Allie's War Season One

by JC Andrijeski

  “You’re awfully chipper,” said a voice beside me. “I’d have thought you’d be hung over after the quantities of bourbon you drank last night.”

  The seer’s dry tone snapped me out of my view of the mountains behind the fat, ill-tempered monkey and the people on plastic chairs. I turned to see the same red-brown irises I’d been looking at for weeks.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Guess I’ve got good genes for drinking until I black out.”

  The female seer with the dark braids sniffed, but seemed content to have received an answer.

  She folded her arms, gazing around us with some distaste.

  “Didn’t Dehgoies explain how alcohol affects your light?” she said, for possibly the four hundredth time. “It’s a wonder the Rooks didn’t find us, with the flares you send out. Between that and...”

  The lecture continued, but I heard little of the rest.

  The pain slid forward as soon as she mentioned his name. When I allowed myself to go there, briefly, to look for him, a migraine sharpened behind my eyes, forcing me to stop and lean heavily on the cane I’d been using to help out my knee. I waited for the pain to pass, breathing in garbage and incense from a nearby storefront.

  Chandre didn’t notice the change in me at first. She stopped when I stopped, still complaining to me about me as she glanced around at the wooden buildings. Another cow, this one a chocolate brown, wandered past, grinding its long jaw sideways. It lowed plaintively, twitching its tail.

  “Welcome to Seertown of Himachal Pradesh, Bridge,” Chandre said after she’d finished her catalogue of my wrongdoings and ignorant, human ways. “...Sewer of the Himalayas.”

  Seeing me leaning against the cane then, breathing unevenly, she snatched my fingers off my neck.

  “Stop it. The humans are staring!”

  I laughed, unable to help it when I realized it was a variation of the crap my mom’s status-obsessed sister would spew at me when she visited us in San Francisco. I saw a man in a doorway looking at me, holding a straw broom that looked handmade and wearing a sweat-stained fedora. His upper body was wrapped in a colorful shawl.

  He shook his head at me ruefully, clucking his tongue.

  “They think I’m high,” I said. “I’m a bad Buddhist...a decadent white woman. Who cares?”

  Chandre’s mouth hardened. “I am sorry for your family, Bridge. But you cannot continue to dwell on the loss of them, or of your mate. You must focus on the task at hand.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” I said. “Avoiding ringworm?”

  But my words just filled space while my eyes rose to take in the mountains.

  Even here, I felt it. The world was dying.

  It might even be more pronounced here, where remnants of the old remained, where I could feel how things used to be, even if I’d never experienced them myself. I gazed down to the street below, where a nun in dark red robes herded a cluster of Asian kids in black and white uniforms across the cracked blacktop. I assumed they must be human, anyway, since I’d still not seen a single seer child, and had been told I wouldn’t, not here.

  The numbers rotated over the woman’s shaved head like a disjointed countdown, floating in and out of the lights of the children.

  6, 6, 120, 123, 2, 8, 88, 99, 40, 4, 2, 4, 6, 29, 29, 32, 4, 2...

  I forced myself to speak, although I didn’t look away from the nun. “How far is it?”

  “You tell me,” Chandre said. “Use your light for something useful for once.”

  I frowned, glancing at her. “My light? The town is a construct?”

  Chandre rolled her eyes. “No Rook comes here, Bridge. It is by treaty that they stay away. We are safe now...I told you that.”

  I gave her a skeptical look, but kept quiet.

  The Seven certainly put a lot of stock in treaties, for all the good it had done them.

  Hearing voices raised nearby, I turned, saw a cluster of men dressed in Muslim garb talking excitedly to an Indian man on a bicycle who shook his head, making broad negative gestures with his hands. It took me a second to realize he was a seer, and owned. The metal collar around his neck was so filthy I almost hadn’t seen it under his stained shirt. While I watched, a man in a police uniform came up, waving what looked like a homemade nightstick. The seer cowered, holding up his hands. Watching him pedal away on his bicycle, I frowned.

  “Well?” Chandre said. “Will you lead us, or not?”

  I looked at her, startled, then realized what she meant and laughed.

  Limping away from her stare, I maneuvered the cane up the hill.

  The number of storefronts diminished as we climbed higher, and the mud-brick apartment buildings and houses grew piled one on top of another, colorful and strangely cave-like against the hills. Prayer flags waved beside shrines for gods with aura-like headdresses. I saw more pictures of me, even a graffiti drawing of my profile with words in Tibetan and the art-like, slanting characters from the seer language, Prexci.

  Paths wound up into the forest and back into the town on either side of the road as we climbed higher into the Himalayan foothills. The street deteriorated from crumbling asphalt to packed dirt, and the trees hung closer to the buildings.

  The flavor of the town began to change as well.

  Seer religious graffiti grew more dominant, along with a greater number of plastic bottles, used condoms and broken glass. I saw groups of Asian-looking girls in clusters on wooden stoops, drinking beer and wearing torn silk dresses next to men with greasy hair and jeans stiff with dirt. Most of the men wore plaid, long-sleeved shirts and scarves around their heads. It took a few minutes of looking before I noticed the metal collars. They laughed, passing bottles as the occasional Indian or Tibetan tromped up the wooden steps, leading one of the females inside, or sometimes one of the males.

  As we passed, those left on the stairs noticed me and Chandre and stared.

  We were nearly all the way past the building when a handsome man who looked to be in his twenties spoke up.

  “Freedom is good, yes?” He spoke loudly, in heavily-accented English. “Tell your friend Vash that, eh?” He thumbed his collar towards me. “See what his peace love shit has gotten us.” He raised his voice as Chandre and I walked further up the hill. “Tell him to bring the Bridge here, yes? Tell him we need some of her justice in India!”

  The others laughed. One woman made a violent hand-gesture in my direction, then slapped the man next to her on the back of his head for staring at my body through the dark pants and scarves I wore.

  The man sitting next to the couple laughed harder, spilling his beer.

  A few seers in our contingent walked over to them, speaking that pidgin seer tongue and offering them cigarettes and vodka. I knew it was partly to distract them from me, but I couldn’t stop myself looking back over my shoulder at those seers sitting there, on the dilapidated stoop. I got a sudden flash of Revik lounging on those steps, a younger Revik maybe, with a rounder face and eyes that hadn’t yet developed the same faraway look.

  Chandre clicked at me to stop me staring.

  “Vash feeds them,” she said. “He does what he can.”

  I nodded, glancing back a last time as I trudged up the hill.

  She added, “Fighting the humans overtly would only worsen their situation. It would bring death and pain to all of us, Bridge.”

  “Sure,” I said, not wanting to argue.

  “You don’t know anything,” she snapped. “You are a child...raised by worms! What could you know of this? You have not seen war yet.”

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  When we reached the top of the rise, I stopped before a storefront with cracked windows and wooden steps with peeling, sky-blue paint. I stared through the dusty glass, knowing only that I felt compelled to stop there, not really thinking about why yet.

  Moving to stand beside me, Chandre folded her arms, giving me a grudging nod.

  “Good,” she said. “Your tracking has finally improved.”


  My eyes fixed on a picture of a guru-type old man in sand-colored robes with hands at prayer position at his chest. A handwritten sign said in English, “Hot Meals 20 Rupee! Free meditation and yoga!” Under the sign stood a three-foot Ganesha statue with a garland of pink and white flowers. More petals stuck to statues of Indian gods, only a handful of which I recognized or could name. Wooden prayer beads draped the back wall of the display case beside a painting of a blue and gold sun intersected by a white sword.

  I saw a Buddha sitting towards the back, too, and smiled.

  Part of it belonged to the mish-mash that is India, I knew, but the absurdity of mixing a godless religion with a multi-theistic one struck me as a uniquely seer mistake.

  It occurred to me to wonder if seers believed in gods, or a God.

  Revik had said “gods” or “d’ gaos” like someone might say “shit,” which didn’t tell me much about his actual beliefs.

  My eyes went back to the picture of the man in the sand-colored robes. His dark eyes shone from an aged but somehow unlined face.

  “Vash,” I muttered. “Jesus.”

  “Not quite.” Chandre’s quip had an edge. “Do not let his face to the humans deceive you. The rent must be paid. Even in Seertown.”

  She yanked open the wooden screen door.

  Without answering, I followed her into a larger and cleaner foyer than I’d expected.

  Tiled in black stone, the room stretched deeper out over the side of the mountain than I’d expected, as well. Wooden baseboards and paneling accented the white walls with deep-toned hardwood, water damaged in parts but gleaming from recent polish. An old-fashioned fan stuttered in a window next to a mural of the Tibetan Potala in Lhasa, done in painstaking detail and with another of those gold and blue suns shining over the plateau. A green copper lamp hung from the ceiling before a wide staircase.

  Directly inside the door stood a low desk, crafted of the same heavy, dark wood as the baseboards. A bowl of river stones and a candle were its only ornaments.

  Behind it, a young Caucasian man with a shaved head and orange robes sat in a folding chair. The way his eyes lit up in wide-eyed eagerness told me he was probably human.

  “Can I help you, sisters?” He looked at me first. Spotting Chandre then, he did a double-take, and grinned. “Sister Chandre! India has missed you, my friend!”

  I raised an eyebrow in Chandre’s direction, fighting a smile.

  Ignoring me, she bowed to the human, her hands at prayer position.

  “Hello, James, and peace. We have an audience with the Teacher.”

  James beamed. “Lucky you! Shall I call ahead?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “But thank you.”

  I stared at her, mouth open in disbelief.

  Chandre called humans “worms” most of the time, when she wasn’t ordering them around like robots programmed to do her bidding. She gave me a cold look, motioning for me to follow her up the stairs. I bowed awkwardly to cousin James right before I did. The whole bowing thing was pretty weird to me still.

  Once we’d climbed a few steps, Chandre spoke under her breath through gritted teeth.

  “We are in a construct now. I would appreciate if you kept your thoughts civil.”

  “Sure,” I said agreeably.

  I felt her irritation through the construct and smiled.

  At the top of the stairs stood an opening in the wall covered with a tapestry of yet another sprawling blue and gold sun, bisected by a white sword. Grasping one edge of the heavy cloth, Chandre slipped through the opening she created and vanished.

  After a bare hesitation, I followed.

  I straightened inside a low-ceilinged room covered in bamboo mats.

  Open windows revealed a dramatic view of the Himalayas and a tree-filled valley housing the rest of Seertown, covered over in prayer flags like a roosting flock of brightly colored birds. Against the wall, a handful of collar-less seers wore Western clothes, talking silently amongst themselves and gesturing with their hands.

  Closer to me and the door, another group of seers stood in a loose ring, wearing sand-colored robes. The man from the framed picture stood in the middle.

  He turned as I dropped the tapestry behind me, staring at me. His eyes shone a piercing black, utterly still, yet carrying so much light I found it difficult to hold his gaze.

  Without waiting, he crossed the ten or twelve feet to the door.

  I took in his angular, unlined face, a little taken aback by his height. I didn’t move until he pulled me in his arms, lifting me off the floor. Squeezing me tightly and then letting go, he laughed aloud at my strangled sound, his teeth straight and white, dark eyes bright with tears as he drank in my face.

  “You are here at last!” he said in perfect English, patting my shoulder in an awkward overflow of emotion. “I am very, very pleased! Very pleased!”

  I could only nod, stunned by his tears.

  “You are welcome here,” he said. “Most welcome!”

  I felt my face warm, fumbled with something to say that wouldn’t be completely inappropriate...

  And heard a derisive snort.

  I turned my head towards the sound.

  Amongst the seers wearing Western clothing and sitting by the wall, a male in a black T-shirt with shoulders like a gymnast watched me with Vash, his full mouth curled in an ironic frown. I felt his light on me and flinched. My cheeks flushed at what lived in that single, darting probe. Feeling my reaction, that same male gave me a sideways smile, glancing at the two seers sitting beside him, who stopped staring at me long enough to smile with him.

  The first one’s light stayed by me though.

  I felt him explore, felt a flicker of surprise from him at what he found, but couldn’t interpret its meaning. When I met his gaze the second time, his chocolate-brown eyes shifted away. He nodded to Chandre in passing as she sat among them, and the moment ended.

  Glancing up at Vash, I saw a hint of a smile in his black eyes.

  “You must be very tired,” he said kindly.

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  THAT NIGHT I curled up on a foam mattress on the floor.

  A sheet lay over me, covered in sheep and cow skins, soft and warm and smelling comfortingly of animal. Through the wooden slats of the windows over where I lay, I could see mountains framed by moonlight and white clouds, stars just visible at the edges of the moon’s glow. Monkeys called to one another occasionally in the trees, screeched and scuffled over the roofs, their black paws scoring the bamboo.

  Mostly, though, it was quiet.

  Lying there in the dark, feeling crippled me, more than I’d had to contend with in what felt like months. Maybe being in the home of a bunch of monks, stationary at last––and sober for a change––I should have expected for things to come crashing down on me. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been stripped naked with a paring knife and left to feel every breeze and drop of sweat over my open wounds.

  The construct exuded a simple warmth that worsened the feeling. Even the Himalayas amplified it, until something inside me started to unclench, so quickly and effortlessly that I couldn’t pull back the threads.

  By the time the monkeys’ footsteps receded, the middle of my chest throbbed as it had on those cold shores in Alaska.

  I couldn’t breathe, but my mind remained dead silent.

  The moon rose, and I was still awake, despite being exhausted. I lay there and watched as the valley filled with a soft, penetrating light.

  Somewhere in that silence, I started to cry.

  Once I started, it was difficult to stop.

  ...YET SOMEHOW, I am asleep.

  I find him easier this time.

  He seems almost to be waiting for me.

  He is alone here, as he always is. Just like every time before, I feel him, but I can’t quite reach where he is. He floats like a corpse surrounded by gray curtains, and we touch one another through the morphing fabric, fighting to get
closer, but we can’t.

  Before I understand where we are, we are kissing, like we are most of these nights.

  I feel him more once we start, but it’s not enough...it’s never enough. Our mouths are careful, hands and fingers deliberate through the same thin fabric. When I slide into his light this time it is fast, a slow groan before he opens, letting me nearer than usual, until I almost feel him, until he seems almost real. He is pulling on me then, asking me, but I can’t...

  I can’t give him what he wants.

  A kind of desperation grips me. He wants to give me things, too. He tries, in his own way. Images and sensations weave into his light, his legs between mine, his weight on me, until it feels like he’s inside me, like we are...

  But it will only make things worse when he leaves.

  I’m tired of this. Tired of fighting and losing him. Tired of looking and never being sought. He left me. He left me before he left. He enters me now like a thief, because I’m all he has.

  He pauses, raising his head.

  ...and the man with the chocolate-brown eyes stares back, only now he isn’t smiling.

  Lowering his head, he kisses me without hesitation, picking up where Revik left off. It feels different, and not only because I don’t know him. The curtain evaporates, revealing warm light...a different body, less-cautious hands, unambiguous intent.

  His arms and chest are larger, his hands smaller, his lips fuller, his tongue thicker. The way he kisses is different. He doesn’t wait for me to ask, barely waits for my answer. His hand slides into the crook of my knee, fingers caressing my thigh as he pulls my leg around his waist. He is inside me, and I hear him groan. He kisses me again...

  I feel him breathing hard in the dark, in another room, naked under rough skins, and I know suddenly that it’s not all a dream.

  Somewhere, Revik watches. I know it’s not real, that he’s not here anymore.

  He’s dead...I know that.

  Yet somehow, it still feels like a betrayal.

  23

  CHALLENGE

  I GOT UP before dawn.

  When I left the empty sleeping quarters and wandered outside into new light, the man with the chocolate-colored eyes was the first person I saw. He sat on a wooden step, smoking a hiri, one of the seer cigarettes, a cup of chai resting by his thigh.