Waters and Mirrors Read online

courage and the vanity that is needed in order to gaze into my waters.”

  Larry sighed in relief. Like Larry, the gaunt specter that floated from the shadows wore no mask upon his face.

  Larry wondered why that specter, of all those at the table, chose not to wear a mask.

  Scars crisscrossed the man’s face. Lines of threading trailed from the ears, along the forehead, across the eyes. Scars twisted the man’s lips and sliced into his cheeks. One eye looked too high upon the head in comparison with the other. A ragged hole rested where the tip of the nose should’ve been, and the upper bridge of that savaged feature ran crookedly into a dented forehead. Such a face summoned both fear and pity within Larry, who looked again around the table to see if that stitched face impacted anyone else as it impacted him. Still, none of those masks showed either alarm or fear.

  The man took the last, empty chair as he stepped out of the shadow. He smiled at those gathered around the crimson table to show a grin filled with chipped teeth. Larry swooned to imagine the pain caused by such a wide smile on such a torn face.

  “The masks are only tricks, Mr. McPeak,” spoke the torn man.

  “Tricks against me?”

  The torn man paused before replying. “No. Not against you. The masks are their talismans. The masks give them courage to gaze into my waters. They hide their faces’ care.”

  “You don’t wear a mask,” Larry replied. “Do you not need courage?”

  The man’s forehead wrinkled. “How do you know I do not wear a mask?” The man chuckled. “Forgive me for rambling. None of you have drifted to this seer’s table to listen to new questions. You’ve come here for answers. But, Mr. McPeak, know that no man needs to wear a mask to look into my waters. Perhaps you too will decide to wear a new face in time. Who’s to say?”

  Larry’s heart quickened. “So the whispers in the dark are true? We can make contact with the other side?

  The sewn face nodded. “Sometimes. We’re more dependent on the other side than they are upon us. They have to be listening for us. They have to be searching for us if we can hope for any kind of connection.”

  “But sometimes?”

  “Sometimes, Mr. McPeak. Sometimes.”

  Larry’s hands squeezed the crimson cloth. “If only I could know,” he whispered. “I’ve been drifting all this time to know. I might move forward if I could be sure.”

  The seer’s face shifted and pulled at its stitches. For the first time, the masks turned upon Larry and regarded him. Larry trembled in the gazes and suddenly wished that he also wore a mask to conceal his swelling fear.

  “I can make no promises,” spoke the seer. “Those who survive on the other side must be ready for our call. There is no bell to tell them we wish to speak to them. They too must be staring into the darkness. I cannot promise anyone remains waiting on the other side.”

  The sewn man turned his attention to the center of the table. The masks leaned forward as the color of the crimson cloth brightened in the light that intensified from the table’s center.

  The sewn man extended a scarred hand, which lacked two of its fingers, from his robes and raised it over the table. The cloth pulsated. The seer’s hand opened and turned its palm towards the table to release an invisible drop into the center of the tablecloth, from which the fabric rippled like water to the table’s edge. The tablecloth sparkled as reflection formed upon the table.

  The seer squinted at the beads of color glistening in the pool he had summoned upon the table’s surface. “Ms. Aikman, the cloth will first show itself to you.”

  The cloth rippled as if another drop plopped into its center. The colors swirled. Blues coalesced into a sky dotted with clouds. Whites and grays, blacks and browns, pulled together and painted the shapes of homes and paved streets filled with cars, of yards teeming with fallen leaves. Golds burned into the cloth’s shimmer to shape pumpkins smiling jagged grins from front porches. Autumn had always been one of Larry’s favorite seasons, and he fondly recalled hiding beneath piles of leaves and walking his childhood dog after the summer winds cooled.

  The vulture next to Larry dropped her claws onto the edge of the table. Their talons pinched at the cloth, sending quick ripples through the emerging vision.

  “Careful please, Ms. Aikman,” warned the seer, “you might scare aware your vision. You might haunt who you desire to see most.”

  A moan leaked from the vulture’s beak.

  The table’s colors continued to swirl. The vision turned and focused upon a white, colonial home before fading slightly as it passed through the green front door, reforming to float down a long hallway. Heavy curtains suffocated much of the light struggling to seep through the window. A television winked without sound. Only the noise of a swaying rocking chair creaked from the table’s waters.

  The vulture mask teetered forward, coming close to plunging into the rippling cloth. Larry heard a grunt beneath the carrion plumage, but the mask pulled itself back before falling into the water’s sights.

  The fabric rippled and swirled before painting a thin woman shifting in the rocking chair. Silver hair fell in tangles over her eyes and curled upon her shoulders. Her hands and fingers moved in rhythmic jerks. She held neither yarn nor needle, but those gathered at the table easily imagined the invisible scarf that formed in her silent work.

  The vulture’s dark, tiny eyes didn’t blink as they stared at the woman whose reflection rippled upon the cloth surface. One of her claws reached towards the waters, stopping before a finger disturbed the surface.

  “Mother.”

  The words scraped from the beak turned everyone’s gaze away from the cloth. None behind a mask dared share in that hurt. They lacked the courage to share in any further pain.

  “Mother. Look at me. I’m here, Mother.”

  The woman rocking in the chair showed no indication of noticing the vulture’s call.

  A shadow passed in front of the vision. A younger woman entered the den and smiled at the hands that knit at their invisible project. The intruder placed a finger upon the woman’s wrist and counted the pulses.

  “Your heart sounds healthy today, Mrs. Aikman.”

  The vulture’s talons reached so close to the rippling cloth.

  The elder Mrs. Aikman continued to rock and knit, showing no awareness to any presence other than her own.

  “Perhaps one of your nephews will visit today,” the intruder smiled. “Maybe an old friend will stop by to give you some company.”

  The woman’s fingers merely continued to knit.

  The vulture sobbed. No matter the disguise, the black feathers could not hide the anguish.

  “You cannot know for certain that she has forgotten you, Ms. Aikman.” The seer’s eyes watered. “The waters show you all they can.”

  The vulture gulped a breath and turned still. None of the mask’s feathers stirred.

  The seer sighed. “You’re always welcome at this table, Ms. Aikman. Perhaps the waters will be more giving on your next visit.”

  The seer’s stitched hands again waved over the table’s shimmering pool, and another unseen drop created new ripples. Colors swirled. Scenes shifted. Visions emerged.

  The cyclops stood from his seat so that his eye might gain a better view of what the pool cast for him.

  Larry rubbed the back of his next as the vision formed in the waters of fabric. He knew he could not truly feel the heat at the back of his neck, but his spirit still sensed the warmth from the sunshine that flooded a yellow coastline’s sky. Sounds of surf floated to Larry’s ears. Waves rolled onto the sands. The cyclop’s eye blinked before settling into a long stare.

  Sunbathers crowded the stretch of coast. Tan skin lounged beneath the sun. The cyclop’s fingers twisted and twitched, as if trying to guide the vision. A succession of women centered in the pool’s focus, a wide range of swells and of hips the cyclops paused to consider. There swayed blondes and brunettes. There lounged the curves that fired the living’s blood.

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sp; Larry sighed. His longing may have easily been seen on his unmasked face, but he refused to feel any shame for the want. He felt no obligation to cover his desire with a shroud. The eyes of the alligator mask stared as intently as did Larry’s eyes. The minotaur breathed steamed through its mask’s nostrils. Neither the unicorn nor the vulture turned away.

  “Isabella?” The cyclops growled. “Where is Isabella? Show her to me. I languish for her.”

  The table’s surface again rippled. The colors gathered into the tan image of a woman in life’s fertile prime. Larry scolded himself for not ripping his sight away from such a beautiful form. He would only taste melancholy by looking upon such a shape. He shivered as the cold darkness surrounding the table chilled his blood, blood he wished could again warm in the sun.

  The cyclops pushed his knuckles onto the surface, tilting the table and sending a wave across the cloth that almost erased the vision.

  “Please, Mr. Hale,” the seer spoke. “Watch how you disturb the waters lest your vision run away.”

  The cyclops groaned and withdrew his thick hands. The woman in the vision turned towards those gathered around the table. Her skin