by Brindi Quinn
It’ll take more than that, however.
I feel her stomach and try to think about the slim body beneath my hand. I try to envision it. I shut my eyes and slide my hand from abdomen to ribs to chest. Think. About the girl eagerly beneath me. About the submission about to take place. About the naked flesh soon to be against my own. Think. Think.
My mind is blank, as far as images go. Tally doesn’t notice. She continues to suck on my neck.
Think.
Think.
About . . .
Sil’s sexy eyes flash into my mind, uninvited and unexpected and unintended. They are there but a moment of briefness, yet a shiver runs through my skin from top to bottom. A shiver which Tally feels. A shiver which makes Tally begin to unbutton her blouse.
Well, that’s getting somewhere.
If it works . . .
Without giving consideration as to why it should work, I think of Sil again. It isn’t hard to do. And this time, more than just her eyes show in my mind. It is all of her. She is squatting and looking up at me with a wrinkled lip. A lip. Sil’s lips. Shaking, I put my hands to Tally’s face and kiss her again – a kiss different from the first. This one possesses true lust. And something more. Something that makes my chest tight.
Siiiil.
But something isn’t right. The kiss tastes stale. There is no mint. There is nothing but the artificial flavor of an artificial lipgloss.
I stop and open my eyes. So does Tally.
“What’s wrong?” she inquires. She’s beautiful. She’s willing. And she also happens to be half-dressed. So what’s wrong?
“Nothing.” I shake it away and begin to kiss her again, returning a hand to her bosom. But like before, my chest tightens. Siiiil. Where is her scent? Where is her taste? I seek it out.
And then I find it. Distant, Sil’s smell is there. But it isn’t coming from the girl below me.
A second time I halt my expedition of Tally. I halt because I no longer want it. I halt to look to the source of Sil’s mint. It comes from the doorway of the living room.
From the doorway? That’s specific. As soon as I realize why, my body turns to stone.
The source of Sil’s mint, as it would turn out, is nauseating; for the source of Sil’s mint is Sil herself. While my hands are against Tally’s flesh – while my body is pressed firmly against hers – Sil stands in the doorway, expressionless and holding a small paper bag.
Sil? I wish to speak her name, but her name will not come. It is lost in my throat of stone. Everything is lost.
When Tally notices what I notice, she gives out a shout, “Silvestra!?” and fumbles to hide herself behind me. “Cripes!”
Cripes? So much for prim. Then again, Tally’s primness went out the window approximately seven minutes ago.
“Sil?” I manage her name this time. “You . . .”
“Oh,” is all Sil says. “Sorry to interrupt.” She is emotionless. Expressionless. Caring not. Like me, she is made of stone.
This is when it all goes to hell.
I know myself better than most, perhaps; but in this moment, I transform into something unrecognizable. I am a stranger. An unsure, wavering, commoner. I stare at Sil and Sil stares at me, and I . . .
I don’t know how to be. I . . . regret that she’s seen this. I care that Sil stands in the doorway. I care that’s she’s seen.
But why? Why should I care if she has? It isn’t her business. She has no claim over me. How dare she make me feel regret for seizing hold of something I wanted?
In no time at all, I am angry, but no matter how I try to defer it, I know without a doubt that my irritation isn’t for Sil. No, I am angry with myself – furious that I care! It’s preposterous! Why should I give a damn if she’s seen?! She is merely a stupid, inconsequential mortal that refuses to love me! So why then, as she stands there made of stone, does my chest ache? Why do I search her eyes for hurt and hope that I find nothing but obliviousness? Why am I remorseful that this has happened?
“Sil!” I can’t help but call to her.
Her name is a chisel that cracks through the stone of her body. At once, she is in motion once more. “This if for you, demon boy,” she says like she is made of robotics. “I’ll leave it here.” She drops the bag at her feet, then takes off clunking up the stairs.
“Sil!” I push myself from Tally, who is in the process of redressing – Tally, who is annoyed that our performance was interrupted.
“Raincheck?” she says, scowling in a way that is unbefitting of her.
“By all means . . .” I don’t mean it. I’m preoccupied. The sound of Sil’s footsteps is over my head. She’s reached her room.
Damn.
From above a door slams.
Fruck.
There is also the faint sound of a click to signify a lock being bolted.
Piss.
Tally gathers herself and goes sulking into the first floor guestroom. I, on the other hand, haven’t a clue what to do with myself. I hate the way I feel. Uncertainty? Remorse? A combination of a few unwanted things. It is the worst thing I’ve experienced since losing my horns.
In the doorway, the paper bag still sits, taunting. I kick it. How dare it remind me of what just transpired?! From the bag a small vial rolls. The vial is filled with a chalky white powder mixed with grains of red.
What is it? I bend down to inspect, taking the vial between my fingers and holding it to the light.
It is . . . white ash? White ash mixed with red. But what’s the red?
Ah. I understand. This is reused white ash. It has been carefully scraped from the side of a red brick building. Sil’s spent her evening collecting ash from the side of the school.
The tight feeling in my chest worsens. Vial in one hand, plum tome in the other, I dash up the stairs after her.
“Sil?”
I walk to her closed door and stand awkwardly. She doesn’t answer.
“Sil?” I say again, putting a hand to her mismatched knob. A turn of said knob validates that the door is indeed locked. I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t affect me. Yet it does. My knees buckle and fall.
I rest my forehead against her door and am consumed with the big question: Why? Why do I care that she’s seen me with Tally? It is her fault anyway. She shouldn’t have come in unannounced. Then again, the house is hers. It’s normal behavior for a person to enter their own house unannounced, isn’t it?
Yes.
So that means . . . I am in the wrong?
No. Not necessarily. Yes, there would be a bit of awkwardness that would accompany walking in on a pair of people indulging themselves, but that doesn’t mean the act was in any way heinous.
So why does the scene of stony Sil standing dumbly in the doorway continue to replay in my mind? Why . . .?
“Sil, are you angry?” I ask.
I wait a full minute there, crumpled with my forehead against her bedroom door, before receiving an answer:
“Why should I be?” comes her question.
“THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I’D LIKE TO KNOW?!” I spit venomously.
Oops. Uncalled for. Sil is quiet. I squeeze the vial in my hand. “Why did you gather this ash, Sil?”
Another minute passes.
“I thought you could use it,” she pipes, muted from behind the door. “Sprinkle it on your book or something. I thought maybe it would make the rest of the words clear up for you. Worth a shot, eh?”
“Sil . . .” Her secret task was for me? In the cold, in the night, Sil went to the school for me. My throat swallows. Along comes more pressure than would usually be associated with a swallow. Like my chest, my throat hurts. “Open the door, Sil.”
“N-no,” she stammers.
“Why not? You said you aren’t angry.”
Sil thinks on it. “I’m . . . sick?” She concocts and obvious lie. “Yeah, I’m sick!”
“You are not. Open the door.”
“I can’t. I’m . . . naked. Yeah, that’s right! Sick and nak
ed.”
Naked Sil? The shadow beneath my skin writhes at the thought. What the hell?!
“Then put on a shirt and open the door, Sil.” I force containment of myself.
This time, Sil is quiet for two minutes at least. And then –
“Goodnight, demon boy.”
Goodnight? . . . “Sil?” I press against her door. From the sound of bedspring, she has most likely absconded into her nest. “Stop! SIL!”
But she won’t answer.
Pathetic, I sit outside her door for a time. She won’t answer. I know that. Yet it takes dozens of minutes for me to give up and retire to my room. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and replay the footage of Sil’s expressionless face staring at half-naked Tally and me. Sil’s face . . . My chest is annoyingly tight. It is almost hard to breathe!
I cannot sleep.
I want to be with Sil.
I don’t know why – in fact, it’s a nuisance that I’m even feeling this way – but I want to see her face again, to make sure that it doesn’t truly hold the pain I imagine it does.
ARGH! It’s so vexing! I crave release!
In my angst, I turn to the book, which rests on the bed beside me. Sil’s gesture of retrieving the white ash was an uneducated one. Sprinkling used ash over the pages will do nothing. Without even trying, I know it is a lost cause.
Even so, flipping to the heptagon’s page reveals something more than I expect.
A Chant of Searching:
. . an’t be never,
Vanished or . . . . aid,
A pi . . . of them,
Seven corners of Dhiant.
Most of the letters come easily. Only a handful remain blurred.
A Chant of Searching? Not of binding. A relief, to be sure. But it also arises new questions. The minion was searching for something using a daem’s power. What reason for that would there be?
What reason . . .?
Siiiil.
Even in the light of discovery, I am distracted. Anguish plagues my sleep. Remorse riddles my thoughts.
Siiiil.
If I kill her, will it end?
><
The following morning, I go to her door. Though it is open, Sil is not there. She has left without me, it would seem.
Not angry, my ass.
I travel to school alone. Along the leaf-spotted sidewalk. Past the neat yard. To the corner where the boxy building sits. Sil is probably already at morning practice. I envision her rabbit-ish frame hopping through the line of trees along the fields. I imagine that I see her off, per usual. Instead of heading to the front, however, I steal around the back, to where half of the heptagonal symbol remains. The ground below is peppered with bits of red and white.
When I think of Sil standing here, scraping away . . . my chest answers with pain.
Dammit.
But to rub in my guilt isn’t the reason I’ve decided to come to this place. It is to see if I am able to read any more of the symbol’s scribble.
All of it. I can read all of it.
Galvin Tenor.
“Who the fruck is Galvin Tenor?” I ask no one. Although I should ask it of someone. For someone has been watching me.
I notice it only when the window above me shuts.
The window directly above me?
I may be mistaken, but I believe that’s our homeroom classroom. Instinct tells me to hurry. On a whim, I go bolting inside to investigate.
The search turns up nothing. The classroom directly above the symbol is ours, true. But it is also empty, though one of the windows – the window in question, to be precise – is unlocked. I scratch my nonexistent horns.
Unsettling.
And if I find out someone’s been spying on me, heads will roll.
Chapter 9: The Urnk Knows Best
“What’re you wearing for Halloween, Tran?” The tick is in my ear at the end of class, as he has been for most of the day.
“I’m not.”
“Nice! Going commando, yeah?”
I disregard him.
He keeps at it, “Only a week left. Better find something quick.” He leans in closer. “And just to warn you, man, Halloween’s a pretty big deal for Sil Tenor.”
Sil Tenor? Sil Tenor who sits yonder and refuses to look at me. Sil Tenor who hasn’t spoken a word to me in days. The tick’s picked up on it.
“Vibe seems a little different between you two lately,” he says.
I don’t need to hear that from him. I know better than anyone that Sil’s been avoiding me – ever since the incident with Tally. The twit said she wasn’t angry. A lie apparently. If she weren’t angry, what cause would there be for avoidance?
Bing bong bing.
“There’s the bell, Tran. I was thinking –”
But I am already out of my seat. Gone to catch up with Sil. In the hallway, she disappears into the crowd. It’s a hidden talent of hers – evasion. Out the school’s door, I push against the swarm of bumbling students. Again she eludes me. With the help of pudgy Keek, no less. I see them in the distance, hobbling away. I begin to take chase, but am waylaid by the tick, who has decided to continue his harassment by popping in front of me and blocking my path.
“So Tran, if you aren’t doing anything right now, would you want to head over to my buddy’s place?”
“Not now, Chif.”
“You sure? He’s got this great –”
“I said not now!” Sil and Keek are fading fast.
“Yokay. Yokay.” Chif gives me a laid-back pat on the shoulder. “Later then, man.”
Thanks to the tick, I’ve lost much leeway. By the time I reach the house, Sil isn’t in sight. Not in the kitchen or her room. When I hear Tally sweep through the parlor, I duck out the front door. Just as Sil’s been avoiding me, I’ve been avoiding the vixen. Tally’s a whole other urn of problems.
Sil isn’t in the backyard or the shed. The cemetery? Perhaps she’s gone to the cemetery. Either that or the pair of chums evaporated. It’s highly unlikely, as Keek possesses a great amount of density. The cemetery, it is.
Through the crunching leaves and naked trees, I travel there.
“Sil?” My voice echoes through the wood. “Sil! This has gone on long enough! Stop acting a child, would you?”
I haven’t even had the chance to ask her about Galvin Tenor. That’s how evasive she’s been.
“Sil? SIL?!”
But more calling only leads to more silence. She and her minion aren’t around as far as I can tell. Perturbed, I slump beside the open grave.
“You haven’t seen any brainless boy and stocky girl journey through here, have you?” I demand of it.
Naturally, I receive nothing in the way of answer. Like the time before, the urnk speaks not. Maybe the damned thing moved. Skipped to another open grave, never to be heard from again. Seems to follow the trend of nothing working in my favor since entering this blasted realm. “Speak now or forever hold your peace, Urnk.”
Then, when I am about to give up, an idea comes to me. I close my eyes. “O ghoul of the ground. O dead mortal scum. Answer my call!”
Not exactly the way Chif spoke it, but I figure it’s close enough. Perhaps there was a bit power in the conjuring incantation he used. Perhaps that is what I’ve been missing.
“O ghostly being whose life was all too short – meaninglessly so, really – answer me now or suffer the wrath of this tiresome chant! Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!”
“Greetings, rude child. Back again to disturb my slumber?”
There we go! Like a charm. The voice intruding my thoughts is much more welcome the second time around.
“At last the ghost chooses to show itself,” I say aloud. “Why, how courteous of you, indweller.”
The unrk protests, “I am not a ghost. . . . But then, you already knew that, didn’t you, boy?”
Right he is. My aggression flows in the form of banter.
“Oh?” The urnk gives an emission of surprise. “What do I read in your t
houghts? The spoiled prince has performed a wrong?”
A wrong? Now wait just a moment! I open my eyes to force him from my thoughts. It is an extremely trying experience to speak with someone so smug. But I need to persevere. To find out what he knows. I return to darkness.
“Your hormones got the better of you, and the deed was done. Shame. Predictable, but a shame nevertheless.”
“I didn’t! I didn’t do that. Not that it matters. She has no say over whom I have relations with. Why should she care?”
“Does she care?”
A reasonable question. “I believe so. Never you mind.”
“A bold front for a sniveling child on the verge of watering his cheeks.”
“Shut up, you!”
“Is that any way to speak to your elder? Have some respect, child. Your duress stems from the fact that you are wrought over your wrongdoing, but refuse to accept that you are.”
I don’t feel like being counseled by a bodiless fiend. Therefore, I choose not to comment on his evaluation. Instead, I defer to,
“Since you’re awake, Urnk, tell me what you know of my situation. How did you know that minion was attempting to steal my powers?”
“Minion? He didn’t seem like much of minion. I told you before; I could hear him. You are not the only one whose thoughts I can read. Opposingly, you are the only one who can read mine.”
“Lucky me.”
“What an attitude to have with a being that has information for you.”
Information? It’d better not be a jest. “What information?”
But the urnk reverts to silent just to piss me off.
“WHAT INFROMATION?” I enunciate. “Spill your secrets, you cad!”
Still, the urnk says nothing.
If I must . . . “Please, O elder spirit of Earth, what information have you to share?”
I wait atop the hard, autumn ground until the urnk deems me worthy to be trifled with.
“The boy was using two languages. The one we are using now, and another I did not understand. It was not a language of Earth.”
