Four
Chapter
38: Painted Ships
“Day after
day, day after day,
We stuck,
nor breath nor motion;
As idle as
a painted ship
Upon a
painted ocean.”
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “The Rime of the Ancient
Mariner”
He was angry; frustrated, perhaps, to be more
accurate; nothing was going as he had planned.
He watched the huddle of the three young men, the two
older ones trying so hard to save the younger one cradled between them, his
life bleeding and slipping, literally, through his fingers, and his energy
being robbed of him; ironically, pledged to one whom he had thought a brother,
by an exchange of the blood whose loss would end him.
Blood-binding.
Damn it to the deepest Hell. He had not anticipated
that they would perform a blood-binding. He had not anticipated this at all.
His plan was failing; he had told Benjamin how to end this, and it was all for
nothing now!
Benjamin himself was dying—
‘“…if my
companions bring even one of you
down, all will be lost—”’
Everything would be lost to him. His hope kindled and
dashed to vicious, piercing shards in the space of too-short minutes that he
somehow felt, but which did not pass.
He could not stop Mark, and he would not be so foolish
as to attempt to do so either; his two companions who took after Mark and
Paul’s likenesses had done that, and were presently still dead to the world.
Mark had to have somehow halted their healing.
Helplessness was a completely alien notion and feeling
to him. In this world, he had never had anything to fight for or protect, and
now, the idea that he possibly had a future to defend was both frightening and
sustaining at the same time.
Frightening, for he might yet lose it, and that would
break him beyond all comprehension; sustaining, for nothing would ever mean as
much to him as the slim possibility of a future that he presently had.
A future…
The word was foreign to him; he hardly understood what
it meant to have a future and he had never imagined one, let alone ever thought
that he would have one, but now someone had peeled back the layers that had
obscured the path to that future that might be his; someone had showed it to
him, and now he beheld it, all that he could have wished for, all that he might
have dreamed—
And now it would be taken from him.
He could not stop Mark, and he could not save
Benjamin; no one could— the boy needed his own energy and it was being drained
from him too fast for him to replenish it.
His own energy…
Something dawned in his despair-clouded mind then, and
he looked down at his hands, slightly disbelieving.
And as he pondered the possibility, Christian's double
appeared from somewhere behind him and charged forward, barrelling straight
into Mark, knocking the latter to the ground, interrupting Mark’s destructive
rampage, disrupting the power channelling and further fuelling the young man’s
rage.
They stood then; Mark—his body so tense that he was
almost vibrating in place, and Christian’s double—seething with anger and a
pent-up desire for vengeance; Mark’s eyes were aglow with pulsating energy, and
the blond double’s eyes were alight with his own madness and wrath.
“You’re asking for it,” Mark growled.
“I will make you suffer for what you caused us,”
“Christian” snarled in answer.
“You can’t defeat me.”
“You think not, but the power which you now hold is
taken from Darkness, and I am
Darkness. You cannot turn that which I am part of against me.”
Mark snarled and leapt forward, beginning the
grappling immediately.
And at this, Benjamin’s “twin” finally remembered.
‘“…that
which I am part of…”’
He covered the space between himself and the other
three young men in two long strides and knelt, firmly pushing Paul out of his
way.
“What are you doing?!” Christian yelled, pulling
Benjamin closer to him and backing away as Paul scrambled up again and shoved
the “twin” back, glaring at him.
“I can help him,” the “twin” said, looking both the
older boys in the eye.
“How? You said that healing wouldn’t work;” Christian
said, “that he needs his own energy.”
“I did. And I have it.”
“What?”
He moved forward swiftly, grasping Benjamin’s
shoulder.
“You forget; I am
him.”
“Why are you helping us?” Paul shouted, seizing the
“twin’s” arm in a bruising grip, pulling it off Benjamin’s shoulder.
“Does it matter why? All that should matter to you is
that I will not see you fail!” the “twin” shouted back, shaking Paul off, and
then proceeded to do what he had offered; heal Benjamin with his own energy.
Benjamin’s cut palm sealed quickly; colour seemed to
bleed back into his cheeks; Christian felt the teenager’s body gain warmth once
more, and then his eyes opened, blinked, and he sat up as he pushed away from
Christian slowly, slightly groggy.
Then his head snapped up, his eyes focussed quickly on
his “twin”, and they stared at each other for a few moments before Paul
realised what was happening; there was some telepathic communication passing
between the two of them that he couldn’t hear.
Not sensing any hostility, he turned away from the
unusual sight of the two of them and towards Mark and “Christian”.
Mark, bleeding freely from a gash down one side of his
face, spun and delivered a kick to the back of the “twin’s” knees, buckling his
legs; “Christian” collapsed, and Mark bent over him, digging his fingernails
into “Christian’s” neck. The blond double screamed before raising a leg to kick
Mark in the gut with enough force to send him flying back at least two metres.
“Mark—” Paul blurted out immediately, getting to his
feet, but freezing where he stood, for he had no idea of what to do.
“Christian” bled from small, deep, crescent-shaped
gouges in his neck, the crimson oozing from them matching the dark red under
Mark’s fingernails and which coated the fingertips of his right hand.
The double stalked over, obviously intent on causing
more damage, but Mark had other ideas; as the double swung out an arm to punch,
Mark stood, caught the arm and kicked upwards, breaking it.
“Christian” stumbled backwards; the useless appendage
now hung perpendicular to the ground and the rest of the arm, broken at the
elbow. Mild shock crossed the double’s face for a brief second before he
snarled, further enraged, and rushed at Mark again.
Mark dodged, aimed a punch at the blond’s neck, and
scored.
“Not healing too well, are we?” Mark smirked.
The double, hunched over and clutching at his throat,
glared at him.
Still smirking, Mark swaggered over, leaned in close
and whispered,
“How’s it feel being normal?”
“Christian” screamed his frustration before swinging
another punch with his good arm, but Mark dodged easily and stepped back,
raised his hand, and the double found himself suspended in mid-air.
Paul’s eyes widened.
“Benji, he still has your powers—”
“He can draw on all of your powers,” Benjamin’s “twin”
cut in, standing up. “He can wield them, but he cannot control them. They are not the powers that he was born with; they
are not rightfully his, and he does not have even the slightest form of the
innate control needed to rein them in.”
“He’ll destroy himself,” Paul summed up, and headed
straight for Mark, ignoring Christian’s panicked screams for him to come back.
Mark was in the process of burying “Christian” in the
dust that had formerly been the ground, looking on with an expression of abject
glee as the double lay paralysed in a deep hole and dust poured down on him.
Paul ran frantically, but was stopped when a smooth, opaque barrier exploded
out of the dust before him. He shut his eyes against the swirling dust
particles, skidded to a halt, bracing his arms against the wall, and realised—
‘My power.’
He willed the wall to disappear, and it did.
And he found more walls.
To be more exact, walls that formed small rooms; giant
cubes with smooth, grey opaque walls stood before him, more than forty of them
at least, and he could see neither Mark nor Christian’s double anywhere. This
was still his power; he could will it all to disappear—
‘Clever,
aren’t you?’ Mark’s voice taunted inside his head. ‘How’d you figure it out?’
—but he couldn’t; if he undid this, he didn’t know
what else Mark might do, what other powers he might use, and there was no
knowing how much more was needed to push him off the edge.
‘Mark,
please, you have to stop.’
‘No.’
‘What do
you want me to say before you stop this?’
‘Nothing.
I don’t want you to say anything, and I won’t listen to anything that you have
to say, anyway.’
Paul wandered the maze of giant cubes, his hands
brushing the walls—
‘I don’t
understand what you’re doing; you know what we have to do to end this!’
‘That
doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Then what
does? Tell me, because right now, I don’t understand you! Your destroying this
world won’t accomplish anything, and everything that we’ve done will be for
nothing!’
—he walked quickly, his fingertips and his mind reaching out to feel the
numerous walls and to sense what lay behind them—
‘Why do
you want to save the world, Paul?’
His fingertips froze on a wall, momentarily stunned by
the question.
‘It’s what
we came here to do.’
‘That’s
the best answer that you have?’
‘It’s
true. Everything that we care about is back in our world. Everything worthy of
saving is all back there.’
‘Well,
everything that I care about right
now is right here. And everything worthy, to me, of being saved, can’t be
saved. I don’t see any point in saving that world.’
‘So why are
you destroying this world?’
‘Because
right now, destroying this world means obliterating our world as well. The
means to an end. Haven’t you ever hated something so much that you wanted to
wipe it out of existence?
‘I have.
I’ve hated our world for a very long time, Paul, and now that I can get rid of
it, I’m going to do just that.’
‘You don’t
mean that.’
Here he was, pleading again.
‘Don’t
assume that you know what I mean,’ Mark snapped. ‘I hate our world, and I mean
it. I’ve hated it and everyone in it for a long time—except maybe you and my
family.
‘Do you
know what people’s problem is, Paul? They don’t talk to each other. They don’t
want to talk to each other because they’re too afraid or too embarrassed or too
repressed or I don’t know what else. They don’t want to talk, and when they
don’t say anything, they just seethe and leave the thoughts to go on whirling
around in their heads. They think their stupid thoughts all the time, worrying
too much to let it go, but they just refuse to say the words to whatever
bastard deserves them; they keep all these things to themselves, and when they
do that, I have to listen.
‘I have to listen to things that they
don’t even want to say to the person that they’re meant for!!
‘I have to
listen to these people; some whom I
don’t even know, some whom I’ll probably never know or meet, but they make me listen to them just because
they don’t want to open their mouths and say
it! All these stupid assholes in my head with their inane thoughts—all of them
talking to me; talking and talking and they won’t shut up, and everyone talks to me but they won’t talk to each
other, won’t listen to each other— Why should I have to listen?!?
‘Why the
fuck do I have to listen if they
won’t even listen to each other?!?’
Paul winced from the sheer volume and anger of Mark’s
thoughts.
‘Do you
understand now? I don’t care if the world goes to hell, Paul; I want it to. And right now, the best
thing of all is that I get to send
everyone there; poetic justice, don’t you think? I get justice for having to
listen to every single insipid detail of their stupid lives for all these
years—’
‘Your
family,’ Paul pleaded. ‘Mark,
your parents and Colin; you’ll destroy them too!’
‘I know.
You think I haven’t thought about this? They and Chris and Benji and you are
just one tiny spark in the middle of all the darkness. It’s not enough. I’m
sorry that you’ll all have to pay for what everyone else did, but I have to end
it somewhere.’
Paul walked faster, his hands flitting from one wall
to another—
‘Mark,
please… this is the end. After this, there won’t be anything more for us. You
won’t have to Listen anymore.’
‘You don’t
know that.’
‘No, but
part of you does, doesn’t it? You know that the Afterlife wouldn’t inflict this
on you; you wouldn’t have to Listen.’
‘You know,
you’ve never lied to me before. Don’t start now. Besides my parents and Colin,
I never had faith in anything else before you.’
‘Then
believe me. Believe me now, when it matters.’
‘I would, but
you know as well as I do that you can’t promise me anything.’
‘Maybe I
can’t promise you anything outright, but I can still try; I can still try to make good on whatever I promise.’
‘And what
if what it is you’re promising is beyond your ability to provide?’
‘I can
still try! I can make it happen; I’ll try so hard, if it’s what you need—’
‘Colin
once said that I only listened to you.’
‘What?’
‘It’s what
he said. He noticed it first; he told me that you’re probably the only person
whom I’ll always listen to. He said that you’re probably the only person who
could always be counted on to talk some sense into me; who could calm a crazy
thing like me.’
‘Colin…
always was observant.’
‘And he
was right. I said just now that I wouldn’t listen… and yet here I am, listening
to you. How do you do it, Paul?’
‘I… I
don’t know—’
‘You do
realise that you can’t do anything for me in the Afterlife? You won’t be
there.’
Paul’s movements stilled, and he took a deep, sobering
breath.
‘Benji and
Chris will still be there for you, Mark… don’t change the subject, all right?
We’re here because we can stop the world from going to blazes; you were willing
to sacrifice everything for your parents and Colin before, and nothing’s
changed; they’re still back there, in our world. If nothing else, stop this for
them. They deserve the chance to
live that we can give them; the rest of the world doesn’t matter. It won’t
matter when we’re gone.’
‘I’m not a
martyr, Paul.’
‘I’m not
asking you to be one. All I’m asking is for you to let your family live.
‘Mark, you
said it yourself; you don’t even know some of these people whom you Hear—think
about it; before you end everything, think about what you’ll be allowing to
live if you don’t do this.
‘Your parents
and Colin… you owe it to them if you can let them go on living; if you can give
them that chance, you owe it to
them! And Benji and Chris and me—you owe it to us to at least finish what we’ve
started, to see it through to the end, to do what we came here to accomplish.
And this might well be the last time that you and I see each other face to
face, remember?
‘Don’t let
it end this way; not for them and not for us, all right?’
Silence.
‘Mark,
where are you?’
Silence.
The giant cubes were solid and still; the atmosphere
was quiet, and Paul could see Benjamin, Christian and Benjamin’s double beyond
the furthest of the giant cubes. They were watching him, their eyes
occasionally tearing away to glance around for any sign of Mark.
Above him, the sky continued to fragment and crumble
away into nothing.
“Heroes, right?”
Paul jumped at the sudden voice, and spun around to
find Mark behind him, blood trickling out of one nostril, half his face
bloodied, and his eyes still glowing; yellow melting into dark red around the
edges.
“Mark.”
“Heroes, right?” Mark repeated.
“What about them?”
“Don’t you remember what we talked about?”
“Heroes… yeah. I remember.”
“No one knows that we’re here. We won’t be heroes, Paul.
Heroes will be remembered, and we’re not one of them. From the moment that all
this began, it wasn’t just hopeless; it was thankless too. It still is.”
Paul considered his best friend before replying.
“It’s not hopeless; we’re all the hope there is, and
we’re right here. And even if it is
thankless, does it matter?”
Mark was silent. The giant cubes began to fade.
“No,” he finally said. “I guess not.”
“Nothing will matter once we’ve left the mortal planes
of the world, remember?”
Mark stared at him, still expressionless, and for a
minute, Paul thought that Mark might not remember what he himself had said.
Then a wry, faint smile seemed to tug at the reluctant corners of the
teenager’s lips.
“I remember. I promised to wait.”
It took Paul a short while to recall what Mark was
speaking of.
“There won’t be anything to wait for if you destroy
everything now. There won’t be anything left for anyone.”
“I know. I understand.”
Mark looked down and saw his bloodstained hands. Paul
reached across the gap between them and slowly took hold of one, wondering
faintly how much of the blood on those hands was Mark’s.
“Do you?” he asked in a whisper.
Silence.
He
remembered a small boy, short for his age, lean and long-limbed, all sharp glares
and bony angles.
An
eight-year-old that he’d noticed around, but did not know personally, and when
they’d met in the school hallway one day, walking towards each other from
opposite ends of it, the other boy had watched him, stared at him as they closed
the distance between them.
And when
they had passed each other, he had taken only two more steps when he’d heard,
“It’s you,” ring out in the quiet hallway.
He’d
turned, curious, and found that the boy was talking to him.
“Sorry?”
he’d asked.
“You. I
knew that there was another boy like me in this town, but I never knew who it
was. It’s you,” he’d said again.
And Paul
had switched his bag to his other shoulder and moved forward to kneel before
the other boy. He too was somewhat vertically challenged, and for a
fifteen-year-old, he wasn’t much taller than the other boy, but he’d still
wanted to be at eye level with him then.
“What do
you mean?” he’d asked.
“I know
what you are. I can hear,” the boy had told him.
Paul’s
forehead had creased in confusion.
“You can
hear what?”
“Everything,”
the boy had replied, and Paul had remembered how the boy was always quiet; how
his head constantly turned left and right, never still, as if searching for
something or as if something had caught his eye and he wasn’t sure what it was;
and how his eyes always wandered, staring with a fierce, accusing intensity,
and stopping on someone at times, as if he was seeing something there that no
one else could see.
As it had
turned out that day, Paul had learned that Mark wasn’t seeing. He was hearing.
And that
there was a world of difference between hearing and listening; Mark heard, but
did not want to listen.
***
He
remembered a Saturday in late summer, lying on the beach in the evening, the cool
breeze coming in off the bay, making the hair on their arms rise a little,
especially when both of them had still been wet from their swim and each had
had nothing but a damp pair of shorts on.
“Elana
says that I have potential,” he had told Paul.
“Good for
you, then,” Paul had replied non-commitally, halfway asleep.
There’d
been a pause before Mark replied, as usual; it had been difficult for him to
discern what was being said to him—to make out what he was hearing with his
ears through the hubbub of noise that he heard in his head.
“You’re
not listening to me,” Mark had finally said, a slight pout audible in his young
voice; not that he would ever admit that he was pouting, Paul had known.
“I am listening,” Paul had insisted. “Talk
away.”
A pause.
Mark had shifted slightly, his head tilting awkwardly to the left as he lay on
the sand. Then he’d sat up.
“Elana
says that I’m a fast learner. She says that if I keep up my enth…” He’d paused
and frowned. “My enthu…”
Paul had
opened one eye and touched Mark’s arm to get his attention; “Enthusiasm,” he’d
offered.
Mark
watched him, and then nodded.
“She says
that it I keep it up, I could become a protector in less than three years.
Isn’t that great?”
“It is,”
he’d said, speaking slowly as he sat up and faced Mark. “She’s right, you know;
you do have potential.” He’d paused and smiled to himself. “A lot of it.”
Mark had
frowned slightly, watching Paul’s lips as he enunciated the words. His head inclined
to the left, and rolled back to the right; an action that he’d performed
frequently, which when taken into consideration with his slow response to
anything around him, had resulted in his being diagnosed with ADD1.
His parents hadn’t been able to contest the diagnosis, because although they
knew that ADD wasn’t the problem, there was no reason that they could give the
doctors. His head listed to the left again before he’d finally understood what
Paul had said.
“You think
I could be really powerful too?”
“Yeah. I
do.” Pause. “And if you do live up to our expectations, what are you going to
do with all that power?”
His
immediate answer had been a blink and a small shift of the head.
“Not sure.
Maybe I’d make it quiet first.”
Paul’s
eyebrows had knitted, taking some time to understand that.
“You mean
you want to block out all the voices?” he’d asked gently.
Silence
from Mark. Silence that was longer than usual, so Paul had known that he was
either thinking about something, or pondering his answer.
“Something
like that,” Mark had finally replied, turning away to face the bay, not meeting
Paul’s eyes.
***
He’d
entered a college in the next town, a much larger town whose population
actually numbered in the thousands, and he’d watched from a short distance as
Mark came to understand the meaning of power and learned the art of
manipulation, and grew both nearer and farther away from him at the same time.
Mark had
gradually edged into the inner social circle, exposing secrets and turning
tables on quiet plots, never leaving any trace as to how those had been
discovered. He’d charmed his way into hearts and tight-knit cliques, doing
little things that quietly ingratiated him with others, and doing small
favours, gaining popularity and approval, yet keeping his own opinions and
personality separate from those other skins that he slipped into easily among
the friends that he amassed. He’d never tired of being a different person with
different groups of people; it had amused him to see how he could manipulate
others so, and he’d saved his own true colours for the very few that he
trusted, among which was Paul.
Mark had
learned to play the evasive game of getting what he wanted by using the small
town school and the other students around him as a microcosm of the larger
world, learning what he needed as he mocked those around him with his sarcasm,
poking fun at their thoughts and ideas and personalities, but they had never
been able to guess who Mark had really been referring to.
Mark had
learnt to weave ambiguity into his speech, and to hear such careful, sly
language and sarcasm slip from the lips of a ten-year-old was both shocking and
disarming to most people when they heard it.
But not
Paul.
Paul had thought
that it was witty, and wondered if he’d ever been that intelligent at Mark’s
age.
“I watch
TV,” Mark had offered as an explanation, grinning, when Paul had asked him
where he’d learnt it from. “I once heard someone say that it took intelligence
to be sarcastic, and even more intelligence to counter sarcasm with sarcasm2.”
“Sarcasm
is underrated and underappreciated,” Paul had agreed.
And Mark
had smiled, knowing that Paul truly agreed with him. But he had never told Paul
that he’d learned most of it from a cantankerous old man that he heard in his
head, and not the television.
***
He’d found
himself back on the beach again when he was eleven, changed and bitter and
angry.
He’d no
longer taken about five seconds to understand and respond to what others said,
no longer shifted around awkwardly all the time, and he had grown an acid
tongue in his head.
He had
stood, glaring out at the surface of the water in the bay, arms folded across
his chest, eyes smouldering, and his stance rigid and unapproachable.
Footsteps
had shuffled across the sand behind him.
“What are
you doing here?” he’d snapped.
“Your
parents told me that you were back,” Paul had replied calmly, stepping up
beside him.
Three
years had passed since they’d come to known each other; Paul hadn’t grown by
much more, and was now an athletic eighteen-year-old of small, but wiry build.
Mark had come up to his shoulders at that time and Paul had finally admitted to
himself that Mark would most likely be taller than him in a few more years.
Silence.
Neither had said a word nor looked at each other.
“I was
worried about you, all right?” Paul had finally spoken. “Do you know how
relieved I was when your mum told me that you were here? When you left this morning,
I was afraid I’d never see you again.”
“You
nearly didn’t.”
Paul had
turned sharply to stare at him.
“They
wanted to lock me up. They wanted to lock me away for two years and they
would’ve done it if Elana and some others hadn’t stepped in and pointed out
that I was still young and that my cousin had
been practising black magic after all.”
“But you
do realise that all the same, it wasn’t your place to punish him, don’t you?
Let alone kill him.”
Mark was
silent.
Paul took
a deep breath and released it.
“Mark,
promise me that you won’t do this again, all right?”
Mark’s
eyes had snapped around to glare at him this time.
“And what
part of you thinks that I was planning to make a career out of killing people?”
“I don’t
mean that killing. You should know that that’s just not done; not in the
Outsiders’ world, and not in ours, either. I meant, don’t keep quiet again.”
Mark had
frowned.
“What?”
“If
something bothers you, talk to someone; it doesn’t even have to be me, just…
someone. Keeping quiet is what landed you in this mess in the first place. If
you’d talked to someone, you wouldn’t be in all this trouble, causing everyone
to worry and your cousin wouldn’t be six feet under.”
“No, but
he’d be locked up somewhere. For far longer than two years too, I think. At
least I spared him that,” Mark snapped back, feeling belligerent.
Paul had
shrugged, not fazed in the least.
“Well, him
being locked away would’ve beat you
being locked away, wouldn’t it?”
Mark stared
at him briefly, and then turned to face out to sea again.
And
there’d been a long silence.
“I
promise,” Mark had suddenly said.
“What?”
“I
promise,” he’d repeated. “No more keeping quiet.”
Silence.
After a while, Mark had turned and headed back to the main road and the town,
without saying a word.
Paul had
stood alone for a few minutes, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his
jeans as the sea breeze picked up and the sun dipped.
“Thank
you,” he’d whispered softly to no one, and only he had ever known what and how
much he had been thankful for at that moment.
***
Thirteen.
Paul had
wondered if he’d ever been this much of a cocky smart-ass at thirteen, or if it
was just Mark.
“Face it,”
the teenager had been saying, gesturing expansively, “normal school is too easy
for me. I cheat during exams without even trying.”
Paul had
raised an eyebrow.
“Well, is
it my fault if everyone else in the room is practically screaming answers into
my head?”
Yeah, he
had a point, Paul had decided.
“So how is
enrolling in music school supposed to pose a challenge to you?” Paul had asked
again.
“It
isn’t.”
“I thought
you just said that normal school was too easy for you.”
“Yeah, but
I’m saying music school ‘cause it’s something that I could be really good at.
Don’t you see? I can hear everything; I can hear what people want, I know what
they want to hear; I can hear what they’re feeling, and I can put it into words
and music for them and give it back to them! And best of all, they’ll adore me
for it. They’ll call it talent and genius, when really; all I’m doing is giving
back to them what they’re giving me. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
Paul had
shaken his head, smiling at the self-assured grin on Mark’s features.
“So why
can’t you go into advertising or inventing instead? Your ‘talent’ wouldn’t be
wasted in those fields either; why music?”
“Do I look
like some pushy salesperson to you?”
“No,” Paul
had admitted. “Still, why music?”
“I like
the idea. Maximum rewards with minimal effort; think about it: I’ll be
receiving accolades for my perceived ‘talent’ when I’m just giving back—”
“‘What
they give you’; yeah, yeah, I get the idea. You’re loving the irony of all
this, aren’t you?”
“Exactly.”
And Paul had
smiled and closed his eyes. He’d understood all right. Mark had loved the word
“irony” and any situation that it described, ever since he had come to know the
word and its meaning.
It was his
way of laughing at the world.
***
He found
it uncanny how much of their lives revolved around this beach.
He’d made
his footsteps deliberately loud, the soles of his trainers crunching into the
dry sand as he walked towards the figure seated on the beach just above the
high-tide mark.
Then he’d
paused for a second, wondering at the familiarity of the scene.
“Aren’t
you gonna ask me what I’m doing here?” he’d called out.
“No,” Paul
had answered.
Mark had
sighed and shrugged. His attempt to lighten the mood had fallen flat. He’d
walked closer, eyeing the carefully folded sheet of paper between the fingers
of Paul’s left hand; Paul had been seated with his back hunched, his legs apart
and knees raised slightly, with his forearms resting on them.
The waves
had broken on the sand, their soft, rolling hiss comforting.
He’d been
able to see that there was no comfort in it for Paul. The older boy had only
come here because it was the only place that he could think of at a time like
this.
“It’s not
the end of the world, Paul,” he’d said quietly, still standing a few paces
behind him.
“It might
as well be,” Paul had mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear over the waves.
Then, without turning to look at him, Paul had raised his left hand, offering
the folded paper to him.
“You
already know what it says, don’t you?” Paul had asked.
Silence.
Mark had
looked away briefly; for a moment, ashamed of the power that he possessed as he
closed his eyes.
“Yes,”
he’d finally answered, opening his eyes again.
He hadn’t
made it. Paul hadn’t been able to secure a bachelor’s degree; had only narrowly
missed it, but the point was, it was out of reach. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t
tried hard enough. Mark had remembered then that Paul’s A-level grades had been
only just good enough to allow him entry into one of the newer universities,
and now… it was a dead end.
“I never
should’ve done this,” Paul had started speaking again; “I wasn’t made for this;
I never should’ve even bothered with college. I’ve wasted three years, wasted
my parents’ time and money—”
“Paul,
Shareen financed your education, and I don’t think that she’d be thinking of
the money right now.”
Paul’s
older sister had graduated with a degree in architectural design years before,
and lived in
“Yeah,
she’d probably think of what a failure I am first.”
“She
wouldn’t. She wouldn’t, and you know
it, and I’ll punch you myself if you think of your sister that lowly. She knows you tried, your mum and dad know
you tried, and I sure as hell know
that you tried harder than you’ve ever done with anything else.
“You gave
it a shot and it didn’t work; move on. Something else will come along.
“No one’s
gonna fault you. Least of all your own family. And if anyone does fault you,
then they sure as hell don’t know anything about you, and their opinion isn’t
worth shit. It isn’t the end of the world. You’ve still got us and you’ve still
got all this…” and here, he’d glanced around; “Home.”
For a
while, Paul had said nothing, staring at the sand scrunched between his toes. Then
Mark had finally moved to sit down beside him, asking softly, “Did you hear me
at all?”
“Yes.”
“Did you
understand me?”
And
there’d been a slight pause.
“Yes,”
Paul had sighed.
And Mark had
smiled slightly, raising his hand to grasp Paul’s shoulder.
“It’ll be
all right,” he’d said. “As long as you’ve got me, you’ll be okay.”
And Paul
had turned to give him a quizzical look at his last sentence, but Mark had
simply returned the look with his own calm, firm gaze.
***
He knew
the wood of this porch so well that he believed that if he had any artistic
talent, he’d be able to draw every single twist and knot and whorl of the wood
grain all from memory.
He’d
looked up as he heard running footsteps from inside the house, then a short
silence before he heard a low thump.
He’d
smiled to himself. Mark. Skipping the last few steps of the staircase, as
usual.
The door
had opened then, and the doorway filled by said teenager.
“Finally!”
Mark had said loudly.
“So what
did you need me for?” he’d asked.
“You’re
playing chaperone tonight,” Colin had answered for Mark as he edged around the
front door to stand behind Mark.
“I don’t
need a chaperone, you wanker,” Mark had shot back.
“Language,
little brother. Mum’s just in the living room, you know.”
“So I
assume this means that he’s invited,” he’d smiled, referring to the
party that the town’s sixteen-year-olds were holding at the beach to celebrate the
end of their O-levels and their graduation.
“Nobody cares if they’re invited or not,” Mark
had said, exasperation colouring his tone. “The whole of Year 11 will be there,
of course, and about half of the rest of the town will turn up on their own,
anyway. You know the way it is in this town—less than five hundred people here;
you couldn’t even throw a tiny tea party for your knitting circle without the
next two neighbourhoods knowing.”
“Yeah,
that is the way that it’s always been around here,” Colin had mused aloud and
shrugged.
“So how is
it that you can’t accompany him?” Paul had asked.
“Homework,”
Mark answered.
“Assignments,”
Colin had corrected with a pointed glare. “I have assignments to complete.”
“Homework,
assignments— same difference,” Mark waved a hand flippantly before stepping out
onto the front porch. “Just because you’re in university now doesn’t mean that
it has a nicer name. Homework by any other name is just as foul.”
“Shakespeare
just turned in his grave.”
“He can
roll himself into a ball if he so displeases; Paul, come on!”
Colin had
smiled at his brother and turned to Paul.
“Watch him
for me, please? Keep him out of the hard liquor; someone’s bound to have
brought some—probably Alex Milsen or Patrick Felume; those two always were crazy.”
He’d glanced at Mark, who’d been rolling his eyes and bouncing impatiently on
the balls of his feet. “Our mum will have a fit if he comes home reeking of
alcohol,” Colin continued, smirking.
And as
it’d turned out that night, Alex Milsen had brought five bottles of vodka. Five
reasons for half the youths on that beach to ingratiate themselves with him, if
only for a few shots in their fruit punch or soft drinks.
“Well,
aren’t you the wallflower,” Mark had said, plopping himself down in the sand next
to him.
“‘Beach-flower’
might be more appropriate here,” Paul had replied, chuckling as he raised his
bottle of beer to his lips.
“We are
not amused,” Mark had deadpanned as he took a swig of his own alcoholic beverage.
“And ‘beach-flower’ sounds poncy as all—”
“Language,
Mark.”
Mark had
rolled his eyes and Paul had surveyed the relatively small crush of dancing
youths before him, gyrating to the music that was blaring out of someone’s
portable radio. The beach was the only ideal spot for a party in
“That’d
better not have any of Alex’s vodka in it,” he’d said warningly, eyeing Mark’s
bottle.
“Nope.
Only fifteen percent alcohol. But I saw something that was twenty percent over
there—” Mark had made to stand up, but Paul had grabbed his arm and pulled him
back down.
“Fifteen
is fine. Sit there and finish it.”
“Already
did,” Mark had grinned. “I need more.”
And Paul
had foreseen then that Mark was
going to get home reeking of alcohol.
Two hours
later, that had proven true.
“I thought
you knew better than to drink on an empty stomach,” he’d lectured.
“I do; I
jus’ didn’ care,” Mark had slurred in answer. “B’sides, tha’s what you’re ‘ere
for.”
Paul had
sighed.
“Come on…
we’re walking home.”
“Can’t
Patrick gi’s a ride?”
“Nope.
He’s giving rides to others, and his car’s full. And I’m not taking any
chances; one of those nutters that he calls his mates might hotbox3
the car or something.”
“Y’mean
they c’n get higher’n they already are?”
“Don’t
know and don’t particularly care, as long as they don’t get themselves killed.
Rich kids,” he’d muttered. It was amazing that in a town of less than five
hundred people,
Mark had
sighed.
“Yeah,
wha’ would I do without ya…” he’d mumbled, stumbling forward a few steps.
“For
starters, you’d crawl home on your own,” Paul had grinned back. “And Officer
Henshaw would probably pick you up after you’d passed out somewhere, drop you
on your front porch and knock on the door, and your mum would shit a brick
seeing you in the state that you’re in right now.”
Mark had
laughed.
“Yeah, tha’d
be it.” Pause. “Y’know, I think if you ‘adn’t stepped into m’life all those
years ago, I mightn’t ‘ave made it this far; I might’ve gone off and done
somethin’ really stupid a long time ago and I wouldn’ be ‘ere righ’ now.”
“You did do something really stupid,” Paul
had reminded him softly.
“Yeah…
yeah, I did, but you’re still ‘ere. I don’ know why. Can’t understand why
you’re still with me after what I did. Can’t understand why you actually
understand why I did wha’ I did, but I’m so thankful tha’ you do…” Pause. “What
would I do without you…” he’d mumbled distractedly again. Mark was one of those
kinds who got melancholy when drunk and Paul had known that Mark wouldn’t
remember half of what he’d blurted once he was sober again.
“I don’t
know,” Paul had replied quietly, “but I’m glad I’m here. And you’re welcome.
Quite frankly, I’m happy that you’re willing to let me stay around.”
And Paul
had smiled to himself in the darkness as the two of them continued their walk
home, walking on quiet streets illuminated by streetlamps and amiable light
from homes, and warmed by the soft sounds of suburbia that drifted out of
windows.
Silence.
Paul shifted his grip up Mark’s arm, grasping Mark’s
forearm near the elbow.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Mark shook his head, his eyes glistening with unshed
tears, now that the yellow glow had faded.
“Can’t get home,” Mark mumbled.
“I know. Maybe not to the home that we’ve lived in all
these years, but Benji and Chris and I are right here; all we’ll ever need now
is right here. You said it yourself, but I don’t think you realise exactly what
it was that you said. Home is right here.”
Mark watched him, his eyes expressing equal parts confusion
and disbelief and ardent hope.
“They’re waiting, Mark. Let’s go home.”
Mark said nothing, and only stared down at Paul’s hand
around his arm. He felt the dust beneath his feet his feet shifting slightly,
and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the sky coming apart, the blue
sky of a false day giving way to a black, fathomless expanse.
And he remembered a night as dark as this; a night
that had been the darkest in his life— a night before the end of the world.
‘“We’re
not going home, are we?”’
And there had been no answer to his question, for even
he had known the answer. An answer that made the world a lot darker than it
already was.
But there had been a full moon and strange blue
reflected lunar light that glinted off dancing white specks of snow.
And with the snow, the night had not been as dark as
it would have been without.
‘“You
three are the only thing that matters anymore now…”’
He had been right.
All that was worth saving was right here.
But it could not be saved. So the only alternative
left was to make their sacrifice worthwhile.
His hand rose to grasp Paul’s forearm in a similar
fashion, and his grip tightened slowly, as if he were reassuring himself that
his best friend was still there. Still with him.
‘“Can’t
understand why you’re still with me…’
‘“I’m so
thankful—”’
Thankful… that word would never be enough to express
how grateful he was that some strange fate had seen fit to allow Paul to be
living in the same town as him, had seen fit to allow them to meet and in their
own way, complete each other.
For all his aloofness, he believed in soulmates, and
he believed that they didn’t have to be a romantic interest, and he believed
that Paul was his.
Paul was his balance, his logic, his
more-prominent-conscience; anything that he lacked, he found Paul offering to
him; he once fancied that he complimented Paul as well, and that he was the one
who encouraged Paul to laugh at the world and let go of the reins every once in
a while.
‘“What
would I do without you?”’
He didn’t know, and could not begin to imagine that
probability. He loved Paul as best friends did; he loved Paul like he loved the
better part of himself, because Paul was all that, and many other things that
he could not put into words.
And he realised that most of all, he owed it to Paul
to stop the havoc that he was wreaking, because Paul had come into his life all
those years ago to stop the havoc that his gift had been exacting on his life.
He was home.
Paul watched his face carefully for an answer, just in
case he wasn’t in the mood for a verbal reply, and whatever it was that he
watched for, he must have found, because he smiled.
And Paul immediately wanted to draw him into a firm
embrace, but his eyes registered movement behind Mark.
Christian’s double.
Paul realised: while he’d been coaxing Mark away from
the brink of his madness, Mark had relinquished his hold over the doubles.
“Down!!” he screamed, pulling Mark down
with him as an energy sphere blazed past; he felt a sensation of being closed
in and realised that it was Benjamin raising walls around their telepathic net.
He turned and found Benjamin hurling his and Mark’s doubles away from himself
and Christian, and thinking quickly, he enclosed the two dazed “twins” in a
box, imitating what Mark had done earlier with his power.
‘It won’t
hold,’ Benjamin said.
‘I know.
My double will figure a way around it; we have the same powers, after all.’
‘Paul,
behind you!’
Too late, he turned back and found Christian’s double
bearing down on him and Mark, raining energy spheres and bolts. Not having
enough time to dodge, he did the only thing that came to mind, hunching over
Mark, shielding his younger friend with his body.
But the burning pain that he was expecting did not
come.
Puzzled, he looked up and found “Christian” being held
in mid-air again, a good distance away from them. Turning in the other
direction, he saw what he expected: Benjamin, one hand outstretched, his
features schooled in concentration.
“Traitor!” Christian’s double snarled.
“I am no
traitor; I promised neither my life nor my allegiance to any cause!!” Benjamin yelled.
And with mild shock, Paul realised that it was
Benjamin’s double, not Benjamin.
“‘Allegiance’?” “Christian” sneered. “What does it
matter if your ‘allegiance’ lies with us or them? You have no choice!”
“Precisely. We were never given a choice. And all our
anger and fighting amongst ourselves was never simply because we longed to feel
something. We were angry that we were condemned to this; we were angry that we
had no choice.
“But I’m making one right now. I want what I have seen
ever since they have come here;” he pointed in the general direction of
Benjamin and Christian with his free hand, “I want the life that I have seen in
his memories.”
“That life was never ours,” “Christian” ground out.
“Do we not deserve
it?!” “Benjamin” screamed. “After all we’ve been forced to tolerate all this
time, are we undeserving?! You know as
well as I do that they have a chance; a chance to return to what they have left
behind them, and we, being a part of them, can partake of that!
“Can you tell me that you have not seen the world that
they live in? Have you not seen the world that this Christian calls home?! Have
you not seen his memories?!
“A world that changes, where every single day is
different, even in the tiniest way, and they can feel the sunlight instead of only seeing it; and there is so much more that they can feel—wind and
rain; we have never seen the like of that before. And the rain… the water… you
and I have never needed or tasted food or drink, have never needed or breathed
air; do you not want what we should have had every right to?!?”
“We were made here. Their world is not for us.”
And Paul heard a soft undertone of resignation in the
voice of Christian’s double. Looking down, he locked gazes with Mark, who
nodded subtly, and they began to edge away from the two doubles.
“They are our way out of here,” “Benjamin” replied, his
anger visibly only just held in check.
“You do not know that for a fact, and their world has
no place for the likes of us! Do you then think us ‘undeserving’ of vengeance; to let them win and walk free for the
slim chance of hope that you hold?!”
“Would you let that hope walk away when you have seen
it?” “Benjamin” asked softly. “Would you destroy it when you have seen that it can be yours?”
“Fool.”
“We have nothing to lose.”
“No; there
you are wrong!! You speak of letting them win so that you may provide for your
foolish dreams; I will not let them
get away scot-free for condemning us to live in this hell—or have you forgotten
what you have tolerated with the rest of us?!”
“I have not, but we have a better use for them than
simply for revenge.”
“‘Simply for
revenge’?! There is nothing simple
about this; now release me.”
“No.”
“You cannot hold me forever.”
“It only needs to be long enough.”
“Christian’s” face contorted in rage once again.
“I will not let you reduce our suffering to be for nothing!!
Traitor!! RELEASE ME!!”
“Christian” began to thrash in mid-air; “Benjamin’s”
control showed no sign of slipping.
“This is for me,” Benjamin’s “twin” said. “I indulged
your longings for revenge at the beginning— you and the other two; but now I have
found what I want, and it is infinitely more appealing to me than your
half-witted ideas of torture and righteous indignation. This is for me,” he repeated.
“Go,” he said, this time, to the four of them. “This
is all that I can give you.”
Mark’s face took on a look of grim determination as he
hauled Paul to his feet and they began to run for the River. Some distance
behind them, Christian and Benjamin did the same; Benjamin cast a backward
glance at his “twin”, and hoped, for his sake, that what he wanted would come
to pass; there was much that they owed their doubles after these many years.
Then an arm snaked around his neck, numbingly cold,
and pulled him up flush against another body.
His surprised yelp was strangled and choked in his
throat, and he heard the voice of Mark’s “twin” hiss into his ear: “If I cannot
enjoy this, at least killing one of you is sufficient concession.”
He felt a hand move to the side of his head, preparing
to twist sharply, to snap—
“Benji!” he heard Christian shout, and he saw the
other young man remove a knife from under the waistband of his jeans, quickly
letting the sheath drop away.
Benjamin knew what was required of him.
Christian threw the knife with all the force he
possessed; once the weapon was in mid-air, Benjamin’s mind seized hold of it,
and making use of the momentum that Christian had given, he guided the blade
around, sinking it deep into Mark’s double’s neck.
Hot blood gushed onto his shoulder as a gurgling
scream erupted behind his ear; elbowing and kicking; he managed to get free,
and ran to catch up with Christian, waiting for him.
Together, the four of them ran, their feet slipping
and sliding, fighting for purchase in the fine, shifting dust beneath their
feet.
Ahead, Christian saw Paul raise a hand; what was left
of the barrier beside the River rent itself with a loud squeal, like the sound
of metal being ripped apart.
Mark reached down, grabbed hold of Paul’s wrist, and
they ran, plunging into the River; they seemed to stumble, then their heads
disappeared below the surface in a brief flail of limbs.
And Christian felt the tug of cold fingers on his
flesh once more; partly a memory from his vision, partly a projection from Mark
and Paul.
And he found himself before the River, staring down at
it, half-listening as he heard Benjamin pant to a stop beside him.
“Come on,” Benjamin said, his voice almost devoid of
feeling.
“I know what’s coming.”
“It wouldn’t be right if you didn’t.”
And Benjamin slid a hand into his, grasping firmly.
Christian felt the raised ridge of barely-healed flesh from their
blood-binding, and let Benjamin pull him into the dark current.
The River churned around their ankles as they moved
forward slowly, and Christian’s feet soon felt a sharp drop in the riverbed; he
felt sure that when he’d seen Mark and Paul stumble just now, it was this that
they’d fallen over. Unbidden, his mouth began to murmur words that he didn’t
know that he knew or remembered; words that were both hazy and clear in his
memories, like a half-formed dream that would not fade.
And then they stepped off the edge, plunging into the
swirling madness that he remembered; he continued to murmur silently in his
mind, two lines that he repeated over and over again, and which something
within him now recognised to be the words of a Drinarin death ritual.
Tightening his grip on Benjamin’s hand, he let himself
sink into the chaos, and he felt Benjamin’s own calm surrender.
Far downstream, Mark fought his way to the surface, gasping
frantically for air, dark red obscuring half his vision, pulling Paul up with
him.
His legs were tired and almost numb, but he was
unwilling to let go of the survival instinct which demanded that he kick and
breathe instead of giving in to the death that was closing in on and around
him.
“Mark,” he heard Paul gasp, “Can’t… anymore. Just get
it… over with—” and he saw half of Paul’s head slip below the surface again.
Panicking, he grabbed hold of Paul and shook him as hard
as he could, snapping Paul back to his senses.
“NO! Don’t
you dare leave me alone like this!”
he shouted.
And he reached for the hem of his shirt, ripping it
and using the strip of cloth to bind one of Paul’s wrists to his, as tightly as
he could, using only one hand to work.
Paul watched his face quizzically as he felt what Mark
was doing below the River’s surface.
“I won’t watch you die, and I wouldn’t make you live
through watching me go down either,” Mark shouted. “Whatever’s going to happen,
we’re going to go it together.”
Paul nodded, and shifted his hand in the cloth binding
to grab hold of Mark’s. Soon, his strength was flagging again, and he felt
himself sinking.
Not finding the strength to open his mouth and tell
Mark so, he reached out through the telepathic net instead, and found it
crumbling; a sign that Benjamin was either fading or was already gone.
‘You can
let go,’ he heard Mark say softly. ‘I’m right behind you.’
And he let go, feeling the gentle tug of the cloth
around his wrist as he pulled Mark down with him.
Mark didn’t struggle; he took a deep breath and held
it, holding onto Paul’s hand even as the fingers began to go limp.
And finally, he forced the air out of his body and
took another deep breath, never even flinching as the burning fluid around them
invaded his lungs.
Footnotes:
1. ADD:
Attention Deficit Disorder, for which a more appropriate term these days is
ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, because there are three different
kinds of this disorder, where the affected children are either unusually
hyperactive and impulsive, or highly inattentive, or both.
2. “It
takes intelligence to be sarcastic, and even more intelligence to counter
sarcasm with sarcasm.” Said by my very own mother, whom I pride on being the
source of my own caustic humour. Only, I like to think that my humour is a lot
more cutting. People who don’t know me very well may get the wrong idea easily,
as well as people who take words too seriously.
3. “Hotbox”:
I’m not sure if this is a universal kind of slang or if it’s only used in the
States, but it basically means that everyone’s in an enclosed in a small space,
so when one or a few of those people smoke, the whole space gets filled up with
the smoke and everyone gets high together, even those not smoking.