LJ Idol, Exhibit A: Week 1: This Is My Life Now (Am I Crazy)
The morning sun warms my bed. Eyes still closed, I listen for the familiar bustle of the bakery downstairs; Father pulling the first loaves out of the oven, Granny chatting with an early customer.
When I can no longer deny the silence, I throw back the covers and examine my surroundings. Someone has left a clean shift and robe on the foot of the bed, but instead I put on the soiled, torn skirt and tunic I fled my burning village in.
***
There are about a dozen others, dressed in the same robes I found on my bed; the youngest is about ten, the oldest in his thirties. All “divinity students,” hiding in plain sight. All at different levels of ability and training. I do not speak to them.
The priests tell me I must learn to control my gift, even if I choose never to use it again. That’s what they call it--a gift. They warn me of possible accidents caused by the gifted who do not seek training, and tell me that many people are afraid of people like us.
People like us.
***
I dream. I am a little girl, and Grandfather tells me my favorite story: A witch is stealing men away from the village. She sucks out their souls to power the spell that keeps her young and beautiful, and then puts the soulless bodies to work as slaves. One day, she sets her sights on a handsome farm boy, but he sees through her. He pretends to be seduced by her, but instead, with the help of his true love, tricks her into casting the spell on herself, which releases the souls she has gathered over the years. Without her magic spell sustaining her, the witch withers and dies within minutes. The clever farm boy is proclaimed a hero.
I look up at Grandfather. “Can magic ever be used for good, Grandfather?”
“What a foolish question, child! Magic is an unnatural force--even when someone thinks they can harness it for a good purpose, it ends up twisting their minds, and they change.”
Grandmother gives Grandfather a look I don’t understand.
I wake up. Yesterday I learned how to use magic to heal the broken wing of a bird. That didn’t feel evil. I felt the same surge of power I felt after that soldier stabbed my mother--that didn’t feel evil either. Just . . . different.
When I am going to become evil, I wonder, and will I even notice that it’s happening?
The priests call it a gift.
***
It is quiet in the classroom today, everyone intent on their own exercises.
One of the boys conjures a ball of light in his hand and tosses it toward the ceiling. He catches it, and tosses it again. The others start to turn and look, and another boy grins and holds his hands out. The first boy tosses him the ball. One by one, everyone joins in. Even the priests.
I stare in horror.
How can they be having fun?
***
My clothes are gone. I always put them in the corner when I undress. They aren’t there. I have thrown the covers off the bed and flipped over the mattress. They aren’t there. I knock over the bedside table. There are no other furnishings in the small chamber, nothing else to look under.
So I scream.
When the priests come, I scream louder. They do not try to stop or comfort me. One priestess brings a small chair and sits in the room with me, and the others leave. I will find out later she is there to make sure I do not harm myself.
***
My clothes lay at the foot of the bed, alongside the novice’s robes that have been there since I arrived. They have been cleaned and mended.
I look at myself in the small mirror on the wall. The bruise covering my left cheek is fading, the cut across my temple nearly healed. In my repaired clothes, I almost look normal, but I don’t know what normal is anymore.
I go to the refectory. The ten-year-old boy comes and holds out his hand, and I let him lead me to the table with the others. A girl, a little older than me, speaks to me.
“Before I came here, I got in a fight with my little brother. He was playing with my things, and broke something special to me, and I was so angry. I reached out to grab the pieces from him, and-- and a flame just-- it just burst out of my hand.” Tears streamed down her face.
Another student, a young man, says, “It happened that way for most of us. We all know how hard it is, we all know the stories, and what people say about magic. But we have each other here, and we all believe in doing what good we can with our gifts until we can live openly in society.”
A dozen hands reach out to embrace and comfort me as I weep.
***
I’ve been here two months. The priests have determined that I’ve learned enough control that I can, if I wish, leave the monastery, suppress my magic, and live a normal life, whatever that means. Or I can stay, and continue to learn.
I don’t understand why I’m here, why soldiers destroyed my village, why I don’t even know if my family is still alive. Why I can use magic. Perhaps I never will. But this is my life now; I have to learn how to live it.
I reach for the novice’s robes.
When I can no longer deny the silence, I throw back the covers and examine my surroundings. Someone has left a clean shift and robe on the foot of the bed, but instead I put on the soiled, torn skirt and tunic I fled my burning village in.
***
There are about a dozen others, dressed in the same robes I found on my bed; the youngest is about ten, the oldest in his thirties. All “divinity students,” hiding in plain sight. All at different levels of ability and training. I do not speak to them.
The priests tell me I must learn to control my gift, even if I choose never to use it again. That’s what they call it--a gift. They warn me of possible accidents caused by the gifted who do not seek training, and tell me that many people are afraid of people like us.
People like us.
***
I dream. I am a little girl, and Grandfather tells me my favorite story: A witch is stealing men away from the village. She sucks out their souls to power the spell that keeps her young and beautiful, and then puts the soulless bodies to work as slaves. One day, she sets her sights on a handsome farm boy, but he sees through her. He pretends to be seduced by her, but instead, with the help of his true love, tricks her into casting the spell on herself, which releases the souls she has gathered over the years. Without her magic spell sustaining her, the witch withers and dies within minutes. The clever farm boy is proclaimed a hero.
I look up at Grandfather. “Can magic ever be used for good, Grandfather?”
“What a foolish question, child! Magic is an unnatural force--even when someone thinks they can harness it for a good purpose, it ends up twisting their minds, and they change.”
Grandmother gives Grandfather a look I don’t understand.
I wake up. Yesterday I learned how to use magic to heal the broken wing of a bird. That didn’t feel evil. I felt the same surge of power I felt after that soldier stabbed my mother--that didn’t feel evil either. Just . . . different.
When I am going to become evil, I wonder, and will I even notice that it’s happening?
The priests call it a gift.
***
It is quiet in the classroom today, everyone intent on their own exercises.
One of the boys conjures a ball of light in his hand and tosses it toward the ceiling. He catches it, and tosses it again. The others start to turn and look, and another boy grins and holds his hands out. The first boy tosses him the ball. One by one, everyone joins in. Even the priests.
I stare in horror.
How can they be having fun?
***
My clothes are gone. I always put them in the corner when I undress. They aren’t there. I have thrown the covers off the bed and flipped over the mattress. They aren’t there. I knock over the bedside table. There are no other furnishings in the small chamber, nothing else to look under.
So I scream.
When the priests come, I scream louder. They do not try to stop or comfort me. One priestess brings a small chair and sits in the room with me, and the others leave. I will find out later she is there to make sure I do not harm myself.
***
My clothes lay at the foot of the bed, alongside the novice’s robes that have been there since I arrived. They have been cleaned and mended.
I look at myself in the small mirror on the wall. The bruise covering my left cheek is fading, the cut across my temple nearly healed. In my repaired clothes, I almost look normal, but I don’t know what normal is anymore.
I go to the refectory. The ten-year-old boy comes and holds out his hand, and I let him lead me to the table with the others. A girl, a little older than me, speaks to me.
“Before I came here, I got in a fight with my little brother. He was playing with my things, and broke something special to me, and I was so angry. I reached out to grab the pieces from him, and-- and a flame just-- it just burst out of my hand.” Tears streamed down her face.
Another student, a young man, says, “It happened that way for most of us. We all know how hard it is, we all know the stories, and what people say about magic. But we have each other here, and we all believe in doing what good we can with our gifts until we can live openly in society.”
A dozen hands reach out to embrace and comfort me as I weep.
***
I’ve been here two months. The priests have determined that I’ve learned enough control that I can, if I wish, leave the monastery, suppress my magic, and live a normal life, whatever that means. Or I can stay, and continue to learn.
I don’t understand why I’m here, why soldiers destroyed my village, why I don’t even know if my family is still alive. Why I can use magic. Perhaps I never will. But this is my life now; I have to learn how to live it.
I reach for the novice’s robes.