'Light of spirit, by my charms,
Light of body, every part,
Never weary human arms-
Only crush thy parents' heart!'
Eight years later:
Moira eased back in her tilting chair and removed her glasses, briskly rubbing her eyes with a sigh. She cleaned the lenses with a soft cloth before putting them back on, and she scanned her journal one last time to check her notations:
Japheth has made excellent progress since we received him at this facility, and he appears to have adjusted well to our way of life. He’s shy around new people, something to be expected as he attracts a lot of attention from the locals here at Kinross. He still manages to be lively and friendly despite what he’s been through, for which I’m grateful. I hope he continues to come out of his shell.
Nightmares continue to be a problem for Japheth. He left behind his siblings during his flight from the orphanage, whom have since been placed in new homes through international adoptions, something I could do nothing about when Japheth came with me. She sighed over that entry; Charles had been instrumental in helping her cut through all the red tape to take him out of the country. Moira and Charles were both named as Ororo’s legal guardians, and Japheth became her ward due to the circumstances he’d faced when he left the orphanage. Once Charles had revealed the boy’s living conditions - after a gentle probe of his mind - they were reluctant to take him back, feeling that his experiences and the cruelty he’d suffered would make him unmanageable. Moira scoffed at their reasoning; so many of the children there were acquired due to the same circumstances, yet they were reluctant to receive him back to their bosom.
Her teacup felt cold to the touch; she rose from her desk, kneading a sore kink in her shoulder before she tucked down to the kitchen to refresh it. She retrieved an elastic from the tiny cup of paper clips and other odds and end on the counter and pulled her hair back into its customary ponytail; silver strands now mingled with shiny chestnut brown, and she’d gained tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that gave her beauty more maturity and character.
She peered outside the kitchen window and watched Japheth playing on her lawn with Jamie, her housekeeper’s son, who was roughly the same age. He towered over Japheth, who was proving to be small for his age, despite Moira’s and his pediatrician’s efforts to supplement his diet. He’d thus far been diagnosed with “failure to thrive” and still suffered from the same unusual digestive complaints that necessitated his special protein meals at the orphanage. Mrs. Madrox was on something of a mission to “feed him up properly” and she often had a willing helper in the little boy, despite the initial conflict in their dialects, with Japheth’s colloquialisms and her own scratchy brogue. They were getting along thick as thieves.
She was due stateside for her visit with Charles on the thirteenth. Previous visits had proven both reassuring and frustrating. There had been little change.
Ororo was no longer catatonic. She was functioning and developing exceptionally well for a child her age, and she’d blossomed within the shelter of Charles’ spacious home, which he was still in the process of turning into a school. He’d installed an Olympic-sized pool and he still kept horses out in the paddock. His mother would have been proud, Moira mused, to see what he’d accomplished and how well he’d preserved her estate. Sharon lived and breathed the importance of a well-rounded education, no matter what your walk of life. Moira wondered what she would have thought of extending those same privileges to mutants. Mutants. The term still felt strange passing her lips, but it was as if a light went on when Charles first coined it.
She resumed her review of her journal, scribbling more notes in the margin. As an afterthought, she sketched a brief diagram of the scar she’d noticed on Japheth’s abdomen that his pede noticed during his physical, all the more remarkable since it appeared shortly after his belly grew somewhat distended. He was obstinate about giving her a response and she decided not to press. Mrs. Madrox had her eye on him every waking moment that Moira didn’t.
She clapped the journal shut and returned the binder to the bookshelf, locking up her desk drawer out of long habit. It was after four. It was time to visit Kevin.
She made her way to the elevator and punched the button for the sub-level. She hummed an old drinking song that had been a favorite of Charles’ and Erik’s on her way, comforted by the thrum of the car rumbling beneath her booted feet. She’d been cooped up inside all day, and she craved a ride on Biscuit, her favorite roan.
She mentally slapped herself; Kevin would feel no empathy for her notion of “cooped up.” It had been several years since he’d ridden in front of her, his slender little hands covering hers as she handled the reins.
She slid a key card coded with her identity signature into the slot. Moira and Eilish Madrox were the only two people who had access to the room; her maintenance staff were under strict instruction not to attempt to enter the laboratory unsupervised. The lights were already on, since they were scheduled to extinguish themselves after nine PM and to come back on again at 7AM. Full spectrum bulbs simulated daylight. Several small monitors were bolted to the ceiling, projecting different views of Kinross Keep, including the shoreline and craggy cliffs. The walls of the lab bore various comfort items, including posters of Eric Clapton and KISS, photo album sheets of baseball cards, and a pennant from a football match she’d taken Kevin to when he was seven. He’d never outgrown his action figure collection; several Stormtroopers and GI Joes decorated tiny shelves and her large pine desk.
He’d been in a creative mood; it was as though someone had brought a piece of the shore inside his chamber. Moira watched in characteristic awe as breaking waves crashed around him, wind seeming to ruffle his hair and clothing. She knew those weren’t real, but it was a more soothing scene than she’d expected.
“H’lo, luv,” she greeted him. He turned his head, or what passed for it, toward the sound of her voice.
“H’lo, Mum.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I guess,” he shrugged. “It’s not the same.”
“Nay, luv. I know,” she agreed hollowly.
“Do ye really?” She swallowed and rubbed her nape.
“Kevin, I -“
“Save it. I’m bluidy tired of hearin’ the same from ye, Mum. I want out.”
“I want t’let ye out, Kevin. Ye know I kinna do that. Not yet.”
“How old am I, Mum?”
“Fifteen,” she replied, slightly puzzled. Her brow furrowed, and she felt unease trickle down her back.
“I dinnae know t’believe it when ye tell me that. It’s been bluidy forever. Ye hate me.”
“NAY! Kevin, I love ye so much, I want…I want…” She waved away the urge to break down but settled for covering her eyes for a moment, composing herself. “I never wanted this for ye, not for one minute.”
“Doesn’t matter what day it is anymore. I kinna tell the difference, Mum. It’s a big, bleedin’ joke. Makes ye feel mighty big, not having t’worry about me locked up in this big glass jar? Like one of yuir nasty pigs in a science class.” She sighed wearily; she’d tutored him from the moment she’d cajoled him into the containment field. He’d been younger then, and more willing to believe she’d had his best interests at heart. That Mummy would make it all better.
“I ken ye dinnae believe me when I tell ye I haven’t stopped trying to help ye, laddie. Yuir m’son. All I can do is try!”
“Ye never planned t’let me out. Yuir just like Dad.” She shook her head adamantly, but his accusation still stung.
“Nay. Never like yuir father. Yuir MY son now, Kevin. He kinna hurt ye anymore.”
“Yuir the one hurting me now, Mum.” Emotion clogged her throat.
“Kevin…here. Let me give ye some music, or I can turn on yuir favorite show. Eilish asked me to give ye this DVD.” She held up the slim case for him to inspect: Die Hard.
“Aye. That’s better’n coming out, Mum.” He pounded in another nail. “What have ye been up tae today? Did ye go outside?”
“Kevin…”
“Did ye? Talk t’Eilish? Give her little brat and that other queer wee one ye brought home from across the world a big hug? Sleep in a big, comfy bed upstairs?”
“Please, Kevin…”
“I hate this, and I damned well hate you. Dinnae tell me ye dinnae feel the same.” She forced her tears back down; he despised them, and she would grant him that one favor and any other she could spare.
“I love ye, Kevin. I’ll keep saying it til ye believe me.”
“Yuir wasting yuir breath. Maybe ye’ll lose yuir voice by then, or I’ll be dead. Then at least one of us will be happy, Mum.” She watched the environment he’d created inside the containment chamber change slowly, the “sky” darkening menacingly and thick storm clouds rolling over the waves, now more choppy and turbulent.
He was still her wee bairn. Her arms were empty, just like the hollow space when her family was taken away from her. She didn’t miss Joe; she never would, but she’d never gotten over the lie he’d tempted her with when he said he loved her. She’d craved family; it was the curse of the only child to have no one left when her parents died too soon. He’s my SON. She’d railed at God more nights than she could remember.
He was supposed to be gifted, she thought sourly. Let him know how to fly, or walk through walls.
His last contact with the outside world was a disaster. One moment, he’d been watching telly and playing with his toys on the rug. She’d been fixing his lunch. Joe had just come home, tugging off his coat and flinging it onto the chair…
She still felt the phantom crack of his hand against her jaw when she closed her eyes. Heard him rail at her, accusing her of horrible things. Telling her she was nothing. Kevin cried out, but she’d told him to go to his room. He was stubborn, just like her. He was there on slender, shaking legs, throwing himself at Joe from behind and striking with hard, tiny fists while his father hit her again. She spat out blood and her eyes swam, but she maintained her focus. She had to get herself and Kevin outside, just long enough for someone to see…
Joe’s face went slack, and he roared out in pain as his features twisted before her eyes, as though someone were crushing a ball of wax. She screamed, her voice mingling with Kevin’s wail as he collapsed, his entire body seeming to glow with blinding light before it wavered and was extinguished. Smoke rose from his corpse, now mangled and grimacing back up at her, still accusing her: You did this, Moira. You let this happen to me.
She didn’t give it a second thought. She picked up Kevin, not giving a damn about the possible consequences, and she ran.
The constabulary and the medics pronounced his death unsolvable. There were no signs of a struggle. No blood. No scorch marks on any of the surrounding walls or furnishings. Reverend Craig performed the duty of visitation, peering with blunt interest at Kevin as he played with his toys. Ancient looking eyes stared back at him, glowing with an odd light. He’d cut his visit short and reminded her to pray for guidance in her time of need. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary anymore, now that Joe was gone.
She never wanted another child to know that fear again. Kevin never should have witnessed her helplessness. Some small, miserable voice inside her tried to convince her that he hated her for it.
“Then I’ll just turn blue trying tae, luv. I’m stubborn that way.” She laid the movie case on the table and turned on the television at her lab table. “Doctor Who” had just begun and Kevin eyed the screen with interest, even though he didn’t thank her. He’d grown a bit over the past few weeks. Eilish always reassured her that he took more after her than Joe, who had eyes as black as coal and hair to match. David’s eyes were a soft robin’s egg blue. He could change them at will, but he inevitably reverted to his default template, which was striking enough. He always glowed, Moira mused. She only convinced herself that he was real whenever he spoke. Anyone else looking at him would think he was made of nothing but light. He shimmered whenever he moved, shifting in and out of reality, almost seeming to flicker. Sometimes he was older looking, the idealized man he wanted to be, and at other times he was still the child she’d run with for dear life, confused and scared, wondering why she’d locked him away and taken away the light.
She worked downstairs for a while and tried to make small talk with him, but he waved her away, trying to act absorbed in his program. She finally bid him goodnight; he muttered a brief “g’night, Mum” before the door swung shut after her and the security locks slid into place.
~0~
Logan still sniffed around for Vic out of habit. Every morning. Every night. Every time he was alone.
Ainet and Achmed weren’t any better, always looking behind themselves. Logan warned them that they were walking around looking guilty, or just plain spooked.
Ainet often plied him with favors. She didn’t act rebuffed when he refused. Her girls didn’t hold much appeal for him anymore, and they seldom had before. More nights than not, Logan and Ainet blew a pungent cloud on her front step, her hand-rolled cigarettes and his Cubans. She abused him goodnaturedly when he told her she needed to settle down; he merely growled when she called him a big softie.
He’d become the village’s savior and watchdog. If anyone’d told him years ago that this was where he’d end up, he’d have told them they were full of shit. Folks were still scared every time he said so much as “boo.” Achmed’s urchins still peeked around the corner of Ainet’s windows for a glimpse of him, tempting the wrath of the Boogey Man.
He still thought about the girl with the luminous eyes and white hair. He saw her every time he looked into any of the local kids’ eyes in passing, when he was down at the well or off at the market.
He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He helped whenever the frame for a house was raised or when a roof needed repair. He was the silent, brooding watchdog; news of his sojourn among them traveled far and wide. Farouk’s name was seldom whispered anymore, but the Wolverine was still on everyone’s lips as one not to be trifled with.
He wasn’t deluding himself. He knew Vic was still out there.
~0~
Farouk smiled. He was nothing if not a patient man…
Charles walked by the guest room in the west wing for about the fifth time that day, prompting his housekeeper to scowl at him.
“Please stop pacing, Charles,” she nagged, flicking her cleaning rag at him as she stepped out into the hall. “Everything will be ready by the time Dr. Mactaggart arrives.” She gestured around the spanking clean boudoir confidently. “Not one thing in this room has moved an inch out of place!”
“And it’s lovely,” he admitted, embarrassed. “Thank you, Stevie.”
“Pfft. No biggie. We’ll whip this place into shape,” she assured him, as though it were a paltry undertaking. The mansion was enormous, and Stevie was one of a half a dozen members of his staff he retained to keep things running.
He’d met Stephanie Hunter during a seminar on neurophysics that she’d attended while she was employed with Stark Industries, accompanying her fiancée, James Rhodes. James was attending in Anthony Stark’s stead while he was overseas. He realized where he recognized her from after she introduced herself and explained she’d lived in New York for most of her life and that she’d done some dancing.
He’d been enthralled when he watched her perform in the New York City Ballet five years prior. She grinned sheepishly when he stammered out glowing praise for her appearance in Swan Lake. He tried not to stare when he noticed an odd shift in her gait as they walked into the lounge together. She explained briefly that her neurologist was also attending the seminar on pain management, and that she’d benefited from some of the breakthroughs in palliative treatment since her accident. They’d used six pins to reconstruct her leg when it was shattered, her tiny Saab totaled when she slid over the slick roads.
She fell in love with Ororo from the moment she’d met the introverted teenager, and she was determined to break through her shell. Stevie was all sass and hell on wheels. And Ororo was a handful.
The answer to every question was frequently another question. She lacked both fear and shame. Stevie couldn’t count how many times she’d had to shoo her back indoors to change clothes…or even to put any on. First she’d marked it up to the blithe adolescent tendency to want to impress her peers, i.e., “if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Except she hardly had any peers to impress, Stevie reasoned, and in this case, “flaunting it” included random excursions to the lake and the pool to swim in the altogether.
“ORORO MUNROE!” This time Stevie was inside the greenhouse with Phillip Ramsey, Charles’ gardener and groundsman, asking him to clip her some fresh basil and rosemary to take to his chef. She flung down her tiny basket on the picnic table and ran outside, fuming the whole way. Phillip stared after her until he caught sight of what startled her, and he nearly choked.
“Daddy, why did Ms. Hunter run - HEY!” His son Douglas cried out in protest and confusion when his father hastily clapped his hand over his eyes. He was only five, but he was a precocious five, Phillip reasoned. No need to give him an eyeful… he urged his son to help him harvest the tomato plants and averted his own eyes.
“Don’t think for a minute, little girl, that I’m above snatching ya baldheaded!” Stevie screeched, stalking and huffing her way to the pool!” Stevie was petite at five feet, four inches, and her bark was every bit as bad as her bite. Ororo wasn’t the least bit sheepish as she rose from the pool, confirming Stevie’s suspicions. She whisked off her apron and threw it over Ororo’s head, ignoring her dripping hair caught beneath the neck strap. “It’s the middle of the day! BROAD daylight, and I catch you out here without a stitch on! Even if I’d done something like that when I was HALF your age, my mother would have fanned me, and I wouldn’t have sat down for a week!”
“I don’t have a mother to fan me,” Ororo shrugged. As usual, her voice wasn’t angry, or even sour. Just matter of fact.
Not so much as a goosebump, Stevie mused. The child never got cold, and never CAUGHT cold. She was grateful for such a neat trick. She’d nagged herself hoarse, trying to talk some sense into Charles’ ward every winter, hauling her back into the house when snow was piled all the way up to the porch, and she called herself ready to go in shirt sleeves, jeans and shoes.
“Well, you’ve got me,” Stevie reminded her, and despite what she felt was a glare that could penetrate steel, Ororo gave her a serene smile. That smile was only slightly less provocative of her ire than patting her on the head, something else the girl could easily accomplish, since at thirteen, she already stood at least five foot eight. Precocious, self-possessed, and overdeveloped: Three things that didn’t belong together and that kept Stevie’s hands full. “Shower. Hair. Clothes. Then march straight into Charles’ office, young lady.”
“All right,” she agreed, and once again, she didn’t pout, scowl or stomp. Stevie was ready to tear out her hair…or, as she’d threatened earlier, to snatch out Ororo’s. Scamp…
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Nothing bothered her.
Scratch that, she amended. A trip to the Salem Springs Shopping Center yielded an odd revelation, as well as ruined an otherwise perfect day. Ororo wasn’t as avid a shopper at her age as some of her peers (and again, she hadn’t many peers to encourage that habit, for which Stevie was also somewhat grateful), so it was relatively effortless to take her to the store. No nagging about styles Stevie picked, no haranguing about trying things on or protests of “this makes my butt look too big.” Piece of cake.
Until they reached the subway tunnel. Ororo dragged her feet to a stop, practically jerking Stevie’s arm off as they wended their way through the crowd. When Stevie turned to ask what was wrong, she was chilled by the look of terror on her face. Her lips were a tight line, and she breathed rapidly through her nose, nearly hyperventilating and turning slightly pale.
“C’mon, girl, let’s get cracking, we’re gonna miss the red line!”
“No,” she whimpered, and her voice was a departure from its usually mature, deep alto. She shook her head emphatically, long white braid swaying.
“Ororo, we’re not going to make it, we need to get you some new things!”
“I can’t,” she insisted. “I won’t.”
“Ororo…look, it’s not as quick if we take a bus, and not as cheap if we take a cab!”
“It’s dark. Small,” she continued, and her words sounded clipped. “Cold.”
“Honey, you don’t get cold,” Stevie reminded her soothingly, rubbing her elbow. “Come on, you’re with me…”
“I WON’T!” she shrieked, and Stevie peered wildly around them at the people staring at her as she tried to calm her. Ororo was conspicuous enough, but she usually never tried to draw attention to herself. Today was the exception; I’m smaller than she is, Stevie reasoned. No one’ll believe I’m trying to kidnap her, for goodness sake.
She gave up, but she was shocked and concerned at how icy cold Ororo’s hands were when she gripped them.
“Bus?” Stevie offered. Ororo nodded, swallowing and fanning herself reflexively, trying to breathe.
And just like that, as Stevie dug out the change from her trench coat pocket, Ororo was fine. Cool hand Luke once more, even though she flinched slightly at the close quarters of the bus.
So, there they were. Stevie muttered under her breath the rest of the way inside the house as she watched Ororo trek in through the kitchen door, her underpants transparent after she hastily struggled into them while she was still soaking wet.
She planned to give Charles an earful.
[Reviews - 94]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story |
Has been viewed 1872 times
- Text Size +
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story | - Text Size +
You must login () to review.
