Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  Clara began their song, the one she had learned from her mother and had given to Aamira. “Sing me a song, it won’t take very long. Of the sun and the rain…”

  Aamira joined in, her accent giving her voice a lovely lilt. “…No more sorrow or pain. Sing a song of the wind, oh, let us begin.” She would miss Clara terribly, and knew Clara would miss her too.

  “Sing a song of the earth, the place of my birth. Let joy heal my heart, for we never will part. So mote it be, for I love you and me.”

  They giggled, two carefree friends sharing the sunshine, and the love they felt for each other was amazing. Aamira smiled at her friend, seeing with her heart more than her eyes. Clara smiled back… and a shadow passed between them, a cloud crossing the sun. For a moment, that shadow had a face.

  Then Clara disappeared.

  At first, Aamira thought it was another trick of the light; she had been staring at the sun after all, and everything still looked fuzzy. She blinked hard and looked again. Clara was gone, just disappeared.

  Aamira gasped. Where did she go? There was nowhere to hide; she was just gone. In that moment, Aamira felt an incredible sadness, an indefinable loss. Somehow, in her innocence, Aamira knew this was a bigger goodbye than she had thought; this was really goodbye.

  She shivered, remembering there had been a face, but only for a moment. Aamira was afraid; what was that face? She decided she didn’t want to know.

  There was someone else beside her now, a younger boy in a wheelchair. She had seen him before; he had been here when she first arrived, and it looked like he would still be here after she left. Well, maybe not, but for the wrong reason. He never said much, and his eyes were sunken, his skin pasty white. In a word, he was resigned to his fate.

  She wasn’t surprised he was there, next to her; Aamira had learned long ago that other kids were attracted to her. He was just a kid, and probably lonely.

  “I saw him, I really saw him. What was that?” he whispered. He sounded afraid; so was she. How could she explain something she didn’t understand herself?

  “Nothing, just a cloud. It doesn’t matter.” She took his hand and began the song again, the gift she had received from Clara, whom she already missed, and shared it now with this boy, the two side by side, looking out the window.

  Probably as an after-effect of holding hands with Clara, Aamira quickly began to feel connected to this kid somehow, as if they were talking on a deeper level than words; she could tell he was afraid and confused. Holding hands gave him comfort. He knew he was sick, because he felt sick and everyone told him as much. He didn’t understand the things they were doing to him but his parents had told him he must stay; he knew there was no escape, nowhere to go. She understood that feeling of no hope; she had felt that way too, not long ago.

  In that instant, she truly loved him.

  He began to sing with her. Hesitantly at first, just a whisper, but she could hear him, could feel his heart beating in her hand. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he liked it, this new feeling. Perhaps it was hope. It made him feel stronger and he wanted to keep that feeling, so he sang.

  Aamira was confused. She liked this boy, she liked that he was singing with her, but she suddenly felt… bad. The tasty food she had eaten now sat heavy in her stomach and she felt dizzy, tired, as if she was catching the flu. She had the flu once when her parents first brought her to England, and she knew that sick feeling. This was even worse. Maybe she had stayed out of bed too long, but the nurses said she could visit the sunroom. She wanted to come here so much, to be out of bed again, and the nurses thought it a good sign. She wanted to stay where she had seen Clara, to not let that friendship fade, as had the friends she once had in her home country; losses stung. But now she was feeling miserable; first with little aches and pains, and then bigger ones.

  Her shoulder ached, in the same spot where she saw a bandage on the boy, some sort of catheter-thing he kept covered. Still she sang. Now something on her right side hurt; it hurt fierce. In later years she would know that this was where her liver was, and that it meant the liver was malfunctioning, diseased, dying. Right now, she only knew that she hurt.

  Now the pain was coming in waves and she began to realize it wasn’t her side that hurt; it was the boy’s. She stopped singing, confused, overwhelmed by too many things coming at her too fast; loving Clara, realizing she was dead; loving the boy, knowing they were connected; feeling pain, but knowing it wasn’t hers. The boy continued the simple little tune, louder, stronger. He was the only one singing now. He was feeling better, she could tell; she could feel it. And now she hurt instead of him. It made no sense, she couldn’t explain it, but she knew it was true, was real. She stared at him and could see his cheeks had a hint of pink, that his eyes were focusing now, not so dead and lifeless.

  Health. She was giving him her health.

  That scared her, scared her badly. She had so little health for herself, and she was only just beginning to feel better today; how could she possibly share it with somebody else, give it away? Aamira pulled her hand away, just in time to be sick. All over the floor. The nurses came and separated them, him to the other side of the room and away from the vile smell of her lunch mixed with stomach acid, her back to her bed. Next would come that awful powder that smelled of fake oranges to cover the odor; she was glad she would be gone from the solarium for that part.

  She felt so bad, first that she had lost some of her health because she had so little of it, second because she was scared that she was sick again, and third because she knew that kid was so much sicker than her, how could she have pulled away, refused to help? She was ashamed. Sure, she could be a ‘right little witch’, as she had heard one of the attendants remark when they thought she was out of earshot, but that was just a cover, just a way to stop herself from being so afraid. Deep down, underneath, she was friendly. Compassionate. She loved people, especially the sick ones, like herself.

  And now she was sick again.

  The nurses bundled her back into bed and took her temperature, squeezed her arm with the blood pressure gizmo, and started poking and prodding where she was holding her stomach. The right side. Her liver. She curled up into a ball and cried. She knew the doctors would be arriving soon, and the tests would begin again, something new and scary and painful, she just knew it. Her nurse tucked her in, made her comfortable, and promised to come back to check on her every few minutes.

  Sure enough, a man wearing ‘scrubs’ (this kinda meant he wasn’t a real doctor, he just scrubbed things, but you were supposed to do what he said anyway) arrived and he was pushing a huge machine on wheels. It looked big and scary, and so did he. He said he’d be back in a few minutes with more stuff, and that she would feel better soon. No! She knew that lie and wasn’t falling for it. Her stomach felt bad again and she thought she was going to be sick in bed. Where had the nurse gone? She had no bowl to throw up in. Determined to not mess up her bed, Aamira tried to make it to the bathroom but standing made her dizzy. She grabbed at whatever was in front of her, it being the huge machine the tech had just delivered. She looked up, suddenly focused on the machine.

  She hated it. Hated it with all her being, hated it beyond hate, knew it was going to hurt, even though the tech had said… well, he hadn’t really said it wouldn’t hurt, had he? She squeezed her fingers on that machine as if she could throttle it, as if she could choke the life out of it, she hated it so much. And the sudden spike in her emotions, the adrenaline rush, gave her strength. She put all her hatred and pain into her hands, gave it all to the machine, wanted to hurt it before it could hurt her.

  Something on the machine lit up and made an ugly blipping noise. This startled her and she jumped back, wondering if the machine was already plugged in and she was going to get electrocuted. She decided she didn’t need to puke after all and climbed back into bed before somebody saw her messing with the machine. It looked expensive.

  When the technician returned, his hands full, there w
as a definite smell in the air of something electrical burning. The monitor had turned black, burned out. He looked at the dials on the machine, confused, looked her way (she was snuggling deep into her pillow as if she were half asleep, looking particularly innocent) and then took it away. He did not return that afternoon. It would take time to requisition another machine from another part of the hospital. Portable ultrasound machines were, indeed, expensive. And delicate. And this one was dead.

  Exhausted, she fell asleep, not caring about the tech’s confusion or the damage she may have done to his precious machine. So what if she hurt it? It was going to hurt her, wasn’t it? Besides, you couldn’t hurt a machine; it wasn’t even alive.

  When she woke she felt better than she had in weeks, and found it in herself to forgive the boy for taking her health, to forgive herself for the shame she felt when she realized she didn’t want to share, began to understand that maybe she did, indeed, want him to have it. She had given it to him, hadn’t she? Maybe she didn’t realize that she was giving it to him, but I must have wanted him to have it or it wouldn’t have happened, she reasoned. It hardly occurred to her that such a trade shouldn’t –couldn’t– have been possible; it had happened. Period.

  More tests followed. She was happy when they showed she was well, that all her strange and varying ailments had disappeared with no new symptoms replacing them, and even happier when the doctors thought she would be going home soon.

  Aamira decided to find out what had happened to the boy in the wheelchair. When he didn’t show at the solarium, she once again poked her head into the other patient rooms. He smiled when he saw her; his cheeks were pink and he was in a great mood. “I sing every day and it’s making me well, you know. I want to keep that going.” He didn’t connect it to her, just to the song. She was okay with that.

  She liked this boy. She liked him a lot. She felt like she had really made a friend, because she had shared something special with him, had shared her health. When he started rubbing his stomach again, in the same spot where she had been hurting, she knew he wasn’t well. Maybe better, but not well. Maybe he was still really sick. Maybe she hadn’t truly helped him at all, and that made her sad. Then it made her angry; it wasn’t right that kids should get sick, not this sick.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Reis. What’s yours?”

  “Aamira.”

  “What kind of name is ‘ah-MEE-rah’?”

  “It’s African. My family is from Africa. That’s why my skin is so dark.”

  “Your skin is so dark I bet I couldn’t see you in the dark!” he said in a child’s innocence.

  Aamira held up a too-thin arm and compared it to his tan skin, answering in the same innocence. “We get a lot of sun there. You don’t get so much here. I feel cold all the time.”

  “Oh. Well here, take this to warm up,” Reis said, offering a blanket at the foot of his bed. “You should feel better too. You have it.”

  And it was that simple.

  Aamira blushed. Yes, this was something special; she really loved him. She had never felt this close to anyone before. This was a new feeling, something unique and wonderful that thrilled her to her core. No one had ever told her there was a feeling this beautiful in the world! She began to wonder how much she could do if she set her mind to it. After all, whatever she had taken out of him that made her throw up, she had gotten rid of it, had blasted it right into that big machine, and she wanted to know if she could do it again. If she could really, really help the boy this time, give him more health, not just take the pain away. It was thrilling and scary at the same time, but she was a stubborn young girl and she was in love. She decided she would try to help him. On purpose this time.

  “I like that you got better when you sang. Let’s sing together and see if it happens again,” she said, taking his hands. And so, they sang.

  Nothing happened. It was just two kids singing a silly children’s song to stave off the effects of long hospital stays, of boredom laced with pain and insecurity and fear. Aamira felt protective of him and hoped she could connect with him again, knew that she loved him, knew that he was special. And that’s when it started to happen again.

  Slowly at first, just a minor pain here or there, then the bigger one in her stomach, right side, until she felt tummy-sick and worn out, and still she hung on, still they sang. Was she harming herself? Maybe. It didn’t matter too much, she was sick all the time anyway. Was she helping him? From the look on his face, from the joy she felt radiating from him, the relief, from the pounding of their hearts in synchronicity (although she didn’t know that word at the time), yes. Yes.

  There began an odd, squirmy feeling in her stomach, as if something was moving inside her. It was an awful feeling, like her insides were being torn up. No, like they were shriveling up and dying. This wasn’t her pain; this was coming from him. What was wrong with this kid that was making him so sick, and what were the doctors doing to him that made it even worse, all these drugs and poisons they gave to kids? She hated all the medicines, all the ‘procedures’ that really meant pain, all the ‘treatments’ that made you even sicker when they told you it would help. It never helped. Didn’t they know that?

  The look on Reis’s face was changing now. He had stopped singing. He was staring at her, pulling away, his face somewhere between shock and disbelief and confusion. She was beginning to understand that, somehow, he could sense what she felt, the same as she could sense him. They were connected. He knew she was really angry and thought it must mean she was angry with him. And now he was afraid of her.

  Stunned, she dropped her arms. He scooted up to the end of the bed and pulled the covers over himself in that age-old ritual of protecting yourself from the boogeyman, who everyone knew couldn’t get you if you stayed under the covers.

  Aamira was wet with sweat and tears and she was scrunched up carrying his pain as well as her own anger, but she wasn’t mad at him, and she tried to tell him that. He wasn’t listening, just tucked himself up a little further away from her. She was dismayed; how could he think she hated him? She loved him! She had just given him something special, hadn’t she?

  But the pain, oh, the pain; she needed a way to get rid of this pain inside her. She felt as if the world was crushing her, as if she couldn’t last one more minute with whatever was happening inside her. Before she vomited in his presence again, she ran to the bathroom and slammed the door, fell on her knees more than knelt, and upchucked into the toilet. She couldn’t stand it, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She grabbed the bowl and screamed her anger, her pain, her fear, her dismay at her love being misunderstood, felt as if she was glowing hot and would burn through everything she touched.

  And at that moment the toilet bowl broke apart, shattered in sharp pieces of flying shrapnel in that tiny, enclosed space, water gushing from the broken connection. Suddenly Aamira was soaking wet, her overheated body sprayed with cold water. The shock was startling, followed quickly by confusion combined with guilt that she had somehow busted a toilet.

  The bathroom door flew open and nurses came crowding in and the world tipped sideways. Someone hoisted her off the icky floor and deposited her on the empty bed next to Reis, who was still cowering. Concerned faces appeared and disappeared before her. Gloved hands were touching her, poking at scratches that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Voices were discussing everything from the shattered toilet to the mess on the floor. All Aamira wanted to do was go to sleep.

  Aamira became the talk of the entire wing but feigned innocence, and no one was the wiser. Nothing Reis said made sense to anyone and his version of the story was quickly dismissed as the effects of profound illness compounded by heavy medications and too much excitement. Aamira was secretly pleased she had given the nurses and attendants a bit of fun debating everything from a defective toilet, to a sudden spike in water pressure, to a well-placed cherry bomb.

  Reis never went near her again, made a point of staying far aw
ay, in fact. That part made her sad because she knew she could never hurt the boy she loved, but she found out from one of the nurses that he was going home, too, so maybe this health-sharing, illness-gathering thing had worked. She didn’t know where Reis lived, so she might never know for certain, but was definitely feeling better now that she knew (kind of) what to do with the sick feelings that weren’t really hers.

  Aamira couldn’t tell anyone what she had really done, not even her mother, because grown-ups never believed things like that. (Although her mother believed in all sorts of gods and other silly crap that her grandmama had taught her.) If she even tried, she knew she wouldn’t have the words to make it sound believable, and for someone to not believe her might spoil the magic of it. That idea made Aamira laugh; maybe she wasn’t so different from her mother after all.

  Since that last stay in the hospital, Aamira no longer played like the other children, didn’t like being touched, and no longer engaged in rough housing for fear she would ‘absorb’ someone else’s sickness again. She overheard Mama tell Papa that even if it had been a god that had cursed her only child, she was now forgiven and the spell released because Aamira was home again. But Mama was often silly.

  All Aamira had to say on the matter was “I am never going into the hospital again. Ever.”

  It didn’t quite work out that way.

  Now a hospital volunteer in the children’s ward, teenage Aamira’s magical talent as a budding Healer greatly improves their chances of ever going home again. What she doesn’t expect is the mysterious entity who comes to take them: you should never argue with someone possessing that much power. Join us for the next exciting installment in Aamira’s journey in Wayward Magic !

  About the Author

  As a newspaper reporter, Realtor, and paralegal, Barbara Letson told other people's stories. Now she tells her own, writing tales filled with magic, mayhem, monsters and ghosts.