I hold my hands up in defeat, smiling apologetically.
“As I was saying… an elder from our tribe taught me a few tricks, not all of them worked for me, but we’ll give them a go.”
“What do I do?”
Over the next few hours, Kali tells me to imagine there’s a door to my mind and to lock it. And I do, I imagine a giant wooden door with carving similar to that on Pria’s temple, but no matter how hard I turn the lock, nothing happens. Then, I try controlling my breathing. Inhaling and exhaling until I am lightheaded, regardless of the number of breaths, I still can’t shield.After a few more failed attempts, I rest my hands on my knees.
“Okay, last one,” Kali says exasperated. “Please let this be the one,” she says under her breath. I nod, squaring my stance, readying for whatever method she wants to try. “Try building a wall around yourself.”
I stare at her with my head tilted, “A wall? With bricks or wood?”
“Not an actual wall, idiot. One in your mind. If you want to build it out of fireflies, I couldn’t care less. Just… build... a wall.”
“Okay, okay. I was just checking.”
Kali inhales. “Close your eyes. Now I want you to start building a wall high around yourself, over your head if you want. It’s your wall, do it however you choose.”
In my mind, I picture bricks and stones and wood, spending far too long deciding which would make the strongest imaginary wall. From a place deep in my memory, an image of the cottage appears. In my mind, I build it around myself. My safe place. Stone by stone, window by window, with the thatched roof on top. With Mum, Elana, and Wyatt inside, waiting for me to come home.
“You did it.” She jumps up and down, clapping her hands and squealing, “I can’t sense your magic anymore.” I laugh under my breath. She is the most energetic and overwhelming person I have ever met. She stops jumping, “Okay, now I can, but that’s fine. You just need practice.”
After my victory, I allow myself a late morning before heading to Nightmare Manor. Finally, I have managed some sort of control, and for the first time in weeks I’m feeling hopeful. I know I still have a long way to go, but one step at a time.
One day, I will be in control.
Wandering around the town, I take in the array of traveller merchants that have come to Cyvail today, setting up stalls. A delicious, warm sugary smell lures me to the bakery stall. Filled to the brim with chocolate rolls, hot sticky buns, sugar cakes, and honey cakes; the list is endless. I could spend hours salivating over them all, but instead, I buy a few chocolate rolls for Myles and myself and drag my feet away.
I admire a stand encumbered with colourful gemstones glittering in the morning sun. A necklace that looks remarkably similar to the one I lost, catches my eye. I caress it, feeling the nicks and grooves of the stones. Close but not the same. It doesn’t feel like Dad, like my old one did.
Smiling politely at the vendor, I walk away. The sweet smell of the cakes disappears behind a foul stench, and a shiver snakes up my spine. Spinning round to the vendor, they’re occupied with another customer. I’m losing it. My mind is playing tricks on me, reminding me not to become too comfortable.
The sweet aromas of the perfume counter, disperses the stench and fills the air with jasmine, vanilla, and one I don’t recognise. It has a strong, tropical, exotic smell, like jasmine and tuberose, but different fruity scents.
“Frangipani,” The perfumer says. “It’s an exotic flower from the islands. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Nodding, I slip away into the crowd. As much as I would love to smell good for a change, I shouldn’t spend the coin we barely have.
The town has begun setting up for the harvest festival. The townsfolk mentioned it’s a tradition here to celebrate the harvest and pay homage to the gods for a bountiful crop. Garlands hang between buildings in soft autumnal tones: orange, browns, and golds.
With Samhain just around the corner, kids have started their carvings of pumpkins and turnips into ghostly and scary faces, to ward off the phantoms who are said to walk freely that night. But despite its ominous description, none of the children fear it, in fact, it’s a day they look forward to.
The unbridled joy of this town is familiar, like the comforting earthy, herbal scent of Mum, after a long day of healing. Somewhere, I could see myself settling down.
Later in the afternoon, I leisurely walk towards the governor’s house. Strangely, I find myself excited about another day of teaching—a very different feeling from those first few days. At least the pranks have ceased, those were horrifying: exploding runes, worms in the teapot, an enchanted book that whistled andcalled my name. The most annoying being when the girls refused to speak and would only answer me in a bark.
Since I stopped reacting to their antics, I found that Eliza was actually a sweet and curious girl, she asked me questions about my family and my childhood, which I gladly answered. Megan was more stubborn, definitely the instigator of the pranks I have endured. Since her partner in crime is now fraternising with the enemy, she would pout and sulk in the corner, glaring at us out of the corner of her eye.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of her, and she initiated questions about Vendyl. I sat astonished, quickly turning towards the bookshelf to hide my smile, taking a few books out to compose myself before returning to their questions.
The gate to the manor is open as usual, but as I head to the front door, shouting and screaming from within make my feet run faster. Knocking hard on the solid wooden door, no one answers. I peer around the house looking for anyone outside, gazing through the windows, hoping for a gap in the darkened curtains.
The shouting gets louder and more ferocious. I twist the door handle and push it open slightly, calling inside, amongst all the yelling, no one seems to notice my presence. I push the door open further and make to step into the house when a thundering of feet runs down the stairs, rushing past me deep into the house.
I follow the loud voices into the grand dining room, the most well-kept room in the manor, or just unused. With only a thin layer of dust collected along the surfaces, the sage green walls are worn but still quite vibrant.
In the centre of the room is a large oak table, carefully varnished over the years. At the other end of the room, the governor stands with his palms resting on the table while his daughters scream at him.
Still, no one notices my presence, I sit down on one of the chairs, waiting for a moment to announce myself. Listening closely, I make out a few words: ‘tutor,’ ‘necessary,’ ‘mother.’ The screaming gives me a headache, and anger boils inside. I push up, gripping the table, and the chair collapses behind me.