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CHAPTER ONE
A Star flared into
the dark
splintering it
into a myriad
prisms.
Thought became
matter.
Samantha cradles against the icy window,
gazing at the snow that lies battered on the street. In her head, a distant
sound of sleigh bells ring. She watches cars and people as they rush to their
holiday destinations. They look carefree, happy to greet the New Year. This is
too much for her. The steel vice that has lodged around her heart tightens as
it beats.
Samantha's raw fingers melt the frost on
the window pane. Her anxious eyes once again seek the candle. It flickers, but
goes on burning. She gnaws on her lips with her strong teeth, oblivious to the
blood that fills her mouth. Last New Year twilight, the wick of the new candle
merged with that of the old. The light was transposed to live forever. Since
then, an endless string of candles have passed from her wax- burnt trembling
hands, yet, her anxiety continues.
Tonight, as she stares out of her frosty
window, the vortex starts pulling on her again. Again, she is powerless to
resist. Again the despair begins. A sudden draft seeps through the cracks. The
flame flickers. She gasps, running to the candle. She kneels before it,
tenderly protecting it. But the icy breath, toying with the flame, blows it
out. A shadow passes over the room. Samantha screams.
***
Mika's eyes snap open. Gasping for air, she sits up in bed, clutching
the covers. Disoriented, her eyes go to the moonlit window. A tree branch is
knocking furiously against the pane. Trying to still her beating heart, she
takes a few deep breaths. Bringing her fist up to rub her eyes, she quickly
drops it down again. Her face is
drowning in tears.
“It’s happening again,” she mutters. The
dream she thought had left her, has come back with a vengeance. Throwing off
the covers, she swings her legs over the side of the bed. "Water."
she thinks and, like a sleepwalker, she moves across the deep rug of the room,
into the hall, down the stairs, to the kitchen.
The water runs cold out of the chrome tap.
She cups her hands and drinks greedily. Then, wiping her mouth, she supports
her shaking body on the counter and gazes out into the sparkling garden and,
beyond that, the lake. She wonders if she will ever sleep through a whole night
again.
Her eyes, grainy from lack of sleep, find
it difficult to focus. Her body, stiff from the dream, is reluctant to move.
Her mind protests. Knowing that it is futile even to try sleep, she decides not
to attempt the charade, preparing coffee, instead.
Mechanically, she trudges back up to the
bathroom. She splashes cold water on her face and reaches for the towel.
Catching her reflection in the mirror, she hesitates. “Why does my face always
look unfamiliar to me at first glance?” The chestnut hair, the hazel eyes, the
long nose and full mouth have been with her for thirty years. Yet, it is the
face of a stranger.
Returning to the kitchen, she pours
herself a generous cup of coffee, hoping that it will revive her. Its rich
blackness fills her mouth, fills her body with artificial energy. Her heart,
however, remains untouched and heavy in her chest. Mika wonders when the joy
had left her life.
She could have been out, celebrating New
Year's but she did not have to heart to go through the motions. She smiles wryly.
She has never had the best sense of timing, choosing the one time in the year
when loneliness can be deadly, to break off her engagement. But, she knows she
had to be honest with him. She has never been one to hide from the truth and
the truth is, she does not see herself as David's wife.
She probably can’t be anyone’s wife. Her
career has always been her passion and now with the dream returning... She shakes
her head to stop its descent into darkness. “This is no time to make
commitments, when I’m losing my mind.”
***
The house occupies one of the largest
corner lots in the area. Its walls are covered with a vine that never fades,
but flares red in the fall. The stone that was said to have been brought over
from England
Tonight the house is decked out in its
festive splendour, solidly oblivious to the howling winds and blowing snow.
Trees and bushes flash with lights, bejewelled with fairy lights. Beautiful ice
sculptures of fairies and elves frolic on the snow-covered lawn. The orange
glow of firelight spills out onto the frozen shapes, spotlighting their wintry
glory. Passers-by stop to gape through the wrought iron gates, awed at the
marvellous spectacle, thinking how lucky the occupants of the house must be.
Inside, Charlotte Burke paces, glancing at
her daughter who reciprocates with a shrug. Her expensive pumps make no sound
on the deep, caramel rug as she continues her pacing. The special dinner she
planned, has long grown cold, but she could care less. The clock is perilously
close to midnight and still
no sign of Jonathan or Samantha.
Finally, she sits down with an exasperated
sigh. "That girl is going to drive me to the nearest asylum. Where can she
be? Sometimes I wonder who she takes after, with her eccentric notions and
fantastical ideas. Where did I go wrong Stephanie?"
The
younger woman eyes her mother wearily, as she replaces the loose blond strand
in its elegant coil. "Mom. We've gone over this again and again. You’ve
got to let her be. She'll snap out of it. Hopefully."
Stephanie secretly berates herself for
giving up a date with the scrumptious Fernando to come to this family dinner.
She flicks her shell pink nail in irritation. "Will you please relax? He's
probably trying to convince her to come."
"See. That's exactly what I mean. Why
should he be trying to convince Samantha to come spend New Year's Eve with her
family? It's not as if her social calendar is crammed with engagements. Oh.
Listen to me. Is that the door?"
Stephanie flips through her phone.
"No. It's the wind."
It makes a mourning sound as it knocks on
the windows and brushes against the trees. Its sound makes the listener glad to
be inside and warm, away from its eerie mood. The two women listen to the wind,
each absorbed in her own thoughts, her own feelings of guilt. The ring of the
phone makes both mother and daughter turn and look at the instrument with almost
identical expressions of horror.
"Would you like me to get that
mother?"
"Don't be silly. I'm closer."
The receiver wavers slightly in her hand. "Hello?"
***
The pub is full of New Year's revellers. A
smoky haze hovers over and around the milling crowd. The music from the pop
charts has quite a few people convulsing on the floor. Curtis orders tonic
water and settles in his favoured seat at the end of the bar where he can keep
an eye on the action, unnoticed.
He remains oblivious to the voltage that
attracts the female moths to his aloofness.
He scans the room of the small popular pub, ever on the lookout for a
trail, a lead, an inside scoop. He is never disappointed, because his training
has given him, if nothing else, an uncanny sense for detail.
When he was offered the position of investigator
on a special task force, he wasn't sure that he wanted it. He had been used to
traveling, and his career with the military suited him fine. But after his injury,
he decided that active duty would have to be shelved, for the time being. So he
accepted the job, with certain conditions.
The Commisioner was so pleased to have him
that he accepted Curtis’ terms immediately, needing someone who is extremely
good at undercover work. His uncut charisma and his unrelenting thoroughness
have won him great successes in the past year. Curtis accepted the praise but steered
clear of close associations and political game playing.
Even deep in thought, his mind is always
keenly aware of its surroundings. In one corner sits a languid red-head with a
short tight skirt and legs that go on forever. "Every man's wet
dream," his lip curls at the thought. She sits nonchalantly, her nose high
in the air, slowly sipping her drink. He sees through the pantomime, of course.
The message in her glance is unmistakable, but he is not interested.
His phone starts vibrating and he reaches
for it. Being on call at night like this has never bothered Curtis, but when he
sees the message, he grunts in exasperation.
A woman is at East General with a coma.
A
neighbour heard her scream before she
was
found, can you take this?
Everyone
else is on a call or not available.
He punches in his answer, gulps down his
drink and leaves.
***
The hospital's attempt at holiday cheer is
futile to those who have to spend time there. Charlotte, Stephanie and Jonathan
sit close together in one of the waiting rooms. Incomprehension is etched on
their faces as they search each other's eyes for consolation but find
confusion.
Jonathan rests his face in his hands to
avoid the many questions he cannot answer. Although he was the one to find his
sister, he still cannot coherently piece together a story with a semblance of
logic. When he got the apartment, there was no answer. But a feeling in his gut
made him force the disgruntled super to open the door.
He found her lying inert on the floor, the
blood drained from her face and body. When the concerned neighbour hurried into
tell them that he heard her scream, a frozen anxiety gripped him while he
waited for the medics to arrive. The fact that neither he, nor the EMS could
revive her when they arrived seemingly hours later did nothing to ease his
foreboding.
Samantha is lying in a coma and no one can
find the cause.
The doctors are obviously puzzled and have
pumped the bewildered family for any clue as to why Samantha can be lying inert
and unreachable on a hospital bed. Her blood stream shows no evidence of drug
use. Has she ever been a drug user? No. There is no sign of trauma anywhere on
her body. Has she taken a bad fall recently? No. Has she had epilepsy or mild
psychosis? No! Each assumption is more horrible and unfounded than the rest.
The cruel fact remains there is no explanation.
"Mother, please. Dramatics are not
your style. We all knew that there was something wrong with Sam. We tried
everything to help her snap out of it. She built a wall around herself and
wouldn't let anyone in."
"Jonathan's right, mom. Please don't
start this, again. It's so useless. Sam isn't a baby. She had, has, options. She
just hasn’t exercised them. There was nothing we could do to foresee let alone
prevent this. Even the doctors seem stumped."
"Is it possible that depression can
lead to coma?"
"Jonathan. That's preposterous!"
"The resident psychologist will like
to ask us some questions about Samantha. They want to compile a psychological
profile." Charlotte
"What has gone so wrong with
Samantha's life that she has to end up like this?"
Jonathan shakes his head that feels heavy
with weariness. "That Stephanie is the million dollar question."
***
The moon hangs low, glows bright in the
heavy winter night. The glassy, manufactured beauty of the city shimmers on the
cold horizon. The water lies neutral, a
translucent green. The tiny weather-beaten boats waddle like drunken geese
against the dock. All is still on the pier. The pleasure craft, covered and
stored by their owners for the winter remain silent. Nothing moves on the
marina.
Kiro sits on his boat, cross-legged. Its
gentle rocking lulls him. His eyes, intense beams of light, scan the purple
horizon. His mind, trained to still its wanderings, focus on the foggy light of
the ghostly orb. His body, subordinated by his powerful spirit, rests. An
immobile clay statue.
Only his hair, coal black and long, sways
in the snow-filled gust. He tastes the flakes on his lips. His whole body
echoes the deep vibrations of the water and sky. He closes his eyes and once
again the images pass through.
A tall slim girl, candle white.
A man running from his demons.
A woman on a trail, stalked by hurt.
Slowly, he opens his eyes and steps off
his boat, reaching for his cell phone. It is time to go home.
***
"Can you tell me a little about
Samantha's childhood? It will help to have some background and possibly piece
the steps that brought her here."
I lost my husband when Samantha was three
and my twins newly born.
I remember the day everything changed. It
was a week before her nineteenth birthday. All the plans had been set. She was
to go to Montreal
That afternoon, Samantha sought me out in
my garden studio. She sat down on a stool and watched me hack at my latest
sculpture. All day I had an uneasy, restless feeling, and I naturally thought I
was reading into things. I let her be waiting to hear what was so obviously
going through her mind. I can honestly say I felt my spine tingle.
Suddenly, I could stand the suspense no
longer, so I turned to look at my quiet daughter. It wasn't that she was simply
staring out the window that alarmed me; she did that often; it was her faraway expression. To this day it
haunts me. I was about to say something, I don't know what, when she told me
she found a job and an apartment and that she was moving out at the end of that
month.
In vain I tried to get an explanation, I
even resorted to pleading and threats, but I was met with stony silence. I
recruited Jonathan and Stephanie but they too reached a stalemate. Samantha's
mind had been quietly, sweetly, irrevocably made up. True to my beliefs, I
backed off, and true to her word, and, as always, without much ado, she moved
out on her nineteenth birthday. And that was when everything started to go
wrong."
"What mother means is that things started
falling apart for Sam, when she moved out and got a job at a small occult
store. It wasn't what the store specialized in that bothered us; it was that it
had an air of chicanery to it. The people that went there were the odds and
ends of humanity. They drifted in for a chat, a cup of tea, a reading, a
talisman, a trinket, a book. Most of them spoke in hieroglyphics, others spoke
not at all just fixed one with their entranced eyes, or simply stared past at
something I surely could not see.
They sought spiritual wisdom and comfort,
and they found it in Samantha, I believe, not in the owners of that...
establishment."
The doctor nods, taking detailed notes.
"Can you tell me a little about her state of mind when she worked at this
store?"
Jonathan let out a ragged sigh. "It's
hard to tell what was going on her head. I can tell you what she looked like.
She started dressing exclusively black and her hair, which had gone completely
silver grey within a year, was always hanging down her back in a braid. But
it's her eyes, pale blue, incredibly big on her small pointed face that burn in
my memory."
The doctor looks up sharply. "Can you
explain what you mean please?"
"I don't know how to explain."
Stephanie, who has been silently fiddling
with the patent strap of her bag, clears her throat. "What Jon means is
that she had this kind of vacant look about her. She smiled a lot, but it was
an empty smile. Do you know what I mean?"
The doctor studies the attractive blond
who has been unable to hide her reluctance at being here. "Do you think
her place of employment caused these changes?"
Stephanie nods. "Definitely! They closed the place down last year. The
owner was arrested for fraud and embezzlement. Too late to help Samantha
though."
"What did Samantha do then?"
Their guilt was almost palpable. Family
therapy might be necessary in the future, but right now he has a puzzle on his hands,. "Ms. Burke, you said something earlier about the store closing
being to too late for Samantha. What did you mean by that?”
"After the store closed down last
year, it was as if she too, shut down, lost direction. I tried talking her into
getting another, better job, or going back to her studies. But she wouldn't.
What got me really mad were these people who
would come over seeking I don't know what... salvation from Sam? They just
sapped the energy out of her. She read their cards. What a crock! They claimed
that she was always right! She held their hands and talked them out of whatever
particular frenzy held them. Truthfully, it gave me the creeps."
With a grim look on his otherwise
unreadable face, Doctor Lazlow closes the folder, knowing it is time to bring
in a specialist.
