The water rippled in the silver bowl, and I sighed as I pushed it away. I could never remember clearly what I saw in the trance-like state while I gazed through the crystalline liquid. However, I believed that my subconscious would retain enough information to influence my decisions for the better. I would never make a living as a fortune-teller, but I might be happier.
I briefly touched the surface of the water, and watched the ripples.
"Nothing goes the way you want."
Startled, I jerked my head up and looked around rapidly to see who had entered my room. There was no one; of course there was no one. I knew no one but my family, and if one of them had wanted me, they would have called for me to come out. They knew better than to disturb me at my altar, and risk a rare show of temper. Yet I had been sure that I heard a male voice. Not my father's voice. I swallowed, and spoke aloud. That was something I rarely did, even in company. This would be the first time I had spoken alone. I hoped I wasn't alone. But I would be very angry with anyone who was here.
"Usually, things turn out in a way I am satisfied with," I answered. "Sometimes not. Like now."
"Nothing goes the way you want. Tomorrow, that won't matter, like a clay that has found permanence; you're stuck with fatalistic dogma which can't be helped. Pay allegience to your creed."
It didn't sound like the man was speaking to me. It sounded like a recital of some kind. Frowning, I stood up, staring blindly at the wall above my altar. "Mes dieux," I said carefully, "Gods, you know I choose to have no creed above another, simply leaving monotheism out so that no god is before or after Yahweh. I do not choose to pay allegiance to a specific creed, and I hope you do not intend to bully me into it!" I swallowed. If almost any religion was accurate, gods who wanted attention would get attention and would make miserable the life of the person who tried to go against them. "I am my own person, and while I appreciate being allowed to live on this world, I will continue to make my own choices regardless of threats implied or stated!"
Or was I merely going insane, and hearing voices that weren't there? I slowly sat down and mumbled, "Go away. I'm not going to listen to you. Go away. Go away, go away, go away."
The voice spoke again in a measured cadence:
nothing goes the way you want
tomorrow that won't matter
like clay that never finds permanence
you're stuck with fatalistic dogma
which can't be helped
pay allegience
to your creed
It was poetry! The realization sent a shock through me. I half looked over my shoulder and tried toreply in kind. My mind stumbled through half a dozen of my own poems before settling on something that seemed to be approximately the same subject.
"Black and white;
These are the ultimate opposites of the universe.
To make a trilogy,
All wanting to stay the same:
Black and white;
Day and night;
Dark and light.
And they rhyme!
But . . .
The middle
Is vice versa.
The opposites are the same,
But their order means naught."
I felt the shock rush through me. Shock from the other poet. Eyes were looking for me. I didn't know if I wanted to hide or not. I pulled the silver bowl towards me, clumsily. The water splashed. I tried to clean it up with the edge of my shirt before it could ruin the altar cloth or the wood beneath.
"Who are you?" I demanded, staring into the water. The voice couldn't hear me. "You're not a god, are you?"
Poetry. Poetry must be the key. Maybe it was a muse. If so, why would a muse want me? It seemed to be the muse of religious poetry. Was that Clio? But the muses were all female. Maybe Apollo.
"Apollo, show yourself to me," I said, trying to will it so. Nothing. "Think, think . . . A question poem. I need a question."
"Should auld acquaintence be forgot
and left to linger on mountintop?"
A flutter of fur suddenly flung itself in my face. I gaped and twisted around in my chair, raising up my hands to protect myself. The owner of an angry face grabbed the silver bowl and upended it, splashing all the water on my carpet, then threw the bowl out the door.
"Stop it!" she said. "You're scaring him!"
I was scaring him? She was scaring me! "No!" I shouted. "I said I wouldn't change for the gods, and I won't change for you!" Even if she was right here, in front of me. Exactly as I had pictured her. As I had written about. "You're Kolano!" I stood up. Suddenly, with a name, she was much less scary, even if she had appeared out of nowhere, even if I was worked up, eaten with curiosity and annoyance, and the worry from the voice was overflowing onto me. It helped that, even if her wings filled most of my room, I was over a head taller than her.
"Give the lady a prize," Kolano said dryly. "No more reciting poetry, understand?"
"But . . ."
"Not buts!"
"H - he started it!"
Kolano suddenly reached up and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my face down to stare intently into my eyes. My mouth worked like a fishes' groping for something the say. "So, it works both ways?" she asked quietly. "Never mind. He has to write poetry. You'll just have to ignore it."
I gave a little laugh and reared back, rubbing my head. I was good at ignoreing things. "No more poetry?" I asked. That would hurt even more than having all my hair pulled out.
"You can write it. Just don't say it. And . . ." Kolano shook a finger at me. "What's your name? I never knew."
A million magical uses for names flew into my mind. I didn't want to give her the power over me that might come with knowing my name. I kept my mouth shut and my face blank.
"I don't need to know for myself, but he'll want to know."
I wanted to know who he was, too, but I didn't want to ask. Kolano must have read that in my face, because she suddenly smiled, a largely unused smiled.
"You keep writing, young lady. Write all you can. I'll give you his identity if you'll give me your name. You already know mine, so you must know that I can be trusted."
"I know you're to be trusted in affairs of state," my mouth said without me willing it. "I also know that I'm completely different from your state. I'm American. The supernatural has no hold over me." I noticed my hands and shoulders trembling and quickly went through a relaxation exercise. "Um, would you like to sit down?" I gestured to my chair in front of the altar and to my bed, giving her a choice.
"I won't be here long." She looked around. "Too cramped. Would you be interested, my fine young writer, in knowing that our poet is also your brother?"
I bit my lips. Stephen? He was still alive? My mental hold on myself flew all to pieces, and I started shivering violently.
"What's your name, sister of my son?" Kolano asked intently.
"Amarantha," I whispered. "M-my parents . . ."
"Tell them nothing."
"Where is he? He's my . . . Should know him . . ."
"You just forget about meeting him until you finish your book," Kolano interrupted. It was probably a good thing. My mouth wanted to speak, but my brain wasn't cooperating.
"Which one?" I shifted my eyes around the room. Five hundred books on three bookcases, plus a pile from the library.
"Your first one. That you've written."
"I finished it already. And the second, too. And I've started lots more. Years ago. Or do you mean the rewrite? It's . . . not very good."
Kolano's face was a poker face now, studying me but revealing nothing. "Keep writing, then," she said. "And . . . expect more of us." She vanished. The room suddenly felt much larger, and yet far too small.
I went outside to get a breath of fresh air and bumped into Jenny, just arriving home. She took one look at me and asked, "Amy? Is something wrong?"
I rapidly ran through the relaxation exercise again, then shook myself. "I always look like this," I answered vacantly, and walked past her. 'Little sister, my twin brother is still alive. You have an older brother.' I couldn't say it.
I walked to the park and went up the tree. I was barely shaken at all when, some amount of time later - minutes or hours, I could not judge - I heard Stephen again.
I know why the sun melts the two of us together.
Above the flourescent domes of treachery are
Mellifluous pyramids sown together from strands
Of our own existence, the era that has drained
The tears from the king, the softest melody
Of shearing overtime, the reality inside this
Jar of putrid irony that has glued us into one.
Every jolt of emotion that comes to your
Nerves comes to mine as well.
The sound of my body above yours is the
Purr of a dove fleeing across the vermillion
Dancing skies of devotion immersed in a grey
Bundle of sensory. When you talk to me, I can hear
You.
Like two stars floating through the nighttime bay.
No lighthouse can compare, no echoing can
Avoid despair, the world has no electric fence.
But maybe only to separate the strands of our individual paths
To make orbiting around you much easier.
You speak my language.
Expecting more of them, I smiled.
The poems Allegiance ("Liquid Catalyst," 2000) and You Speak My Language ("Monsters of Sand," 2001) were written by mon jumeau, Stephen Andreu Van Dyck. Black and White and Acquaintance are by myself.
Comment to encourage me to write more! Especially if you have an idea for a better title!