Of the Occult

The Encounter

The last house on Maple drive was built rather away from the rest, an architectural planning gone wrong maybe. It was closer to the line of trees that forever cast long shadows behind the house, and farthest away from the playground where the happy noises of children playing often originated from 4 pm till 6. Jeremy Dupitt, all of eleven years old now, was never seen playing with the other kids. Maybe it was that architectural flaw that had created such distance between him and the other kids, or maybe it was his alcoholic father who stayed absent for most of the time, and when he didn't, Jeremy wished he was. The eleven year old had gotten tired of removing his father's shoes after waking up late at night, and putting on a blanket over his drunken and lost body, he who preferred to sleep on the couch and not with his son. Jeremy wanted to play with the other children, but the other children knew he had no mother. The other children didn't like him, for he was different. Jeremy never smiled, wore shirts not meant for his size and was always gone soon after school, on his bicycle, with no other friends. It had become his habit to ride past his house, the last one on Maple drive, ride to the end of the road and beyond, into the woods. The saddest part was, no one stopped him. There was no one to stop him.
Today wasn't particularly different. Jeremy Dupitt was on his bicycle, pedaling it noiselessly. The sound of broken gravel was all that followed him as he drew closer to the playground. The big round eyes of the kid registered the few children at play, and he pedaled faster now. He saw the fat thirteen year old who always eyed him as he went past, and today Jeremy felt he had ventured too close. Not again, he thought, as the fat boy shouted at his friends and drew close. Jeremy slowed just a bit, a mistake. The thick arms of the thirteen year old grabbed his oversized shirt, and Jeremy prepared himself already, even before he was pulled away from his bike and fell on the pavement with a loud metallic BAM, his bicycle next to him.
"Oi! I told you not to come here, didn't I?"
The kids surrounding the fat boy snickered. Jeremy didn't even know their names.
His head was still spinning from the fall, and his arm was bleeding. The fat boy didn't seem to care much, and neither did Jeremy, quite frankly. He just wanted to be left alone.
It took fifteen minutes for the bullies to do their thing, before they left, bored.
"Stay away, creepo" a girl said.
"Go where your mommy went"
"Bugger off, fuck" the fat boy said. Jeremy's eyes didn't register any fear, even with the dust on his cheeks and his body hurting from the many kicks he had gotten. The fat boy? He walked away pretty fast, putting distance from the creepo.
People fear what they don't understand. And Jeremy was as closed a book as there ever had been.
Propping his cycle up, Jeremy stood awkwardly, grimacing at the bruises on his shoulder, arm and leg. Fat boy had done a number on him pretty bad. Was there a sting in the eleven year old boy's eyes? If there was, it didn't develop because of pain or fear. It came out of loneliness. The mere thought of going to his home now, an empty shell of a house, dark and long shadows beyond every corridor and no one to brighten it up, left Jeremy wanting to cuddle his sobs on that cold footpath next to the now fast abandoned playground.
A minute or two later, Jeremy had still failed to cry in earnest. Now picking himself up and dusting his clothes and checking for his wounds, he wondered what was the point of it all? This question left a series of unanswered hurt - which naturally it would. Even grown men ask that question and find themselves in similar positions. From a kid, though, the thought of giving up when his life had just started created a despair little few know of. Jeremy's round green eyes had attained a forever lost look - unable to understand his mother's death, unable to understand his father's inattention, unable to understand the other children's hostility. Forget the wounds dripping blood along his elbows and shins, Jeremy hurt from the inside, and in someone so young that hurt becomes permanent. Jeremy was wounded in a more lasting way than the fat boy ever intended.
So Jeremy, believing that this after all was all that life was about (he had been convinced happiness and love was not for him but for the other children), pulled his bicycle up and with a grimace rode it once more. His cycle creaked more loudly than ever, and when Jeremy arrived at the last house built near the trees, he never slowed down. Into the woods he went, the evening shadows might as well be night underneath the canopy, as he had done so many times before.
It was the beauty of isolation, was it not, that only in its company could one be oneself. So it was true for Jeremy also, who finally gave up the facade. On he rode, past the trees that knew no sympathy, Jeremy's tears fueling his cycle; the more he cried, the faster he rode. His bicycle bumped up and down over fallen twigs and rocks, but Jeremy could not care less. He felt broken and unneeded. He felt useless and pathetic. He felt like he had no place in the world and when his cycle tipped over a massive log, and Jeremy was once again flat on the ground, his spine meeting a rock causing spasms of pain, all Jeremy Dupitt could do was cry.
Tears slid down on to the forest floor, and not even the worms cared. And so Jeremy cried, as he had done so many times before, alone.
But as it would so happen, this time things would be different.
There was a sound of gentle feet on dried leaves, and Jeremy out of instinct wiped his eyes on his sleeves, as if his tears were a token of his weakness and embarrassment, but could not pull himself up. Moving caused immense pain to his back, so Jeremy craned his neck. His eyes swept over the broken twigs and dried leaves and fallen branches and such and then they saw the little girl looking at him with a genuine curiosity.
She tilted her head sideways a bit, so reminiscent of a cat, and looked at him with big brown eyes full of sorrow. For the first time in his life, Jeremy felt..... He didn't know how to describe it. Hope? He hadn't felt it before and knew its meaning only from a dictionary, so he did not know.
Finally Jeremy's eyes cleared up, his tears dry. He looked at her again, and this time he noticed less significant things. She was of Asian descent, perhaps Japanese? For she was wearing a regal looking kimono and yukata, pink and gold with floral patterns. She had make up on, a thick black line of mascara extending from the edge of her slanted almond eyes all the way behind her ears. Her face was pale, unnecessarily so, and her cheeks had blush. Her lips were a perfect rosebud, and this Jeremy could see quite clearly for she was now bending down to look directly into his eyes. For the weirdest reason, Jeremy felt violated; her brown eyes looked so keenly into his green, Jeremy could swear she could see past them, inside his head. But before Jeremy could object, she was already helping him up. With one hand pushing his back up (exactly at a point where it did not hurt, as if she somehow knew) she still looked at him with that mixture of sorrow and curiosity - Jeremy felt as if he was a sparrow with broken wings, which the strange girl meant to fix.
"Who are you?" Jeremy expressed his wonder.
She was mum, her silken kimono moving swish-swish as she pulled Jeremy upwards into a somewhat sitting position. She noticed Jeremy staring at her, blinked once and looked away.
"You wouldn't believe if I told you."
Jeremy left it at that. He couldn't stop staring though.
"I... ", he began once more.
"Why did you stop?"
"Stop what?" Jeremy responded. He was still trying to make sense of things but couldn't quite; who was she?
"Where does it hurt?" she asked again, ignoring his question.
"I...my back. I think I fell on a rock."
"Here?" she had found the spot on his spine. It was swollen. Jeremy nodded.
She reached inside her kimono for a small bag strapped around her waist. She retrieved a small bottle full of a green balm of some sort. Honestly, Jeremy thought it looked disgusting, but as the girl in the kimono methodically applied the ointment on his spine, he couldn't object. The girl intrigued him too much with her mystery for Jeremy to say a word.
"What was that?"
"Just medicine. It's good with bruises."
Her fingers felt cold on his back, or was it the green stuff? He couldn't tell, but when she retracted her hand from under his shirt, his spine already felt like it was warm where he was hurt.
"You carry that around with you all the time?" Jeremy wondered.
She didn't answer but for some reason her slant eyes crinkled up into what Jeremy assumed to be a half smile.
"I am Jeremy." he extended his hand.
Her cold fingers gripped his awkwardly, and they shook hands.
"I am Anahasika Misaki."
"Pleased to meet you, Anahasika."
This time Anahasika Misaki actually smiled. It was a good development on her serene face, and Jeremy felt a warm feeling inside.
"What?" Jeremy asked, as she continued to smile.
"Oh, nothing. No one ever calls me by my name anymore."
"Why not? It's such an unusual name." Jeremy couldn't help but add, "I mean in a good way that is..."
She smiled again. Jeremy realized he liked her presence, sitting next to him, her legs folded under her in grace. He wanted to keep the conversation going, but didn't know how. Before he could think of something though, she spoke.
"Where does it hurt?"
"You already put that balm thing on me. I will be fine now, I guess."
But she shook her head, her earrings making soft bell like sounds. She placed her palm flat on his chest.
"I can see pain, you know? So tell me, where does it hurt?"
For the strangest moment, it was as if Jeremy Dupitt understood what she meant. Of course, she could see pain, he thought. But that strange moment died, and he wondered how was that possible. What color would pain be? What texture would it have? No, this made no sense, and yet her cold hand right above his heart felt heavy, and steadily heavier. He could feel a pain there, like the pain of straining muscles under a heavy load, and he felt the burden on his heart and for the slightest fraction of time. He wanted to tell her. Where it hurt. He wanted to tell her all.
"I asked you before. Why did you stop?"
Her hand felt so much more warmer now.
"why did I stop what?" he asked, wide eyed.
"Crying."
Had Jeremy ever thought Anahasika Misaki had cold hands? How wrong of him. Her hand was made of fire, and his heart seemed to burn. He did not know how it started, but Jeremy Dupitt found himself crying like he never had. Wailing loudly, his sobs echoing through the trees, he hugged her, and found that she was hugging him back, stroking his hair.
"who are you?" Jeremy asked once more, through a haze of tear laden eyes.
"I am the Lady of the Lake." Misaki replied.