by Wayne Hill
Talon goes to the cave mouth, looks to see that there is no one coming to visit the old lady, then hurls the boiling filth down into the sea. Tommy watches as the crone settles into her carved wood, patchwork, pelt-covered chair. He is a little curious as to what kind of strange life Idra must have had to end up in a high tower, living in a death-encrusted cave. She grabs at a long wooden pipe that is on a nearby stool and clutches at a long cane that is also nearby. Popping the pipe in her mouth, Idra jabs the cane into the fire causing glowing red embers to spark and pop. Cane still in the fire, she winks at Tommy and then has a small coughing fit, before returning her attention to the cane. Pulling the stick quickly through her hands, she uses the small flame on its end to light her pipe. Taking deep drags from the pipe, Idra sinks into the furs of her chair and a smile grows on her wrinkled face. The smoke has a sweet scent to it that Tommy finds calming. Once the old lady is suitably settled, she addresses Tommy.
“I’m Idra. You must be this magical boy that Talon has told me all about.” The old lady expels smoke and stares at Tommy’s strange arm. She tries hard to fight off another coughing fit — but fails.
“Would you prefer it if I took the joining tools off?” Tommy asks, glancing at Talon.
“Leave them on, take them off, I have no problem,” says Idra as she puffs on her pipe — her small eyes gleaming like the pearl-eyes of the skulls watching from the walls and ceiling.
“I prefer to keep them on,” Tommy says. He looks away from Idra’s piercing eyes, unable, or unwilling, to hold them for long. Idra’s was a haunting, searching stare — studying Tommy, troubling him. It was a familiar stare, too. He has felt a similar feeling many times before when Pandeminia, the clan’s name-giver, had looked into his eyes. It is a strange pressure in his skull, as if his mind is suddenly crowded. The way Idra stared deep into his eyes was more than uncomfortable. She is, clearly, a more powerful telepath than Pandeminia. Magnet-like, Tommy’s gaze is drawn back to those gimlet eyes, boring into him, and Idra accesses Tommy’s memories. Memories of his life in the Drumcroon facility, of his Mother and Father, of the pregnant woman being shot, of his feelings of solitude, hopelessness, and despair. Tommy’s mind bounces from one different memory to another, Tommy looking on, a passenger in his own vehicle of recall. His memories are like images in an NTB pod being shuffled through by Idra as she searches out who he is. She arrives at a memory that Tommy no longer cares to remember, one that he had hidden, and his unconscious strains to pull her away from this cold dark place. Sensing his anguish, she relents and instead looks upon a happier memory.
In the memory, Tommy is finishing the design for the Eternal Power Clamp. Beaming, singing to himself with pure elation, he feels light and happy, like anything is possible in this mood. Taking Tommy to this relaxing feeling, Idra’s mind-invasion continues. His memories swirl, he feels Idra flicking through memory after memory, skim-reading his past. Idra is now looking at memories in which Tommy loses his temper. A screaming voice arises in him, wanting her to stop — but, ignoring it, she steps inside a locked room in his mind.
Idra watches Tommy at the Diamond Lights School for the Gifted, as the teacher instructs him to hand over whatever it is he has behind his back. Tommy grimaces, bringing his arm into view. His right arm is bleeding badly, in places, and there are lumps of metal protruding here and there.
“What is this Tommy? What have you done to yourself?” the teacher in his memory says.
“It’s not finished. I think something went wrong. I need more time,” Tommy says through tears, his anger spilling out. In the memory, the other kids look at Tommy and one of them smirks at him, mockingly chanting Tommy’s name, not-so-quietly under his breath. Tommy hears this, and anger raises its head, mixes with shame and frustration of his discovery and his arm starts to glow.
“Tommy? What’s happening?” The teacher now has both palms held up placatingly to Tommy — trying to control the strange situation that is unfolding. His brain is too Optimal, he has no idea what is happening.
“Get away from me!” Tommy shouts, as the teacher approaches.
Tommy’s arm is shining a violet light and bulging outwards in green and yellow patches. Blue and green vein-like tentacles flash under his skin, kaleidoscopic colours strobe. His flesh separates in places to reveal cables and veins, lights sparking and fizzing like a frayed power cable in the rain.
“I got the mixture wrong; I think. I should have known better. Ahhhh!” In pain now, Tommy pushes a chair away, wildly looking around, scanning the room for an exit. In his panic, he forgets where he is, and the experimental implants dig deeper into his flesh. Tommy crumples over, doubles up, tucking his mutilated arm protectively into his stomach. Using only the strength of his mind he tries to reduce the pain, tries to stay conscious. His other hand clenches into a whitening fist as the pain steadily increases.
Tommy’s teacher cautiously approaches.
“There, there, Tommy. Everything’s going to be okay. You must have just hurt yourself by accident? Isn’t that right? Tommy?” The teacher places his hand on Tommy’s back and rubs it up and down, soothingly. There is an explosion of violet energy and the teacher flies backwards, striking the far wall of the classroom with a sickeningly wet thud. The other children stare from the slumped body of the teacher to Tommy.
“Stop looking!” Tommy’s nine-year-old self screams.
Somewhere inside his head he hears Idra chuckle, and then another hidden memory reveals itself. And another. And another. They play like movies in his memory’s eye, and helpless, he watches them.
The telepathic connection between Tommy and Idra suddenly broken, Tommy’s consciousness snaps back to the warmth of Idra’s cave.
Tommy holds his head for a second or two, a deep burning inside his brain. Idra stares into the fire, puffing her pipe, a strange smirk on her face as she chews the stem of her bone pipe.
“What the hell was that! Stay out of my head, old lady!” Tommy shouts with one hand clamped over his right eye, trying — and failing — to hold the hot pain at bay.
Idra sees Talon moving behind Tommy, but speaks quietly, softly to the shocked young man, “Your memories are re-filing themselves. You’ll feel better in a minute or two. I find that trying to get to know someone with just words is too — um, how should I say — boring ... noooo, not boring ... longwinded. Yessss, long-winded. And, when you are my age, you realise that time is a great treasure. A great treasure that others try to steal from you.”
Talon looks over at Idra, smiles and starts to riffle through jars of spices, shaking his head, as if he has heard this speech a thousand times before.
"I’m too old to waste my lung power on asking things over and over again,” she continues, “hearing words that don’t come close to whom one is, what one does, or if one is maybe more than one.”
“I want my head to shut up,” Tommy says, blinking frantically to shake off the last bit of the old woman’s invasiveness. “I just want peace.”
“Just want peace? Just?” says Idra.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” Tommy asks.
“My dear, sweet boy — you’ve no idea, do you? It’s not possible for you to be at peace.” Idra pokes at her pipe’s bowl disinterestedly.
Tommy looks shocked. He waits for elaboration. He needs her to explain herself and so he waits.
Old Idra taps out her pipe, blissfully ignorant of Tommy’s impatience, and refills it from a pouch hung around her neck. She repeats the stick trick to light the bowl. Tommy’s frustration with the Old Lady’s reticence reaches critical mass.
“Why?” Tommy explodes, rubbing his now throbbing head with both hands.
Idra takes a few deep tokes, reclines in her chair, and stares at the intricate skull-ceiling, a cloud of pipe smoke pooling above, her eyes narrowing lost in thought, or memories, or herbs.
“Why...? Why...? Why...?” Idra repeats — each word punctuated by a little smoke ring which drifts up to the smoke sea gat
hering above, dotted with islands of skull. “You can’t be at peace,” she says, “because only children know true peace. And you’ve never been a child.”
“What?” spits Tommy.
“It’s also because you’re an ... angry ... little ... shit!” Says Idra — sending three more expanding rings to disappear into the smoky sea of skulls. She claps her hands together and falls over, laughing hysterically and starting another coughing fit.
Looking over to Talon for support, Tommy notices his friend trying hard not to laugh himself, still hunched over jars of herbs.
Rubbing his head further, this time with frustration, Tommy takes an angry swig from his flask.
‘I was never a child?’ Tommy repeats, mostly to himself, trying to decipher the message. His sips the cool water from the flask trying to douse the fiery embers of his anger.
“You were never a child doing childlike things. And, because of that, you never really learned to have fun. Fun was, and still is, alien to you. Fun is something you’ve seen others do. So, when you say you just want to be at peace, you’re really saying, ‘Just leave me alone. I don’t know what I want and —’” here she pauses dramatically — “‘and ...and ...I’m an angry little shit!’” Idra bursts into coughing hysterics once more. Dropping a jar of herbs, Talon also erupts into hearty laughter which makes even the confused Tommy laugh, because Talon’s laugh did that to people.
“Okay, okay,” Tommy says, “but what should I do about it? What do I need to change to find peace?”
“Oh dear, no. No, child. You’re worse than I thought. No, you carry on about your business, as usual. You don’t want to change on my account, or anyone else’s either. There are many ways in which people organise what’s important in their life. As an example, some people never think about how to live, they just live. They take life for what it is — a random arrangement of brief, fleeting moments. They are happy in this chaos. Happy not to try and make order out of the unordered. There are some who are naturally happy, no matter what the world brings, and there are others, like yourself, who are not. For whatever reason, those like you believe that they should organise and plan everything — even happiness. ‘Let’s put aside some time in the calendar,’ they say, ‘in — oh, I don’t know — late June, late June early July; then fun shall happen!’” Idra smiled kindly at the gaping Tommy.
“That does seem a bit like me,” says Tommy with a rueful smile.
“You’re also hungry and tired —” Idra says “— but then, I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that. Listen, there is nothing wrong with being the way you are, but, maybe, take a moment sometimes to stop and just — I know you like that word! — enjoy life. You can’t organise everything; you can’t predict everything. Trying to do so will only strain you and make you ill.”
“What if I can’t stop?” Tommy asks.
“Find someone who will make you stop, or else find someone who won’t care — but never pretend to be that which you are not. It would be a shame for a budding flower to die in the shadows. Carry on down your path, Tommy. Who knows, maybe you will be the one who figures this whole thing out? And, if you do, you’ll know exactly what is coming next. How much fun would that be? To become a God, imagine that — because that’s what the mastery of imagination and creation does. There are no surprises for those that author reality,” says Idra, tapping her pipe out again.
It is that simple to Idra. She sees the way people are and how they can be. She neither changes nor judges them; she merely tells them how it is. To some, this revelation feels like she has cooked a part of their brain; to others, it feels like a dip in iced water, and to yet others, the revelation is greeted with a sense of calm that falls upon them. Old Idra has a fantastic gift.
“Also, before we eat,” she continues, “the dream you had of Daria and Talon scared you, yes? Other people organise this darkness that is the human soul, you see. None more so than those that cause the atrocities, the ancient wars, the brainwashing needed to believe that we, as humans, are somehow indebted to a higher force. Hmm?” Tommy stares at Idra, uncomprehending.
Talon has been bustling around with bowls and eating implements but stops as he overhears this portion of the conversation. “Tantum relligio potuit suadere malorum,” Talon adds gravely.
Idra smiles at Tommy’s increased confusion. “So great are the evils Religion had encouraged,” she translates.
“In the ancient world, before the flood, an ancient race called the Carthaginians sacrificed some of their children to appease a god called Saturn — the planet we know was named for this god. Those picked, who had no children, bought some. The parents had to attend the sacrificial service and look happy, content. It is a strange notion to seek divine goodness amidst such cruelty. Another ancient race, the Spartans, flogged young boys — sometimes to death — to appease Diana, their goddess of The Hunt. It’s a savage humour to please the architect by destroying what she (or he) has built; to ward off the judgement of the guilty by punishing the pure. There are many such examples throughout the ancient history of humans. Different gods and different people but the same, sad tragedy plays out each, and every, time. All the known religions produced, and still produce, bloodshed and anguish. Look at the Believers, Tommy. Look and let these dreams not shock you anymore, child. Humans are flawed and fooled easily by fear of the infinite and the despair of nothingness. Imagination is what both frees us and binds us, the portion different in each instance. You’re different, Astilla. I think that, in the end, you’ll be okay.”
Idra and Tommy both smile at one another whilst Talon arranges containers of powdered goods before himself and Tommy.
“Food preparation time,” says Talon, ruffling Tommy’s hair. Tommy wanted to quiz Talon on what had just happened to his brain, but he felt too tired to start an in-depth conversation about Old Idra’s talents.
“That’s good. I’m so hungry. Actually, Talon, where is the food?” asks Tommy.
“I GOT FOOD!” thunders a voice so loud that it makes Talon and Tommy jump a little. Old Idra does not flinch. Perhaps her hearing is going, thinks Tommy, a little maliciously.
“Oh no, not that glutton! Who dragged him in here?” huffs the old woman.
Talon flicks one of his huge blade fingers out towards Tommy.
“Astilla's fault!” says Talon.
“THANKWELL’S BROUGHT FOOD!” says the dripping Thankwell, beaming a shark-like grin.
Thankwell and Talon prepare the delicious-looking bounty of barracuda and mussels that Thankwell has foraged from his beloved aquatic kingdom.
“Have you been following me, Thankwell? How?” Tommy asks.
“Under,” grunts Thankwell, banging water from one of his ears. Tommy knows that Thankwell hates using more words than necessary, but he chooses to pry anyway.
“Underwater... yes?” Tommy says slowly, and nodding his head, as if to will a response from the huge man’s pallid face.
Thankwell just nods, strands of seaweed swinging from his head, and places the backs of his hands together. He looks at Tommy’s confused face searching it for understanding.
“Under!” he repeats and shakes his joined hands at Tommy. Tommy smiles at the bland huge head of Thankwell and looks over to Talon for a little help. Clearly the short time he spent learning to sail with the giant man did not help his understanding as much as Tommy thought it had.
“Down, down deep and under,” Thankwell said again, banging the other side of his head — water spraying from the opposite ear.
His head must be hollow! Tommy thinks with exasperation. Frustrated with Thankwell’s non-answers, Tommy slows down his speech further. “How... Did... You... Get.... Here... So... Fast?”
Thankwell stares at Tommy — his eyes narrow, his large muscular jaw tightens. Idra cackles and Talon wisely decides to intercede.
“Thankwell likes to dive, Tommy. He has a rope tied to the bottom of every boat back at our bay. He just grabs a rope, stays underwater, and hitches a
lift with whichever boat he fancies. Isn’t that right, old friend?” Talon says.
“He always brings weird and wonderful things back here,” says Idra, ambling over to the man-mountain and reaching up on tiptoes to stroke a wet cheek.
“Give it rest, mom,” says a now bashful Thankwell.
Tommy smirks a little at a giant man having his cheek pinched by an old woman. Tommy found the scene ridiculous. This giant man actually had a mother? Was he adopted? And she made him bashful?
Thankwell catches a glimpse of Tommy’s smirk. In irritation, he launches a shield he has on his back and the disk spins towards Tommy's head. Before the shield hits Tommy in the face, Talon plucks the projectile from the air with his blade fingers, chuckling at his oversensitive friend. This uncomfortable situation is the sort that Talon loves to see — he is, however, quite surprised that Tommy did not flinch.
Tommy frowns at Thankwell and turns his attention to the young Cadet who is now making strange noises.
“Will she be okay, Idra?” Tommy asks, as the charge in his modified arm cools — no one else seemed to have noticed it had charged automatically during Thankwell’s attack.
“The poison is strong but, if she survives the night, she’ll survive the poison,” says Talon, still eyeing Thankwell.
Talon returns to the comfort of his shark throne with Thankwell’s shield and places all the food onto it.
“Yes, yes,” says Idra — clearly irritated by Talon answering for her. She settles, groaning, into her creaking chair. Thankwell brings Talon several jars, clipping Tommy round the back of the head with a light slap en passant. Tommy jumps up and returns the blow with a heavy kick to the big man’s backside, but his metal blast boot barely makes an impression in the absorbent grey and white blubber covering Thankwell’s rump.
