kept repeating genu, genu in a singsong way as he rinsed out the paper cups then tossed them into the trash. He didn’t want to get his genuinely genuine friend in trouble, after all.
He had made it to the edge of his bed, the alcohol in full effect and making the room seem to tilt just so, when the Miscria called him and he fell face-first onto the mattress.
CHAPTER 5
I am the Miscria. I am the Seeker. I bring my Questions. I call the Ydrel. Hear me.
The words surrounded him, echoed in his mind and pulled at his soul. He was the Ydrel; he was needed.
Not this time. He fought against the sense of well being, pulling on all his stubbornness. It was like when Malachai tried to hypnotize him. He’d resisted then. He’d resist now. He forced himself to see. Everything was gray and misty, like a fog-filled gymnasium, but at least he could see.
You are the Oracle. As I ask, so you shall answer—
“I don’t think so.”
The Miscria hit his statement like a wall. In the pause that followed, he felt a momentary thrill of panic; what if it gave up? How would he get back to himself? He told himself he’d figure it out; he was not going to stay a slave to this thing. Was the alcohol making him brave, or was it Joshua’s words? Not that it mattered; he’d committed himself. The pun made him giggle and the panic yielded to mirth. Meanwhile, the Miscria was trying again.
I am the Seeker. You are—
“The Oracle. The Ydrel. Yeah, I know. Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of this routine. Can we try something different?”
He felt a wave a confusion from the Miscria that made him laugh. Things were already as different as they could get.
“Well, for starters, how about showing me what you look like.”
Look like?
“Yeah. I mean, we’re obviously sharing a reality, but it’s awfully dark and misty on my end. How about a little scenery? And you—what are you? Human? A green-skinned Martian? A roach? What?”
Again, he felt its confusion, flickering with testiness. He almost heard the complaint: Why does it always speak in riddles? Then the scene shifted and he found himself in a small clearing surrounded by trees he didn’t quite recognize. The pines seemed too soft, the maples too broad in leaf. He didn’t hear any animals or birds, and the trees cut off any distant views. He didn’t mind. At least there weren’t any walls.
Walls?
He turned to where he felt the thought, and gasped. “You’re a girl!”
He didn’t need to be psychic to guess her reply. The look on her face told him she thought that was a stupidly obvious observation.
He sat down hard on the mossy ground. “They’re going to have a field day with this,” he groaned.
They? There are others like you?
The ground distracted him. He pushed on the moss and it sprang back like the memory foam pad on his bed. With a grimace, he started digging at a piece with his fingers.
The Miscria squatted down beside him and watched curiously.
“If there’s a hole in my bed when I wake up, then you’re a figment of my imagination,” he mumbled.
Are you the Ydrel?
“That’s what you keep telling me,” he snarled. He kept his focus on the growing hole in front of him; he did not want to see the long black hair that swallowed the light instead of shimmering, or the lean, hard muscles of her arms. Besides, if he glanced up now, he could see partway down her shirt and he was definitely not going there—
Then he felt that funny warm comfort that always accompanied her call and questions began to fill his mind, questions he really should answer—
He flicked the feeling and the questions away like they were bothersome insects. He didn’t feel drunk anymore, he noted. He wondered if that meant he was outside his own mind. Assuming any of this was real, of course.
We are in the Netherworld , the Miscria offered. It is a safe place for both of us. And my name is Tasmae. I am real.
With a sigh, he gave up his project—he
He had made it to the edge of his bed, the alcohol in full effect and making the room seem to tilt just so, when the Miscria called him and he fell face-first onto the mattress.
CHAPTER 5
I am the Miscria. I am the Seeker. I bring my Questions. I call the Ydrel. Hear me.
The words surrounded him, echoed in his mind and pulled at his soul. He was the Ydrel; he was needed.
Not this time. He fought against the sense of well being, pulling on all his stubbornness. It was like when Malachai tried to hypnotize him. He’d resisted then. He’d resist now. He forced himself to see. Everything was gray and misty, like a fog-filled gymnasium, but at least he could see.
You are the Oracle. As I ask, so you shall answer—
“I don’t think so.”
The Miscria hit his statement like a wall. In the pause that followed, he felt a momentary thrill of panic; what if it gave up? How would he get back to himself? He told himself he’d figure it out; he was not going to stay a slave to this thing. Was the alcohol making him brave, or was it Joshua’s words? Not that it mattered; he’d committed himself. The pun made him giggle and the panic yielded to mirth. Meanwhile, the Miscria was trying again.
I am the Seeker. You are—
“The Oracle. The Ydrel. Yeah, I know. Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of this routine. Can we try something different?”
He felt a wave a confusion from the Miscria that made him laugh. Things were already as different as they could get.
“Well, for starters, how about showing me what you look like.”
Look like?
“Yeah. I mean, we’re obviously sharing a reality, but it’s awfully dark and misty on my end. How about a little scenery? And you—what are you? Human? A green-skinned Martian? A roach? What?”
Again, he felt its confusion, flickering with testiness. He almost heard the complaint: Why does it always speak in riddles? Then the scene shifted and he found himself in a small clearing surrounded by trees he didn’t quite recognize. The pines seemed too soft, the maples too broad in leaf. He didn’t hear any animals or birds, and the trees cut off any distant views. He didn’t mind. At least there weren’t any walls.
Walls?
He turned to where he felt the thought, and gasped. “You’re a girl!”
He didn’t need to be psychic to guess her reply. The look on her face told him she thought that was a stupidly obvious observation.
He sat down hard on the mossy ground. “They’re going to have a field day with this,” he groaned.
They? There are others like you?
The ground distracted him. He pushed on the moss and it sprang back like the memory foam pad on his bed. With a grimace, he started digging at a piece with his fingers.
The Miscria squatted down beside him and watched curiously.
“If there’s a hole in my bed when I wake up, then you’re a figment of my imagination,” he mumbled.
Are you the Ydrel?
“That’s what you keep telling me,” he snarled. He kept his focus on the growing hole in front of him; he did not want to see the long black hair that swallowed the light instead of shimmering, or the lean, hard muscles of her arms. Besides, if he glanced up now, he could see partway down her shirt and he was definitely not going there—
Then he felt that funny warm comfort that always accompanied her call and questions began to fill his mind, questions he really should answer—
He flicked the feeling and the questions away like they were bothersome insects. He didn’t feel drunk anymore, he noted. He wondered if that meant he was outside his own mind. Assuming any of this was real, of course.
We are in the Netherworld , the Miscria offered. It is a safe place for both of us. And my name is Tasmae. I am real.
With a sigh, he gave up his project—he
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