Paranimal

Chapter 3

Even as I hit the close button on the window control to draw the night-blinds, a rosy glow illuminates the pale lightness of my room in its white and green splendour, giving the place a warm comforting feel of soft summer haze and sweet comfort. Nothing compares to the glorious feeling of a splendid sunset splashed with peach and orange, fuchsia and rouge. It warms me to the bone as I look through the slits in the blinds, letting the slats of fading sunlight stripe my face, glittering in the reflection of my grey-blue eyes.

Sighing, I turn away to my comfortingly familiar room, the bed in its place, the plush toys staring silently back at me.

As I shut the bathroom door behind me, I yank off my boots and kick them to one side, casually flinging my moose-pelt breeches and small-fitting synthetic jerkin over the heated radiator. Carefully I remove my necklace, crafted from a lion's mane and threaded with sun-dried berries the colour of elk blood. A single smoothened shark tooth hangs in the centre like a deadly scimitar. I let the necklace clink onto the edge of the marble carved basin, the oval glass mirror reflecting the face of a short thin girl with wild hair the colour of sea-damp sand and eyes like cobalt glass marbles. My mouth is a straight line above my chin, neither smiling nor grimacing, just full of strange and earnest determination.

As I step into the glass tube, the double sliding doors zip closed behind me, sealing together to keep watertight. Then I hit the green touchscreen buttons on the light up screen projection pad at the back of the glass tube. Warm relaxing water begins to power itself down upon me, soaking my hair, leaking into my eyes and trickling over my skin. Bliss.

Hitting another icon on the wall, bubbles begin to propel lightly from above, mixing with the water, filling the shower-tube with luscious scents of the forest; summer fruits and cool dew. Treating myself, I decide its worth another push of a button, this time sending blasting jets of massaging spring water from the sides of the tube. I give the last command to allow rose petals to gently accompany the floating bubbles to fall like snowflakes from the ceiling. Satisfied, I press the 'ok' button and settle back on the little concave in the glass, designed for sitting on.

I know fully well that I live for these blissful moments at the end of the day, here in my enclosed steamy shower-tube, just letting liquid joy wash over my exhausted body, washing away my troubles if only just for a while. My thoughts drift into dreams and its like this is my little corner of heaven on earth, with the rosy glow of a beautiful sunset gliding through the opaque windows, the sweet smell of honeysuckle and rose petals and the pure satisfaction of nothingness. I just live for this moment.

But I can't stay forever. Finally opening my eyes, I hit the 'stop' button immediately causing the wonderful water and its blissful additions to halt with a gentle whir. The tube then automatically sucks away the fallen water and debris through the hoover in the floor and sends down a blast of hot air from the vent from which the water first came. The giant dryer stops me from getting chilled as a small window blade unfolds from the side and efficiently wipes away steam and residue from the glass of the tube, the air blasts still warming and drying my nourished body. Once this procedure is quickly carried out, everything returns to its usuall position and goes to stand-by as the automatic doors zip open again to release me into the warm bathroom.

Hopping onto the fluffy mat, I swathe myself in a heated blow-dried towel and knot my damp hair up, giving it a quick squeeze to wring out the water. Taking from the shelf a pot of lotion, I rub myself down before taking from the 'wear basket' my nightwear; a plain white mid-length pair of cotton chinos and pale olive silk shirt with a simple gather at the neck. All the people of the Bucket wear plain clothes consisting of these garments, though the shirt colour is optional and male nightshirts don't have the gather and are cotton rather than floaty silk. All children my age from about nine to fourteen wear the moose-pelt breeches and synthetic jerkins as well as cotton tunics and light chemises. Elk-hide belts are strapped over both torso layers for females to clench at the waist whilst for males, a thicker less delicate strap is worn around lower on the hip. For those above this age range, similar clothing is worn but with slightly more decoration such as simple cuts, stencils or attires and often, young women like to have a ruche at the neckline of their tunics. When adult-hood is reached, good quality leggings made of elk hide or animal skins are worn with padded wool tunics and a leather or pelt parka. The elderly are treated with the most respect, wearing almost prestigious attire consisting of a rich ankle-length robe, belted at the waist with a loose braid of their clan fur or hair. This belt is always given to them by the clan leader, the Vowles. Our Vowle is always called Volowskii. A waist wrap made of animal pelts is worn under the belted robe.

Thinking about Volowskii presenting the braid belts of big cat fur reminds me of what Pa had said earlier about the poor leader being sick. Imagining Vol lying weakly upon his bed, eyes closed in a pale face gives me a sick feeling of doubt. He's always been so kind, striking nobility and bravery into the hearts of the Big Cat Clan, making them believe that he was a worthy leader. And he was. He gave guidance and advice to the young and inexperienced, words of praise and encouragement to all and strength and wisdom to the elderly and sick. No man had ever spoken ill of Volowskii. To think that he could be dying makes me feel sick myself.

Dressing quickly, I decide to push the stressful thoughts away; I will visit him tomorrow evening with Ellen and Tiger after Saturday school. I'll bring him gifts and food, and I'll see for sure. It's not worth worrying if I don't even know what I'm worrying about.

Clearing my head, I collect my dirty day clothes and chapped boots from the floor and shove them into the 'wear cleaning chute'. The clothes will all be sent down to the village Wear Centre to be blast-cleaned and sent in packages back to the designated households.

Leaving the bathroom, I wonder what to do. Homework.

Sitting down at the sloping white desk, I flick the tiny switch under the table top, causing a square panel on the desk to light up. A screen is projected onto the table top like the screen of a computer. A keyboard and set of buttons is also projected just slightly below the light-up screen. I click on BucketNet and search for the school website. Tapping in my personal school code, I click my nails on the wooden table top where there are no images projected, waiting for the settings to configure and the page to load. Pressing on the homework folder, the icon opens up to show a page displaying pieces of digital paper and sticky-notes. Oh crap. So much homework. And I didn't even realise. Glancing at the digital display clock built into the wall above my bed, I calculate that there should be enough time to finish at least two pieces of the work. But first, I scroll down to the completed tasks section where the latest completed homework is displayed with digital markings and post-stick note comments tagged to them. Clicking on 'The History Of The Bucket" I glare maliciously at Mr Haggard's crude comment.

Roberta, this is a nice start but perhaps you should delve a little deeper. You are not thick; you know more about the history of morph than that. Please try harder next time.

Well thank you Mr Haggard.

Doesn't he know that I can't...morph? It hurts that people think I'm just dumb. Bu I'm not. I've just never morphed the way everyone else has, never felt the same buzz of change the way all the others have. And yet the teachers expect me to understand about the history of the Bucket. How does morphing even have anything to do with the bucket's history anyway?

I though I'd done really well personally.

I'd described how the land formations had changed over the centuries, leaving lush even ground in a large crater-like valley, giving the bucket its name. The huge valley is like a big a bucket. Literally. And I mentioned how the people and inhabitants evolved over time, how the settlements changed etc. etc.

But no. I need to include about morphing.

Grumpily, I scroll to the next completed. Clicking on the attached tab, I see that the comment has been sent as an audio message.

I like your work Bertie. But you need to explain in more depth about morphing and give a scientific reason for why it could have begun. Nice try though.

Miss McGaughan with with her nice comments and sweet temperament doesn't understand either.

Sighing, I decide to move on to doing some new homework.

Staring at the first assignment, I see glumly that it is maths. I click on the digital maths sheet and eye the squiggly equations and algebra statements with utmost caution. I hate maths and I'll keep hating it but at least I know that it won't involve morphing.

I enlarge the screen to read the paper properly and using my finger like a pen, I fill in the boxes and answer the questions, slowly but steadily. For a few of them, I can't work them out in my head so I scribble some calculations at the edge of the projection and once I've got the answer, I use the palm of my hand to rub out the scrawl.

Finishing, I press the 'send' button and close down the ProLightop, flicking the switch under the desk once more with a sigh.

With weary eyes I slide under the cool sheets and snuggle down in my bed, letting the fluffiness of my pillow cradle my head, the edge of the crisp blanket tickling my nose.

With eyes closed, I feel for the digital built-in clock on the wall above the bed and press the turn on the alarm for next morning.