Tell Me My Name Page 6

  But I find nothing. I don’t know what I was expecting – maybe some kind of spark or force dwelling in me – but after several moments of feeling only the mundane details of my body, I realize that what I’m doing is futile. And foolish – as foolish as trying to fly without wings.

  Despite my failure, a perception that I’m onto something nags at me, and my mind refuses to let go of the possibility that I possess something magical. The only way I can know if there’s any truth to the idea is to search for memories again. Even though my efforts will likely send that burning pain lancing through me, I have no choice. And I can’t let my fear hold me back anymore.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I concentrate inward. My shoulders and neck feel tense, and I’m certain that I’ll run into the invisible fire soon, but I press on. A strange ache fills my head – one that’s not so much physical as mental, like I’m forcing my thoughts into a place they don’t want to go. All I see is the blackness of my eyelids and the dancing specks of color behind them.

  Suddenly, an image flashes before my closed eyes – one so blurred that I can’t make out what it is, but present enough that it must mean something. All I know is that it was something green. And it gave me a sensation that it was big, that if I’d stood beside it, it would have dwarfed me. This image must have surfaced from the buried recesses of my mind, and I concentrate hard to bring it back and make it sharper, so I can see what it is.

  The green blur returns, and starts to take on a definable shape. It has a narrow base and wide top … like a mushroom. I reach for it, aiming to bring it into focus, unveil the details …

  A bolt of heat stabs my mind, and I gasp at its familiar pain. But I keep exploring that green shape, trying to find what it is and what it might mean to me. I know that there’s more heat to come, and come it does, blazing through my head with the fury of a lightning storm. I squeeze my eyes and grit my teeth against the powerful hotness, stubbornly holding onto the image.

  In spite of the fire tearing through my skull, the shape starts to grow clearer. Excited, I watch as it morphs before my eyes. The narrow base turns the color of wood and reaches lines of brown into the round green top. I soon realize it’s the memory of a tree. But what does it mean? Could it be one that grew near my home, perhaps? Is there a sign carved on its trunk that could tell me more?

  The image sharpens, the tree’s individual leaves becoming clear. The fiery pain stabbing through my head hurts so much that I can’t stop myself from sobbing, now, and tears stream down my cheeks. I try to steady my breaths, but they come in jagged gasps. Part of me wants to open my eyes and make it stop, before this spell turns me to cinders. But a stronger part needs to know what the memory forming in my mind signifies.

  So I cling to the image with all my strength, ignoring the infernal pain. I attempt to make out more details of the tree, hoping it will tell me what it means, and why it’s the one memory I’ve been able to bring to the surface. The details of the gnarled trunk become clear, and I see no sign or mark on it. Shifting my focus up to the branches, I notice something nestled between the leaves. A metal item – actually, several metal items. Each is round and made of gold, silver, or bronze. Another surge of heat flares through my head, and a cry escapes my lips. All I have to do to make it stop is open my eyes and stop trying, but I need to know what’s hidden in those leaves.

  I hear a rhythmic tapping sound, and I know it’s coming from the memory, since I’m hearing it in my head and not with my ears. The tapping grows louder and I realize … it’s the ticking of dozens of small clocks. That’s what those things in the branches are – clocks. They clang together as wind disturbs the branches, and a musical chiming fills the air …

  It’s the clock tree from my dream.

  A torrent of anger and frustration sweeps through me; I haven’t unearthed a new memory – I’ve simply brought to mind the recollection of the same nonsense I saw in my sleep. I open my eyes with a wordless cry, fury churning in my stomach.

  Though the searing pain from the curse retreats into nothingness, its absence brings little relief to my riotous heart. Stronger than the vexation, than the feeling that my own mind betrayed me, is the heaviness of despair. I inhale sharply, trying to calm myself, and the icy air seems to travel into my head. The tears keep spilling over my fingers, though, and I try to wipe them all away.

  I can’t believe that I’ve failed again. Even my greatest efforts have been useless. I thought I was close to uncovering a secret from my past, but I was wrong. The only memories I have are of this cell, and of things that make no sense.

  A tree that grows clocks.

  A sensation that I once flew.

  A grove with books on tree branches.

  And surrounding it all, this heat, this pain, this curse that tortures me each time I try to remember something. No matter where I look, I find nothing. Maybe there’s nothing to find. I’ve been going on the assumption that my memories are still there, just buried. But it’s possible that they’re gone entirely, and the reason I can never find anything is because my mind’s utterly empty.

  How can that be? I must have had a life before this cell. It’s a sensation as strong as the knowledge of the ground I’m sitting on. How did I lose it? Why did the Sorci trap me here? And what do they want from me?

  If they won’t tell me, and I can’t remember on my own, then what chance do I have?

  I curl my knees up to my chest and let my sobs out, knowing I won’t be able to hold them back unless they abate on their own. The image of the clock tree lingers in my mind, clear as daylight yet completely absurd. Such a thing isn’t possible – that much I know. Trees can grow flowers or fruits, but not manmade machines. Nevertheless, I let the image linger in my mind. The tree may not be real, but it’s still beautiful to see, with its grand, reaching branches and the delicate fineness of the little timepieces.

  Their soft, insistent ticking echoes through my mind, seeming to grow louder every second. My heartbeat feels bound to their movements, pounding to their rhythm, which is steady but urgent. Suddenly, something inside tells me to hurry, that a great danger is lurking, that I must escape it soon. I know this feeling must be because I’m trapped, and my instincts are telling me to get out before the Sorci master returns and hurts me again. But why is it turning so urgent in my heart?

  The ticking of the clocks speeds up, and my pulse follows. I’m breathing so fast now that I’m panting with anxiety. A sheen of cold sweat forms on my skin, and I hug the cloak in an attempt to find comfort. Something terrible is going to happen – I’m certain of it. And there’s more – a dark and powerful shadow looming over me, threatening not just my life, but my whole world. I don’t even remember what that world is, but my heart holds the feeling of a home I can’t remember, and the ominous presence seems ready to ravage it all. It’s almost as if … whatever happens to me will happen to my world as well.

  And I can’t stop it.

  Panic rises from the pit of my stomach, and if my heart beats any harder, it will surely rip my chest apart. But I can barely hear its thumping over the ticking of a hundred clocks, each saying that my time is running out.

  It’s all in my head, I tell myself adamantly. Those clocks aren’t real – it’s all in my head!

  But another thought overwhelms my attempt at self-reassurance: I have to get out.

  I jump up and look around wildly, searching for a way to escape. Yet I shouldn’t have to – these walls are made of ice, and ice is breakable! I have to try again; maybe I gave up too quickly last time.

  I pound at the wall with my fists, but I might as well be hammering at the iron floor. Not even a crack appears, and the only thing I succeed in doing is bruising my hands.

  I have to get out.

  The thought consumes my mind, as it did when I first awoke here, and I scratch at the ice by the window the Sorci master created, in a desperate attempt to widen it. While I know in my head that this is useless, it’s the panic that’s controlling me no
w, dictating my actions.

  I have to get out! I have to get out!

  My fevered thoughts tell me that if there’s an opening, there must be a way to squeeze through, so I press my forehead against the bars, trying to force myself to fit through the gap. Freedom lies just beyond the staircase the Sorci descended, and the sight of its gray stones tantalizes me. But the bars are just too close together, and though the frenzy in my head orders me to keep trying, I push off the wall and stumble backward. My heel catches the edge of the cloak, and I trip.

  The impact from landing on the hard ground shakes the madness out of my consciousness, and the ticking fades from my mind. But I’m no calmer, even with it gone. The tension remains, and the great despair returns. My heart turns to lead, weighing me down, and, seeing no point in resisting, I let it.

  I lie on the cold floor, staring at the black bars and the frozen walls between them. I’m not sure which is worse – the frenzy that had me pounding at ice or this current despair. I want to die. What’s the sense in living like this, trapped and awaiting torment, without even knowing who I am? If I had a sense of self to cling to, or a home to miss, I might at least have hope. But as I am, I have nothing.

  Nothing.

  I want to summon the strength to press on, but my willpower is spent. Even knowing that the Divinity would frown upon my thoughts can’t keep them away. The coldness of the metal floor bites my bare leg, and I instinctively draw it up into the warmth of the cloak.

  The cloak given to me by a kind stranger. There is good in this world, I remind myself. I have to hold on to that thought. Without it, I would let the despair defeat me and lose any chance of surviving. But I have to hope, to believe that life is worth living. There is good in this world …

  The mist undulates through the darkness, slow and menacing. I back away from it, frightened to the core. I know that mist. If it catches me, it will burn me to cinders, but not before tormenting me with its fiery grasp.

  A sudden motion catches my eye, and I whirl toward it. But all I see is more of the silver haze, winding through empty blackness.

  Another movement. I spin to face it and catch a glimpse of whiteness so pure, it makes the mist look blackened and dirty. Whatever it is, it must lie beyond the smokiness obscuring everything.

  Should I go toward it and find out what it is, knowing what the mist will do to me?

  A tugging in my heart urges me onward, but fear holds me back. I don’t want to feel that fire again, especially when facing it has brought me nothing but pain.

  Then the whiteness appears again, glowing through the mist before me, and I draw back, fearing the mist will approach. It doesn’t. Instead, the bright object emerges, taking the form of a snowy horse. Only its face is clear – the rest remains a barely recognizable blur in the haze. It regards me with wise, violet eyes, and blinks once.

  Its presence is soothing and safe, like it once protected and nurtured me. The desire to go to it and feel the warmth of its sureness overcomes me, and I forget my fear. I force my feet to begin moving, and walk toward it …

  Stars fill the tiny window to the outside, and for a moment I just stare at them, hypnotized by their beauty. They represent the good in a world of darkness – someone told me that once, but I don’t try to remember who. I know better than that now.

  My body aches, and I push off the ground, sitting up. When did I fall asleep? How long was I unconscious? The exhaustion from my panic must have caused me to drift off, and the worldly complaints of my body tell me I’ve been lying here for a while. My throat itches with thirst, and my stomach feels hollow with hunger. And yet I’ve no desire to relieve either of them, since I can’t allay the deeper thirst and hunger of my mind.

  This time, I actually wish I’d stayed in the dreamscape – at least a little longer. That horse – it could mean anything, since it’s such a common creature, but its presence comforted me like nothing else could. I felt like … like I was looking into the face of someone who loved me. Not merely as an animal loves its master – as a mother loves its child.

  But that’s just more nonsense. How could I have a horse for a mother?

  I stand with a sigh, gazing out at the stars. If only my dreams would show me something that makes sense, for once. Or, if they must show nonsense, why do they have to seem so real, tantalizing me with the thought that they could be memories, only to yank the hope out from under me when I wake and confront reality?

  The stars represent goodness, but they’re beyond my reach. And staring out the window just reminds me of how small the opening is, and how impossible it is to escape through it. I turn away and lean back against the wall, then sink to the ground. The sphere of yellow light sits in the nearby corner, but its warmth does nothing to comfort me.

  Just then, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. It must be the Sorci master, coming to torment me again. The thought terrifies me, but there’s nowhere to escape to, and so I remain where I am and bury my face in my knees.

  Divinity, give me strength, I pray. I wish an ayr would swoop down from the Celestial Realm and carry me away, but know better than to pin my hopes on such foolishness, since, though the ayri watch over the world from afar, they can’t interfere with the everyday matters of mortals.

  The footsteps come closer, and I hug my knees tighter, knowing I can expect only pain. They stop outside the cell. The Sorci master must be standing outside the window, staring at me, and the last thing I want to see are those snake-like eyes and cruel countenance. I could ask him again who I am and what he wants with me, but he would respond only with more tortures.

  Hopeless. All is hopeless.

  “Hello?” a voice calls.

  It’s not the Sorci master’s … it’s Darien’s. I look up and see him gazing down at me from the window. The flame of the torch he holds highlights his angular cheekbones and glints off his broad shoulders, giving him a fiery halo. The sight brings me a measure of relief, and I feel myself relax. At the very least, he won’t hurt me. But knowing that his master would cast his agonizing spell on me if I so much as speak to him taints the comfort his presence would otherwise have brought. And what would the magician do to his wayward apprentice for just that single word, if he knew?

  Darien knits his black eyebrows with concern and tilts his head as though examining me. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  I automatically open my mouth, but stop. If I respond, the master will accuse me of bewitching Darien again, and inflict his cruel magic on me. The very memory of that pain makes me quiver, and so I close my mouth, drop my gaze, and give a slight nod. It’s a lie, answering his question in the affirmative when I’m anything but all right, yet it’s the only response I can give. The best thing that can happen right now is for him to decide he’s satisfied with that answer and return to his duties, before the Sorci master catches him talking to me again.

  But my silence doesn’t seem to discourage him, for he says, “Here, I brought you something to eat.”

  His words, while spoken softly, seem thunderous against the silence, and I cringe. Please let there be no one listening, I pray. My body aches with the memory of the million claws tearing through me from the Sorci master’s curse, and though I know the pain is just in my head, it feels almost real. I can’t stand the thought of enduring that again. And what if he does the same to Darien this time? The only thing worse than suffering myself would be to see the pain inflicted on another.

  The practical thing to do would be to get up and accept the food Darien has brought me without a word, but I can’t muster the will. What’s the point? Eating and drinking are things a person does to stay alive for tomorrow, but I’m not living right now. I’m just existing – without purpose, without hope, without even a name.

  Meanwhile, I hear Darien placing something on the icy ledge of the cell’s window, and instinctively turn to the sound. It’s another brown sack, like the one he brought me before. I try to summon a smile to say “thank you,” but even my lips feel h
eavy, and I only manage a slight twitch. So I give a small nod instead, doing my best to hold my head high and appear all right. Not out of pride – I don’t think I’ve had that since I awoke in this cell – but in hopes of convincing him that it’s true. Any concern he has for me would only bring us both more trouble from the Sorci master.

  But it’s not working. His eyebrows gather with worry, and he leans in, closer to the window. “What’s wrong? Are you cold?”

  I shake my head. Since he doesn’t seem to realize what my silence meant, I whisper, “Please, you can’t speak to me.” My voice is so soft, it barely reaches my own ears.

  His expression darkens. “My master may be wise, but even he isn’t all-knowing.” He glances to the side, pressing his mouth into a harsh line. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I know he forbade me from talking to you, but you don’t have to worry about what would happen if he hears me now. It’s my concern.”

  I turn my gaze to the floor. He doesn’t know what his master did to punish me for bewitching him, even when I was innocent of the crime. And I can’t tell him – I’d have to speak again to do so, and if the master catches me, he’ll torture me again. Each time he’s cursed me, I’ve felt as if a monster latched onto my soul and sucked the energy from it, and that the magician released me just in time to save the last drop I needed to regain my strength. What if next time he doesn’t, and his curse leaves me in a state too feeble to recover from? How could I ever escape if I’m too weak to stand?

  And what’s more, I won’t be the only subject of his wrath, since the master said that the spell he cast on Darien the last time he spoke to me, the curse painful enough to take him to the floor, was a mere warning. Even if I had the fortitude to bear the magician’s cruelty, I couldn’t allow another to suffer like that.