A Toast to Starry Nights (33 page)

I considered myself more a student of
anthropology than history. I'd have to ask Jet-- she knows the most random
things when it comes to knowledge of that sort. Perhaps she could shed some
light. My mind tingled in a new, slightly zen-like way. This was a lot to
process and the person who annihilates bullshit like it ain't no thang would
have a grasp of whether I'm beyond messed up in the head or whether what I
pictured in my mind was a falsehood or truth... perhaps she could shed some
light on the subject.

This new pathway towards clarification
managed to lift my spirits a bit. The tangent brought on by what Jet's take on
it had me distracted enough so that I agreed to see Neilsinhaur in a week's
time, journal in hand.

As I wandered out to my Jeep, I dug deep
for my cell to give Le Book Wench a call.

Like a firecracker, Jet's voice echoed
through the ear piece after half a ring. “Ooh
, Kimosabe
! I was about to
call you. We have business to discuss.”

Really? Ok. “What business would that
be?”

“My Maid of Honor obligations. I'm not
like Wiley, thus my title cannot be in name only. I gotta do something or I'll
go old cat lady batshit mad. If you saw the stack of bridal magazines on my
coffee table, you'd think I was the one polishing my diamond solitaire and
getting hitched.”

I smiled at the picture Jet painted
representing her indoctrination toward domesticity. “Is Hell having a snowball
fight today?”

“No, not quite. But I do like looking at
fashion and imagining myself sporting a dazzling sequined nightmare in the
wonderful shade of puce. I love saying that word.
Puce
. Sounds much
better than 'goose shit'.”

“No puce, I promise. Just purple for
you. I'm even going so far as to say, if you want to streak your hair purple,
provided it's not overwhelming, go for it. I'm in Chico right now, can I head
to your place when I get back into town? I've got something I want to talk to
you about. Not wedding related.” Felt conflicted about the mindfuck, need
another opinion.

“Oh really, now? What's up?”

“I think I just experienced ocular
fornication.”

“You've been skull-fucked and are still
fit to drive? My, Kaylis... you never do cease to amaze. Dmitri getting extra kinky
these days, huh?”

“Not quite, although I'm open to taking
him out to dinner so he can pay me back in sexual favors. I'm a modern woman
and all.” I would be lost without sarcasm's constant presence in my life. “Side
note, I just got out of the past life mindfuck thingie.”

“Oooh,
that
kind of penetration.
How was it?” Interest obvious in her voice.

“Bizarre. Terrifying. I think I'm
mental, because it was a lot like Hostel but without the tourists.”

“I thought you didn't see Hostel.
Refused to see it, if I remember correctly.”

“IMDB has its uses.” After I got into my
car and buckled up, I turned on the bluetooth speaker on my visor so I could
talk with my hands freed.

“So it was that bad? Really?”

Turned the car on and made sure to turn
the stereo off before Nine Inch Nails blared through the phone. “Yeah. You were
there, too.”

“Really? Oh, do tell.”

“Ireland during the English invasion. We
were family. You were my cousin, a widow. Dmitri was there. And my grandfather.
Nita. Willow. You were all there and Oh My God, I sound like Dorothy from
Wizard of Oz when she woke up and didn't realize flying debris gave her head
trauma.”

Jet's voice glazed with a tinge of
compassion. “Just a little, but I'm still intrigued. No talking scarecrows
anyhow. So, Tudor Reformation... which monarch?”

“Henry the Eighth.”

“Ooh, getting better. So were we English
or Irish?”

“Irish. And to quote you, we got 'bent
over a log without the benefit of lube.' Just so much happened in a short
period of time. So much nasty crap.” Bleach for the mind, table one.

“So we were on the receiving end of the
English converting Celtic heathens from the Catholic church to the Anglican
church all Spanish Inquisition style?”

“Kinda sorta but not really. Our uncle
was a bishop. We were his wards. He arranged my marriage to Padraic-- err,
Dmitri, who was another one of his wards. We were going to flee before the
English came. We left too late and got trapped. Examples were made of people.
Family died and stuff.”
And stuff.
Pfft. How else can we trivialize rape
while we're at it?

“Padraic is Gaelic for Patrick. What was
my name? Can you even pronounce it?”

“You were Mara. My name was Ona, and I
had two little sisters, Moire and Bride.”

“Oh. No terrible tongue twisting there.”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Only someone who reads or writes a lot
would call someone on that. Thank you for noticing my mere homage to our
monstrous language. English, the biggest bastard of all the tongues.”

“You're so very welcome. Mara had a
collection of books, by the way.” It was the books and saucy attitude that
betrayed Jet's personality in my mindfuck. If it were real, if those people did
exist and die under those circumstances, then absolutely, I believed Jet to be
Mara's newest incarnation.

But do I believe in reincarnation? I don't
know. I thought I did know, but as these visits to Neilsinhaur show me, what I
think to be tends not to be. I felt confused, because the thought of what Ona
experienced was completely repugnant to me. In effect, did I want to be a rape
victim again? Unlike her, I survived. Starved to death in a stinking room with
nothing but the body of her beloved... did I want to own that?

“Oh, she could read? I'm liking this
more.”

“What do you know of wolfbane?”

“What, did you never read
Harry
Potter
?”

Oh, the scorn dripping from her voice
almost made me feel bad for not indulging in British whimsy.

“Didn't read past book three. My bad.
And no, I didn't see the movies. Again, my bad.” But I'm more of a Tom Cruise
in sequins or Val Kilmer chillin' with transmogrifying-talking-animals kind of
person. And yes, Warwick Davies as Willow Ufgood is sexy. I mean, just look at
those hands...

Err.

Back to reality.

“It's a poisonous herb with a pretty
purple flower. Touching it with bare skin is toxic. The root is very
poisonous.”

“So you learned about it by
Harry
Potter
?”

“Well, no. But most everybody else did.
I have an herbal first published in the 1600's that talks about wolfbane also
known as monkshood. And an encyclopedia on poisonous plants. And an encyclopedia
set.” If she went on, I bet she would have mentioned Wikipedia, too.

“Good to know.” I should have known.

Jet acted like a cat batting around the
ball of curiosity. “Why do you ask about things you don't know about?”

“To learn, silly.” I navigated through
traffic to reach the highway junction.

“No shit, Sherlock. But why did you ask
about wolfbane? What relevance does it hold? That's a pretty random thing to
mention.”

“Mara wanted to use it to poison the
garrison holding us hostage.'

“Listen to yourself. '
Us
.' You
are buying into this hook, line and sinker, aren't you?”

“I don't know any more. It felt real.
Very real. Every detail, thought and sensation. I don't know what to think any
more. Did that really happen or am I just mental?”

“I vote mental, but I've suspected it
for years. So how much longer until you show up?”

“About thirty minutes, give or take red
lights in Hamilton City.”

“Okay, we'll continue this conversation
when you get here. I've got some things to do in the meanwhile. Just come
inside when you arrive.”

“Aye aye, Cap'n.”

Click. The severing of contact seemed
like a rock's plunge into a cold stream representing the dark recesses of the
human mind and the depravity that comes with being an animal at heart.

And back to the world of pondering my
version of reality.
Tune in next week as Kaylis reveals she's ready for
Bedlam because her mother's insanity genes go too deep! All this and more on As
The Dye Gets Tied... Sponsored by Mecha-Duty Mindfuck Condoms. When a ten foot
pole won't do.. Mindfuck Condoms to the rescue!

I needed to switch mental gears. Shut up
the 50's television announcer that lurked in my mind with a ball gag and get
away from the Irish Incident to meander toward Jet's insistence that I start
planning my wedding. I must be odd, in that planning the shindig was kinda the
last thing on my mind. It was good enough for me that he wanted to marry me,
that makes me content. When the thought of wedding chimes enters the picture, I
get all deer in headlights. A remnant of Ona's legacy? Or am I just a
chickenshit due to my front seat view of the matrimonial noose Willow wore four
times now?

Excuses.

Dmitri wants to marry me. I do want to
marry him. And I don't-- well, not the wedding part. I'm down for the marriage
part like white on rice though. That I was all drag-ass about planning the
nuptial festivities started to irk me. I should be neck deep in fabric swatches
and cake samples. At the bare minimum, possess a wedding planning book by now.
Three weeks is sufficient for bathing in the glow of engagement, right?

As I drove toward Jet's cave of wonders,
I pondered what exactly I wanted for the Big Day. Very little white, lots of
jewel tones, friends, family, Dmitri and myself. Anything beyond having the
bride and groom along with family seemed extraneous, really. And that thought
began to bother me. I've been told time and time again, that my wedding/pretend
to be a princess day was to be one of the most important in my life. And right
now, I don't think I could care less about the wedding itself.

Before I knew it, I found myself in the
parking lot belonging to the complex Jet lived. Her apartment was a townhouse,
decorated as flamboyantly as she herself dressed.

When one entered the dwelling, the first
thing to catch the eye is a large silk-painting Jet labored upon for a week,
facing the doorway in an alcove. The painting, a starry sky with tiny gold
stars. A lake glistened with moonlight below, highlighted by backlit hills
bedecked in trees. The blending of blues and purple into black combined with
the silvery-blue of water always took my breath away. Jet has a great talent
with the sumi brush, undoubtedly due to her focus and perfectionism.

Below the framed painting, a sideboard
beset with cut flowers and books. From the door's alcove, the living room
opened up to a cozy space bedecked with wing-back chairs and a loveseat. The
chairs faced an electric fireplace. The mantle of said fireplace held a single
book,
The Complete Folios of William Shakespeare As Of Belonging to The
Globe Theatre
. On either side of the book, wrought iron sconces with hot
pink taper candles. Walls painted in a heavy cream color that set off the dark
wood of the furniture nicely.

Near the dining room, a massive bookcase
which included a
World Book
collection,
Encyclopedia Britannica
and eight-- I kid you not-- eight dictionaries. The rest of the books were
split into two categories. The first category: Research. Everything from
Stephan Hawking to Sir David Attenbourgh. That took up a sold two-thirds of the
shelving. The remainder was fiction, the vast majority being classic
literature.

Jet sat cross-legged upon her
arch-backed couch, smiling like a lunatic as she gestured towards the coffee
table which looked to be nearly capsizing from the volume of wedding crapola
piled haphazardly atop.

I had to stop, look down and take it all
in, before I could sit down for the meeting of minds. “Wow. When did you become
a wedding-guide hoarder?”

“When Dmitri told me he wanted to pop
the question to you. Figured what the hell... might as well embrace the
opportunity to live vicariously through you because I sure as fuck am never
getting married.” Jet paused at my expression. “Okay, here's an exercise.
Picture me married. Can you do it?” A pause. “Yeah, me neither.”

“You never know, Jet. Maybe there's a
guy as freaky as you who'd make your head spin and loins quiver.” It would take
a special guy to keep up with The Jetnia Phenomenon. That is a fact.

She laughed. “I doubt it. No matter who
I get involved with, it always ends up flushed down the toilet. Some people are
destined to live alone and I am a part of the elite. I'm content with that. But
since I'll never get to experience smashing cake into someone's face while in
formal wear, in a non-fight setting, I'm going to make the most of this. So sit
your ass down and let's get this clown show on the road.”

Oh holy shit, I think my Maid of Honor
could have potential Bridezilla tendencies. Is this a good or bad thing?

“So are you set on The Aquarium?”

“Not really.” I mean, yeah, cool idea,
but reality check: probably won't happen. I don't feel right charging something
like that to my future in-laws, even though they may think it's a drop in the
bucket, finance-wise. Aww shit. I don't know what I want other than a long
lasting marriage to Dmitri. Weddings seem inconsequential compared to that.