Chapter 3: Recriminations

Talk — a four letter word. Hear — a four letter word.
Love — a four letter word with infinite meaning.

A Fool's Book of Wisdom

"Fuck, Helen, you are a stupid, stupid woman! He is but a child and you already twist his mind with a taste of the power. You know better. Just what did you think to do to him, Helen? What did you hope to accomplish besides scaring the daylights out of him? It is bad enough that your carelessness caused the power to touch him once, but for you purposefully to cause it a second time is unconscionable. This child is a male and not even one of the bloodline. And, yet, he is so susceptible. That feather touch should not have affected him. Yet, it did. I do not understand. Perhaps, he is a sensitive. That would be typical. The gods gift him with power and an inhuman face so he cannot wield the power. Obviously, a male deity watched over this one's birth, no female would have been so cruel. Well, perhaps, Hera would, but then, well ... It is most likely best not to think of such things. I shall awaken the Fates and that would be most unpleasant for us all."

The old woman paced before her fireplace, wringing her hands and occasionally shaking her fist at the ceiling as she continued her muttered tirade of abuse against her own self.

"Son of a whore! Oh, turn the page, Helen. 'The moving finger having writ moves on... ' And, all that nonsensical, male truth. Again, written by a man. Not that Omar Khayyam is a bad poet. He is still but a man." She paused, placed a hand to her head and groaned. "Shit! Oh well. He is quite intelligent. It shines like a beacon from his eyes and I do believe it can cut through falsehoods like a knife through butter. He knows something happened, but most likely, he does not connect it to the bracelet. I wonder if he believes I placed him in a trance and hypnotically suggested the images he saw. Does he even know what hypnosis is? I do hope that he does not think I enchanted him. I hope his mother did not raise him to be superstitious, but who knows to what she attributed his facial deformity. Oh! I hope the bitch did not burden him with the horror of telling him his face is accursed. Shit! I know nothing of this boy and yet, I risk all by what I did this evening. And, conversely, I cannot bring myself to feel any true remorse for my actions. It does not feel wrong, in fact, I have never felt a thing to be this right. I must hold on to that premonition. I suppose, I must wait to see what recriminations the morrow brings."

Lowering her hand, she walked to the window and gazed out into the darkness of the forest. She listened to the gentle pop and crackle of the flames consuming the logs in the fireplace and the patter of the rain against the windowpane. She heaved a sigh and leaned her forehead against the cold glass.

"Yes, tomorrow will reveal many things.

The boy's dreamless sleep soon gave way to the nightmares that so often plagued him. However, on this night, a new terror seized him. He found himself in a room full of mirrors. Tall mirrors, short mirrors, ornate mirrors, plain mirrors, round mirrors, square mirrors, large mirrors and small mirrors. Mirrors everywhere he turned. And, each held the image of his perfect face each image taunted him with the lie of an ideal he would never realize. A truth that would never be. He lashed out at the nearest mirror with his fists and felt his heart soar triumphantly as it shattered. His feet swiftly carried him through the opening created by the broken mirror. Everything seemed to dim and then with a flash, he found himself in a long, narrow hallway, which was only dimly illuminated. A feeling of claustrophobia closed in about him and he ran down the corridor. He slowed his pace only when he tripped slightly on the edge of an uneven stone paver. His eyes moved from side to side, examining the rough-hewn walls of the passageway. He took in the flickering lamps, which were evenly spaced along the hall. No windows and no doors were visible, so Erik continued his trek along the hall, his footsteps soundless and his breathing hushed. It was unearthly quiet and a feeling of unease caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to rise. He held his breath and his heart began to pound. Just as the boy thought he would scream to break the silence, he heard it. A voice singing. A girl's voice. It was an enchanting sound.

Erik blinked.

When his eyes focused again, he was no longer in the hall, but in a large, round room. A girl of no more than six or seven years sat in the middle of the room on a large Persian rug. She sat with her back turned to him and she was singing. Erik took a step forward and she stopped. Her head tilted to one side and then she slowly turned. Large, dark brown eyes gazed into Erik's amber orbs and he felt as if he were falling. She smiled at him and patted the floor next to her. She resumed singing. Erik's feet moved and they took him next to the girl. Her eyes danced with delight and she held out a hand to him. The boy lifted his hand to accept the girl's offer when a gust of air rushed through the room. He felt it caress the bare skin of his cheek and he drew back from the girl in horror.