Reckonings

by Carla Jablonski

  “Not that I know of,” Tim replied, “though the idea is tempting.” Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and took in the room: the narrow bed with the thin mattress, the peeling paint, the obvious lack of a bathroom or kitchen. “Where am I?”

  “The Full Moon hotel,” Kenny replied. “It has a no-stars rating, but the terms are reasonable.”

  “Is this where you live?” Tim asked. He had thought Kenny was homeless. At least, he had been back in the winter.

  “Me? Stay in one place? Indoors? Never.” The man laughed a wheezing laugh.

  “But if you could find a place for me, why don’t you find a place for yourself?” Tim asked.

  The man shuddered. “I was once confined. I didn’t like it.”

  “Were you—Were you in prison?” Tim asked, hoping he wasn’t being too personal.

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. Well, actually something like that, in how I felt. I prefer open spaces. There is always some light under the open sky. I don’t much care for the dark.”

  “Oh,” Tim said, even though he didn’t really understand.

  “This place is run by old friends,” Kenny said. “You are safe here.”

  Tim nodded, then yawned. “’Scuse me,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

  “Fatigue is the constant companion of one at war.”

  “At war?” Tim repeated. “I’m not fighting any war.”

  “Aren’t you?” Kenny asked. “You bear the signs.”

  Tim wanted to ask Kenny what he meant, but all he could think of was sleep. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, so finally he quit fighting it. He drifted off quickly.

  The moment he was sure that Tim was asleep, Kenny lit a candle and placed it in the center of the room. “Even in your sleep you feel the battle,” he told the sleeping boy. “Together perhaps we can find a way to end it.”

  Kenny crouched in the corner of the small hotel room and waited. He knew he’d see the same fight he’d seen the past two nights since he’d taken in Tamlin’s son. The boy had Tamlin’s fire, that was sure. But he was also an innocent, and troubled, and he had lost the one man who could have guided him well. It was up to Kenny, as Tamlin’s friend, to help the boy back onto the path. If the boy was willing to be helped, that is.

  Tim’s T-shirt fluttered. Two creatures, insubstantial, two-dimensional, crept out from under the sleeping boy’s clothing. As they moved away from him, they took on three-dimensional form.

  “It’s no wonder they have been tearing you up,” Kenny commented softly. “The scorpion and the butterfly hate each other. They fight for total control over you, and hate that they have to share. A fight for power is always ugly.”

  The butterfly fluttered above the candle flame, while the scorpion advanced toward it, its stinger held high.

  “Tamlin would not want this for his boy,” Kenny muttered, “but it is Tim’s choice.”

  Kenny made his way over to Tim, taking care to give a wide berth to the deadly scorpion. What drove you to this? he wondered. He knelt beside the sleeping boy, and shook him.

  “Brace yourself,” Kenny said, even before the lad had opened his eyes. “If they hurt going on, letting them go will hurt worse.”

  “Huh,” Tim mumbled. He didn’t want to have to be awake. Being awake was too hard. “Hurt?” he repeated. “What’s going to hurt?”

  “That all depends.”

  Tim was jolted awake by a strange sight. A butterfly and a scorpion circled each other in the center of the room, as if squaring up for a fight.

  “Are those…are those my tattoos?” he asked.

  “You don’t recognize them?” Kenny seemed surprised.

  “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Why have you stunted yourself this way? I see the Wobbly may have been right. This is why it tried to collect you.”

  “What do you mean?” Tim asked.

  Kenny gestured at the living tattoos. “By having these prison guards etched into your flesh, haven’t you thrown away all of your potential? All that you are?”

  “Is magic all I am?” Tim demanded, anger rising. “You don’t know what it’s like. I—aahhh!” A shooting pain in his chest caused Tim to howl in agony. How can this be happening? The tattoos aren’t even on me. Through his squinted eyes he saw that the butterfly hovered over him, beating its wings frantically.

  How can such a delicate, flimsy creature cause me so much pain? Tim wondered.

  “You consented to their control,” Kenny explained. “It doesn’t matter if they are on your skin or not, as long as you have given them permission to be in charge. You and the tattoos have formed a link.”

  The pain subsided. Tim flopped back onto the pillow and used the rumpled sheet to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “Why would you allow yourself to be caged?” Kenny asked.

  “She said…she said they’d keep me from hurting someone,” Tim explained, letting the sheet drop. “That’s more important than anything else.”

  Kenny stood over Tim. “I could offer the same thing. I could kill you. That would prevent you from taking any actions at all. Everyone would be safe from you then.”

  “But—” Tim protested, sitting back up.

  “Is this really the solution?” Kenny gestured at the scorpion and butterfly.

  Tim perched at the edge of the cot and watched the strange creatures in their grotesque dancelike battle. The flickering candle flame cast their enormous shadows on the walls. Depending on how you looked at it, Tim realized, things could seem much larger than they actually were. The tattoos’ shadows made them seem like monsters out of a horror film.

  “These are artificial restraints,” Kenny said, “but effective. The scorpion will sting itself to death rather than give up.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tim muttered.

  “Anything artificial is weak.” Kenny crossed his arms over his thick chest and leaned against the wall. “Using something to step between you and your true self, as those do, well, that’s never the most powerful choice.”

  “I know.” Tim sighed. “I know.” His heart thumped nervously as he saw the scorpion and the butterfly heading toward him. He wondered if they had noticed he was awake and were returning to their posts.

  “Decide,” Kenny insisted. “You have a moment now to decide.”

  Everything Kenny was saying made sense: that these tattoos were a false kind of security and that he’d still keep having to face everything that frightened him—with or without the scorpion and butterfly. But if he removed them, wasn’t there even worse danger? Or was he simply taking an easier way out?

  I want to be brave, Tim decided. And I want to be strong. So I have to face the magic head-on, I suppose.

  Tim took a deep breath, wondering if he’d survive this next step. What’s that saying? Oh yeah, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I suppose I’m about to put that to the test.

  As Tim walked into the center of the room, the butterfly fluttered up to the rafters, leaving the scorpion scuttling across the floor. Tim leaped out of the way of the upraised stinger, nearly tripping over his own feet.

  “Steady, boy,” Kenny warned from the shadowy corner.

  Tim decided he’d better rid himself of the scorpion first, since it seemed the most dangerous of the two tattoos. But how?

  Tim circled the candle, keeping it between him and the scorpion. First, I need to keep it away from me long enough to come up with an idea. He glanced over at Kenny, hoping to get some assistance or a hint. The man’s face was shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. Man, I’d hate to play poker with that guy.

  No help from Kenny. Fine. So what do I do?

  The flame from the candle sputtered as a bit of wax pooled in its center. The scorpion advanced again.

  Fire. Most creatures don’t like fire. Tim picked up the candle, dripping the hot wax onto his fingers. He grimaced, but didn’t allow the pain to distract him. I sure hope I’m right about this. He knelt d
own, bringing himself closer to the scorpion’s stinging range, and waved the candle at it. Instead of running away, as Tim had expected, the action made the scorpion furious. It lifted its tail and attacked the candle flame with its stinger.

  “Argggggggghhhhhhh!” Tim howled. The flames quickly engulfed the scorpion, and as it did so Tim felt every lick of fire, every scalding scale. Finally, the agony was over, and Tim collapsed to the floor. The mangled, burnt corpse of the scorpion lay beside him.

  Sweat coated Tim’s skin, making him feel sticky and shiny. But he also felt more open, as if tight bindings around his chest had been removed.

  “Whoa.” The room spun as Tim sat up. He shut his eyes and breathed slowly. Gradually, he felt less woozy, and he opened his eyes again.

  “You have done a brave thing,” Kenny said from the corner.

  Tim had almost forgotten the man was there, he’d been so silent.

  “Some things must be done for oneself,” Kenny said. “Although there is no shame in asking for help. Help simply may not come in the form you expect.”

  “Like you helped me see the tattoos clearly,” Tim realized, “but wouldn’t help me fight the scorpion.”

  A movement above him caught Tim’s attention. The butterfly glided down from the top of the window and hovered near Tim. Up close, Tim was amazed by the delicacy of its wings, their translucent colors, the odd fuzziness of the insect’s body. He held a finger up and the butterfly landed on it.

  “Boy…” Kenny said warningly.

  “Huh?” Tim’s head whipped around, wondering if the scorpion had somehow come back to life. “What is it?” He didn’t see any danger. Then he felt an itching on his arm. He glanced down and saw the butterfly’s wings beating lightly against his skin.

  “Hey!” Tim shouted, smacking at the butterfly. To his astonishment, instead of scaring the thing away, or squishing it, the butterfly flattened back into a tattoo—now on his bicep.

  He glared at Kenny. “You distracted me. Now the stupid thing is stuck on me again.”

  The man shrugged. “You invited it back to you,” Kenny replied. “You were not ready to let it go.”

  “But I was. I am,” Tim protested. “I didn’t want it, I just wanted…I don’t know what I wanted. Just…”

  “Do not kick yourself too hard, Tim. At least you stopped the thing before it returned to your heart. You will understand one day.”

  “How did you get the tattoos off me in the first place?” Tim asked. He figured if he found out how Kenny had accomplished that, he could try getting rid of the butterfly later.

  “I did not remove them. You did. In your sleep.”

  “Yeah, right,” Tim scoffed.

  “Things like that must leave you when you dream. When you dream, there is no room in you for lesser things. I gave them light, so they could see and hunt each other. That is all. Firelight. Because fire dislikes the unnecessary.”

  Tim puzzled over this. That would explain why the fire freaked out the scorpion. But he didn’t want to have to burn the butterfly off his skin. And if it only left while he was asleep, he wouldn’t be awake to destroy it. There had to be some other way. “How do I get rid of the one I’ve still got?”

  Kenny stretched out his legs and leaned back against the wall. “Let me know when you find out.”

  Tim’s mouth dropped open. “That’s all you can tell me?”

  The man shook his head. “No. I can tell you a little more: You must learn to be honest with yourself. And more than that—accept what you discover.”

  Tim held his arm so he could see the tattoo better. “That’s when this will this go away?” he asked.

  “That will depend on you,” Kenny replied. “The scorpion restrained your magic. This butterfly trains you to keep your emotions in check, so they will always operate at a lower pitch. Like a filter. No big lows, but no big highs either.”

  “Sounds calm,” Tim said. “Which doesn’t sound that bad actually.”

  Kenny sat back up again. “That kind of thinking is what led the butterfly back to you. You welcome its prison.”

  “Hm.” Tim leaned against the bed, feeling done in. Not only had his experience left him physically exhausted, his brain felt squeezed, too. Kenny had given him a lot to think about. This must be the kind of help he means, Tim thought. The confusing kind. The kind that only leaves you with more questions.

  He slowly got to his feet.

  “You going somewhere, lad?” Kenny asked.

  “I think you’re right,” Tim replied. “The only way I’ll get a grip on this magic thing is if I face it dead on.”

  Kenny nodded. “And what do you intend to do?”

  “Get some answers. Or at least, try to. I think to figure out who I am, I need to understand where I came from—how I happened.”

  “That’s a way to begin,” Kenny said.

  “So I think I’ll go have a little talk with Mummy Dearest. It’s time to return to Faerie.”

  Chapter Nine

  MOLLY O’REILLY GRIPPED THE pitchfork and tossed soiled hay onto the growing pile behind her. Keep focused on your task, she thought. If you start thinking too much, you’ll get angry all over again.

  “But I have a right to be angry,” she muttered. “Grown-ups are complete dictators. Kids have no say in anything.” She grunted and pitched another forkful of hay. Fine, I broke my curfew and snuck out while I was grounded. They acted like I killed somebody! And I wasn’t even with Tim, which was what they were so worried about.

  So now I’m in exile. Sent to Gran’s farm out here in the country. Miles from London. Miles from Tim. Not even a chance to say good-bye.

  Molly stood the pitchfork upright in the ground. She leaned on it, wiping her dark wavy hair away from her sweaty face. As if Gran isn’t a bad influence, Molly thought, with all of her fairy stories and so-called encounters with the wee folk. Though I guess I shouldn’t scoff anymore, Molly realized. I’ve had close encounters of the weird kind myself lately.

  Molly yanked the pitchfork out of the dirt, leaned it against the side of the barn, grabbed a bucket, and started pouring water into the horse troughs.

  “Bless me, child, don’t you ever slow down?” Molly’s granny Fiona appeared in the barn doorway. “I get tired just watching you.”

  “Then don’t watch me,” Molly grumbled.

  “None of that cheek,” Gran warned. “I know you’re unhappy about the situation, but that’s no cause to be rude to one who’s done you no harm.”

  Molly sighed. “I’m sorry, Gran. You’re right. None of this is your fault.”

  Gran crossed to Molly and put her hands on both of Molly’s shoulders. Gran was thick and short, no taller than Molly, so she could gaze deeply into Molly’s eyes. Her lined face grew even more wrinkled as a frown creased her forehead.

  “You’re pale, lass, and out of sorts. Take Turnip out of the corral and go for a ride. Get some wind in your hair, color in your cheeks.”

  “I don’t feel like riding,” Molly protested.

  “Are you telling me that you feel like doing all my chores several times over? And moping the whole time while you do so?” Gran took a step back and laughed. “Why, if that’s true, then you are more tetched in the head than I am!”

  “I’m not!” Molly protested. “I just…”

  “You want to keep busy, I know, gel. But there are ways and there are ways.”

  Gran turned away, leaving Molly puzzled. Did this mean that Molly was being ordered to go for a ride? Or did it mean that a ride was merely a suggestion, and she could go back to mucking out the barn?

  She liked that word. Muck was exactly how she felt.

  “All right then, lassie,” Gran declared, picking up a knapsack she’d brought in with her. “Ready you are.”

  So it had been an order after all.

  “I packed you a nice lunch and goodies for the fairies. Maybe they’ll join you for tea!” Gran chuckled. “You should take your picnic up to Leanan Hill. Ther
e’s wisdom up there.” She left the knapsack in the doorway and trundled off.

  “Fairies,” Molly grumbled, picking up the leather knapsack. “Oof. That’s heavy. I guess fairies are big eaters. Who knew?”

  Molly trudged out of the barn to the corral. Turnip, a large bay mare, stood grazing, her tail whisking away flies. Molly dropped the knapsack inside the wooden fence, then clambered up and over it. She dropped down into the corral with a soft thud.

  “Like a ride is going to solve my problems,” Molly complained. “But do I have a choice?” she continued, her voice growing louder as she got angrier. “Oh, of course not. Darn Gran.” Molly kicked a rock. “Darn all grown-ups!” she shouted.

  Startled, Turnip whinnied and trotted away. “Darn you, too, Tim!” she called after the retreating horse. Realizing what she’d said, her face flushed. “Turnip,” she said through gritted teeth. “I meant Turnip.”

  She stormed back to where she’d dropped the knapsack and rummaged through it. “Mmm. Let’s see.” She felt around until she found a carrot. “Brilliant. Gran, you think of everything.”

  She stood back up. “Turnip!” She held the bribe over her head and waved it. “Yo! Turnip. I’ve got a carrot for you. Carrot!”

  The horse eyed Molly, then clip-clopped back to her. Turnip nuzzled her to get at the carrot, and Molly let the mare take it with her big teeth. She stroked the horse’s velvety nose and thought of the beautiful unicorn that she had met with Tim.

  Tim. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge him from her mind, and led the horse to the fence where riding gear waited. She slid in Turnip’s bit, and slung the saddle over her high back, tightening the girth. Placing a foot in a stirrup, Molly lifted herself up onto the horse. “Well, let’s go, if we must.” She jingled the reins, and pointed Turnip out of the corral and onto the road to Leanan Hill.

  Why is Gran making me do this anyway? Molly wondered. Dad would say it’s because she’s touched in the head. Molly recalled some of the stories he’d told about Gran. Like all the times he’d come home to find her dancing around the house with a skillet, swatting at the invisible fairies. Whenever Molly’s father was particularly angry at Molly, he’d warn that she was becoming too much like her crazy gran.