Jesabel: Part 3/*
The lights flickered on, and my eyes flew open in response. It must be morning, I thought drowsily, and frowned. I had dreamt again, of strange places and people and things. The dream had seemed so real, like a memory, but I had no memory… or so I’d been told. Suddenly I was scared. What if my memory wasn’t gone, merely buried? Keira had told me I might get it back, but the other people - doctors, I’d been told - had said that amnesia was, more often than not, permanent. Somehow I didn’t believe them. So now I wondered… what was the point in lying to me? There must be some reasoning for it.
The door opened, and Keira walked in, my breakfast tray in her hands. She smiled at me, but I looked beyond it and saw the strain in the way her lips were set and the lines around her eyes. “Good morning,” she called to me, her voice as cheerful as always, but there was a quaver so small as to be unnoticeable by the unwary; I, however, had learned.
My lips formed a response - good morning, Keira - but still I had no voice. I sighed and clasped my hands in my lap, depressed that I could not speak. I gave her a sad smile as she set the tray on my legs, then took a seat beside me.
“Oh, Jesabel,” she breathed, picking up the napkin to wipe at my eyes, which had suddenly become wet with tears. “I wish you could tell me what’s wrong. I wish I knew, could help.” Responding tears glinted in her own eyes, and my heart ached, though I did not know why. After all, I’d only known Keira for a day - why should I be attached to her? But I was, and there was no way to change it.
So much pain, I thought, anguished, my mind reeling. So much pain and anger and despair and I don’t know why!
Keira rocked back slightly, reeling from some invisible blow, though I saw no reason, could conceive of no explanation why she should look so injured. “Jesabel,” she whispered, awe and horror coloring her voice. “Jesabel, is that what you feel? You feel so sad, and alone… and angry. Why are you angry, Jesabel?”
Because I cannot speak! I cannot move, I cannot remember! I thought, despairing further. But how could I tell Keira that? I couldn’t, because I had no voice. Tears streamed down my face, my sadness so great that it seemed I would never be able to stop the flow of the salty liquid.
Keira was sobbing beside me, curled up, her body shaking with the force of her silent cries. “Don’t you see, Jesabel?” she gasped between her cries, when she had breath to speak. “You do have a voice! It may not be like mine, but you do!”
A shiver of apprehension passed through me, my skin going cold at her words. Carefully, a sliver of thought formed in my mind. I was confused, but not so much that I couldn’t understand… was my mind speaking to her?
“Yes,” she whispered, no longer sobbing. The answer to my question. And suddenly, I saw. I saw it in her mind, saw the joy for me, and the awe at my - my power? I faltered, but took a calming breath and delved further. I saw truth, saw she was a kind woman, a woman who had cared for me even before I had woken up, had sat with me and calmed me down during troublesome dreams as my body recovered. I felt her amazement at how quickly I recovered, and when I watched her memory, I, too, was amazed.
For the first time since I had awoken, I saw myself. I was lying on the bed, surrounded by and covered in white. I had already known I was pale, but I finally saw my face. I noted with detachment that I had a thin, long face, high cheekbones, and a slightly rounded chin, all framed by hair so dark I thought it would put Keira’s night to shame. I inhaled sharply as Keira, in her memory, pulled the sheets back so that she could gently turn me over. I cringed on seeing how badly damaged my back had been, criss-crossed with angry red welts, some of which oozed a yellowish pus that made me so queasy, as it had made Keira queasy. I withdrew, shaken, and stared into my lap, watching my hands clenching and wringing about themselves.
What is this called, this thing I can do? I thought sullenly, the question doubting it was even possible, even as I felt Keira stir beside me, preparing her response.
“It is called telepathy, Jesabel, and it shouldn’t be possible. Although… I have an idea as to why and how. The stories I’ve heard of telepaths all suggest that they were born with the ability, but couldn’t access it unless mute or had powerful injuries done to their speech. That could explain it. Your speech was taken away, so you found a way to talk.” Keira rocked slightly, seeming to consider what she’d just said.
Well, it certainly made sense to me. I remembered, vaguely, that I had once been able to speak, and my desire to do so again when I clearly could not had triggered this… telepathy, Keira had called it. I mused on this for a while, until my hunger got the best of me, proven by the growling of my belly. Keira laughed at me - and, I think, at herself - and handed me a spoon before lifting the cover of a bowl. A rich, sweet smell wafted toward me, and I raised an eyebrow at the brown glop that rested in the bowl. What is it? I asked her, wondering why something so foul-looking could smell so good.
“It’s called oatmeal,” she told me, laughing softly. “It has two types of sugar and a bit of honey in it - that’s why it smells so sweet.”
She watched me as I picked up the spoon, my fingers still not curling around the handle properly, but I held it nevertheless. I very carefully lowered it to the bowl and scooped up a bit of the oatmeal, then slowly brought it up, hoping I didn’t spill before it reached my lips. I got lucky, this time, and was rewarded by the warm, thick oatmeal sticking to my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I squished it around, picking out the flavors, and smiled with pleasure at its sweetness.
Keira obviously noticed my pleasure, for she resettled the tray in my lap and made sure the bowl was in easy reach. That done, she took her seat beside me and pulled out her string. She began to create a new web, and I watched with interest, noting how her fingers wrapped the string and pulled. I wondered if this new web had a name, like the ones the previous night did.
My telepathy was either very strong, or my control weak - and I suspected the latter, though there was doubt in my mind. A bond, perhaps? Whatever it was, I’d not directed my question toward her - it had been simple musing - but she’d heard it anyway. “No, Jesabel, this weave does not have a name, though if it were to be documented, both the process and the result, and could be duplicated, it could be given a name. For now, though, it is merely a weave.”
It is a very pretty web, I told her. She might call it a weave, but web seemed to fit better, although I didn’t quite know what the word really meant. I wondered if I would ever regain the knowledge I’d lost. I hoped so, but I thought it rather likely that I wouldn’t, or if I did, it wouldn’t be soon enough.
Oh, how wrong I was. The oatmeal had made me drowsy, as had watching Keira play with her string, and soon I was lulled into slumber, which I knew had been induced by the hypnotic effect of my caretaker’s movements. My mind fell into blackness, and I floated there, watching the nothingness with some detachment. Slowly, cautiously, a soft glow broke through the dark, like the glow of starlight or moonlight, though I did not immediately know what those were or why the glow brought them to mind.
The door opened, and Keira walked in, my breakfast tray in her hands. She smiled at me, but I looked beyond it and saw the strain in the way her lips were set and the lines around her eyes. “Good morning,” she called to me, her voice as cheerful as always, but there was a quaver so small as to be unnoticeable by the unwary; I, however, had learned.
My lips formed a response - good morning, Keira - but still I had no voice. I sighed and clasped my hands in my lap, depressed that I could not speak. I gave her a sad smile as she set the tray on my legs, then took a seat beside me.
“Oh, Jesabel,” she breathed, picking up the napkin to wipe at my eyes, which had suddenly become wet with tears. “I wish you could tell me what’s wrong. I wish I knew, could help.” Responding tears glinted in her own eyes, and my heart ached, though I did not know why. After all, I’d only known Keira for a day - why should I be attached to her? But I was, and there was no way to change it.
So much pain, I thought, anguished, my mind reeling. So much pain and anger and despair and I don’t know why!
Keira rocked back slightly, reeling from some invisible blow, though I saw no reason, could conceive of no explanation why she should look so injured. “Jesabel,” she whispered, awe and horror coloring her voice. “Jesabel, is that what you feel? You feel so sad, and alone… and angry. Why are you angry, Jesabel?”
Because I cannot speak! I cannot move, I cannot remember! I thought, despairing further. But how could I tell Keira that? I couldn’t, because I had no voice. Tears streamed down my face, my sadness so great that it seemed I would never be able to stop the flow of the salty liquid.
Keira was sobbing beside me, curled up, her body shaking with the force of her silent cries. “Don’t you see, Jesabel?” she gasped between her cries, when she had breath to speak. “You do have a voice! It may not be like mine, but you do!”
A shiver of apprehension passed through me, my skin going cold at her words. Carefully, a sliver of thought formed in my mind. I was confused, but not so much that I couldn’t understand… was my mind speaking to her?
“Yes,” she whispered, no longer sobbing. The answer to my question. And suddenly, I saw. I saw it in her mind, saw the joy for me, and the awe at my - my power? I faltered, but took a calming breath and delved further. I saw truth, saw she was a kind woman, a woman who had cared for me even before I had woken up, had sat with me and calmed me down during troublesome dreams as my body recovered. I felt her amazement at how quickly I recovered, and when I watched her memory, I, too, was amazed.
For the first time since I had awoken, I saw myself. I was lying on the bed, surrounded by and covered in white. I had already known I was pale, but I finally saw my face. I noted with detachment that I had a thin, long face, high cheekbones, and a slightly rounded chin, all framed by hair so dark I thought it would put Keira’s night to shame. I inhaled sharply as Keira, in her memory, pulled the sheets back so that she could gently turn me over. I cringed on seeing how badly damaged my back had been, criss-crossed with angry red welts, some of which oozed a yellowish pus that made me so queasy, as it had made Keira queasy. I withdrew, shaken, and stared into my lap, watching my hands clenching and wringing about themselves.
What is this called, this thing I can do? I thought sullenly, the question doubting it was even possible, even as I felt Keira stir beside me, preparing her response.
“It is called telepathy, Jesabel, and it shouldn’t be possible. Although… I have an idea as to why and how. The stories I’ve heard of telepaths all suggest that they were born with the ability, but couldn’t access it unless mute or had powerful injuries done to their speech. That could explain it. Your speech was taken away, so you found a way to talk.” Keira rocked slightly, seeming to consider what she’d just said.
Well, it certainly made sense to me. I remembered, vaguely, that I had once been able to speak, and my desire to do so again when I clearly could not had triggered this… telepathy, Keira had called it. I mused on this for a while, until my hunger got the best of me, proven by the growling of my belly. Keira laughed at me - and, I think, at herself - and handed me a spoon before lifting the cover of a bowl. A rich, sweet smell wafted toward me, and I raised an eyebrow at the brown glop that rested in the bowl. What is it? I asked her, wondering why something so foul-looking could smell so good.
“It’s called oatmeal,” she told me, laughing softly. “It has two types of sugar and a bit of honey in it - that’s why it smells so sweet.”
She watched me as I picked up the spoon, my fingers still not curling around the handle properly, but I held it nevertheless. I very carefully lowered it to the bowl and scooped up a bit of the oatmeal, then slowly brought it up, hoping I didn’t spill before it reached my lips. I got lucky, this time, and was rewarded by the warm, thick oatmeal sticking to my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I squished it around, picking out the flavors, and smiled with pleasure at its sweetness.
Keira obviously noticed my pleasure, for she resettled the tray in my lap and made sure the bowl was in easy reach. That done, she took her seat beside me and pulled out her string. She began to create a new web, and I watched with interest, noting how her fingers wrapped the string and pulled. I wondered if this new web had a name, like the ones the previous night did.
My telepathy was either very strong, or my control weak - and I suspected the latter, though there was doubt in my mind. A bond, perhaps? Whatever it was, I’d not directed my question toward her - it had been simple musing - but she’d heard it anyway. “No, Jesabel, this weave does not have a name, though if it were to be documented, both the process and the result, and could be duplicated, it could be given a name. For now, though, it is merely a weave.”
It is a very pretty web, I told her. She might call it a weave, but web seemed to fit better, although I didn’t quite know what the word really meant. I wondered if I would ever regain the knowledge I’d lost. I hoped so, but I thought it rather likely that I wouldn’t, or if I did, it wouldn’t be soon enough.
Oh, how wrong I was. The oatmeal had made me drowsy, as had watching Keira play with her string, and soon I was lulled into slumber, which I knew had been induced by the hypnotic effect of my caretaker’s movements. My mind fell into blackness, and I floated there, watching the nothingness with some detachment. Slowly, cautiously, a soft glow broke through the dark, like the glow of starlight or moonlight, though I did not immediately know what those were or why the glow brought them to mind.