Crowned

I want to show you something. He gets slowly to his feet and walks to the door. He doesn’t limp or hobble, but walks with dignified purpose. I follow, wondering what he looked like as an ordinary man, before he decided to try to live for ever.

He takes me down the corridor. There’s no wall on the left to hide the rest of the house, no railing to separate us from the sheer drop to the ground floor. Even though I know it’s an illusion, I press my hand against the wall on my right and try not to look at the exposed scaffolding beyond the edge of the corridor.

Something shifts in the corner of my eye, and when I turn I see that a high railing has sprouted along the other side of the corridor. It’s made of stainless steel, clean and polished, solid. As I watch dust settles on it, dulling the shiny surface, and splotches of paint appear on the bars.

The mind is a funny thing, the Puppetmaster muses. I can hear the smile in his tone, and I know the railing is for my benefit.

Thanks. It feels odd to be polite to him, and yet it would have felt even stranger not to acknowledge the gesture. He’s my enemy. The fact that he thinks otherwise shouldn’t affect me, but it does. I glance into the empty rooms as we pass. Where’s Emily?

Working.

Why does that sound so ominous? Working on what?

He doesn’t answer. Here. He turns into the last room.

From the outside it seemed the same as the others, but from the inside it’s immense. It’s out of proportion to the rest of the house; a room this size would never fit in. I frown at the Puppetmaster, baffled by this lapse. I always got the feeling that order was important to him.

He smiles, reading me. This room is special.

The walls are coated in glossy beige paint and filled with framed photographs. They form a pattern, an undulating wave from one end of the room to the other. The Puppetmaster beckons me closer. My stomach is knotted and tense. I had expected a battle of wits, a series of psychic tests, or even an awkward conversation about his devious intentions. I did not expect a walk down memory lane. Is he lonely? Is that why he keeps Emily close? Did he once have children, a wife?

I walk over to him and look at the first set of photographs. They are old, black and white, and some of them flicker at the edges and shift before my eyes. I stare at him in surprise. These are actual memories projected from his mind. Those that change are those he struggles to recollect.

I take a step backwards. A vague sense of unease has settled over me. For the first time I’m seeing the Puppetmaster as a human being rather than a menace in the shadows, and I’m not sure I want to. Will I still be able to hate him after seeing his baby pictures?

Why are you doing this? I turn to face him. To gain my sympathy?

He laughs. I don’t need your sympathy, my dear. I’m showing you this because I want you to understand. By the end of our third meeting, you will have the answers you seek. But be patient. I’ve lived a long, long life, and we have a lot to cover. He looks at me with a benevolent smile. Are you ready?

I nod, though fear has stirred again. The anklet might keep the Puppetmaster from using magic tricks on me, but it can’t keep him from using good old-fashioned manipulation. I don’t want to come out of this a convert to his twisted logic. I promised Lebz I’d come back as myself, and I intend to keep that promise. I take a deep breath and turn towards the photographs.

There are no baby pictures. The earliest one, the one that flickers most, is of a young man in a hideous suit and hat, standing outside a large house. He’s tall and thin, but apart from a wide grin his features are unremarkable. Smallish eyes, big ears. An ordinary guy.

I came into my telepathy early, he begins. I had always known that I could read people and convince them to do things. People gave me whatever I wanted. Toys, money, clothes. When I was sixteen my father’s employer gave us his house.

My eyes widen. I look at the house, then at the Puppetmaster. His expression is calm, unruffled. “You took his house?”

He gave it to us, he corrects me patiently. But instead of being grateful, my father beat me senseless. He was worried people would accuse us of witchcraft. So I left.

The next photograph is of a train, and the one after that is a colour shot of a red-faced man with a fistful of money.

You ran away.

He frowns. Running away is what children do. I left to seek my fortune.

I roll my eyes.

I met a wealthy businessman who gave me money to start a business of my own. There were others after him. Many others. He smiles slyly. People liked to throw money at me. It was quite remarkable.

I’m sure it was. I’m growing impatient. When is he going to get to the part where he goes from petty thief to evil mastermind?

I had a plan. My parents were too busy trying to blend in to be of any use, so I had to find other people like me. Gifted. Ambitious.

Crazy. Ja, I get it.

His eyes slide in my direction. The knowing expression in them tells me he sees through my armour of disdain. I purse my lips and fold my arms across my chest. I want to understand how he became what he is, and what he’s after. But I’m terrified to find out. Somehow I know that when we reach the end of this tale, everything will be different.

It was difficult to find gifted then. The world wasn’t as open as it is now – everyone lived in shadow. But I found kindred spirits.

We come to an image of a group of friends sitting in what appears to be a bar. It takes me a minute to recognise the Puppetmaster. He wasn’t handsome, but there was a certain appeal to his face, an air of sophistication. He looked like the sort of person who would always have something clever to say.

I reach up to touch the wooden frame. It feels surprisingly solid beneath my fingers. “When was this?”

He shoots me a disapproving glance, annoyed by the sound of my voice. Over a century ago. 1860? Maybe 1850. The years start to blur together after a while.

My hand freezes on the picture frame. A flare of panic makes my throat tighten.

You knew I was old, Conyza. He’s bemused by my reaction.

Yes, but I thought… I don’t know what I thought. So how old are you, exactly?

It’s hard to say. A hundred and ninety-something, probably.

I hate to admit it, but I’m in awe. I’m standing next to a man who has been around for almost two centuries. The mind that is now moving through the outer rim of my thoughts has lived through things I’ve only read about, things that seemed almost to have been part of a dream the world has long since woken from. I swallow hard, too overwhelmed to speak.

It passes quickly, he muses. At first. But the older you get, the more you feel it. The mind tires of stretching so far and you have to start cutting things away.

I lower my hand. Things like what?

Things you no longer need to remember. I have no childhood memories any more. Everything I know about my early years comes from notes I wrote in my twenties. That memory, the one of my father’s employer’s house, came from my first journal. I don’t actually remember it. He points at the photo in front of us, the one in the bar. This is my earliest true memory. I was forty or so. I remember the bar because we spent so much time there. I remember that there were five of us. I don’t remember their faces, so I replaced them with others.

There’s something callous about that. I can’t imagine forgetting my friends, though I suppose one day I might. I feel funny now. Too thoughtful, too serious. This meeting isn’t turning out at all the way I thought it would.

I follow him to the next set of photographs, eager for a distraction. The next photo looks like a still from a horror film. It’s a man, or half a man, and half a…something else. It’s as though his face is melting. I lean closer, trying to make out the details, and I see the blurry edges.

He’s shape shifting!

Yes. In all these years I’ve never met anyone as good. He shifted so fast it was impossible to see the transformation taking place. I was fascinated, so one day he slowed the process down for me.

I look up from the photo. I didn’t know that was possible.

Very few shifters can do it. It takes great discipline.

I suppose he must have died long ago.

Yes. The Puppetmaster’s tone grows wistful.

He’s the one who taught you how to shape shift?

What makes you think I’m not a natural shifter?

Natural shifters don’t need accessories, I point out, remembering the items I found in the box he left in Ntatemogolo’s house. I deduced that some of them, like the copy of Ntatemogolo’s watch, were used to aid the Puppetmaster in his transformations.

He smiles, pleased as always by my powers of deduction. What a weirdo. Everyone knows the bad guy is supposed to be furious when his enemy figures out one of his secrets, but apparently Johnny here didn’t get that memo.

The next photo is of a pretty woman. Her skin is swarthy and her hair long and black. Is this Mrs Puppetmaster? I sneak a glance at him. The idea of him in love is a little disturbing.

He chuckles. Romance is not something I spent a lot of time pursuing. But she was my lover for a time. She was a gypsy. She taught me a great deal.

I try to stifle it, but I’m impressed. Everything I know about gypsies comes from popular culture and is probably offensive and inaccurate. What was her gift?

Sorcery, like your grandfather.

I flinch. Ntatemogolo has never referred to himself as a sorcerer. He reserves that word for powerful types with great ambitions. He prefers to think of himself as a wise man, in the mould of the wise men in folklore.

The Puppetmaster nods indulgently. Sorcery is an instinctive understanding of the supernatural and an ability to manipulate energy. That is his talent, isn’t it? He calls me sorcerer, but by nature I am just a humble telepath.

Humble?

He laughs again. I wish he’d stop taking my insults so well. He’s enjoying my company, and that knowledge makes me uncomfortable. He knows I’ll sabotage his plans any way I can. He should loathe me. He should spend long hours plotting my demise.

You could kill me if you wanted to.

With ease. I could have killed you the moment you stumbled onto my plans.

My heart is beating so hard my head hurts. I remember that moment. I was at the mall with Wiki and Lebz and I caught sight of five girls with grey, glassy eyes and empty spaces where their thoughts should have been. I had no clue what I’d found, not yet. I didn’t know about the Puppetmaster. All I knew was that those girls were under someone’s control, and I had to stop it.

Why didn’t you?

Killing you would destroy everything. When will you understand? I need you alive and at your best. I have no intention of harming you, and I will take swift and decisive action against anyone who does.

I swallow. Swift and decisive action. I picture a sword swinging through the air and blood splattering, like in Wiki’s anime shows.

This is the last one for today.

I turn my attention to the photo, and it takes me a moment to switch gears. He has just implied that he would hurt anyone who tried to harm me. I stand in front of the photo, too shocked to do anything more than gaze at it in silence. It’s the Puppetmaster in the middle of a transformation. His features are anguished, the edges of his body stretched and distorted.

I clear my throat, knowing he expects a reaction. You learned to shape shift. How?

The answer will come later. The photographs vanish. You can ask three questions.

Why three?

Three is the magic number.

I have a million questions; I don’t even know where to start. Emily’s face floats into my thoughts, and I decide that’s as good a place as any. How do you control Emily?

He heaves an impatient sigh. I don’t. She’s not my prisoner.

But she has powers like she did when you were inside her head. Superhuman strength, super speed… How?

His lip curls. Is that your second question?

No – it’s an addendum to the first.

He smiles. She has tools that give her limited access to certain abilities. As long as she serves me, they are hers to use.

That makes sense, but something else doesn’t. I don’t understand why she’d want to help you after what you did to her.

He lifts his shoulders in a delicate shrug. You’ll have to ask her that.

I take a deep breath. All right. Number two. Why did you take my tooth?

He chuckles. I was waiting for that one. I wanted a keepsake, and a lost milk tooth was something you wouldn’t miss.

Ugh. What a creep. How did you get it? Did you stand around outside my house, looking through the rubbish?

That’s a new question – no more addendums. You might want to use your questions more wisely.

Fine. Number three: what do you know about Henry Marshall’s disappearance?

I know that it happened.

That’s not a proper answer.

I know it happened in the afternoon in a busy shopping area.

Were you involved?

You’re out of questions, my dear. I said three.

That’s not fair! You didn’t tell me everything you know!

You didn’t ask me to tell you everything I know. Frame your questions better.

Arrggghh! This man – this monster – is impossible! He tricked me! I don’t even know why I’m surprised – that’s what he does. At least I know now that he has information on the disappearance. He’s probably behind it. I glare at him, willing to him to display some remorse, but he doesn’t. That would be evidence of a conscience.

I clear my throat. “Whatever your plan is, at some point you’ll no longer be here to keep it going.”

His smile is indulgent. I don’t need to live for ever. I don’t want to live for ever.

Even without the anklet I sense the ring of truth in his words. If he doesn’t intend to be around for all eternity, why is he building an army? What does he think he’ll achieve?

Footsteps sound outside the room and a moment later Emily appears in the doorway. She’s taller, and through her black leggings and shirt I see limbs that are long and toned from all that fence-jumping. She still has that pretty face I remember, but there’s a sly, cynical light in her eyes. She senses my probing and her barrier goes up.

“It’s time,” she says.

The Puppetmaster nods. “Show Conyza out and come to the warehouse.” His voice is the same as I remember, soft and a little high-pitched. He turns to me with a smile. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry to cut this meeting short, but I have pressing matters to deal with. I’ll see you soon.

He disappears before I have a chance to ask any more questions. I turn to Emily. I don’t understand this girl at all. The Puppetmaster befriended her pal Amantle under false pretences and gave her a set of bewitched necklaces that placed her clique, including Emily, under his control. He sent them gallivanting around town, pushing them until their bodies almost broke. It took a lot for me and Rakwena to break the spell, and now Emily is right back in the Puppetmaster’s clutches. Her family thinks she’s dead. There’s a tombstone with her name on it and she’s acting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Stop looking at me like you’re going to cry,” she says wryly. “I chose to come back.”

“Why?” My voice echoes in the empty building.

Emily starts down the corridor and I hurry after her. “Because he’s right.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” She moves quickly, almost running down the stairs. When she reaches the bottom she turns to face me suddenly and I almost walk right into her. She takes a step backwards and grabs my arm to steady me. Her grip is stronger than Rakwena’s. I pull my arm away.

“Emily, the man is a lunatic! He bewitched you and your friends and made you do all his dirty work. You were guinea pigs, a trial run for his zombie army.”

“Zombie army.” She shakes her head, amused. Amused! “John has been around for ages – do you really think he hasn’t tried to build an army before? He wasn’t testing his methods. He was testing you.”

“Me?”

She winces. She’s said too much. “Everything he’s doing is for the greater good. You’ll see.” She waves a hand towards the gate.

“I think we need to talk about–”

“Next time,” she interjects, then glances up.

I follow her gaze and suck in my breath. The walls are staring to fade. The illusion is coming apart.

“He doesn’t like to wait.” Emily starts up the stairs again. Where is she going?

“Wait! What about Rakwena?”

She stops. “It took him a while to adjust but he’s fine.” She looks down at me. “Don’t worry. John would never let anything happen to either of you. You’re far too important.”

“Emily–”

She flickers, running up the fading staircase, and then passes out of sight. I hurry through the doorway. When I turn to look over my shoulder, the house is gone. The gate opens just enough for me to squeeze through, then closes behind me. I can feel the Puppetmaster’s energy rise into the air and depart from the premises.

“Well?” asks my grandfather, when I climb into the car. “How was it?”

My head is swirling with jumbled thoughts as I tell him what happened. “What does that mean?” I ask, when I reach the end of my report. “The greater good? How can building an army of unwilling, brainwashed ungifted be for the greater good?”

He shakes his head. “You see what he is doing, don’t you? He is trying to win you over.”

“He’ll never win me over.”

Ntatemogolo starts the car in silence. He doesn’t even nod his agreement.

I glare at him, indignant. “He’ll never win me over!”

He glances at me. “Am I the one you are trying to convince, or yourself?”

I have a retort on the tip of my tongue, but it seems wiser to keep quiet. The meeting threw me off. My enemy thinks he’s my friend. He is cruel and calculating, probably guilty of kidnapping a gifted, and yet one of his victims returned to him of her own free will. He’s done terrible things, but as I stood beside him in that room he was almost a normal person. He was polite, even gentle, and it wasn’t an act. What does that mean?

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was an act and Emily is suffering from a supernatural version of Stockholm syndrome; I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything any more.

Chapter Three

The University of Botswana, fondly (sometimes disdainfully) referred to as UB, is quiet on Saturday morning. Dad’s office, hidden on the top floor of the Biology building, is cluttered in that way unique to academics. Papers upon papers, stacks of books he hardly uses, and copious handwritten notes that seem obsolete next to his computer.

I hitched a ride to UB with Dad so I could meet my friends at the nearby Riverwalk Mall, and decided to stop at his office to check my email. There’s nothing from Rakwena. It’s only been a few days and I know there’s a good chance he hasn’t checked his mail since he left Botswana. The cell said no outside contact; I’m sure they take that seriously. But he was inducted last month – he’s officially part of the clan now, and there’s no need to keep him cut off from the influence of his telepath girlfriend.

I’m not even sure I’m still his girlfriend. Did we break up? No one said the words “it’s over”, but our actions implied it. Maybe we are over, but that’s no reason not to contact me, if only to make sure I haven’t been hacked to death in my sleep. Doesn’t Rakwena care about me any more? Is he too happy in his new life to ruin it by reaching back into the past, or is something else going on that I don’t know about?

Maybe it’s better he doesn’t contact me. Rakwena’s cell brothers were open about the role flirting with girls plays in topping up their energy levels. What if he’s romancing his way across South Africa, dropping kisses left and right?

“Are you all right, love?”

Dad’s looking at me, an anxious half-smile on his lips. His hair’s been cut and stands up at the front like he’s a member of a pop band. The circles under his eyes have faded, but he hasn’t lost the nervous energy he’s been giving off since he learned the truth.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” I sign out of my email account.

“No news from across the border?” Sometimes Dad can be surprisingly perceptive.

“Nope. But he’s probably busy.”

“What with assimilating into a community of magical beings and all.”

I smile. “Right.” Dad has left two browser tabs open to international news, and one of them catches my eye. “I thought this cell phone issue was just a local problem.”

“Hmm?” He looks at the screen. “No, it’s happening in a lot of places. Not just phones – internet, electricity, radio. Even the local airport is having trouble with air traffic control.” He walks over to the desk and leans forward. “See? Scientists say–”

“The energy surges are in ten locations around the world, including here.” There it is again, that funny nagging sensation, like knowledge buried deep in my gut trying to find its way out. “What could be causing it?”

“No one knows. Some of my friends think ET’s heading this way and his advanced technology is messing with our archaic systems. Other people think it’s–”

“Terrorists.”

He sighs. “Please stop stealing my words, darling. It’s unnerving.”

My pulse is racing. It’s not ET or terrorists. I don’t know what it is, but I’d bet all the money in the government coffers that this is a problem of the magical kind. I turn away from the computer. “What do you think?”