The Vaticinator

by Namita Singh

don’t want to further test on this. Neither in regard to your absence, nor in regard to physical contact.”

  Neal looks surprised for a moment, making me inquisitively eye him.

  “What?” I ask.

  Neal shakes his head slowly, “Nothing.” He mutters.

  I give him the same look that he gives me when he is demanding an explanation out of me. Neal rolls his eyes.

  “Just….feeling a little surprised at your determination.” He says dryly, “First of all, I don’t think that accidently touching or shaking my hand once in a while will get you accustomed. Secondly…well, it just seems a little fishy. You have found something of extreme mental pleasure and you’ve determined not to experience it? Honestly, Lichinsky, you’re not really that tenacious.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I glare at him, “I just don’t want to take chances and end up making wrong judgments. And are you really encouraging me to hang out with you, hand in hand?”

  Neal, just like me, blushes furiously at that. But he tames it, scowling at me instead. “What the fuck? That’s not what I meant and you know it. And what the hell do you mean that you’ll make wrong judgments?”

  Oops.

  “What?” I feign innocence.

  Neal is not fooled. His scowl deepens, “What else does physical contact entail for you?” he asks, his tone harsh.

  I huff, “It clouds my sane judgment.” I snap, feeling irritated, “Happy?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It makes me biasedly think only good things.” I reply, defeated.

  Neal stutters for a moment, not expecting such a response. “What, it suddenly makes you optimistic?”

  I believe myself to be optimistic as it is, not overtly so, but within the limits of reality. Therefore, it is no wonder that his question makes me frown at him. “Well,” I say, “Let’s just say it can make me converse normally with Viktor.”

  Neal wears a stoic expression at that. He pauses for a long moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers for a moment. He looks back up with a surprisingly calm face and starts, “So, you’re saying, that if I touch you right now, you’ll stop being an annoying shit?”

  I glare at him, “If you’re referring to my retorts-”

  I feel his touch, before I see his hand moving. It surprises me for a quick moment at how adroitly, almost effortlessly, Neal has grasped my uninjured arm. It surprises me more that my reflexes fail to act in retrieving my hand away in time. Either the medication is definitely affecting me in some way or another, though my coherent thoughts and striking ability to verbally fight even in such a state suggest the opposite. Or it can just be my unconscious desire to experience Neal’s touch, to succumb to the numbing pleasure just once.

  In any case, my eyes dart downwards towards my arm lying beside me. Neal’s hand is now grasping my wrist. His hold is loose, not firm, not putting any force into holding, as if he is uncertain about the movement. It is enough loose that if I wish to snap my hand away, then I will be able to do so easily. Well, even if Neal holds me with strength, then also I am sure that my therian strength will be more crediting. But the sudden changes in my senses convince me to just stay put.

  My arm slacks further, as if encouraging Neal to tighten his hold. I can almost hear my heart thundering to a rapid speed as a blissful feeling spreads though me, even making my toes tingle with apprehension. For a moment, the eternally exultant feeling swimming in the pit of my stomach is all I can focus on. In that fleeting moment, I ponder over the thought of getting used to this sensation. Even if I get deprived of this feeling later then also the transitory phase will be worth the eventual hassle. It’s not every day I get up and feel happy, for no reason whatsoever. Neal’s hold is providing exactly that to me right now; the stimulus that is instigating my happiness, without any reason. I am mostly feeling the dispositions of his aura, but who cares as of now. I’m almost convinced that holding his hand all the time is not such a bad idea. So what if people will point in our directions? They’re not the ones blessed with a partner.

  “Feeling okay?” Neal asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. He is smirking, almost silently laughing at my sudden quiet state.

  And I realize that most of my thoughts are actually Neal’s hand on my wrist talking in my mind.

  But again, who cares?

  Right at this moment, I do not.

  I grunt in reluctant approval to Neal. He is not fooled, his smirk growing on his face, threatening to grace me with his evened teeth. His amused reaction makes me wonder what it is exactly that is showing on my face. But I don’t get to ponder it for long, as Neal speaks up again.

  “I wanted to ask something.” He starts. He adjusts his hold on my wrist casually, so our hands are comfortably seated beside me.

  “What?” I manage to respond through the daze.

  “How long did your maturation last?”

  A shadow of a frown greets my forehead, making me crinkle my nose slightly. My rapid running heart distracts me from my thoughts, but I manage to remember that I have never actually revealed the details about the maturation of a therian. Sure, he knows that only a mature therian can sense his or her partner, but that is about it. I briefly wonder if Neal didn’t encounter this subject in the gazillion books that he has read since in this Realm.

  “Maturation of a therian usually takes up to ten hours or so.” I say.

  Neal shakes his head, “I know how you guys mature. I am not asking in generality. I am asking about you. How long did yours last?”

  “Well,” I say, remembering the day of my maturation that seems to have happened an eon ago, but it has only been over a month and a half in reality. I remember being apathetic when it began, my blank thoughts slowly giving rise to an incomprehensible dread of somehow disappointing my father. I remember my family being joyous on receiving the news, their happiness doubled by the news of Aakir’s partner as well. I remember my family’s anxious stance when I didn’t mature the next day, their mood taking a down road when even Aakir expressed sourness over his rapport with his partner. But most of all, the main thing I remember is that both the days, or rather nights, my father was right there beside me. Out of duty, or love, or for simple wordless comfort, father had sat through the night of my illness, sitting unwavering even through the crack of dawn. And I remember feeling exceptionally happy, almost giddy, at his unspoken affection. “It had taken me almost two days.” I reply to Neal, feeling unexplainably overwhelmed.

  Neal smiles, looking relieved. His hold tightens on my wrist, growing firmer; confident. Distractedly, I notice that his hand is cold, not uncomfortably so, just enough to provide me comfort, like the cold environment of Liepāja does. It is familiar, within my comfort zone.

  “I had had an argument with the Ninth Occultist.” Neal reveals, “Regarding you. She was convinced, just like everybody else, that a guy cannot be my partner.” He rolls his eyes at the end, “She said that my partner will have major adjustments to make during the maturation, and hence the process would be longer than that of an average therian’s.”

  “I thought….the Occultists don’t speak much.”

  Neal chuckles, as if amused that I am picking on such a thing. “Well, I agree. I had to persuade a lot. My tantrums helped. Her voice was unpleasant though. Very throaty and raspy. She was ugly anyway.” He shrugs. “The books that I read on them didn’t really do justice to their ugliness.”

  “Did you read any books on the vaticinator?” I ask, suddenly curious.

  “There are no books on the vaticinator.” He says, giving me an ‘are-you-kidding-me’ look. But he shouldn’t be staring at me. He is aware that I am not really a book worm, therefore shouldn’t expect me to be knowledgeable about what all topics of our world are published. “Anyway. I knew the Occultist was wrong. About the partner thing I mean.” Neal continues, reverting back to the previous topic, apparently not done with it. “It strengthened my opinion that she is no omnipotent being. If she were, s
he would have known better.”

  I realize that Neal is actually rambling. His eyes are roaming about our vicinity, his hold unconsciously growing tighter, his words flowing too fast, as if he wants to get it off his chest quickly. And through the ever growing haze around my mind, I understand Neal’s hidden message.

  There have been too many occasions on which Neal was forced to doubt the authenticity of my claim on him. Every time we have landed in an argument over the subject of partners, it has ended with me always pointing out that this is not a topic of debate. He is my partner, and that is that. To hell with what other people have to say about it. This time, I realize with surprise, that I have no antagonistic response over his ‘discussion’ with the Occultist regarding ourselves.

  It dawns on me that Neal wasn’t chuckling in amusement that it is the Occultist’s reluctance to engage in conversation that I am focusing on. He basked in amusement because apparently I had no negativity to contribute to his revelation. But I don’t feel ticked off at my unconventional responses and by Neal’s smugness that follows. In fact, I find myself feeling stupidly happy to know that in very, very subtle words Neal is conveying that he didn’t believe the Occultist’s opinion on our bond, not even for a second, despite her being regarded as an almighty amongst therians.

  “Everybody had grown quite anxious during my maturation.” I tell him.