The Cycle

Chapter Fifteen

The white bead set wasn't actually a set, but a single bead of extreme length. Myra wind it in circles, about Mabel’s left hand, clasped with with Zalima's right; then it  travelled with a slight sag to the other linked hand: her right’s, and Zalima's left.

    Myra placed herself to the right, knees to the floor, and sat on her heels. A forlorn expression marred her face, it looked out of place. "I could come," she said.

    If there was ever an active person, it was Myra. Reduced to watch—without any input on her part—Mabel could tell left the old, yet young faced Myra a bit disparate. "We are not sure if this will work," said Mabel.

    "You wound me," said Zalima. "Have a little faith."

    Mabel was skeptic, and a bit apprehensive. Zalima held a fort of knowledge concerning her, yet kept them close to the chest at the moment. "I'm constrained," she'd said at the beginning: whatever that meant. But Myra perked at the word choice which hinted that she knew what it meant. Zalima had put forth a proposal, which was not her usual way she confessed, but wanted to try nonetheless: form a connection with Mabel that would allow both to project; using Mabel's blood bond with her family, to navigate.

    "Besides," Zalima continued. "I need you here," she said to Myra. "My unannounced departure from the mob will steer questions that may lead curious mind to my home. Your job, by some chance they slink through my wards: withstand them from the shadows, they must not see your face, nor come in here, and see Mabel."

    "I'm reduced to a watch dog."

    "Myra . . ."

    "I'm fine; just used to been in the thick of things, that's all."

    "Projection are not used for battles, crazy woman. If breaking bones is your desire, then pray to your unseen god that the curious mind make their way here. I'm sure they'll provide sufficient—" Zalima stopped in her word track. "By the way: no maiming. I live here. I don't want to explain why people died in my home. Withstand them. Nothing more." Zalima's eyes darted the corners of the room, up and down. "I think I'll be saying prayers of my own. I do love this house." She stared down Myra. "Don't need some crazy using the excuse of protecting me, to ruin it."

    "You talk too much. You should know that."

    Zalima gave the words no acknowledgement. "Get the blade. Make a slash on Mabel’s skin, just enough to draw blood. Smear a line on her forehead and mine."

    Myra retrieved the blade. "This juju of yours stinks."

    "Yet you must do it. Except you have another alternative."

    The blade slid across Mabel’s forearm, light and quick, and the cut bled softly, and she hissed. Her pain tolerance disappeared at the smallest things. Myra brushed a thumb over the open wound, and did as instructed.

    "Thank you," Zalima said to Myra, who visibly stilled at the words, and it also sent a light jolt in Mabel. It wasn't the greater than thou tone—that the two exchanged in the brief time span they had met. It reeked, not of sarcasm, but of gratefulness, genuine gratefulness.

    Myra, not one to be put off, pffed; and Mabel watched a new dance evolve between the two. "Just because I obeyed? Please, I do this for Mabel."

    "I don't know what she is involved with, but thank you for sticking with her."

    "What's your deal? This one sided relationship, in fact, non-existent relationship with Mabel—on what ground do you speak the way you do."

    "I would like to know also."