by Adams, Lori
The ball of light is swirling shades of blue again. The ringing in my ears is familiar now and growing stronger, pleasant. I have the sense of seeing as though my eyes are open. I have the sense of knowing things as though the secret knowledge I was born with is gently rising to the surface. My heartbeat is strong, decisive, and I feel an escalating sense of awareness. The ball of light is expanding, making my arms light and airy. The feeling travels throughout me, extending to my torso and legs. I inhale a deep, soothing breath and hear Rama’s whisper,
“Yes. Yes.” He sounds happy and far away. I wonder why this should be, so I open my eyes. I startle in surprise and look down. I’m levitating.
“Aaagh!” I fall in a heap on the pillows. “Oomph!”
Rama is staring, speechless but with a huge, toothy grin. He nods like a pigeon. “It is righteous and pure. Cha?”
“Cha,” I grumble, rubbing my sore butt. Then I laugh and say, “I can’t believe I did that. Was that supposed to happen?”
“Oh, yeah, dude. For sure. Only … not quite so early. It was awesome though, like your body has already had the privilege, you know?”
I do. I think of the times Michael has levitated me and feel a pang in my gut. I won’t allow the memories in, so I stand up and shake off the stiffness. “What’s next?” I’m feeling restless, impatient. He wants to know what I experienced, what I felt and saw, so I tell him everything. He sits quietly and assesses me.
“I believe you have accomplished the first trial, my little wahine: the purification of the soul. I mean, anyone who can levitate without the full vision yet is totally purified.”
I smile with controlled excitement. I have passed the first trial! Maybe I can do this, after all.
“And now?”
“We continue on. The second trial: the illuminative way, gotta light it up and see where it takes us.”
I’m not sure I like the sound of that but as I don’t have options, I decided to trust him. “Tomorrow then? We gotta hit the barn now, unless you have somewhere else to be?”
I laugh as he scrambles to his feet. He loves going to the barn, says it helps him rebalance and totally chill.
“Naw, dude. I’m in.”
We have an arrangement so Rama can stay in the room while I change clothes; he faces the corner like a troublemaker, and I strip down, digging through the closet. He tells me what to expect about the next trial while I select something more suitable for a rigorous workout. I’ve learned that yoga pants and sweats do not fare well through the boughs of an angry tree. Beneath my running suit I wear dark blue shorts and a white tank top. Once I’m presentable, he strides into the closet and I head downstairs.
I hear Dad in the kitchen, cooking and singing “Henrietta” by The Fratellis. He’s hooked, and I stand in the doorway, smiling. He sees me and presents a plate of fresh goodies.
“Chak-chak?”
“Those for tonight?” I ask, taking one. They’re piping hot, and I stuff one in my mouth and lick the honey from my fingers.
“Yup,” he says, and takes one, too. “I think I’ve got the hang of these.” We smile and watch each other chewing. He does have the hang of these; they’re scrumptious. Dad sees my gym bag and asks where I’m headed. I tell him I’m working off stress. He stares awkwardly for a moment, considering me, and eventually nods. I say I’ll probably see him later at the starting ceremony, and then leave.
* * *
Because I’ve passed my first spiritual trial, I’m energized and eager to train with the demon hunters. I have a renewed sense of confidence that is struggling for release. Basically, I want to beat the crap out of something. I’m hoping for some kickboxing, or at least a round on the punching bag.
But Chang`e introduces a new method of training: slow movements, gentle side steps, easing the air back and forth around me with my hands. Being so restless and impatient, it’s hard to calm my body and glide my arms through the air. I’m moving in slow, slow motion, and I quickly realize it’s a discipline. I mustn’t rush or force my movements. I must control every breath, every aspect of myself. Whirling the cane pole over my head has strengthened my muscles, and I feel them engaged, working with me for once instead of against me.
Kanati is padding silently around the training area in his bare feet and playing a song on an ancient wooden flute. It’s soothing, calming, and I feel an internal peace similar to my meditation but with eyes wide open.
We take a short break where I ply myself with water and air. I stand apart, watching Kanati and Chang`e talking quietly. They are forever discussing me. I hear strange words: okichitaw, shaolin, wudang. They are agreeing or disagreeing about something; it’s hard to tell. Eventually, we continue with Kanati in the lead. He guides me through a series of movements. I am to use my hands to simulate weapons, a knife, a spear, or some hatchet-like thing. I’m not sure, but I copy his movements, slicing, jabbing, hacking high and low. For another hour, we do this and move at medium speed, which is more to my liking. I feel nimble but not yet graceful. The muscle memory is not automatic but I’m on the cusp of things.
Kanati demonstrates a defensive move that I’m to copy, and then he comes at me, thrusting an imaginary knife. I deflect his arm and whirl around but we get tangled and have to start again. This time I deflect his fake attack, hit, spin, and then … my second heartbeat springs to life. I stumble over Kanati’s foot and fall to my knees.
Michael and Milvi have walked through the barn door. They stop and stare, and where am I? On my knees, with Kanati leaning over me.
“What happened to your focus?” Kanati asks, and I sit back on my heels, staring at Michael. His face is emotionless, and I know he hasn’t come here to make things right between us. He’s standing by his ultimatum.
Milvi asks if she can approach, and Chang`e says it’s time for another break anyway. I climb to my feet and brush myself off.
“How’s it going?” she asks cheerfully. I think she’s trying to be funny but she’s not. Milvi has been genuinely happy for me from the start. Why can’t Michael be happy?
I watch him disappear into the chamber behind the waterfall. I’ve wondered how it would feel to see him again and now I know. Excruciating. We were not made to be together, or meant to be apart, so my insides rip a little more the farther away he goes.
Tears sting my eyes and I close them, force everything painful down into the deepest part of me. I can’t get overwhelmed. I can’t burst into tears. This is, by far, the hardest thing I must train myself to do. I must fill the vacant space inside me with pain and anger. I must endure Michael’s ultimatum. There is nothing I can say to change his mind.
But maybe I can show him that I’m progressing; I’m learning to defend myself.
I pull it together and face Milvi with a tentative smile. “Things are great. I’m getting there. No, seriously. I am. Come on, let’s spar.” I pick up two cane poles and hand one to her. Seeing Michael again has shaken my emotions loose, and I feel reckless. I grip the cane pole and assume the position. Milvi stares. “Come on, nothing too aggressive.” I’m goading her, but she’s hesitant to take the bait. She glances at my personal demon hunters for permission. “Let’s go,” I say, and take the first swing, spinning the pole over my head. She reacts on instinct, raising hers to stop mine. We’re soon at it, lunging and clacking our canes back and forth. Milvi is sprightly and confident, with far more training than I’ve had. But we’re having fun, dancing across the grass in mock battle. My ponytail whips around, slapping my face. The exercise is exhilarating and pumps my blood. This is what I need to release stress: blood and sweat, not tears.
Milvi and I get tangled and start horsing around. We trip and fall, laughing and blaming each other.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed!” Michael yells, and we cut out the shenanigans. He’s wearing his training garb and a mask of fury. He marches over and snatches up the cane poles, glaring at us.
“We were only fooling around,” Milvi says, straightening
her clothes. She winks at me, and then meanders toward the shelves lined with water bottles.
I stare up at Michael and steel myself against the swirling emotions that are threatening to take over. Being so close to him, feeling my second heartbeat after such a long absence, is shaking my confidence.
This is the guy I love. This is the guy I can’t have.
Michael grinds through his teeth, “This is not a game,” and I say, “I never thought it was.” He considers and then looks at the demon hunters. “Is this how you’ve been training her?” He sounds accusatory and rude. Kanati says, “She is doing very well,” and Michael’s eyes snap back to mine. He looks me up and down, appraising me like a cheap suit. “Well, let’s see then.” He shoves the cane pole at me, and I fumble to take it.
“What … do you mean?”
“Let me give you a real taste of what you’ll be facing.” Michael steps back and takes up his position. Chang`e starts to protest about this not being fair, but music rises in the meadow and drowns out her voice. Milvi shares my impulsiveness and wants to grow my training at every opportunity, apparently with mood music. It’s “Russian Roulette” by Rihanna, and I think it’s rather appropriate.
Michael and I stare each other down; we are two gunslingers at high noon, and I’m the awkward one trying to limber up at the last minute. The one who is too stupid to back down when she knows she’s outgunned and outsmarted.
My heartbeats race, and I grip the cane pole, stepping back. I don’t really want to be doing this. And yet, we circle each other slowly, cautiously. I’m trembling and working to hide my fear. I wonder what Michael is thinking, seeing me again and feeling my heartbeat inside his chest. Does it infuriate him? Does it make him feel whole like it used to? Does he care that he’s provoking me when I’m not ready? He knows I can’t win at this. I know I can’t win.
Michael has a hard, calculating look, and I understand he won’t go easy on me. He reads my emotions, senses my helplessness. And so I acquiesce, spreading my arms and opening myself up as an easy target. Michael’s eyes flare, and he stretches a hand toward me, slowly lifting me high in the air. I wobble and use the pole for balance. He rotates me, just like he did at the waterfall, like he did in my bedroom the night we broke up.
The music swells as I watch everything slide by, the peaceful countryside that doesn’t exist outside this barn, the waterfall and white columns hidden beneath honeysuckle vines, the stone balcony, the trees. And then I stop and hover. I look down at everyone gaping, even Rama who’s stumbled from the flowerbed in astonishment. And then I look at Michael. He’s making his point loud and clear; I’m still the puppet that he can control at will. And then he flings me to the left, and I hit tree branches and almost fall. Using the pole, I push away and float back to where I started.
Michael tosses me backward. I fail wildly and wrench around, jabbing the pole against a stone pillar before I’m crushed by it. I’m whipped across the meadow and dropped without care. I hit the ground hard, rolling and groaning. I lose the cane pole but pounce on it and spring up to face him.
Michael holds his cane lightly in his fingers, spinning it like a pinwheel. He’s toying with me. He sent me in the air to disorient me, and it worked. I’m always a bit light-headed afterward. So I shake my head clear and stay on alert. I attack by whirling my cane sharply across his. I should’ve knocked his loose but all I do is trigger his next move. In one fluid motion, his cane changes direction, hitting the tip of mine and sending it flying in the air.
I gasp and look up, watching it spin end-over-end out of my reach, and then my knees buckle to a crippling pain. He has swept his cane behind me, disabling me in less than two seconds. I’m flat on my back with Michael standing over me. His eyes are hard, unreadable. We hold a steady gaze as he raises an arm and slowly drifts up to snag my cane from the air.
I climb to my feet, fuming with humiliation. Kanati and Chang`e ask if I’m okay.
“Yes!” I snap. “Lesson over.” I grab my gym bag and stalk out.
* * *
An hour later, I’m still furious. All the way home, in and out of the shower, dressed and changed into something warm, and then meeting up with Bailey, my mind replays my humiliation like a bad episode of Jackass. Well, what did I expect when I walked into it just like a jackass? Leniency?
“Ha!” I scoff.
Bailey says, “What?” and looks around. We’re walking from my house to the square where I’ve been instructed to keep an eye out for Vaughn. She’s desperate to see him again and hopes he and Dante will show up tonight. I’ve been preoccupied with reliving my nightmare, so I tell her I didn’t see Vaughn and that she shouldn’t hold her breath. Winter carnivals seem an unlikely stomping ground for Demon Knights.
Bells chime as we head into the chaos of the town square. The school choir has set up in the newly Russianized gazebo and is singing “Carol of the Bells.” It’s lovely and soothing so we stop and listen. Like everyone else, Bailey is wearing warm valenki boots and a ushanka hat, and I have serious apparel envy.
The giant Christmas tree in the center of the park has been decorated with brilliant purples and reds; no surprise since Abigail Monroe and the McCarthy twins are heavy hitters on the town council and members of the Red Hat Society. Everyone is gathered around it, chatting, sipping hot refreshments, and nibbling Russian treats. Dad’s chak-chak is a big success.
Bailey gets me up to speed, traditionally speaking. She tells me that at precisely ten o’clock, the tree will be illuminated, at which time everyone will applaud as though this is a wonderful thing, and I’ll take the required photos. Then the lights around the square will spring to life in a domino effect, one shop after the other. All Santas will be appropriately turned on, so to speak.
The frosty decorations will follow until every Russian onion-shaped dome, giant ice sculpture, and life-size gingerbread house is glowing. We have several minutes before things get underway, so Bailey leads me to the refreshment stand. Principal Davis is behind the ice block counter in his Slovak attire. He looks cold and Russian. Bailey says, “Two wad-kas, please,” and he points across the way to another ice block stand. “Hot tea or cocoa,” he says, and she rolls her eyes and we leave.
“Did you think he might—”
“Not for a minute.”
We mosey down narrow, snowy walkways and around the life-size chess game in progress. I pull Bailey to a stop as a towering figure walks our way. He’s dressed in some kind of royal finery: a long cornflower blue cape decorated with elaborate blue, black, and white swirls. It’s lined with thick white fur that I’d love to sink my fingers into. His head is covered with a matching hood with two great horns rising out and up to meet three feet over his head. Between the horns is an ornate blue crown. He has twinkling eyes, a long frosty beard, and carries a white, crystallized staff that looks like a giant icicle. He is awe-inspiring. Bailey says he is Ded Moroz the Russian Santa Claus or Grandfather Frost. Trailing behind him is Snegurochka, his granddaughter the Snow Maiden. She wears a royal blue silk cape with delicate white fur trim. Her hood is down and reveals yellow hair in braids and a face as perfect as porcelain. She has a dazzling smile, pink lips, and is waving to the crowd.
When the parade of frosty royals moves along, what’s left is a guy standing directly across the sidewalk. He has dark, shoulder-length hair, a leather jacket, and jeans. He is staring at me.
I elbow Bailey. “You know him?”
She says, “Who?” and I say, “The guy standing right across from us.”
Bailey frowns and shakes her head. “Comrade tchotchke has been sipping the wad-ka after all?”
I don’t get it. The guy is only ten yards away. He nods as if saying, Hey, what’s up, and I’m lost. Then Santiago strides up next to him and starts talking like they’re old friends.
It occurs to me that I’m not sure what Santiago is. A demon? Lesser demon? Soul seeker? Flunky from Hell?
They laugh at some private joke, and then the st
ranger nods toward me and Santiago looks. He’s startled to see me. We stare for an awkward moment, and then he curls his finger, beckoning me with a dopey grin.
What the hell does he want with me?
I remember Dante’s warnings about lesser demons and feel a shiver of panic up my spine.
“Here they come,” Bailey says. She’s on her tiptoes, craning to see over the crowd as some of our classmates file up the walk: Rachel, Holden, Lizzanne, Sarah, Harper Rose, J.D., and Casey. They’re dressed in colorful, elaborate Russian costumes and hold torches to symbolize lighting the tree. Of course, it’s all ceremonial. Behind the scenes, a switch will be flipped and voilà, illumination.
Bailey snags my coat sleeve and drags me into the crowd. “C’mon. Get your photos.” I fumble with the camera lens, and then find a clear spot in the throng and go to work. The school choir has been replaced by some large ensemble, like a Bavarian Oompa band on steroids.
Mayor Jones steps to the microphone, calling for attention. He welcomes all guests to the start of Haven Hurst’s annual Winter Carnival, which will continue each weekend until the dance on Christmas Eve. Then, giving Vern Werner the signal, the old-fashioned streetlights around the square go out and the town falls quiet. The moment stretches until I wonder if Vern did something wrong. Gently, the ensemble begins with a soft tinkling piano. The music grows and evolves into “A Mad Russian’s Christmas” and then explodes with high energy. The Christmas tree suddenly comes to life with a blast of colors as though it was brought to life by the song itself. It’s a tower of stunning glory.
The crowd roars in a multitude of languages and claps their muffled, mittened hands. The lights on the tree now flash in rhythm to the aggressive music, and the storefronts follow suit. Santas pop alive and glow bright yellows. The ice palaces that have transformed the town into St. Petersburg shine in shimmering shades of green, red, purple, gold, and blue. I shoulder my way through the masses, capturing shots where I can: the Christmas tree, the lights, the elaborate ice sculptures of ancient mythical creatures, the creepy nesting dolls, the Russian Nutcracker soldiers, and, of course, the people, everyone enjoying their annual traditions. I even shoot Abigail chatting with the McCarthy twins. And is that Bailey?
