Mind Over Mind

by Karina L. Fabian

  “I guess that’s the best you can do.” He handed him the book and Joshua scanned the questions:

  Why do the Barins have spaceships, but use shotguns and rifles and swords?

  Why do their guns only fire once, and never work again?

  What do the Barins want with Kanaan?

  Why does the Season of War increase each year?

  Why do earthquakes, tidal waves, other weather-related disasters precede the Season of War?

  “Weird,” was all he could say as he handed the book back. “She’s asking you these?”

  “No, these are the things I don’t understand, and to her, it’s just the way it’s always been. But I can’t help feeling they’re important. I—” He shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t say any more. I don’t want to be accused of heading to Looneyville.” He turned back to his painting. “Just pretend I’m writing a story or something. By the way, any ideas on achieving my eventual release?”

  “Actually, I have, if you’re willing to put in some work. I need to talk to Edith and Dr. Malachai, but—”

  An orderly—Floyd, Joshua remembered; he’d talked with him the day before— interrupted. “Mr. Stephens? You have a visitor. Says he’s an old friend of your mother’s. I’m to escort you to the front desk so you can identify him.”

  The look on Ydrel’s face said he had no idea who the visitor might be, much less why he’d come visiting after so many years, but he stuck his brushes in a can of paint thinner and wiped his hands. “Well, let’s go then. We still on for Frisbee, Josh? I can’t imagine this taking long.”

  “I’ll catch you after lunch.”

  *

  After lunch, Joshua found him outside at one of the umbrella tables still with his visitor, a lawyer or business-type from the suit. They were leaned together. Ydrel was writing something in one of those leather-bound legal-sized folders, after which the man gave him the yellow copy and put the rest in his briefcase. Ydrel put his paper into his sketchbook. Joshua waited until he’d left, accompanied by Floyd, before approaching Ydrel.

  He sat down across from the young man, who was leaning on the table, one arm protectively over his sketchbook, an iced tea in the other hand. “So, who was that?”

  “An old client of my mother’s. He followed her advice and made a fortune, and he finally came back to thank her, found out what happened and decided the least he could do was look me up instead.”

  “Uh, huh,” Joshua replied skeptically. Although Ydrel spoke easily, the movements of his eyes were wrong. “Listen, you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but just tell me it’s none of my business and change the subject, OK?”

  Ydrel blinked, then scowled. “Fine. It’s none of your business. What’s going on with you and Sachiko, anyway?”

  “You really change a subject. Really, um, nothing that I know of.”

  Ydrel snorted. “Well, what I know of is that whenever the two of you are together, you pussyfoot around each other like you expect the other to explode, and when you’re apart, you’re brooding over the other. No one else may notice, but you’re making my brain itch. Whatever is going on, would the two of you just apologize and get over it?”

  “She doesn’t have any reason to apologize. I was the idiot.”

  “Fine. Tell her, not me. But do it soon, before I get a full-blown migraine. Hey, I asked Edith about setting up a Frisbee golf course. She said she’d ask you about what we’d need.”

  “Really?”

  Ydrel shrugged. “Yeah, really. She just wants me to be happy.”

  “And Dr. Malachai?”

  “He wants to keep me here. If I can amuse myself, it’s that much easier to control me.”

  *

  Ydrel closed his drapes. The “bugs” in his room were still active, so he was careful not to make a sound when he shut the door and braced a chair under the doorknob. He pulled out the yellow legal papers Bill Masterson had given him, then folded them carefully until he had a small yellow rectangle. Using the mending kit Floyd had found for him, he pulled out the stitching in Descartes’ side, slid the papers in, and sewed it back up. Then he hugged the ragged bear with a feeling of triumph.

  Mine Mine Mine! He could have jumped for joy. His mother had left him a sizable trust fund when she’d died, one that was to be turned over to him when he turned eighteen. Of course, that was before all of the (say it, Ydrel!) insanity that brought him here. Since then, his uncle (acting as legal guardian) had been tapping into the account to pay Ydrel’s “medical” expenses, but he’d never made any changes to ensure Ydrel couldn’t access the account. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Ydrel to be committed for so long, or maybe he didn’t consider it an issue. After all, Ydrel was a teenager—and crazy, to boot. What could he possibly do from inside an asylum?

  Very little, actually—except for saving the life of a Mafia accountant. “Masterson” had been committed for paranoia after he’d stormed the regional FBI office insisting that the Mob was after him. Only Ydrel had believed him. When the hitmen tried to reach Masterson in the asylum, Ydrel had made certain that they would fail.

  The accountant had mostly gone straight, but he still wasn’t above a few tricks. Masterson secured a numbered bank account, and now that Ydrel had turned eighteen, all the funds from Ydrel’s trust had been transferred to that account, leaving just enough to pay for a few months at the asylum. He’d even arranged to have the bank statements sent to a phony address.

  Ydrel closed his eyes. He could still see the dollar amount typed on those yellow papers. He could live comfortably on his own for quite a while. Now he just had to find a way to get out, and soon, before the money left in his trust ran out, or his uncle wondered about the statements.

  Ydrel put the chair back in its proper place, then curled up on the bed. After going to all the trouble of making it look like he was napping, he might as well actually get some rest. As he set Descartes down in his usual spot and closed his eyes, Ydrel had one fleeting, disturbing thought.

  How had Josh known he was lying?

  CHAPTER 11

  Joshua knocked on the door of the nurse’s lounge with a certain amount of déjà vu. Once again, Sachiko was eating dinner alone and poring over her medical text. Once again, he was feeling just a little nervous, though for a completely different reason.

  “Uh, Sachiko..?”

  She spun around and got to her feet. “Joshua!” Her smile was hesitant but not unwelcoming, so he went in. They stood face to face, yet not quite looking at each other, and their words tumbled over the other’s:

  “Listen, I don’t mean to interrupt, but—”

  “I was hoping I could talk to you sometime—”

  “I just wanted to apolo—”

  “I’m sorry about—”

  They both stopped and laughed, and Joshua felt the tension drain away. “I think this is really a case where the guy goes first.” As she crossed her arms and waved one hand for him to proceed, she gave him an amused half-smile that made his heart beat a little faster.

  “I’m really sorry about the other evening. My pride was hurt, I was mad, and even though I said I was looking for advice, I guess I mostly wanted to gripe. It wasn’t fair of me—we just met and all, and I put you in a bad position because I was looking for some sympathy. Then when you gave me sound advice, I got mad because it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Anyway, I was really out of line, and I apologize.”

  “Accepted. I’m sorry, too. I knew you were upset; I could have been more diplomatic, at least. My only excuse is this dang class. It already has me in a bad mood. You’re not the first who’s had a bad experience with Dr. Malachai. You find a way to cope, or you leave.”

  “So you had problems with him, too?”

  She shrugged. “We have a good working relationship now.” But she looked away, frowning.

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing.” But when he tried to meet her eyes, she continued, “I just strained a muscle or something this afternoon.
”

  “Well, here,” he turned a chair around so she could sit in it with her arms draped across the back. “Sit down and let me see if I can help. C’mon. Consider it part of my apology.” After she sat, leaning forward on the cushioned back and burying her face into crossed arms, he gave her a massage, starting just below the hairline, then working down over her neck and shoulders. “So what were you doing to pull your back?’

  “Lifting Mr. Goldstein into bed. Used to do that stuff all the time when I worked at South County, but I guess I lost the knack.”

  “Mr. Goldstein? Isn’t he the gentleman Ydrel hangs around with? Pretends he’s in the resistance with him?”

  She hummed assent. He worked her shoulders gently, then with growing strength as he felt her tension melting away. “He’s taken a turn for the worse, physically. I don’t think he’ll be with us much longer. He really ought to be in a nursing home, not a mental institution. Have you had training at this?”

  “Nope. It’s kind of a choir-drama thing. You know, someone’s always giving someone a backstage backrub before a performance. You just pick things up. I’m not licensed or anything.”

  “Hmmm.” She sighed and sank a little deeper into the chair. “Well, you should get licensed,” she murmured. “Those hands are too skilled to be legal.”

  “Thank you,” he said in a low, deep voice, “I aim to please.” He felt some of the tension returning to her back. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but he didn’t know what to say. So he stayed silent, letting his hands move up to her neck. Her hair was caught in a bun, and he had to resist the urge to undo it. He knew it would feel as silky as it looked.

  “So,” she asked with a chuckle. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  He worked a knot he found under her shoulder blade. “I can’t diagram a sentence. I can’t speak French with a proper accent. I can’t make my checkbook agree with the bank statement—“

  “You been asked this before?”

  “A time or two…I can’t swim.”

  “You can’t?!”

  “Sink like a stone. Feel better?”

  She stretched and stood. “Terrific. What do I owe you?”

  How about we do this again at my place? He quickly banished the thought. How much trouble had that line of thinking gotten him into last year? This summer is all about work and the audition. Head in the game, Josh!

  Fortunately, her walkie-talkie beeped, saving him from answering her. She sighed. “I’d better get back. Somebody needs a nurse, and even if Monique answers before me, I’ll need to man the nurses’ station.”

  “I’m sorry—I mean, you didn’t even finish dinner.”

  “Don’t worry. I feel much better. I can always finish this at my desk. But you—” She flung her backpack over her shoulder, then turned to poke him in the chest. “You should be out having fun, meeting people and making the most of your summer. Got it? Go to Newport. There’s always a festival or something going on there.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she left.

  “Festival. Right.” Music, food. Beautiful women he’d want to dance with. That was the last thing he needed.

  With a sigh, he headed back to the office. He’d read another case study, then go home and take a cold, cold shower before hitting the sack. He’d promised his parents. He’d promised Mommarosa—ora et labora. Pray and work. He promised Rique and the guys—no distractions. Even if she was someone he thought he could talk to all day and kiss all night.

  You just had to touch her, didn’t you, Joshua?

  CHAPTER 12

  It was just after two in the morning when Ydrel awoke—although “awoke” was the wrong term.

  The Miscria had just released him from a Calling.

  For a moment, he lay blinking in the darkness, as the world of air conditioning and man-made comfort replaced the natural beauty of hers. Before it all faded to dreams and compulsions, however, he snapped on the lamp on the side table and reached under the bed for his notebook.

  It’d become his habit this past week: write down what she’d told him, memorize the pages, then sneak them into the cafeteria trash can before breakfast. He’d realized after showing his list to Joshua the other afternoon what a risk he was taking. No one would believe he’d suddenly decided to become a fantasy writer. Drawings were safe enough; he’d been drawing all his life. He’d call more attention to himself if he stopped or if they caught him disposing of his work. Besides, after Roger confiscated his sketchbook to take to Malachai, they’d be expecting more. He just had to stay within their expectations.

  For now, though, words. He scribbled hastily:

  Weather/Don’t Remember/Controlling Natural Disasters (!)/S

  Castle Construction/histories, architecture/Don’t Build, but Grow fortresses/?

  Triage/EMT/Field Med/books, ‘Ko, Dr. Daniels/healers use mind, not meds/S

  Weaponscraft (swords)/books/Fight back—why no guns?/?

  Swordfighting/The Master/why work vs. High-Tech?/S

  New tactics/books/too high-tech for Kanaan/?

  It took him ten minutes to scribble it out: what he’d taught them, where he’d learned it, what they did with his knowledge. Ten minutes to summarize four hours of conversation. Ten minutes. Four hours. Five years of his life.

  Five different Miscria over several hundred of their years.

  That’s what he’d learned last night: that her people had been relying on him for generations; that certain Miscria were gifted with the ability to contact him with questions; that they contacted no one else. At first, she’d been surprised to discover he was the only Ydrel, but she’d brushed off the knowledge with a casual acceptance that irritated him.

  “If God has arranged it so, then that is how it should be, though I do not understand this newest development,” she’d said.

  “Your people believe in God, then? Never mind,” he’d added when he felt her confusion. What’s not to believe, right? He tried to hide his bitterness.

  Fortunately, her attention was elsewhere. “You’ve saved my people. Your knowledge, even couched in riddles, has given us the tools we need to survive. Why do you withhold it now? Why do you insist on questioning me about the past instead of helping me prepare for the future?”

  “Look, I just want to understand. Maybe, maybe if I know your world better, I can give you better answers. Just, show me your world.”

  So she had: a beautiful world without pollution, without machines. Huge buildings made of immense living plants woven together. Sentient animals working in concert with humans. Food growing in abundance. Healers who cured by encouraging the body to heal itself. And at the center of it all, the Miscria, who could sense the changes of Kanaan—their world—as easily as Ydrel could read a book.

  There had come the time of the second suns, when Kanaan was nearly torn asunder, and the Miscria’s mind as well—but the Ydrel came to her, soothed her, taught her the mysteries of the changing weather so that she could heal her world. The second sun moved on and the world calmed, but a new world shared their sun, and its people hungered for Kanaan’s abundance. The invaders came in metallic ships and brought guns, but anyone who fired a gun found himself denied breath by the very air of Kanaan. They soon switched to more primitive weaponry. They fought while their planet, Barin, loomed large in the Kanaan sky—weeks the first time, then longer with each successive orbit, then months. When Barin grew smaller in the sky, they boarded their ships and fled in thunder and flame. They’d destroyed nearly a third of the Kanaan.

  Again, the Miscria turned to the Ydrel for protection and defense. And the Ydrel taught them to design their cities so the people would be safe. A new race of Kanaan was born, bred for war and able to kill without succumbing to the mind sickness of watching another die, and the Ydrel provided them with the knowledge of the sword. Healers, by their nature, had to join the minds of their patients, but too much pain or too many minds and the healer would lose his sanity; the Ydrel taught them alternat
e means of caring for the injured and how to quickly assess battlefield injuries.

  Each Miscria brought new questions to the Ydrel and each time the Kanaan learned from him, they learned to better handle the invaders.

  “Now, it is my turn,” Tasmae concluded, “and I no longer wish to merely defend. I wish to destroy them utterly or deal them such hurt that they do not return.”

  Deryl had crossed his arms. “That’s bloodthirsty.”

  She shrugged. “The Miscria talent manifested late in me. I am trained as a warrior. My mentor was killed before I was half-trained, shot through the throat by a traitor who rotted the city walls with his touch. He was my father’s best friend, driven insane on the battlefield while trying to heal both Kanaan and Barin. I am sick of war. I am sick of killing and I am sick of seeing people die—my people and the Barin. Teach me to end this war.”

  “Can’t you talk to them?”

  She shivered. “Their minds are chaotic. To communicate with them is to share their insanity—only healers dare try.”

  “So talk. Don’t they have language?”

  “We know their words. Some have tried. The Traitor...” Her thought trailed off, replaced by sadness. “They believe we are demons. They believe God intends our world for them, if they prove their strength by annihilating us. They are relentless. Teach me to stop them.”

  And he’d awakened with an overwhelming desire to do just that.

  Only he didn’t know how.

  Ydrel rubbed his eyes. They felt hot and dry. His mind felt dry, too. He wished he could go back to sleep, but he was afraid. He knew where he’d learned the skills he’d passed on to the warriors. The Master.

  He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Why would God pick him for this stupid calling, anyway?

  He wanted to help Tasmae. He wanted her people to go back to the peaceful time she’d shown him. Maybe, if he got her through this, she’d release him, and he could get on with his own life. Never see her or her kind again.