The Cycle

Chapter Thirteen

She needed help, and it grated on her. It was one level of helplessness into another. The physical expression of power coursed through her, yet each use brought her end a little closer. A simple choice, based on incomplete knowledge: curse the shadow woman. 

    Zalima's offer appeared as light. Yet was not. It was bright, welcoming, but its glare would sting and shut her eyes into blackness. A help that would render helpless afterwards. 

    The help was false light. 

    Myra moved and stood beside her, narrowed eyes, and fingers that twitched. Everything Myra threw at Zalima amounted to nothing, even if she was a projection. 

    "I don't trust her," said Myra. 

    "Neither do I. But your plan is to start a bloodbath." Myra huffed, and with sidelong eyes, watched her a few seconds then returned to Zalima. "I'm open to other avenues," Mabel added.

    The cost, the possible loss, all a factor, but stagnancy surrounded her; she moved, yet her goal was so far, she was yet to lay eyes on it.  

Zalima appeared real and solid; the skirt of her gown swayed from the light touch of sparse breeze. It made Mabel curious. In Eden, there had been no talk of projections. Could Zalima cause harm? A slight shift, and the projected image that could phase off attacks, phase through constraints, move through space — could it — in an instant, become solid, reach out, and draw blood. 

    "I can't help but wonder where this desire to help comes from."

    Zalima cocked her head lightly, and rubbed her thumb, fore and middle finger together. "I never antagonized you," she said, "Why should I start now."

    Where did that come from? 

    "Never did anything to help either."

    "Ahhh. Yes. When you slinked from house to house and no help came. Even the church failed you. But I stayed away with good reason. You would have rejected any offer, and not in a kind way, if you perceived it as ill. Tell yourself the truth, as a child, you were — what's that term the young ones use that grates my ear . . . Bitch, that's it. A self righteous one at that."

    "Children make mistakes."

    "But now, you’re a woman. Will you accept my help?” she said. “But choose wisely." Zalima turned toward the black metal gate like she saw through and beyond it. She might as well have. Like a lesser god, she was present in different spaces. "It's already been divine that you are here. Even now, the district exits are being blocked. It's surprising how much they want your blood."

    "Because of a perceived wrong they can't prove?” 

    "This is more than the family or child that was butchered; more than the unseen creatures that roam our land; more than the fathers and husbands who climbed into your bed and those you climbed into. Hate follows you."

    "Hate. This is the second time I’ve heard that."

    Zalima assessed Tayo, then smiled. "The forever smitten one. Many have visited me, 'I want her to suffer, great suffering,' they say, and sometimes it's because of him. I never agreed of course: there lies my 'I never antagonized you.'" Zalima took a step forward, then spoke curiously, “there is a curse on you, it can only be a curse, so old I can't tell where it begins. And it was on you the moment you were born. Your birth was the strangest thing I ever witnessed, experienced. I was young then, but I helped bring you into this world. I know it itches your mother now, because of what she thinks I've become over the years."