Vision2 (12 page)

For now,
Del
closed her eyes and focused on the shift that twanged its way through her nerves. It ran deeper than a lot of them suspected, and she could feel it heralding the beginning of something major. She drifted back to her daydreams, but she didn
’
t sleep. She hadn
’
t really slept in a long time.

Never whisper a secret out loud.

The rattling of keys broke into Roger
’
s sleep. He opened his eyes carefully, feeling the dull throb in his lower back that would follow him the rest of the day. He wasn
’
t surprised to find that he had slept in the chair. He had thought about everything over and over until falling into a light stupor that couldn
’
t even really be classified as sleep because, thank God, he hadn
’
t dreamed. He stood up, stretched, and immediately winced.

One of the guards opened the door, saw that Roger was awake, and nodded. Roger walked over to the kitchenette and started his morning coffee. The door shut as Roger stretched and waited for his tightened muscles to relax.

A minute or so later, he limped across the floor towards the bathroom and took a quick shower. When he got out, he ran his towel across the small steamy mirror so he could study his face while he brushed his teeth. He had never been one for beards, but they hadn
’
t provided a razor, and so he was forced to wear the stubble. “It
’
s really not that bad,” he commented out loud.

He changed and ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn
’
t bothered to comb it after he got out of the shower, and pieces stuck out at odd angles from where he had towel dried it, but what did he care? He was sure the Obawok didn
’
t mind, and in truth, it felt good not having to worry about how he looked.

Roger went back to the kitchenette and poured his cup of fresh coffee, grimacing at the funny aftertaste as the coffee mixed with the mint remains of the toothpaste.

As he was rinsing the remnants of cold coffee out of the old ceramic cup and coffee pot, he once again heard the lock kick over in the door. Roger looked up as the door opened and the clumsy trio entered. He had to stop himself from gasping out loud at the dark brown hue when Tigaffo came in.

Kristi Brooks

Last night, he had been worried about Tigaffo
’
s digression, but he didn
’
t have to worry now because Tigaffo was already there. The dark brown cloud had grown so dense that it was now difficult for Roger to make out Tigaffo
’
s features. A balance had shifted, and it mainly worried him because it was a sign that things had suddenly gotten a lot worse.

The great hall was unusually crowded, and Roger immediately saw that the Obawok milling around looked as tired as he felt, indicating that last night had been a restless one for a lot of people. As his little envoy approached, almost all of them quit talking and turned to look at him. There were at least thirty of them huddled together in groups, and those groups were sharply divided by the color of their auras. Roger found himself wondering if this was what
Mississippi
looked like in the fifties.

The Obawok with the greasy brown stains leaching into their skin were clustered around the far right side of the room near the grandly carved door that led to the council chambers where they
’
d tried him. The Obawok with bright, clean beautiful glows emanating from their skin were huddled together near a group of plain benches on the opposite side of the room.

The extremity of the difference between the two groups was something new. While the dark hues had claimed their victims like a cancer, the others shined with a brilliance Roger associated with stained glass windows in cathedrals.

As they passed by, Roger looked back at the receding groups of astonished Obawok, catching a reproachful look from Tigaffo in the process. When he
’
d been dragged in front of the President, there hadn
’
t been an aura around him, just the strange bile odor of violence and death on his breath. However, there had been danger in the President
’
s eyes. Roger wouldn
’
t be surprised if he had been a ruler of a thousand different dimensions of hell before coming to rule lord supreme over this desolate group of people.

“How old is the President?” The question slipped out, and its unexpected presence broke through the normal silence, startling the others.

“What do you mean?” Tigaffo answered with another question, his face furrowed in concentration as he stared straight ahead.

“What I mean is, if he were on earth, how old would he be in human years? For that matter, how old are you? How old is Firturro? I
’
m just interested in the average life span for an Obawok.” Roger spoke in quick spurts, trying to hide his mistake.

“I
’
m not sure what the exact measurement of human to Obawok years would be, but I believe I am around 20 years old, and Firturro is close to 70. Is that good enough?”

“Yeah, thanks.” And no, it
’
s not good enough, Roger thought.

They continued in silence until they came to the rock door.

Firturro smiled when Roger entered, the corners of his oddly shaped green mouth tilted up
,
b
ut it was forged and locked tightly on Firturro
’
s face.

Roger tried to return the smile, knowing it probably looked just as fake.

They shuffled into the classroom and waited as Firturro walked up to the front of the room.

“Following tradition, I will lead the last training session.” Firturro glanced around the room before continuing. “First, we will cover the checkpoint requirements. They have not been mentioned before now because it was the ancient
’
s belief that if the participants knew about them, they might become more stressed than was necessary. So we are required to wait until the last day of your training to explain them.

“You already know there are three trials, but you also have to check in between each one. You get thirty hours between each check in, and you
’
re not allowed to have any instrument that will help tell time.

“You have to travel on foot to each test and complete them before you can officially check in. The Signas, or test givers, are the indisputable keepers of the time. What they say is all that matters in the eyes of the council. They are fair and accurate; they won
’
t lie.”

No
, Roger thought,
they wouldn
’
t mess up something as all consuming as this duty. Not after they
’
ve spent their whole lives chasing after it
.

Firturro
’
s voice deepened.

“The Signas will be monitoring your progress. If they sense you are doing something illegal, they will terminate the test immediately.”

“What happens if the test is terminated?” Roger asked, worried now about how far they might go to keep him from finishing the trial.

“You are taken directly to an isolation chamber where your soul is preserved and you body is killed. It was the belief of the ancients that roaming souls, either human or Obawok, would be a danger to the society, so they are taken from the body just before death. Human souls are returned to earth and released; Obawok souls are recycled.”

“Recycled?”

“Yes, we are continuously reborn from the same pool.”

The room began to double. He could still see Firturro standing at the front of the room, but behind him where there was usually a normal wall there was now the wall to a different room, a darker room. In this room there were shelves and shelves of jars with different colors of glowing liquid, and each jar was intricately marked.

The President stood in between the two shelves.

The room he was physically in was on pause. Nothing was moving, and Roger couldn
’
t hear a single sound. He turned and looked at Tigaffo and noticed that his mouth was partially open and his eyes half closed.

Roger looked back at the scene unfolding behind Firturro. The President uncapped one of the jars of liquid sitting on the shelf and took a couple of sips from it.

Roger looked back down at his table, and when he looked back up, the scene was gone and the room had started up again as if time were nothing more than a VCR tape.

Firturro continued explaining the test without hesitation.

“At the first checkpoint, you will meet with Vetene, who will administer the logic trial. From here, you will have thirty minutes. You will have only one chance at figuring out the puzzle, no matter how long it takes you. If you give Vetene an answer after only ten minutes, then that is the end of the session, so you are advised to take as long as you need to answer the problem.

“The second trail is a little more complicated to explain. At the second checkpoint you will meet Adenitril, and he will induce you into a hypnotic state. You will remain in this limbo for an hour while you experience the various aspects of human nature. After Adenitril revives you, he will ask you several questions to establish your capacity to finish the trial. If you can
’
t answer his questions coherently, you will be taken away and the test will be over.”

Roger put his fingers against his temples and rubbed his forehead as hard as he could to clear the angry throb that only continued to build as Firturro spoke.

“The final phase of the test deals with the subject
’
s ability to tell reality from delusion. The administrator of the third phase, Idrian, will meet you at the checkpoint. This trial cannot be discussed beforehand, and part of its completion is that you face it with no prior preparation.”

Dark houses often contain darker secrets

Darelle paced the floor in the dingy room, the half beaten whore curled and weeping against the far wall.

Once, female Obawok had been equal with men. They were cunning creatures, but they had become sympathetic to the human
’
s plight. They wanted to end the tests, and he couldn
’
t have that. So, he had begun to strip them of rights after the last of the other ancients had died. He had managed to slowly edit the texts until women Obawok were seen as being beneath the males. Eventually, they were not longer trusted or allowed to hold positions of power, and then they were finally relegated to this lower existence.

No woman was any better than this crumpled specimen as far as Obawok were concerned, and that met his needs just fine. Each time a solid blow landed into her flesh he felt a surge of adrenalin that rivaled his potion.

He turned and looked back at her, smiling at the damage that he
’
s been able to inflict. Although she looked like a very young woman, she was at least twice, or even three times, Firturro
’
s age. Darelle enjoyed beating her so much he had done something he
’
d never done for the others: he kept her alive.

He headed toward her, his eyes shinning and his mouth drooling.

Frenzied fists flew through the air, and he could feel the adrenalin rushing through his body, reinvigorating him as each blow struck her head and chest, causing immediate purple flowers to blossom on her bare skin. What small amount of clothing she
’
d been wearing when he began his attack had quickly been ripped off, and in their place was a grotesque coat of splattered blood and violet bruises.

The blood thrummed through his body until the world around him was washed out in a crimson tide of hatred, and he moved with that anger as it crested and ran ashore. When he could no longer lift

Kristi Brooks

his arms and his head was leaning against the wall, he stumbled back, his hand trailing along the wall until he fell onto the bed.

He lay on the bed and stared into the shadow swathed ceiling as he reached for his cloak. When he looked down at his hand, he gasped and pulled it back. The skin on his knuckles had turned a dark brown and was curling up at the edges as it decayed right off his body.

With deliberate slowness he moved his hand from his face, watching it inch across the bed toward the discarded cloak. He fumbled through the fabric until he was able to grasp and cautiously pull out two vials, one purple and one yellow, the soft tinkle of the connecting glass echoing across the room. He placed the yellow vial on the bed before uncorking the purple one and putting it to his lips.

As the last drop of liquid slid down his throat he let the vial roll from his fingers and clink across the floor.

First, the decaying skin completely rotted and pulled away. Underneath, new skin began to lattice itself together and form a thin, baby fine layer. Then, two more protective layers wove themselves together as if small fairies had begun to live and work within his body. Eventually, the toughened green layer bubbled up like a liquid before hardening in place. Darelle lowered his hands and lay against the bed, taking deep breaths and once again watching the flickering shadows as he dropped into sleep.

He awoke sometime later and found that the potion had worked; rejuvenating everything it had touched. Darelle raised himself off the bed went to the still unconscious Del. Gripping her upper body he pulled her to the bed and leaned her head back, grimacing every time he had to touch the bloody mask he
’
d just created. Once he was sure the fluid would flow down her throat unrestricted he moved back.

Her body was covered in abrasive marks, cuts, and bruises. While he was sure her internal organs had also suffered greatly, it didn
’
t bother him. He was about to repair her. One vial might not fix her numerous problems, but she could stand a little pain.

Darelle uncapped the vial and poured the shimmering liquid into her mouth, massaging her throat while he did so. Smiling at his god-like powers, he thought about his only mate. He
’
d lost her a long time ago, and no one would take her place.

She
’
d made him weaker than he could afford to be, made him more aware of the suffering of others, and when she
’
d decided that she didn
’
t share in his desire for immortality, she
’
d become a liability. He could still hear her hateful words: “You think you
’
re a god, but you
’
re not. You
’
re nothing more than a
brustka
who
’
s too afraid to die.”

Her death had been his only choice, but he
’
d relished her glimmering yellow soul in remembrance of what they
’
d shared.

As her body reconstituted itself he watched in amazement. It looked like the small amount had been enough to sufficiently heal her wounds. While he repositioned her on the bed, he admired her naked body and how he had granted it to her, allaying the ravishes of time for someone who didn
’
t even care.

Tearing off his clothes, he climbed onto her lifeless body and whispered in her ear. “I
’
m about to kill our son, and it
’
s time you were pregnant again.”

Her entire body tensed as she clenched herself together and tried to remain impassive. Those cruel words had broken into her daydream reality. The muscles in her face twitched, and she gave an involuntary wince before sinking back to her passive state. His voice had echoed its message through her haven. He smiled as he mounted her, and the room was filled with his wild grunting as she once again began to bleed.

Trulle took two jerky steps across the room before turning at the chair and marching his way back to the opposite wall. His father hadn
’
t been home in hours, and the loneliness of the situation was getting to him.

Obawok were supposed to be above the emotional neediness of humanity and rely on rational and controlled thought instead of feelings. But none of that was a comfort to him now.

He stopped pacing and looked to his father
’
s closed door. It led directly to his sleeping quarters, which were an exact replica of Trulle
’
s. But there was another room beyond that one, a darker room that Trulle had seen when he was very young.

He
’
d been looking for his father in the bedroom when he
’
d heard soft clinking noises coming from the corner. There was nothing there except a bright orange wall tapestry. He
’
d headed toward the noise, his curiosity overbalancing his fear of his father. The wall hanging was thick velvet, his father
’
s favorite, and when he pushed on it, his hand had sank in where the wall should be. He pulled his hand back and the hanging rippled back like orange water.

For a few tense moments he
’
d stood in the darkened room, waiting for his father
’
s abrasive voice to sound out, to tell him to get away, but nothing had come. His breath pounded through his body as he reached out and pulled back the corner and peered into his father
’
s secret life.

The confusion had immediately sat in when he
’
d not seen his father immersed in ancient texts or surrounded by prayer idols but instead standing over a table holding a jar that made the air dance with a fluorescent purple light. More jars like it and others that were filled with a yellow substance littered the table.

As he
’
d watched, the liquid had begun to pulse and shine as the diamond-flecked liquid came alive and dance in his father
’
s hands. He
’
d gasped, the loud explosion of air cracking like a whip across the silent room, startling his father.

As Darelle swiveled around, the jar slipped from his hands. Without pausing he threw his body forward in one swift movement, his hands held in front of him. But the bottle had bounced off the tip of his fingers and exploded in a rainstorm of glass and glowing purple droplets. Darelle scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, his eyes franticly going back and forth as he followed the newly formed puddles. Trulle
’
s legs had mysteriously grown into a new form of plant life that rooted him to the ground.

His father looked up at him and sneered before leaning down and lapping up the fallen liquid with his tongue. Shards of glass stuck to his skin as he drank, causing cuts to form across his chin and lips. The blood welled up into droplets that combined with the dirt and muck from the ground and formed a hideous death mask.

As he watched his father transform into a beast, Darelle raised his head again and stared at him with haunted eyes that belonged to a lunatic, not the self-possessed creature that was his father.

At that moment the icy grip of fear that had held him steady released its grasp and he fled to the dark sanctuary under his bed. He curled into a ball so tight the circulation to his limps was instantly cut off, but not even the painful tingling that traveled down his spine and radiated to his joints could lessen his grip. His knees were drawn against his mouth, hiding the fluttering movement of his lips as they rose and fell, uttering a thousand prayers at once. Exhausted and desperate to escape the violet eyes that had followed him under the bed, he retreated into the empty arms of sleep.

Several hours later he
’
d woken up on top of the bed. He stared at the flickering lamp wick until he felt brave enough to venture into the rest of the apartment. Before walking into the common room he
’
d cautiously peeked around the corner. The rigidly straight back of his father stood near the far wall. He was facing the bookshelf, running his fingers over different titles. Trulle started to return to his room, but as he
’
d turned he
’
d heard his father
’
s stern voice echo down the hallway.

“I was wondering where you were. You
’
re late starting on your Spanish lesson.”

Trulle turned back and trudged up to his father, his head bowed, palms damp, heart strumming loudly in his ribcage.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get your books.”

Trulle
’
s lips moved and his mouth opened and closed with a solid clack, but no other noise came forth. The grizzly mask he
’
d seen before was gone, and there weren
’
t any cuts on Darelle
’
s skin. In fact, he looked even younger and healthier than he had before. The only similarity between the figure he remembered crawling across the floor and the man standing in front of him was the haunting violence that lingered in his eyes.

Trulle retrieved his books and returned to his father without saying anything. In fact, he
’
d never uttered a single word about the experience, and it had eventually faded into the background of his memories.

Now, staring at Darelle
’
s room, Trulle once again thought of that day, of his father
’
s unusual actions and the dark room that faintly smelled of must and sulfur. What had he been holding that day? What was the beautiful liquid that shimmered as if filled with a thousand diamond chips?

When he
’
d woke that morning he
’
d done so with the experience fresh on his mind, and now he found himself mysteriously drawn to that room. In one swift movement, Trulle closed the book on his lap, stood up, and crossed the room. The door groaned as it swung inward, causing Trulle to jump back a few inches before taking a deep breath and plunging himself into the darkness with only a slang of light from the living room to guide him.

As he shuffled through the darkness toward the far side of the room his outstretched hands brushed against the faded orange tapestry. It wasn
’
t as thick or as plush as he remembered it but threadbare, the edges worn down to near nothing. He ran his fingers down the side of the cloth and began to peel it away from the wall. A swoosh of stale air reached up to greet him, and he froze solid as he heard the soft click of the front door.

He turned and ran by the bed, the air stirred in his wake and a small piece of paper rose and floated from the table to the floor. Lunging himself through the door, he pulled it closed behind him and threw himself across the room to the bookshelf. He gulped down a few ragged breaths and heard the front door latch.

There was a shuffling of footsteps in the hallway and he knew that Darelle was standing behind him, but his thoughts were lost in the swirling panic that now consumed him. He pulled a book on Obawok history from the shelf and turned to his father.