Vox Mentis

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Holy long update, Batman. Sorry for the length, but I needed to get some necessary character moments in.

This guy has been really perceptive. Or maybe we've just been really obvious. Gonna be harder to get away from someone who picks up on what you're thinking. Maybe see if he can pick up on your questions without actually saying them. I mean, you might just be overthinking it, but after that bare words thing in the parking garage, it's better to rule that kind of thing out, right?

You're teeming with questions, but the tall man's been pretty good at figuring you out so far. You figure it might be worth a test, just to make sure he can't read your mind. Everything that holds up your perception of reality seems to have been thrown under the bus recently, so in your assessment, there's nothing that really rules out telepathy anymore.

Minutes pass. If the tall man knows what you're thinking now, he certainly gives no indication of it. His eyes stay laser focused on the road ahead. If he's going to answer your questions, looks like you're going to have to be more vocal about it.

Why me?

What do you want with me?

What is the Exception, since that's apparently what I am?

Speaking of, that's a good question, since mentioning them's apparently what made him decide to not shoot you. What are bare words?

"Why me?"

No answer.

"What do you want with me?"

The tuck hums. The tires sluice through wet road.

"What's the Exception?"

"Shut up," says the man. "I'm not talking to you."

"You came and kidnapped me. You must want me for something."

"It's not conversation."

"Then what? I'm just trying to understand."

"You don't need to understand. You need to sit there and not do anything stupid while I take care of you. That's what you need. Look, I get that it's been a confusing night. And now you're all, But how is that possible, and, Why did he do that. But I'm not going to answer those questions, Nick, because you don't have the framework to comprehend the answers. You're like a kid asking how I can see him even though he's closed his eyes. Just accept that this is happening."

"Can you give me the framework?"

"No," says the man. "Shut up."

You're silent. "Did you shoot that girl because I'm the Exception?"

He sighs. "I shot that girl because I had to."

"She was just lying there," you say. "She was already half-dead."

"She was dangerous, lying there, half-dead."

You say nothing.

"Okay," he says. "You want to know why you're important? You hear about that bad nightclub fire in Rome a couple months back? Bunch of people died? That was Rain."

"The rain wanted to kill me?"

"Not... not rain. Kathleen Raine, with an e. Wrote poems about nature. Lived in England from 1908 to 2003."

"And... she... came back?"

The man glances at you. "Are you serious?"

"What?"

"They use the names. The names of famous poets."

"Oh," you say.

"They're not zombies."

"Oh."

You drive in silence.

"So I'm important because Raine killed those people in the club."

"Yes. Because she thought one of those people might be you."

"Why does she want to kill me?"

"Because eighteen months ago you survived something you shouldn't have."

"In Broken Hill?"

"Yes. You're the Exception."

"I don't remember that."

"No."

How could someone remove my memories?

"Why don't I remember?"

"Someone probably told you not to."

"What was it?"

"What?"

"The thing that should have killed me."

"Something bad," the man says. "Which shouldn't have got out."

"You mean chemicals? People died in a chemical spill in Broken Hill eighteen months ago."

"Sure. Chemicals."

"So why do you care?"

"Because it's out again."

"And I can stop it?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make sense."

"That's because it's not really chemicals," he says.

"Is it a word?"

The man looks at you.

"Earlier, in the snow, you were interested in something I said about words."

The man is silent for a moment. "Okay. It's a word."

"Which should have killed me."

"Yes."

"I don't understand how it can be a word."

"That's because you don't know what words are."

"They're sounds."

"No, they're not. You and I are not grunting at each other. We're transferring meaning. Neurochemical changes are occurring in your brain at this very moment, because of my words."

You're silent.

"Like I said," he says, "no framework."

You feel lost. "No one lives in Broken Hill anymore. Not since the spill."

"No."

Who are you?

"So... who are you?"

"Tom," says the man. "I'm Tom. And that's all the questions you get."

The road unravels out of the dark, and you go into it.

~

You keep waiting for someone to pull you aside, ask what you think you're doing, trying to sneak on board with the first-class passengers. But when you reach the gate and hand over your boarding pass, the attendant smiles. "Have a nice flight, Ms. Jackson."

"Thanks." You adjust the strap of your bag, self-conscious. The other first-class passengers are in sleek suits and expensive blouses, and you're wearing jeans a guy peed on yesterday. You hadn't realized everyone would be so bright and clean.

"Ms. Jackson!" says the attendant on the plane, like he's been waiting to meet you. "My information tells me this is the first time you've graced our airline. That cannot be true." He beckons, leading you past banks of leather thrones. "I am going to take extra special care of you." He leans close and whispers, stage-loud, "We need more beautiful young customers."

You think he's making fun. But he's not. First class is strange.

"Make yourself comfortable," says the attendant, "while I rustle you up the best chocolate cookie you've ever tasted."

"Okay," you say. You go to stow your bag and the attendant looks horrified and takes it from you. You slide into your seat. You've slept in smaller places than this. To your right, a woman in big sunglasses has a tall glass in one hand and a magazine in the other. She smiles at you, and you smile back. The woman returns to her magazine. This is okay, you think. This is okay.

~

You hear a tinkling and reach for your bag. The flight attendant whispers, "I'm so sorry." He sets a glass of water onto the armrest. The tinkling is ice cubes. "I didn't mean to wake you."

You stare at the glass. When you first heard the sound, you thought someone was peeing.

~

You deplane. That's what they called it: deplaning. You've never heard that word before. You unbuckle and feel sad. You want to stay in your little first-class kingdom.

Back in San Francisco, you left a note for a friend to pass to Jimmy. Has he read it yet? Is he upset? Missing you? You find you don't really care about this as much as
you thought you would. You realized this while gazing out at the hidden world of sunlight that lay above the clouds: You are leaving Jimmy behind. And this is a good thing. You feel like you did two years ago, when you walked away from a falling-down house with you Pikachu bag on your back, your mom's threats and prophecies bouncing off your back, and the more you walked the better you felt. Jimmy hadn't been good. Not really. You're getting a sense of that, now that people are taking your bags and bringing you drinks while you sleep. You're seeing that without Jimmy, you can be so much more.

The attendant touches your arm at the exit. "Thank you so much."

"Thank you so much," you say.

~

In Arrivals stands a driver, complete with hat and uniform, holding a printed sign reading ELISE JACKSON. "I'm Elise," you say.

He reaches for your bag. You hesitate, but let him take it: you need to get used to that. "I'm very pleased to meet you, miss. I have a car out front. Was your flight bearable?"

"Yes." You fall into step. You feel kind of stupid about the Pokemon bag. It looks ridiculous on this guy's trolley. But he doesn't seem to mind. People glance at you, this dirty girl with a uniformed driver, and you try not to smile, so as not to ruin it.

He holds open a door for you. Outside is bright and cold. A long, liquid black limousine lies spread along the curb. The driver opens the rear door and you climb inside like it's nothing.

Do you want a drink? Watch TV? Because you can do that. There's enough room to lie down. You could live here.

The driver enters. The locks thunk. "No rain expected. You come to us on a good day."

"I thought it was a good day," you say. "I felt that."

You drive for forty minutes and stop at a set of high steel gates. Through the limo's dark glass, you see grass and gigantic trees. The driver speaks to someone in a guardhouse; the gates part. As you move up the hill, a building appears.

"It's an old convent," says the driver. "There were nuns here for a hundred years." The car pulls around the front of the building, its tires crunching gravel. A man comes down steps toward you. A porter. That's what he is. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"They'll take you from here." He turns in his seat to face you. You like that: the way people are turning to talk to you. "Best of luck with your examinations, miss."

~

The porter leads you to a room with high ceilings and wood-paneled walls and ten thousand books. A sitting room, you guess. Because you've heard of those, and can't think what else this room is for. Maybe nothing. Maybe after a certain size, a building gets more rooms than uses. You squeeze your bag between your ankles and try to relax. Occasionally you hear a door close - thonk - and murmurs of conversation, and laughter that floats up a corridor somewhere. You kind of need to pee.

A woman's heels rap outside. The door clacks open. For a second, you think it's a nun, but it's just a woman in a dark blue suit. You have nuns on the brain. The woman is slim, maybe thirty-five, with dark hair and delicate glasses. She comes toward you with her hand extended and her fingers down. A lady handshake. You get off the chair to take it. "Hello, Elise. Thank you so much for joining us. I'm Jane."

"Hi," you say.

Jane settles into a chair. You return to yours. The chairs seem a long way apart. A rug lies between you like a map of some undiscovered world. "In a moment, I'll show you to your room," Jane says. "But first, I'm sure you must have questions."