Some lies must remain truths; deception is a necessary evil of the human condition. Unfortunately one thing stands eternal; "truth will out". Such is the inevitability of the Rising.
- Kwaku A. Annan; The Nature of Deception
The Rising Year 1
Location: Lagos, Nigeria
The shaft of glowing light pierces my ribs. It slices so cleanly, so bright and yet so lethal. I barely have enough strength to grunt in pain. The agony is ice cold and yet the release... the release is welcome. Murderers must be murdered.
I try not to cry, but rebel tears slip down my cheek as I shut my eyes. Their trickle is the last thing I feel before the darkness takes me.
***
20 minutes ago (give or take a few minutes)
"Let's go now" my stepfather says. His face has that I-just-ate-a-lemon look.
I shrug out of the seatbelt and hop into the scorching afternoon heat of African harmattan. You really have to feel it to believe it. The sun is working overtime and doing two jobs: providing light and pain.
I keep my thoughts to myself, the step dad claims he has a sense of humor but somehow my witty banter irritates him.
"If you did not keep skipping your sessions your mother wouldn't have made me bring you." He rumbles gruffly.
"Yay for quality time!" I mutter under my breath, His furrowed brows to crease even further in response.
The air conditioning in the waiting room is cranked up really high. It's kind of a shock after the burning hell outside. The receptionist is a plump woman. She has the full treatment: bright scarlet lipstick, too much makeup and claw-like manicured fingers. She's on the phone when we enter. Her heavy lidded eyes widen slightly when she sees us walk in. Not because of me of course; stepfather. He's decked in full lace Agbadga along with that silly walking stick that's an addicted to. The "VIP alert" klaxons in her mind must be blaring.
Receptionist lady springs out of her seat and gives a bob and a simpering smile. "Good afternoon o, Chief, how are you?" she tweets perkily.
"I'm fine, by His grace. How is the family?"
I fade them out as they descend into the maddening small talk that is "culturally appropriate".
Nothing has changed in the waiting room: The carpet still has a hand sized stain under the center table where people don't normally look; one of the fake plastic flowers still has a petal missing; and the magazines on the table are the same ones as when I had my first session three years ago.
The first session was after they had tried to correct me with more conventional means. I started with corporal punishment, moved to traditional medicines and then a stream of never ending deliverance sessions.
The step-dad takes the couch in a sweeping regal way. He's big on encouraging perceptions of grandeur. I sit down more demurely.
The psychiatrist and I are going to do the same dance we always do. She will try and get me to talk, I'll resist and then answer with a few lies, she'll nod sagely in the right places. If that goes well, we'll go through "exercises", she'd prescribe drugs which we both knew I wouldn't take, and then she would end with: "We're making progress Temi, please remember to keep our appointment next week ok?"
Today turns out to be a bit different from what I expected. I enter the inner office after about 15 minutes of waiting. The psychiatrist, whose name I keep on forgetting, starts off on a good foot.
"Let's talk about why you felt you needed to skip two months of assessments," she murmurs in the oddly silent room. I slip into lying mode easily. I'm good at lying, like damn good at it. Especially when I'm looking directly at the person I'm lying to.
I have an extra advantage. I can push skepticism away. I mean, eventually people like my mom and step dad just stop believing every single word I say because of a less than stellar track record. But strangers like this Doctor lady? I can push them easily.
Today, my pushing meets a wall. Not an extra dose of skepticism like with mom and stepfather; a rock solid wall.
As I speak the words, "I felt my frustrations were not being felt by my parents." I know something is off.
Doctor lady is tall and slim, impressively endowed in the chest-al area. Her wire frame glasses give her a wise mother look. Today that wise mother is not impressed.
She raises an eyebrow slightly and says coldly, "Child, you will not use that... trick of yours against me again. I thought you were just a silly girl with a knack and a lack on discipline. I wasn't sure whose acolyte you might be. Surely you couldn't be foolish enough to abuse an exception to the oaths Acolyte."
My throat feels as if it's been gripped in a vise. Acolyte? What is she talking about?
She ignores my shock and continues.
"You have remarkable talent, whoever you trained under must be a strong Speaker. But, your training must be severely lopsided if you haven't noticed that I am far your senior after all these sessions. Who is your Master?"
"Senior? Master" I parrot. Her eyes lock on me directly for the first time in forever and she looks perplexed.
She carefully sets her aged clipboard and pencil on the coffee table beside her settee and leans forward. "We are both of the Society Temi. I know it can be difficult. That's the only reason why I've been playing along with your game. To keep your parents happy."
By now my mind feels how it usually does when faced with elective mathematics problems; dazed and confused. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Her eyes widen she gasps, almost under her breath, "You're telling the truth!"
For the first time since I've met her, Doctor lady is confused. She stands up swiftly and glides like an agitated swan to the large sliding glass window at the far side of the room. Left hand on hip she gazes out of the window, eyes far away as if daydreaming. In my mind's ear there's a faint shshshsh sound.
Finally she turns back to me, a curious her eyes. "You're not Third Society, I just checked the Registry. My acolytes are running though the lists of the Six Societies but... I doubt they will find you. Will they?"
My flight instinct tells me to phase out of the room, but curiosity is stronger so I shake my head mutely. She strides to my settee chair, long skirt swishing lightly, squats before me and holds my hands in between hers gently.
"Have you seen the..." she speaks softly as if sharing a secret
"The dark things?" I continue, "I usually run or kill them".
It's mostly running really, but if she noticed the lie she lets it pass. She purses her lips and her eyes squint slightly behind her designer spectacles. "Kill them how?"
I shrug and smile wanly, "I found out ways. But first; who or what is the 'six societies' and how do you know about the dark things?"
"Darklings," She corrects, as she drops into a lecturing tone. "The under dark is largely unexplained, those creatures were made based on some kind of interaction between it and human thoughts and..."
I tune her out. I'm not a big fan of lectures. Well, that is until she says something like: "We of the Six Societies gain a... richer view of the world. In exchange, we sense dark manifestations and are obliged to suppress their influence in the world."
Doctor lady is trying to initiate me into this cult of dark thing catchers. Now is a good time to leave. I slip my hands out of hers as unobtrusively as possible whilst she goes on about 'methods of banishment, accords and vows of secrecy.'
I try to phase out to a safe place - like, any place besides this one - but I only shimmer and solidify again. A slight twinge of panic tickles the pit of my stomach.
"What are you doing? Our Society do not... cannot dream-shift. It's outside our Path!" Doctor blurts. She stops and composes herself, straightens her glasses and then, in her standard clinical-comfort murmur asks, "Who are you?"
"Definitely not one of you."
A new voice speaks, a soothing exotic tenor. It belongs to a white man in his late twenties. Strictly speaking, his nose, dusky skin and hazel eyes look Middle Eastern, but that's splitting hairs. His accent doesn't fit with any I know and he's dressed in a pale cream khaki suit over a pristine white shirt.
Doctor lady immediately moves between him and myself as if to protect me. She asks him the same two questions I have on my mind: "Who are you and how did you get in!"
"I made a door," he says, chill as iced water, and gestures towards the wall behind him. The eggshell paint-job has a discrepancy it didn't have before: a man sized rectangle of glowing light that fades before our very eyes.
"And as for the other question," he continues, "I prefer to be known as Cross. Most of your people call me Simon. Simon Magus."
Doctor lady makes a choking sound. Simon bows gently, oblivious and says, "Doctor Adegbite I presume? Lovely office."
"They said you're dead." She stutters, flabbergasted. He smiles genially.
"Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I am the closest thing to true, indestructible, immortality there is. The message I tried to pass on was, 'I am as dead'. Consider it a sabbatical from the incessant chatter of your Societies."
In the blink of an eye, glowing white bands wrap around the Doctor. They minimalist set of white chain shackles hold her firmly in place.
"Now, if you could stay still without being such a mother goose over this adorable duckling. She and I have a score that needs settling."
I notice suddenly that similar light shackles latch onto me. I can't so much as lift a finger. It feels terrible.
Simon sits down on Dr. Adegbite's stitched leather chair and crosses his legs. His mood is still genial, but now it has a predatory undercurrent. Arms relax on both armrests as he bores into me with those fiery hazel eyes. He's a lion staring down a lame antelope: relaxed, rapacious and in control.
As I watch him, lines of light steadily form a strange latticework, drawn in the air like a 3-d printed object. The lattice starts in the air in front of him and narrows into a point just above where my heart is.
"As an incentive for you to tell the truth." He explains.
I don't have to ask what he means. Something in my gut tells me that the spike of light is meant to kill. He steeples his fingers, very well manicured and groomed btw, and continues to speak.
"I have tried tracing your signature since I resumed my duties...or should I say, meddling, a year ago. I would have liked to take another decade of rest but," He shrugs with a wry grin "the Rising approaches. I can't twiddle my thumbs forever."
I can't help making a smart-ass comment; fear brings out my big mouth.
"You would have spent ten years twiddling your thumbs? Imagine how ripped they would become with all that exercise."
I curse my stupidity as soon as the words leave my mouth. These walls have been soundproofed so I can't scream and hope someone would save me. Some instinct in my bones tells me that this Simon guy is also somehow behind my inability to phase out of the room. I am totally trapped.
He chuckles lightly "Your witticism could do with an upgrade my dear." He pauses, and then purrs congenially, "That is not the focus of this little... inquisition. See, I had a close friend; he was like a younger brother really. We occasionally had disagreements but I always looked out for him and he did the same for me. His Talisman, the way in which he twisted reality, is similar to yours."
"Ok." I gulp softly. The tension in the air is building. My palms are already moist, totally without my permission.
"The thing is," He continues, "A Talisman transfers, like a curse, to the person who kills the previous holder. It's almost the only way to steal one".
I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as I can, as if doing so will stop up my ears. I know what will come next.
"I already bear quite a powerful Talisman, so killing you gains me nothing. Avenging my friends killer may help me sleep better at night though." His purr is now a growl.
"One question, and I only need one answer. Did you murder Kwaku Annan, the second to be known as Spider?"
My mind reels, with relief - oddly enough - not shock.
"He knows."
My sin has finally caught up to me. After the memories and the guilt rush through my mind, I feel a sense of peace. Finally I can pay for what I did.
All it takes is one word.
"Yes"
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