"Yes. Strange, right? One of the units spotted the wolves heading for the city. At least ten of them in a pack. The animals looked dangerous enough for the soldiers to call for reinforcements. I was patrolling nearby, but, by the time I reached, they were gone. No sign of them." His brows furrow in puzzlement.
I loose the breath I have been holding. The wolves had escaped. Apparently Ma's Gods were still watching over them.
"What were you doing in the area?" I ask, my voice cautious.
"I am just a rookie and often get stuck with the worst of the patrol slots, like the late night ones on the outskirts of the city." He smiles a little. "I’m almost relieved we didn’t find them. I don’t particularly like to hurt or kill anything unless I really am pushed to."
My eyes fall on the stunner he has placed on the table and he grins, a humourless twisting of his lips. "Yeah. I know. A bit rich coming from a person carrying a stun gun.”
"So, why do you do it then? Be a Guardian?"
"A promise to my dying mother." Voice fading away, he glances out the window again. His throat muscles clench. He’s still grieving for her. "We always think our parents will live forever." He says, "And when they die, you feel as if you’ve been exposed to every horrible thing in the world. You feel you’ll never be safe again. It’s the last thing my mother asked of me; to guard this city just as she had."
His face takes on a haunted look, his throat muscles jerking as if he is trying to not show the depth of his emotions.
"At least you knew your mother." The words just burst out and his eyes swing to me. I look away. I hadn’t meant to say it. But, listening to him talk about his past makes that ever-present need surface. The one that insists I must find my blood mother, my blood family.
Clasping my hands together on the table, I finally say, "I only just found out I was adopted. And now I can’t stop thinking about my real parents. Can’t stop wondering why they let me go. Do they not look for me? Do they not miss me?"
Now that I've started speaking, I can’t stop pouring out my heart. I feel I can trust him, tell him things I dare not tell people I've known my entire life.
He touches my hand and I sit back, folding my palms in my lap, twisting them together. "Is it so important for you to find them?" He asks.
"Isn’t it?" I shoot back.
He doesn't answer my question; instead, he says, "You're remarkably easy to talk to you know?" His eyebrows are furrowed as if he's confused. "I don’t talk to just anyone about my mother, yet here I am pouring out my feelings to you."
How strange. I was just thinking the same words. And then he reaches out and touches my palm, just a slight touch.
Like he'd have done with a friend, with any friend. Or a kind stranger he's just met. It doesn't explain why it sets my nerve endings on edge. I want to grit my teeth and grab his hand and hang on. I don't, of course. Instead, finding him staring, I hold his gaze. Silence between us. Not uncomfortable. Not one of those strange chemistry filled ones either where you just want to jump the other person. No, this one is deeper, as if our souls are talking to each other, communicating in that strange unsaid way humans have but are unaware of. Perhaps I sense it, and am aware of it because I've lived with hybrids, with wolves, who are open enough, empathetic enough to read each other? Essential when you have to survive in a pack. Even more important when you have to survive in a big city. And yet humans have forgotten, indeed have closed down that part of themselves completely.
Jai is the first to look away. His forehead still creased. He's mulling over our conversation, wondering what just passed between us. Like I am. The door opens and I'm relieved when customers walk in, saving me from further conversation. The sun slants through the window, lighting up his face. He tilts his head and sunlight picks out the highlights in his hair. A long forgotten memory at the back of my consciousness loosens, unfurls. Then, the sun hides behind the clouds again. The feeling is gone, fading as quickly as it came.
"Listen." He hesitates. "Why don't you come tonight, to this reading ... a poetry jam actually."
"Poetry jam?" I ask.
He nods. "You know, a gathering of loser artist types who read their strange musings." His lips twist in a self-depreciating expression, and I realize he's talking about himself.
He nods again, seeing understanding dawn on my face. Mock bowing across the table he says. "Yes ... Being true to myself in this case. Actually..." He drums his fingers on the table, as he continues. "Actually, it's my first time in front of an audience. So you see, it would mean a lot to have a familiar face there cheering me on ... or at least not booing me." He grins, and his face suddenly feels open, younger. His eyes are clear as if just talking about the evening has helped put the events of the day behind.
"A soldier AND a poet?" I say lightly, not replying to his question immediately.
"Well? So you'll come?" This time, leaning forward, he places his palm on my hand. Wide hand. Dry, warm. Heat seeps in from his fingertips onto my skin, into my bloodstream. Something like an electric jolt shivers through me and I pull back my hand, placing it in my lap. What was that?
When I look at him, he gives no indication of having felt anything. Is it just me, feeling so shaken, so confused, as if I've just been faced with the biggest puzzle of my life, and that whichever way I put it together it was going to change my life forever? Do I even want to see him tonight? I nod and his face lights up. A relieved smile, which meets his eyes. He writes out the address on a paper napkin and hands it over. "8 pm," He says. "It's a little out of the way, not the most exclusive of places, but a great hangout for budding talent. Ask Shamil for directions."
He slides out of the seat and stands up to go, then turns to me "Oh! And have a couple of pints before you get in; you don't want to be drinking what passes for liquor there. He sticks out his tongue and runs a finger across his neck as he says so.
I giggle at that, and when he stares at me a second longer, I look down at the paper tracing his handwriting with my finger. "See you there," I say in a low voice.
I sense his nod and then he's walking away. I don’t look up, continuing to study the strong slash of his writing.
5
Shamil's directions are clear enough, and yet I almost miss the bar. I walk past it on the little alleyway and hit a dead-end before turning back to the only door on the street. The handwritten sign over the door says "Red Earth." This is the place all right. Guess, when Jai had said 'not exclusive,' he'd meant 'run down.' Above the door is a security camera, the screen broken. This place doesn't obey the rules of the city and the council. And Jai comes here to share his poems? Isn't this in conflict with his role as Guardian? I raise my hand to push at the door when it opens and a girl and a boy walk out, hanging onto each other. Brushing past, I walk through a narrow corridor into a bar. A stage at the far end with a sole bar stool, a naked bulb casting a weak yellow-white light over it. Obviously the hot seat for the talent.
Between are tiny, round tables. Each seems barely capable of holding drinks, yet they each already balance a hooded lamp and lace doilies. Whoever's running the place has a fondness for nostalgia. A bar runs the length of the room and around the far wall. There are people scattered around, the noise just beginning to rise as the drinks kick in. I slip into a chair next to me and order a soft drink from the waitress. I sit there as the bar begins to fill around me. And sit. And sip another soft drink. And another. Then, just sit. Fiddle with the ridiculous lace doily. Give up on ordering any more drinks. And watch. And wait. 9 pm. An hour past the time he'd mentioned and yet no sign of Jai. The noise around me climbs high, ebbs and swells over me. At some point, someone takes the barstool next to mine and I realize there is now not a single free seat in the house. Why am I even here? Surrounded by strangers in a city I was probably born in. A place which now feels so foreign, so distant. As distant as the chance of running into my blood parents. How do I go about looking for them? Where in this city will I find them? Certainly not here in this goin
g-to-seed underground bar, carefully hidden from the prying eyes of the city council. So, why am I here? I search for an answer in the dregs of the too warm, too sweet drink which I’d slurped down earlier.
You know exactly why you're here. You want to find out more about Jai. You stupid sod, you want to get closer to him, don't you?
It's a bit more than that, actually. I feel connected to him.
You felt connected to Luke too...
No, not that way. It's different with Luke. My feelings for him are easy to define. Lust. Compatibility. Familiarity. Chemistry.
There's familiarity with Jai too, and something else. Something that sets my nerves on edge. That sets my cells vibrating with unease. That's chemistry too, right?
Chemistry - a simple 'emotion' that two people get when they share a special connection. It is not necessarily sexual. It's the impulse that makes you think 'I need to see this person again' - that feeling of 'we click.'
Well, going by that explanation, I do want to see Jai again. And again. And we do have a connection. I feel it, but does he? Only one way to find out. Ask him. Even as I'm thinking that, Jai takes his place on stage. The yellow light from the bulb shines through the thin white of his shirt, stroking the planes of his chest muscles. The way he stands, half at ease, half to attention. The angle of his body awkward, almost belligerent. A throwback to my younger days,forever caught between wanting to stay and wanting to leave. I want to hug him right then and tell him he's going to be just fine. There's a smattering of applause which I join. Then, silence. The kind punctuated by the occasional clink from the bar, by careless chatter from the other tables.
Jai pulls out a tablet from his pocket. I run my eyes over his face and, as if sensing my gaze, he looks up and his eyes lock onto mine. Something instantaneous passes between us. This time, I am not mistaken. Then he smiles and I loose the breath I'd not been aware I was holding. He holds up his hand in a half wave and I raise mine in answer. Still holding my gaze, he begins to speak.
I remember
the stillness of morning,
a raft of ducks,
the silence of floodwater
and how
you kissed me.
The kettle
pours steam.
Pause. He looks down at his device, as if refreshing his memory, then, looks past me, looks to another part of the audience.
I learned that
once-shared space
becomes sticky in meaning,
is not so easily
separated back out into
what was Yours; what is Mine.
His voice washes over me, over the room, sweeping away the noise. Hushing the conversation. A glass crashes at the bar, no one reacts. Riveted. I am. We all are. By his voice. His words. The unsaid emotions between the words. The stuff you can't hear, don’t want to hear ... he's saying it all. And for once they're listening and hearing him. The humans around me, they're opening their hearts, their souls. He's pushing through those carefully built defences, the discipline they insist on caging themselves in.
Sometimes, my reflection
slides away from me so fast
I feel my muscles tighten,
but a brace is a hold is a nest is
a safer space.
Pause. A girl ahead of me stands up, blows him a kiss. But he's locked in his own world, in that silent communication between him and us. He's pouring his emotions into that channel and all we can do is lap it up. He looks around, looks down at the audience.
You are the only person I wish
I had never met. I suspect if you knew
you might have more respect for me now
than you did then.
Silence. And he takes a deep breath, smiles a little, and puts away his device. "That's it from me." He half bows, to applause. Then, a "More" and another "More" and another.
"You sure?" He asks, now standing straight, shoulders erect, back arched with pride. He knows he has them. He has me. I see what he is now, so clearly. He's so like me. We feel the same. It's as if I'd put my finger out and touched my reflection only to find it was him. My hands freeze half way through the clapping, drop to my sides, limp. I know I've found something, something of importance, something I've been looking for all my life. My gut knows it; my heart knows it. My mind refuses to accept. So I just sit there, unable to feel my arms and legs anymore, as if I were being suspended through space. Yet I hear that honey over gravel voice as he continues—
I had got so used to the idea of you
in middle distance, that to wake to you
suddenly close -
I felt I did not know you at all.
And now, he looks at me, once again, our gazes collide through the shimmering heat of souls breathing out in this little space. I dare not wipe the sweat from over my upper lip for fear of shattering the space I've built around myself. My own coffin.
So strike a fracture through this
glass this view this thing that shimmers
like doubt between us, break it apart
with your hands.
Tears prick my eyes, threatening to spill over. There's a churning in my gut, and bile rises to my throat. I jump out of my chair so fast it turns upside down, crashing onto the man standing behind me, but I don't stop . I push through the crowds of people, only half aware of the clapping, cheering, of the session having ended. Sweat pours down my forehead as I manage to push the door, bursting out and onto the sidewalk where, doubling over, I'm sick. He's seen me leave; he's going to come out to find why I left all of a sudden. Yet I feel too exhausted to move. I want ... I must get out of here, away from this horrible city, these people with their repressed emotions. This grey-brown place where it feels I am forever trapped in an endless cycle of want. Of need, of trying to be something I am not. I sink down on the sidewalk, onto the dusty ground, and burying my head in my arms, sob.
By the time he finds me, I am over my crying jag. My insides still churn, and I am trying to make sense of my own reaction to his words. Why it affected me so much.
Epiphany - an experience of sudden and striking realization. An insight, a clarifying thought. A complex combination of experience, memory, knowledge, predisposition and context
Enough! I slap my hands over my ears, trying to drown out that rational voice inside, the one that constantly, constantly tries to make sense of what I am doing.
He sits down next to me, far enough not to touch me. I want to move away, put more distance between us, but I don't. I just stay there, looking ahead, looking away, looking anywhere but at him.
He doesn't say anything. After a few minutes, I look up at a sky hung with overcast black clouds. I can't see the moon, but feel its presence in the silvery outline of the clouds. Almost pretty in an eerie way.
"Did you manage to find your way here okay?"
Did I manage to live my life so far okay? I want to resort to sarcasm, but don't. Instead, I stay quiet, not trusting myself to speak.
He goes on, "You're not liking this city much, are you?" I turn my head sharply at that. "You've been here only a few weeks. You need to give it time."
I still don't say anything, but at least he has my full attention now. I'm sure he wants to know what's happening with me, why I left his performance so suddenly, and why I now have a tear stained face. Feeling sorry for myself, I just hang my head. I don't want to say anything, or see him, or the world. A sudden piercing need to see Luke, see Ma, be back in the confines of my little room twists my heart. I really am much weaker than I thought. And not just physically. I take a deep breath to calm myself. To remind myself of where I am, here, now. With Jai.
As if sensing the tumult in me and realising that nothing he says right now will help with it, Jai gets to his feet, "Let's get you home shall we?"
He pulls me to my feet, holding my hand in his for just a second longer than necessary. Upright, I barely come up to his chest. He's as tall as Luke, just narrower. Slimmer. A wiry build, and throug
h his fingertips some of his strength, a robustness of soul, of his being filters into mine. A whiff of his lemon-honey scent now mixed with the smell of stale beer from the nightclub. So normal, already familiar, and it clears my head a little. He walks me to where his bike is parked. One of those you have to kick-start and which went out of production years ago. An antique. An expensive antique he uses for everyday travel. The difference between us hits home sharply. I was mistaken in thinking we were similar. There's a hidden distance, one, which I am only now seeing, which no amount of time spent together can bridge. I ride shotgun, being very careful to still keep my distance, to not touch him at all. He drops me off at the gates of my motel with a short "Bye" and "get a good night's sleep."
He doesn't ask to come in and I don't say anything either.
6
Two weeks later
"This is the worst time," Shamil had told me. "These days just before the monsoons when the clouds are pregnant with moisture, and hanging so low you feel you can touch them, and you pray for the first rains, anything, anything to relieve this furnace we've been dropped into." I thought he'd been exaggerating, but now as I toss and turn in the heated confines of my little motel room, I know exactly what he means. It's the middle of the night and so hot my skin feels like it is on fire.
Finally jerking awake in a pool of my own sweat, I walk to the bathroom, fill my drinking water bottle and splash the water over the bed-sheets. Climbing in, the sheets seem to sizzle when my fevered skin touch the damp material. I shift and turn, trying to find a cooler spot, when a tap on my shoulder has me shuddering with shock, a cry trapped in my chest.
"Shh! It’s only me."
"Luke?" A rush of relief is followed by a spurt of hot anger and I shake off his hand. "What are you doing creeping around in the dark?" I demand, "You frightened me."
The moonlight coming in through the window falls on his shoulders and I realize he is shirtless. As if he’s changed back into his human form in a hurry and not bothered with wearing all his clothes. Eyes gleaming, he leans back and holds up his hands to placate.
Feral - Many Lives Book 1 Page 3
