Young Writers Society

A game, a game, a game, the Other Person’s mind said. It started out as a game, his name was Prince, he didn’t have any friends, he was here with his father who was a shepherd who travelled places so many places beautiful places without mountains obscuring the sky, oh, so many places.

Lira’s mind spun. She wanted to clamp down on her ears and ignore the skittering trails of thought that danced in circles around her. The image in the memory was that of a boy with white-blonde hair, whose eyes glinted mischievously in the sun. I don’t like other children, the Other Person continued with their tangent of unsuppressed thought. They have too many rules, they’re quick to judge, they hate me for my skin for my family I don’t know why, why do they hate me? Games shouldn’t have rules where you make some people go sit by the fence; games should be for everyone to play, Prince knows, even if he wears odd clothes, why would anyone dress themselves in fleece? Quickly, though, the trail of thought switched to anger. It’s Prince’s fault, if he hadn’t gone first, if we’d gone together, I wouldn’t have fallen, wouldn’t be here, would have met Quixa, would be home, all his fault it’s all his fault.

Lira wanted to scream. She pushed her hands out in front of her—how could she do that, she wondered, if she was in her own head? Lira was unaware that what she was experiencing was a Mind-Connect, and her mental actions were like physical ones—or the thought of doing those actions, really, was what allowed her to manoeuvre within her own brain. When she raised her hands in her head, she managed to build the frail wall the Other Person had been holding up between them so far. She was relieved when the sight of the rocky ledge—and the hole—entered her peripheral vision once more.

Are you all right? Lira asked.

Fine—fine, the Other Person replied, sounding distant. I think there’s some sort of knob here, inside the hole. I’m trying to twist it.

Who are you? Lira persisted. ‘Why can I see inside your mind?

I don’t know, the Other Person said, irritated. They swiped a hand across their forehead before reaching inside the hole and fiddling with something. That’s what I’m here to find out. To eject you from my mind or something. You have entirely too many nightmares.

You know who I am, but I’ve never seen inside your head before. I’m Lira. I fainted and found myself here, but—who’s Prince? And who’re you?

I’m Arlene, the Other Person said absentmindedly. She remained silent for a few minutes, ignoring all of Lira’s questions until she had successfully toggled the switch inside the hole. A blinding, bright-orange light streamed from the opening: discs of yellow bobbed out of the hole, and Arlene reached out to touch them with a shaky hand. In the light, Lira saw the numerous fresh scars that trailed down Arlene’s wrists. When she touched one of the discs, it dissipated, trailing around Arlene’s fingers like pale mist.

I’m going in there, Arlene said, and Lira felt her wave of excitement—tinged with apprehension—as it swashed into her.

But you don’t know what— Lira began, just as Arlene slid into the hole. A series of colours—whites, speckled with black; oranges and greys colliding into one another like train wrecks—danced on the forefront of her mind. The connection became loose, and Lira tried to make the now-weak link between them stronger—but to no ado. The bridges between them came toppling down, until all that Lira felt was a blankness, similar to the one she had felt when she had fainted, and her mind had been on her own.

Something tugged at her—some form of gravity, and Lira suddenly felt like her stomach was turning inside-out. Her limbs—her limbs—started to ache. She realised, with a sickening jolt, that she was drifting into consciousness again.

~*~

‘I think I scared her.’

Lira’s eyes snapped open. She was looking at someone’s whitewashed ceiling. Shifting onto her side, she realised that she was quite dry and … comfortable. A cocoon of blankets was wrapped tightly around her; she burrowed deeper under the covers, her braids rubbing against her cheek. It felt warm here. It felt safe.

‘Quite a belated realisation, Tom-lad,’ someone said teasingly. A pause. ‘I think she’s awake.’

‘I was in someone else’s head,’ Lira mumbled, still half-asleep. She had woken up a bit at Evian’s voice and peeked out from under the covers at him. He was sitting at a table across the room, him and the same boy who had jumped out at them. The boy regarded Lira with curiosity, and she felt like writhing under his gaze.

‘Hello,’ she said, pressing her nose into the covers. They felt slightly rough under her hands, as if they had been used, and used well.

‘Lira, I don’t think he understands Reksh,’ Evian said. Lira had not realised that she had even been speaking in her own language. She repeated the greeting in the common tongue.

‘Hello,’ the boy said brightly. ‘I’m Tom.’ He ran a hand through his wild mop of dark, curly hair and added, as an afterthought: ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Lira ‘hmm’ed in reply. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, still trying to clear her mind of the various mosaic-like pieces of Arlene’s mind.

‘We’re in Arrowroad,’ said Evian. He yawned and put his large mug of tea on the table. ‘You’ve been asleep all day, thought you’d sleep through the whole night, too.’

Lira cast an interested look around the room. It was small and seemed to serve as a kitchen and sitting room in one. An old, maroon armchair was placed next to the empty fireplace. Stuffing dribbled from a gash in its side; it looked like the chair was drooling in its sleep. The ground was bare, except for a rug stretching out before the fireplace; the floorboards had been scrubbed with such ferocity that they shone in the lamplight. Everything was painfully clean, Lira noticed, despite the house having an obviously lived-in look. Wooden chairs were scattered all around the room—one was placed under a gas-lamp, a rag hanging on the back. On Lira’s right, there was a stove, surrounded by wooden cabinets; to her right, a small sink. Evian laughed as she looked at them with some fascination—they were so clean that they gleamed.

‘They’re like cats’ eyes!’ she said. She swung her legs off the bed and drank in the sight of the entire place; it had been a long time since she had been anywhere that reminded her of home. In the dim lighting, there was not much she could see—whenever anyone moved, shadows skittered across the room.

Evian got up to get her a glass of water and a slice of bread; after she had sat down at the table and shaken Tom’s hand, she rather stupidly asked Evian: ‘Is this your house?’

Evian nodded. ‘We’re just waiting for Edith to get back from Mr Townsend’s—he’s the baker, and we’ll leave in a couple of hours after I’ve talked to her.’

‘Leave for where?’ the boy asked, before Lira could.

‘Edith’s sister’s house,’ Evian said, but the guilt in his words slipped through, despite the nonchalant expression he was attempting to wear. Tom’s eyebrows rose, his chubby face a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

‘You’ve come back after a solid year,’ he said, ‘and the whole town’s glad to see you, and you’ve even been offered a job for if you don’t go back—and you’re just leaving?’

‘Yes,’ Evian sighed. ‘I am.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. When he spoke, his words came out haltingly: ‘There are places I have to be, and things I have to do before I come back. Adult stuff.’ He nodded in Tom’s direction; said boy grimaced.

‘You told me not to pay attention to my mum, and now you’re sounding like her.’ His tone of voice was so disgusted that Evian could not help but laugh. Lira smiled at them, then continued looking around the room. A painting hanging behind Evian had occupied her attention: it covered most of the faded apple-patterned wallpaper, and read ‘Welcome to our lovly home’ in clumsy, bright-green paint. The painting was not much, but the frame was gilded gold. Lira surmised that it was the most expensive thing in the room.

‘Who made that?’ she asked, pointing at it. Evian peered over his shoulder to get a better look at what she was looking at.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Ah.’ He turned around quickly and busied himself with picking up their mugs; he clattered over to the sink. ‘Eleanor drew it. It’s very old.’ He sounded perfectly cheerful, but Lira noticed that his demeanour was somewhat deflated. His bright grin only reinforced her suspicion that she had touched upon a sensitive topic, so she quickly changed the subject.

‘Do people normally dream when they’ve fainted?’ she said, grabbing a fistful of her brown work-tunic. ‘Because I dreamt’—she glanced askance at Tom, who was looking at her curiously—‘I, ah, dreamt…’ She left the sentence unfinished and took to staring at her hands instead. ‘Can I wash my face?’ she asked Evian, twisting uncomfortably in her chair.

‘’Course.’ He rummaged in one of the cabinets and let out a cry of dismay as he realised ‘she’s moved the towels!’. Angrily snapping the cabinet shut, he reached for a washcloth and handed it to Lira instead. ‘What I get when I stay away for a year,’ he muttered, more to himself than to her. He walked heavily across the room and opened a door that led into the hall. ‘Bathroom’s the second door down the hall, to the left,’ he said.

‘Er, thanks.’ Lira shuffled into the hall awkwardly. Evian followed, opening his mouth to say something—but what it was, Lira never really found out.

The door slammed open. A woman with a spindly figure stepped inside the hall, arms weighed down with various parcels; a basket wobbled precariously on the top of the pile. She grumbled as she pushed the door closed with her shoulder. 'Damn weather, you'd think it was mourning the sun's funeral out there...' Her gaze shifted towards Lira; she stood staring at her, somewhat absentmindedly, before letting out a soft 'oh!' of realisation.

Beaming widely, she wobbled the rest of her way down the hall.

'Is this her?' she asked Evian. Not bothering to wait for an answer, she turned to Lira and said, 'I'll just deposit these on the kitchen tables and I'll make you a cup of tea, love. Heading off in an hour or so, you know. Can't afford any sleepy faces on the wagon. Be right back.'

She scuttled off toward the kitchen. ('Oh, hello, Tom! Does your mother know you're here?')

'Edith,' Evian said to Lira, a smile tugging at his lips. His eyes sparkled, and the tiredness seemed to ebb away slightly from his worn features. 'She'd talk the blasted scales off a dragon if she could, but her heart's in the right place.'

'How much have you...' Lira hesitated. 'You've told her everything I told you?'

'Not everything. Some things are said in confidence.'

Lira's respect for Evian climbed a few notches with that statement. She grinned at him. 'Then I can trust you with this. I didn't want to tell, in the kitchen, in front of Tom, but ... I think I've made a new friend.'

'Oh?' Evian sounded genuinely curious. 'In ... Tom?'

'No.' Lira glanced at the kitchen door. Lowering her voice, she said, 'Not Tom. Her name's Ar--'

At that exact moment, someone banged very loudly on the door.

'Evian Threshold!' the same someone called, in deep, clipped tones. 'The Council demands your presence at the town hall. Come yourself, or I'll haul you out by the ankles!' The person's voice wavered a bit when he said, 'They're not best pleased.'

'Who--' Evian cleared his throat. Briskly, he walked up to the door and called through it. 'Who is it, Josiah?'

Lira could not hear what the man said next, but when he turned to look at her, Evian's eyes were wide with alarm.

'Lira, tell Edith to get the things ready. I'll be right back.'

'Where are you going?' she asked. Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, as if it was trying to kick its way out of her body.

'For a walk,' Evian said shortly. He left. The door snapped shut behind him; a cold breeze eddied into the room for the merest fraction of a second Evian left it open. Lira shivered.

She stood in the hall for what seemed to be a long time, an unsettling chill standing vigil by her side.