The Otherling Read online

  "Thank you, Uncle John. The warm milk sounds wonderful." Annaleah wiped her tears from her face and smiled back at her uncle. He bent to the floor to retrieve his fallen glasses, then stood and walked towards the door. "I love you, Uncle John, thank you so much, for everything," she said, her heart brimming with gratitude for all he had done and all that continued to do for her. He turned in the doorway, the lines of worry in his face going soft as love flowed into his expression.

  "Love you too, Annaleah. Be right back."

  As he left, she threw the covers off, intending to get up and wash her face in the bathroom. Dark red Georgia clay caked her bare feet, and a foul crimson liquid splattered her legs. The sheets she had been lying in were also saturated with dirt and blood. Little bits of grass and sticks had dried in clumps within the red clay, sticking to her flesh as a macabre collage. Scratches, ranging from light marks to deep, bleeding gouges marked her flesh, mixing with the red dirt. Her ankles and feet were so thoroughly caked that she saw it had completely covered her toes to her calves, as if she had been bathed in clay and gore. Where she had fallen against the sharp stone in her dream, she bled freely, the blood washing some of the leaves of grass further down as it quickly made its way down her leg.

  The pain hit her shortly after seeing the severity of her situation. She bit into her clenched fist, more tears squeezing from her closed eyes. It was raw and pure, the hot blood felt as if it were searing her as it continued to bleed out, the wound itself reminding her of a gaping maw created from hell itself.

  This had never happened to her before. Her heart raced as she searched for an explanation, trying to block the pain from her mind. She knew in her heart what is must mean, and it terrified her. She had really, truly been somewhere terrible, she had somehow been transported to another reality, another dimension, and had returned with the proof of her travels smeared on her, bleeding from her, and radiating harrowing pain from her body. How could this be? It didn’t even seem like a possibility, but here she was, shaken to her core and staring at the evidence. If this had happened meant it could happen again. This realization pierced fresh fear into her heart. If she brought back sticks, clay and fresh wounds, could she bring back the beings from that world into this one? She trembled, terror permeating her ever breath, every heartbeat heavy with its essence. Would she bring danger to those she loved?

  Annaleah had to calm down before Uncle John returned. Taking a deep breath, she ran her fingers through her hair and wiped the tears from her face, feeling utterly exhausted.

  “Mother, Maiden and Crone, please help me to calm down,” she prayed silently, “I don’t want to scare Uncle John.”

  Deep waves of calmness washed over her, the terror leaving slowly as she exhaled, a subtle peace flowing inwards to her soul as she breathed in. After several meditating breaths, her self-control slowly came back to her, and she relaxed.

  As she continued to take deep, calming breaths, she took the sheets from her bed, wadded them up and threw them in the closet. She didn't want Uncle John to see this; he had enough to worry about. Padding lightly on dirty feet, she called down the stairs to her uncle. "Uncle John, I am going to take a shower, can you leave the milk on my night stand?"

  She heard him rustling about downstairs, then his voice called up, "Sure thing sweetie." She got out a fresh set of sheets, a towel and a new nightgown and headed to the shower.

  She had been dream walking again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shaken

  Monday morning, August 8th 3:15 AM

  It is not often that I’m in such a state as I now find myself in, and, having imbibed my last few fingers of whisky, I find I’m no calmer than before I had partaken of the spirits. For whatever reason I’ve taken up these pages. I am grateful for them now. The relief and catharsis provided in this journal are more than I would have given them credit for before I began. I’m hoping by the time I am finished with this entry, some level of calmness will have returned to me, that my mind will clear of the horrific images burned into it years ago, and now, just recently, revisited upon it.

  I do not dream often, nor do I imagine those like me dream often either; it was not built into our nature to do so. Tonight however, I dreamed. Oh such terrible visions! Memories that scar the very fiber of the soul, searing the depths of it to the core, wounding, breaking, burdening, twisting. There is no forgetting such things, no healing over the scars with layers of soft, pink flesh. Some wounds never heal; some pains will never cease, but can only be forced back into the darkest shadows of one's being, given a long chain and a playground in the blackest parts of the soul. It is best not to visit this place often. Indeed, it is prudent to guard one's self from this hateful place, and ensure no one ever gets close enough to see it within.

  The burning, oh, the hateful smell of burning feathers, of flesh ignited and blood spilled freely over the torn earth! I saw again how the sky itself was dark and bruised by all those who fell, screaming, burning, bleeding and fighting as they fell, leaving trails of feathers and blood in the air behind them. So many sounds at once, screams and war cries, pleading prayers that fell deaf to the one to whom they prayed. Metal on metal, bones crushing and blood flowing so freely that I could hear it being absorbed into the earth. Brother against brother, the innumerable deaths of those who once could not die. So much suffering, so much pain, the sense of betrayal hot and thick in the air. Madness, decay, fear, pain, the first ever palpitations of hatred.

  Tonight, I dreamed of it all again. It was as if I were living it once more, being punished over and over again for sins never meant to be committed. I saw those I loved torn apart, I felt their blood wash over me like a cursed rain. I heard their cries and could do nothing to help. The war raged on around me, but I was unable to do anything to affect my surroundings, as if I were a ghost in my own dream. I was trapped and helpless in this forsaken, Goddess cursed place, surrounded by death, war and madness. I was back in a place that no being should ever have to revisit, and for the first time in so very, very long, I was afraid.

  I awoke with a scream in my throat, choking with the effort not to let it loose. The visions of my dreams still burned behind my eyes, and I shook as I rose from my bed. Why on earth, after all this time, would I be dreaming of this? I am seldom one to lose my composure, but to be forced to relive even a single second of that! Why these dreams would revisit me is beyond my understanding. I know they cannot be healed, but they can be sealed off, shuttered and forgotten, condemned to be sequestered and quarantined for the remainder of my days. Why have they broken free? What has happened to call them forth?

  I cannot help but wonder, does this have anything to do with the woman child who has come into my life, the beautiful and strange girl called Annaleah? I can sense she has some sort of power, but it is so controlled. Is she even aware she possesses such ability, does she know how the air itself seems to hum around her, or am I simply seeing something that isn’t there? I wish I knew, but I am much too exhausted to contemplate it further.

  I feel none the better for having written this, only more wearied. Perhaps I deserve this, for what I have done, or maybe for that which I did not do. If this is my punishment, then I shall bear it with dignity. It is the least I can do. For now, however, I must put this away and hope that the remainder of my night is without further event. My first day of classes will occur with or without me having had sound sleep, so for now I must finish this and hope that no more dreams come. Tomorrow will be difficult enough, training a new teacher, without me being sleep deprived and in a foul mood.

  ~SB~

  Chapter Twelve

  Breakfast with Uncle John

  Annaleah woke the next morning exhausted and feeling slightly hung over, even though she had not partaken of any alcohol the night before. The light streaming from a crack in her curtain made her wince and want to bury herself under her sheets, ignoring the day's importance. Never one to concede to her pain or discomfort, she threw the covers back fro
m the bed, hoping not to see any more mud or debris from her dreams. There was nothing on the sheets she had changed before collapsing back into bed, thankfully into dreams she didn’t recall.

  She had dressed her wound before she went to sleep the night before, and only a little blood stained the bandage. Wincing as she sat up, she took a deep breath to steady herself before she got up and put weight on her wounded leg. The throbbing ache was something fierce, but she knew the importance that the day held for her, so she willed herself to bear it as best she could. Praying once more to her Goddess for strength and forbearance, she reached over to her bedside table and took the aspirin she had laid out last night, knowing she would need it this morning.

  Annaleah could hear Uncle John downstairs, fixing her breakfast. The smell of fresh ground coffee and bacon made their way up to her, and she smiled, despite her lack of sleep. He always got the finest coffees, dark, rich and smooth with no bitter after taste.

  Heading down the stairs slowly, Annaleah took the book the Professor had given her the day before, which she had read only a very little of before falling asleep. She planned on seeing if he would let her sit on the sidelines for the first few days to observe his class and teaching style, before being immersed into teaching herself. If he did expect her to teach today, she wasn't sure how she would handle it. She simply did not have the energy mentally or physically to do so.

  Uncle John was wearing his fuzzy green bathrobe over flannel pajamas, his light brown hair sticking up in various places, obviously uncombed. He hummed as he worked over the stove, swinging his hips a bit as he cooked. The table was set simply but tastefully, a vase full of summer flowers in the center. He had picked climbing hydrangeas and mixed smaller bunches of it in with black eyed Susan and the sleepy bells of columbines in hues of blue, pink and red.

  "Where did you find the columbines, Uncle John?' Annaleah asked, leaning over the table to admire the blooms. They were her favorite flower, and that he had found some and put them on the table meant a lot to her. Suddenly she wasn't so tired and wasn’t in as much pain any more.

  Uncle John spun around on his heel, wooden spoon in his hand, a big smile on his kind face. "Miss Delland grows them in her garden," he answered her, "along with the other flowers. I fixed a leaky pipe for her in return for those. I think I made a fair trade." Uncle John set the spoon down, poured them each a cup of fresh coffee, and began to place their breakfast onto plates. Annaleah watched her uncle for a moment, smiling, then walked over to him and placed a kiss on his cheek. For a moment, he looked a bit startled, but then his face relaxed and he beamed back at her. She might be in her early twenties and considered a woman now, but he would always see her as his little girl. He looked at the young woman standing before him, who, having survived the abandonment of her father, the death of her mother, being bullied most of her school years, and so many other things, had borne her fair share of burdens without resentment at her fate. Being different than others had only made her work harder in her studies, and made her love those that loved her as she was all the more. She had become quite the young woman.

  "I'm proud of you, kiddo," Uncle John said, handing her a plate of food and then seating himself at the table. "I want you to have a good day. Don't let anyone or anything get you down, okay? Not even that Bainbridge guy."

  Annaleah took her seat and looked at her plate. It was piled with eggs, bacon, toast and strawberries. Uncle John must really be proud of her, he rarely cooked, and it all looked so good. "I won't let anyone get to me, Uncle John," she promised, spooning scrambled eggs onto her toast. "Thank you so much for the breakfast, and for the flowers too."

  "Columbines were your mother's favorite flower too, you know," Uncle John told her, his eyes looking just a tiny bit sad. "She used to plant them in our garden with your grandmother when we were little. She said the fairies liked them, and that if you left small gifts under them for the fairy folk, you could make a wish and it come true. I believed her, too. I saw her put a bit of chocolate under them every so often, but I never asked her what she wished for." He sighed, a faraway look in his green eyes. "She would be proud of you. Of all you have gone through and remaining unbroken, of all the hard work and long nights you spent studying. It would have meant so much to her."

  Annaleah reached over her plate, plucked a pink columbine from the vase and placed it behind her left ear. "Then I'll wear this for Mom," she said softly, "so that where ever it is that her spirit may be, she can see her daughter honoring her memory."

  Uncle John smiled at her, and seemed to be perfectly content in the moment. “Well, now that’s just beautiful, my dear. You’re going to melt that Professor's heart. Teaching class will be easy because everyone will be looking at you and telling you what a lovely creature you are."

  Annaleah laughed at this, and winked at her sweet, silly uncle. "Let's hope so," she said, thinking how wonderful it would be if things would go that way. Bless Jonathan Alan Grace, for all the right things he said. He knew just how to make things seem like they would be okay. If it were true that the day went according to how to morning did, then today would be a fine one indeed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Just Before Class Begins

  The Georgian sun was already warm in the cloudless azure sky, its heat blissful on Annaleah's skin as she walked to her first day of classes at the University. She only had a few periods to teach a day, the earliest of which was at ten AM. It was about half past eight now, but she had wanted to arrive early to see what the Professor expected of her today. Though her wonderful morning with Uncle John had eased a lot of the tension from last night's terror, she was still more tired than she would have liked, and she hoped it wouldn't affect her sensibilities too much.

  As her trendy black kitten heels fell upon the pavement in a rhythmic cadence, her thoughts turned to the man with whom she would be teaching. She wondered how old he was and where he was from. He couldn't be past his early forties, she guessed, for there were no discernible lines in his face. Though far from stuffy and boring, he dressed too maturely to be much younger than that, and, although he was quite stylish, he didn't follow the trends of those in her age bracket. As to where he was from, he was most certainly not from the South, that much she was sure of. His voice was low and rich in timber, his words perfectly enunciated, but not strained with effort to be so. There wasn't a trace of a drawl, though he did have an accent, like a cross between a noble English Lord and a Russian aristocrat.

  Turning the last corner onto the campus, Annaleah saw several students. She smiled at some and said hello to a few others, her heart beating with excitement with the possibilities of the day. Balloons and a banner welcoming the pupils had been hung at the entrance to the main hall, where the classroom she would share with Professor Bainbridge was located. The sound of laughter, music and the buzz of conversations filled the air around her, as well as a few university cheers from some of the returning students, mostly the football jocks she mused, from the look of their letter jackets. The University had a very good football team, with many prestigious trophies and awards to show for it.

  The door to Annaleah's classroom was slightly open, but she knocked anyway, waiting for the Professor's voice to invite her inside. Instead, after a brief moment, the door opened and she stood looking into the dark eyes of the Professor.

  "Miss Grace, you don’t have to knock at the door of your own classroom. Please come in," Professor Bainbridge said, opening the door and walking back towards his dark wooden desk. "You are rather early. Is there something you wished to speak to me about?"

  "Yes sir, actually there is," Annaleah answered. "I did do a bit of reading from the book you gave me, but I was wondering exactly what you were expecting of me for today. You and I weren't given a lot of time to get to know each other, or to come up with a way to teach together that suited us both. I really just want to be on the same page as you, Professor." Though she still felt a bit intimidated by him, she spoke with confidence, proud
of herself for not shaking as she had in his apartment.

  The Professor regarded her stonily, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were deep in thought. After a moment he said, "Actually Miss Grace, there won't be much to do today beyond introductions and a basic speech as to what the class is about. The curriculum will be handed out, books given, etcetera." The Professor took a seat behind his desk, opened a drawer, took out a book and handed it to Annaleah. "This is the main book we will be using in class and a copy of the curriculum. I should have given these to you yesterday, but you seemed quite happy to be gone from my apartment. I believe you have plenty of time if you'd like to read over it before class starts."

  As Annaleah took the book from the Professor, she noticed his hands. They were pale with long fingers, more like those of a pianist or an artist than a teacher, she thought absently. "Thank you, sir. I will look at it now," she said as she turned to leave, heading towards a bench outside to settle in and read over the book as she waited for class to begin.

  Professor Bainbridge remained at his desk, focused on some faraway place that only existed in his mind. He was still perturbed by last night's dream, having not had one like it in quite a long time. Dreams of that manner did not occur without reason. They were usually the precursor to something important, serving either as a warning or an omen of some kind. Having been so close to her only moments ago, he was now certain Annaleah was part of it, though he was no closer to figuring out how. He tried to concentrate on how she fit into last night’s dream, but all he could think about was how she affected him. When she was beside him, something about the flower in her hair had awoken in him something he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before. It was an uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach which rose like a flame into his chest, making his heart beat faster. It was as if the smell of the flower had floated through the air to intoxicate him. Combined with her presence, it enchanted him, making him feel weak. The bloom nestled divinely in her hair, its scent not too strong, but very sweet. He saw the way her hair flowed around it, like a blonde cascade of curls that ended just above her bottom. She looked innocent, sweet, fresh. Her deep green eyes appeared wide with wonder and youth, full of life and all the enchantment that came with it.