The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 23

Qulin studied the incredible sketch, his expression shrouded in awe while becoming more and more seduced by its potential accuracy. Consequently, he'd forgotten about Som aiding the boy in escape. Nothing else mattered but this sketch. Every fine detail was so exact—opposing rotations, elaborate diamond patterns, the crowning halo complete with undulating waves—no one could simply make this up from sheer imagination, especially not a child's imagination. However, as much as he tried to dismiss the troubling notion, it was as if Lucas had the secret to completing the elixir in his possession, in his mind. He shifted his gaze to Som and wondered if perhaps the crow told Lucas about the halos? But as he watched Som peck dust mites from the exam table, he knew that that too was impossible, for Som had never seen nor had been privy to the halos descriptions. Som had only ever knew that the halos were the target manifestation, and therefore could not have provided the specific details that were present in the sketch. Furthermore, Cora's diary had not a single image of the halos, so Lucas couldn't have gathered much insight from the entries alone. The boy must know something. Chicanery had to be ruled out. He interrogated Lucas' every motion, looking for any tells. Was he trembling? Were his eyes nervously flitting side to side like a liar falling apart under his own conscience? Were beads of sweat pouring readily down a tensely creased forehead, as he waited to be caught under the weight of his flagrant trickery? Not a single telltale sign. Instead, Lucas appeared rather calm his legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, exuding a disconcerting yet inviting show of confidence. Every reasonable objection had been addressed, and yet, the skeptical rabble kept up—don't fall for it, the voice admonished loudly. But it was no match for the screeching, desperate perhaps gullible roar—the drawing, it was too real, too accurate to ignore.

Qulin approached the cell, the sketch clutched tightly, and looked down on Lucas."You will tell me what you know."

Lucas gestured for Qulin to return the sketchpad.

Qulin hesitated to part with the sketchpad now under his guard. But Lucas insisted, waving his hand repetitively. He relinquished the pad, cautiously.

Lucas took the pad and scribbled and handed it back: On one condition, you have to let me go when I show you.

"So, you want to bargain now?" Qulin remarked, incensed at the brazen demand. He studied the message, resistance fading off as rapidly as it set in. He reasoned that if he got his halos, he could resurrect Cora, and be gone from this town before Lucas had any chance to report his abduction. He flipped back to the sketch of the halos, as if he needed to see it once more in order to be persuaded further. "Fine, deal. Only if you give me the halos." He whirled around and left the basement.

Lucas exhaled the stifling apprehension coursing through him. It had taken every ounce of restraint not to flounder under Qulin's intense glare, under those gruesome scars. But worse than that, he hadn't considered any suitable followup passed the part where he drew the sketch having never fathomed Qulin biting the bait so easily. Drawing the halos was one thing but he had no clue how they formed, and surely it wouldn't be long before Qulin caught on, and—he swallowed hard—sacrifice him, like the big crow admonished.

He didn't want to be sacrificed. The more he considered the pending demonstration, a severe tightness grabbed his chest. The ceiling lights flickered like barely perceptible moths as Qulin stomped across the kitchen floor above. What kind of curse insists for its own cure that you sacrifice a kid. Whatever this curse was, Qulin wanted out—by any means necessary. Lucas lowered his face into the feeble comfort that was the darkness of his palms, trying to settle his head prying deeper into unsure memory, looking for anything that'd help him recall those halos. He stumbled back to that fateful day in the plant shed. Bits and pieces flickered like specks of a fractured tapestry—the orchids sitting on the table, ugly and dead—mostly dead—dusty shelves, putrid smells of rotting wood, and that menacing caterpillar. Not much else in the way of useful significance bound into his beleaguered mind. The halos, they just blossomed out of the thin air. A spontaneous firework display of blue. No instructions, no to-do list. His stomach lurched. Deleterious thoughts, opportunistic parasites, filled his mind in a diabolical brawl. What if he couldn't get back to his mother? What if he never saw her again? One would think, that this would provide ample motivation for seeking a way out but the odds felt insurmountable, to the point where he was almost certain there would be no way to make amends with her. The trashing thoughts festered, a menacing foray of terror consumed him. Maybe he was no better than his dad. Treating his mother so poorly, perhaps the last interaction between them, the yelling, the running off, in a very real sense, effectuated a pure imitation of his father. To think that would be her last memory of him was unbearable. He wept for sometime until Qulin returned to the basement. He looked up at his captor who had the orchids held gently in each hand. He placed them on the exam table. With the steadiness of a mother touching her newborn for the first time, he caressed the limp bulbs, rolling the wrinkled and shriveled petals between his rough fingers as if warding off a pain, his head tilted affectionately muttering softly, almost rhythmically to them. Lucas was shocked at this display. Qulin had become caretaker to the frail. Lover to the unloved. Compassionate to the disordered. This seemed so uncharacteristic however he was drawn to it, unclear as to why. Something resonated familiar about Qulin's display. The protective, tender nature—and stranger still—his unwavering concern for the flowers. To an outside observer, this wouldn't amount to much else than a man infatuated with a hobby, but to Lucas, who had been subjected to his own woeful thoughts regarding the potential loss of ever seeing his mother, and as painful as they were revelatory, Qulin's behavior struck him. A shift began to occur, some change in perception, something vague yet smoldering. He watched Qulin now huddled over the orchids, they were a part of him, to be defended at all costs as if nothing else mattered but their safety and in spite of the orchids obvious rejection of his care, in spite of their acting-out, he persisted as their guardian, entrusted to raise them from seed to maturity.