he laughed at the thought, but right now, even the padded pink room of the high-intensity ward would comfort him. Anything with straight lines, right angles, and familiar, human, non-psychic people. He fixed the sight, the sounds, the impressions, in his mind, then opened his eyes.
Gently curved walls of a light greenish brown. A thick mat on the floor that served as a bed. A small chest that, despite its flat top, didn’t have a sharp angle anywhere. A leaf-shaped window whose “glass” pane sported translucent veins. No sounds, no psychic buzz of staff and patients.
“Joshua?” His voice sounded small and plaintive to his ears, and he bit down on his lips to prevent a panicked sob from escaping. Of all the staff at the SK, he trusted Joshua the most. If this was all fake, he’d help Deryl see it. And if it was real…
If this is real, I have escaped and am on another planet, and Joshua…Again, he saw himself holding a piece of broken glass to his friend’s throat. Then that wrenching. If this was real, where was Joshua? Had he hurt him?
Deryl realized he had wrapped his arms wrapped around himself and was rocking slightly. Was he doing it because, in
reality, he wore a straitjacket? Is that what he wanted?
He shook himself and stood. Barefooted, he walked to the open window. The floor felt smooth and a little soft, like no tile or dead wood could feel. He pulled open the strange window and leaned out, turning his head, wishing for the brick-and-mortar of the stately building of the asylum, with the well-manicured lawns of the courtyard just outside.
Instead, he found himself on the second floor of a building like none he’d ever seen before. It seemed to be covered in a rough bark and decorated with large leaves…unless...were they growing on the walls? Or were they the walls? He looked past the grassy field to the tall walls that surrounded the complex and gulped.
He knew those walls: how thick they were, the narrow passages between and inside them, the secret entrances. He knew, too, what defenses lay beyond, and even within the city, if there was one here. The Miscria had designed this keep using her knowledge of Earth battle defenses and medieval fortress construction.
He’d spent a year studying medieval architecture and history as well as defense strategies to satisfy her curiosity.
Can this be true? He ran his hand on the windowsill—rough on the outside, but smooth indoors, and a little warm. Alive. Real. Yet he could hear Dr. Malachai speaking to him in calm, reasonable tones. “Perhaps it was not the best of ideas to let our young intern try his Neuro Linguistic Programming tricks with you. With his one-size-fits-all-psychoses brand of psychology, he may likely believe that it makes no difference if your Miscria is real, as long as it allows you to…function…in polite society. But we do know better, don’t we, Deryl? You’ll never be truly sane until you accept this Miscria for the illusion it is. Yet, after a few short weeks with Joshua, your ‘it’ has a gender…”
More than a gender. He shivered as he regarded the peaceful scene before him. A city. Inhabitants. Infrastructure—
“Ydrel?”
A voice?
He whirled and gaped at the stern young woman standing at the doorway.
The Miscria!
He backed up so fast his elbow slipped on the windowsill. If it was a windowsill.
Of course, it’s a windowsill, a voice answered in his mind. Or are you back to disbelieving I’m real? When he didn’t answer, her exasperation turned to concern, and she spoke to him aloud. “Ydrel. Deryl. It is I, the Miscria. Tasmae, remember? It’s all right. You are safe here.”
She moved toward him slowly, murmuring gentle reassurances and projecting concern, and he let her take him by the arm and lead him back to the bed. He sat down on the low mattress while she got him a drink—water, clearer and purer than any he’d ever known—then sat down on the floor in front of him. She waited until he’d slowly sipped the entire glass.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, surprised to find his voice sounded so steady. “I’m a little…disoriented. I’m really here? On Kanaan?”
“Yes.” She said, and smiled, though her eyes held worry. He felt her concern in his mind, but he fought the urge to answer in kind. Not yet.
“How did I get here?”
She shrugged. “Through the Void, I imagine, though how you managed it is a mystery. The storms in the Void are fierce; none can travel them right now. Perhaps that is why your recovery has taken so long. Or is it because of the poison?”
“Probably both,” he bluffed. He had started to feel more sure of himself, at least enough to think more clearly. He still wasn’t ready to believe in this world, in this miracle. It was too much to think he’d escaped Malachai’s clutches, that he’d found a world where being psychic was as natural as being able to see, where he wouldn’t have to constantly guard against the unwanted thoughts and emotions of others. For the most part, anyway; he was still very aware of Tasmae’s concern.
She watched him in that direct, probing way of hers. He stared back, taking in her features, searching for some clue as to whether or not she was truly real. Her long black hair, in a tight braid that curled around an elaborate headpiece he knew held a sheathed dagger, drank in the light of the room while her eyes, nearly as dark, glowed with intensity. Her alien features didn’t quite meet the human standards for lovely—her face too narrow, her eyes too close together—but she had the most amazing cheekbones, and her body was attractive enough by Earth standards; at least, as Joshua had once told him, if you like Xena-body-builder types. He wondered for a moment what this Xena’s skin color was; Tasmae was a lovely honey brown. He hadn’t been able to capture that in the pencil sketches he’d made after taking Joshua’s advice and confronting her in the Netherworld.
Do I look as I did in the Netherworld? she asked telepathically.
He nodded, feeling a lightheadedness that had nothing to do with drugs or hunger. Without quite realizing it, he answered with a telepathic affirmation. Me?
She sent to him images of the Ydrel she had known in the Netherworld and how he looked to her now. They weren’t too different—same shoulder-length blond hair, same sky blue eyes over a slightly sharp nose—but his Netherworld image was at once more ethereal and heroic. He wondered if he disappointed her.
She cocked her head, considering. Perhaps it was my lack of skill. I have only been to the Netherworld to communicate with you, and until your suggestion, did not know it could be a place with scenery, objects, and people.
And we’re not in the Netherworld now? he pressed, seeking some way to reconcile what he thought he was experiencing with what he thought should be reality. Perhaps what he’d felt was just her Calling him from consciousness.
He sensed her negation, along with a detailed description of the keep where they’d brought him and what had happened.
So, he was on Kanaan, physically as well as mentally—and he had traveled there by his own psychic power?
She nodded. And you brought another—
“Joshua?” He gasped in surprise. “He’s here? He’s all right?”
“He’s here,” She responded, following his lead in switching to spoken tongue. “Though I cannot if say he’s all right. His behavior is most…odd.”
“Take me to him!” Deryl found his shoes and slipped them on, trying to quiet the thundering of his heart. If anyone could help him figure all this out, it was Joshua.
But Tasmae did not move, nor acknowledge his demand. Why are you here?
He felt the force of her will against his weary shields, and strengthened them against her, meeting her will with his own stubbornness. After I see Joshua.
She met his stubbornness with her own. He didn’t care. He concentrated on his friend as he walked to the door, hoping to sense his way to him if necessary.
He had to see Joshua. Somehow he knew that the intern held the key to keeping his sanity.
Chapter 5
Joshua lay on a bed too comfortable for a jail cell and stared at a wall too alien for comfort. Still, he preferred it to getting up and looking out the window. Through it, he had seen a hallway-sized branch that grew out of the side of the building, “blossoming” out into a low-walled platform that looked past the compound walls. In the dusty area below it, human-enough-looking aliens wearing thick, skin-hugging red outfits practiced sword-fighting skills with a seriousness that said it was no SCA get-together. Even now, he heard grunts and the occasional yelp, but no commands, no words at all, not in any language, and that struck Joshua as the most alien thing of all.
I am not going crazy, he told himself again. Still, the psychiatric part of his mind warned him that if he didn’t do something, he might fall into depression.
What could he do? Panic? He’d already done that, throwing himself against the leaf-like curtain, which was now as solid as any door back home. He’d pounded on it and shouted until his fists were sore and his throat raw. He didn’t know if anyone had noticed, though once he’d calmed down, a warrior had come with food and two pitchers of water. With signs, he told him one was for washing
only.
What could he do, cry? He’d done that, too, as soon as the warrior had left him alone. It had released his stress, but otherwise done no good.
Pray? He’d never prayed so hard in his life, starting with desperate pleas, gradually moving toward familiar prayers he’d learned in years of Catholic religious education—Our Father, Morning Offering, every mystery of the rosary. It had calmed him some, and he had begun to sing some of the prayers, comforting himself with the music, moving on to other hymns, then popular songs. He stopped when he found himself singing one Rique had written for Chipotle. Would he ever see his friends again? And what if he did get back, but too late for their audition?
He’d reverted back to prayer before finally falling into an exhausted sleep. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but he woke lethargic and depressed and hungry. Food waited for him on the table along with a jug of water and a basin of wash water, but he hesitated to eat or drink. He had put his hands into the wash water and it had frothed like peroxide. Could he trust the food? He checked his watch, idly glanced at the angle of light coming in from the windows. This planet’s days were a couple of hours longer than Earth’s, he figured. He’d already been missing for twenty-six hours.
Where was Deryl? he wondered again. He shivered as he remembered his fiancée arguing with the chief psychiatrist. What if Sachiko was right and Deryl’s meds were too high? What if he’s OD’d?
He was going to throw up thinking about it. He had to do something.
He could try one thing, ridiculous as it seemed. He shut his eyes and thought as hard as he could: Deryl? Where are you? Can you hear me?
“You don’t have to shout.”
Joshua yelped and sat up. At the door stood Deryl, his long blond hair a little disheveled, his blue eyes a little wild, but otherwise healthy and whole. Joshua froze, torn between the desire to hug his friend in relief and the urge to throttle him for getting him into this mess.
Mind Over Psyche Page 4
