Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series)

by Caroline Greyling

  Five

  (Maor series book one)

  By Caroline Greyling

  Published by: Smart M Communications (PTY) LTD, Johannesburg South Africa May 2014

  Copyright: Caroline Greyling

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Cover design by Bernadette Potter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of certain wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Acknowledgements:

  To my parents, who taught me to reach for my dreams;

  to my first believer, Bronwyn;

  to my first readers and critics, Bernadette, Ronelle, Naomi and Liezl;

  and to my family, who supported and encouraged me.

  Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  Terror

  Tastes like: The metallic saltiness of blood on your tongue.

  Smells like: The briny ocean, when you can’t swim.

  Sounds like: The screech of rubber on tar when you’re half-way across the street.

  Feels like: Pins and needles.

  Looks like: The eyes of a tiger, glowing in the dark.

  I woke to the sound of screaming, the kind that raises the fine hairs on the back of your neck, sets your heart racing from zero to one hundred in two beats and has you bolting upright, fully alert from the middle of a dead sleep. The clank of metal on metal, intermingled with cries of pain, drifted in on hazy air through the open window, filling the room with a thickness that made each inhalation an effort.

  I threw back the bedcovers and flew the three short steps to the bay-window, feet barely touching the carpet. For a moment, time seemed to pause as I stared, mesmerized at the scene below. I was ninety-nine percent sure it was night-time, yet the blackness outside my first-storey window was ablaze with light, emanating from a ring of fire encircling the house.

  Beyond the reaching flames, there was movement but the silhouettes were distorted through the miasma of heat and smoke. I caught the reflection of fire on steel, the dark stain of red and then a scream rent the night-air and time began to move again. I whirled from the scene below and dashed toward the doorway.

  ‘Mom!’

  My voice was high and shrill with youth and fear, but lost in the cacophony of sounds that filled the heavy night.

  ‘Dad!’

  My throat constricted with rising panic at the responding silence, and along with the thick cloud of smoke that hung all around me, made every breath burn. Heart pounding, I tore through the doorway and across the landing, skidding to a stop at my parents’ suite. The doors leading from their sitting room to the bath and bedroom areas were both flung wide but the rooms were empty.

  ‘Mom! Dad!’ I cried as I struggled to keep my fear in check. I ran down the staircase, from one empty room to the next and came to a sudden halt before the expansive windows at the front of the house. Beyond the circle of fire blazing at the edge of the lawn, the silhouettes took on shimmering, familiar shapes. They danced in the haze, lunging and jumping in the choreography of an ancient battle ritual.

  One shape, smaller than the rest, tugged at my subconscious. My mind recognized it and a strange shiver passed, like a jolt of electricity, from my right hand to my heart. I looked down at my hand, at the tiny scar there that tingled with sensation and then back up at the figure in the distance. I could feel my heart beating a frantic rhythm in my chest, hear my breathing loud and ragged, taste the bitter edge of terror on my tongue and it seemed as if every fibre of my being was crying out for me to move, to get outside, to reach the apparition.

  I flung myself through the front door, stumbling to my knees on the porch. My bare legs grazed against the coarse wooden planks; my cotton pajamas tangled around my limbs, flimsy and useless against the chilly night air but I hardly noticed as I scanned the edge of the fiery ring, desperate for a glimpse of the familiar figure.

  My vision blurred in and out of focus as I knelt there, searching beyond the greedy orange flames, but then I saw it and began to crawl, heedless of the splinters that embedded in my palms, or the blinding pain that shot from temple to temple with each movement.

  I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe but it didn’t matter. I had to get there.

  Then suddenly, there were hard hands, pulling me away from the searing heat - away from the shadow. I struggled against them but they were too strong, and as they drew me back, I gave a low moan of pained frustration.

  In a brief flash of clarity, I saw the figure turn toward my whimper. Something moved, detached itself from the shadows behind, something sharp glinted in the firelight… and then the scene faded into chaotic colours as my vision flickered out of focus again.

  No…

  As I desperately renewed my efforts to free myself, a warm breath whispered something low in my ear but the vision of that glittering object was branded into the blackness of my eyelids - and I screamed.

  ‘Nooo!’

  My own muffled scream jolts me awake and off the pillow. Like a swimmer breaking the water surface after a deep dive, I gasp air into my starved lungs. My eyes scan the darkened room, searching for the danger that surely lurks there but the room is still, and the shadows harmless. Pressing one trembling hand to my chest to still the erratic pounding of my heart, I fumble with the other hand for the switch on the bedside lamp. I find the switch after knocking my phone to the floor, and survey the room again in the lamp’s soft illumination.

  There is nothing sinister about the white and lavender embroidered linen, the white-washed cupboards or the Victorian wing-back chair beside the window, with its disarray of yesterday’s clothing. The yuccas on either side of the window throw their long shadows across the multi-coloured rug beside my bed and the African violets on the night-stand, as always, have their pale purple faces turned toward me, like sunflowers following the passage of the sun through the sky.

  With a shaky sigh, I swing my legs off the side of the bed and run a clammy hand through the sticky wisps of hair that cling to my temples. My eye catches the movement in the dressing-table mirror opposite and I pause, contemplating with distaste, the face that reflects back at me.

  Dark bruises are evident below my too-large emerald-green eyes and my pink rosebud mouth is set in a grim line, leaving no hint of the dimple that appears on my right cheek when I smile. I run my fingers through my long sheet of tar-black hair, twist it off my sweaty neck, and drop it over one shoulder, revealing the tiny, bone-shaped birthmark below my left ear.

  ‘Shaylee Greene, pull yourself together, it’s just a dream,’ I admonish the reflected image.

  But in my heart, I know that it isn’t. It’s the dream - the same one I’ve had every few weeks for as long as I can remember. I know its content by heart now, from the first heart-wrenching scream to the exact point when I wake, yet it still has the power to set my pulse racing. It is unlike any other dream; there is nothing surreal or changeable about it. Here, in the dream, I have no control; I am captive in its story, helplessly subject to its intense emotions and powerless to control the never-changing outcome.

  I stifle a yawn on the back of my hand and reach out to caress the velve
t petals of the African violets beside my bed. The relief I feel is subtle but instantaneous as my own personal ‘rescue-remedy’ takes effect.

  As I revel in the soothing relief flooding though my fingertips, I’m reminded of the day in third grade when my parents had given me the pot-plant. I remember how angry I’d been - because I’d asked for a puppy, not a plant. As an act of defiance, I’d refused to water the potted-plant and relegated it to the hottest corner of my window-sill, where it lay forgotten for three weeks.

  One Saturday, I’d stood by my window, looking absently outside as I waited for my mother to return from the shop to take me to dance lessons. My fingers had strayed to the discarded plant, and without thinking, I’d found myself rubbing the drooping petals. A feeling of incredible warmth, like winter sunshine on my uplifted face, had spread through me from my fingers to my toes, and I’d stared, amazed as the blooms turned from dismal brown to verdant purple beneath my fingertips.

  For a long time, I’d wondered what it was about the velvet petals that soothed me or how the delicate blossoms flourished under my constant man-handling and neglect, but I’d learned to accept it, and eventually, to take it for granted. Some people have pets - I have African violets.

  I let go of the petals and pick up the tiny note-pad that lies beside it. The word ‘Five’ is scrawled in black fine-point pen on the cover. Five is slightly bent and the edges of the pages are curled inwards from being constantly shoved into the back pocket of my jeans. This is my current writing project, its purpose: to use each of the five senses to describe a particular feeling or emotion that grabs me.

  I slide the small pencil from the spiral binding, turn to the next open page and write the word ‘terror’ at the top. Beneath it, I print: ‘tastes like:’ and then leave two lines blank. On every third line, I write the remaining senses: ‘smells like’, ‘sounds like’, ‘feels like’, ‘looks like’. I tap the pencil against my lower lip thoughtfully, and proceed to fill the blank lines.

  Terror:

  Tastes like: The metallic saltiness of blood on your tongue.

  Smells like: The briny ocean, when you can’t swim.

  Sounds like: The screech of rubber on tar when you’re half-way across the street.

  Feels like: Pins and needles.

  Looks like: The eyes of a tiger, glowing in the dark.

  For each of the senses, I give myself a maximum of ten seconds to think of a description. The key is to write the first thing that comes to mind without regurgitating clichés. Often, I look back at my writing and think: what a load of rubbish, but every now and then I write something unique and possibly useable. At any rate, the exercise keeps my imaginative juices flowing and allows me to hone and practice my writing skills, while providing an outlet for my often intense emotions.

  I put Five back beside the violets and glance at the clock with a deep sigh.

  Two am.

  The frequency of the dream has increased these past few weeks and is taking its toll on my sleep-deprived body. With less than two weeks to go to the dance competition, I need my rest.

  I grab my iPod off the nightstand, flick off the lamp and curl into a fetal position with the downy duvet tucked beneath my chin. Then, I shut my eyes and try to focus on the drum-rhythm beating through my earphones instead of the minutes ticking by, until finally, my breathing slows and I drift into dreamless slumber.

  Chapter 2

  Irritation

  Tastes like: Strawberry flavored pops in a box marked ‘chocolate.’

  Smells like: Burnt mieliepap.

  Sounds like: Chalk squealing against a blackboard.

  Feels like: A popcorn seed stuck between your teeth.

  Looks like: A five cent misbalance on a balance sheet.

  ‘Morning honey!’

  My mother’s voice is too loud and bright for so early on a Saturday morning. She looks up from her cereal bowl as I drag myself into the kitchen, still groggy from the little sleep I’ve managed to get and clad in my mismatched tank top and tweetie-bird shorts.

  ‘Morning,’ I mumble, barely glancing at the older version of myself.

  We look so much alike, from the sleek, midnight-black hair, to the exact deep, emerald shade of our eyes. Only the length of our hair differs: her’s is cut into a soft, layered page that feathers around her chin, while mine hangs long and pin-straight to midway down my back. And that is where all similarity ends.

  Well…if I am honest, I must admit there are some lesser personality traits we share; I mean, I have to have gotten my stubbornness, impatience and sometimes overly emotional tendencies from someone in my genetic pool - and it isn’t from my father.

  ‘So baby, what have you got planned for your last day of sweet sixteen?’

  I make a face at my mother, grab a clean bowl from the dish-rack and spill some corn-flakes into it.

  ‘It’s just another day mom, no biggie.’

  ‘It’s not just another day,’ she replies, rolling her eyes dramatically, ‘it’s the last day my baby will be sixteen!’

  ‘I’m not your baby mom, and seventeen is hardly a special birth -’

  ‘Of course it is, love! Every birthday is special and you will always be my baby.’

  ‘Whatever…’ I sigh, slumping onto the stool opposite her and spooning a mouthful of cereal from my bowl. It tastes like cardboard but I chew diligently and swallow, then I push the flakes from side to side with my spoon.

  ‘So?’ Mom prompts, tilting her own bowl to scrape the last few flakes of hi-fibre bran from the bottom.

  ‘I’m not in the mood, mom,’ I say. With a last, listless swirl of my spoon, I push the bowl away.

  My mother’s hand freezes mid-way to her mouth and her head comes up, at once taking in the uneaten bowl of corn-flakes, the bruising beneath my eyes and drooping posture, then she is beside me, pressing cool hands to my forehead.

  ‘What’s wrong, baby? Are you feeling ill?’

  I brush her hands irritably away, shake my head, and immediately regret the action. It feels like there is something loose inside my skull, and the more I move, the more it rattles around in there.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something?’

  ‘I said I’m fine!’ I snap.

  Mom takes a startled step backwards and examines me critically, a frown of concern marring her perfectly made-up face. I just know that any second now, she is going to reach for the cordless telephone on the counter to dial Dr. Theron’s. For some reason, she’s become obsessed with my health over the past few weeks. Every hint of a sniffle has her dragging me off to the doctor. When I see her glance at the phone, I stand abruptly, nearly toppling my bar-stool and head for the passageway.

  ‘I’m not going to the doctor, mom,’ I say firmly. ‘I have to get ready for dance.’

  When I reach my bedroom at the end of the passage, I kick the door closed behind me and collapse, face down on the bed with a groan. My head is throbbing, my stomach roiling and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep for days, so when my cell-phone begins to vibrate, I curse, and without even opening my eyes, grope along the edge of the night-stand for the offensive item.

  ‘What?’ I grumble into the receiver.

  ‘Hey. Oh, sorry, were you sleeping?’

  My eyes fly open and I roll over onto my back, irritation dissipating slightly at the sound of my best friend’s voice.

  ‘No, I’m up. Just didn’t sleep very well.’

  ‘Another one of those dreams?’ Jenne asks.

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘I’m starting to worry, Shay.’

  ‘You’re telling me… but what can I do? It’s not like I can control my dreams, Jen.’

  There is a slight pause and as usual, I know what she is thinking before the words are out of her mouth.

  ‘Maybe you should tell -’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ I warn, ‘I’m not telling my parents, next thing they’ll have me over
at your dad’s surgery for blood tests and who knows what else.’

  ‘But -’

  ‘No way.’

  Jenne sighs.

  ‘I know you’re right but we have to do something. It just isn’t normal and it seems to be getting much worse. You’ve been very grouchy lately, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, grimacing into the phone, ‘I’ll try one of those sleeping pills your dad gave me tonight, maybe that’ll help.’

  ‘I hope so…’ she says dubiously. ‘Anyway, wanna come with me to the square this morning? I need to get a birthday pressie for my mom and I could use your help.’

  ‘Sorry Jen, but I have rehearsals with Luke.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot, you two have that dance competition coming up, hey? What time do you finish? I could pick you up from practice? We could catch a movie?’

  ‘That’d be great…wait,’ I say, suddenly apprehensive, ‘you’re not trying to con me into some surprise party thing -’

  ‘Relax,’ Jenne laughs, ‘I haven’t forgotten last year’s surprise party fiasco, so I won’t be throwing any more surprises your way for a long time. It’ll just be us two, I promise.’

  ‘Ok…’ I say, and then I grimace and add: ‘on second thought, I’d better meet you at the square. You know how my mom feels about me driving with a newly licensed driver…’

  ‘But I’ve had my license two months already!’ Jenne complains.

  I direct a rueful smile toward the ceiling, wishing for the millionth time that I too, was old enough to drive myself. There are benefits to starting school early and matriculating before my friends, but this is definitely one of the drawbacks.

  ‘Yeah - maybe she’ll let me drive with you in like another five years or so…’

  ‘Jeepers! That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?’

  ‘Hey, I just live here, remember? I don’t make the rules.’

  Jenne sighs on the other end of the line and agrees to meet me at the food court entrance. We say goodbye, I drop the phone on the unmade bed beside me, and force my body through the morning routine. After I’ve donned my usual black leotard and tights, I pause before the full-length mirror to examine the dark bruises beneath my eyes. They’re a lighter shade already, but I apply the thin layer of foundation I have on hand for days like these.