A silver-grey flash of movement skids across the waves at lightning speed, but the sea beneath it remains smooth and calm, the surface undisturbed.
I squint more intently in an attempt to catch a glimpse, my hand shielding my eyes from the bright sun above, but I can feel myself waking, and the dashing thing is gone.
-o-
A heavy coldness settles within my chest, and the blood roars through my ears, making my father's words all the harder to comprehend. Tristan, my junior by a year and a half, is smirking at me from behind our father's back – but of course he's not seen. My father's hard, pale eyes are fixed on my face, the small upward curve at the corner of his thin mouth betraying his ill-concealed delight at the situation. I catch only snippets, but the meaning is clear enough.
"…there's no helping you since your mother passed…growing sullen, withdrawn, nervy…need a change of scenery…can't avoid Pokémon all your life…it's in your blood Eusine…Celadon's no good for you anymore…Ecruteak is where you should be…an Ecrutetian…start acting like one…" I must have interjected, for the tone of my father's well-rehearsed monologue changed. I could hear disbelief in his voice now, and a botched attempt to lie smoothly to my face, to downplay their upcoming adventure. Father and son. Father and true son. "Tristan and I? We're taking to the seas…don't be silly Eusine…not your thing…you'd hate every minute…just hunting for a Pokémon…'Suicune'…you're nowhere near that skill level yet…better you go to Ecruteak…get a hold of yourself…"
-o-
I find myself shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in a small shabby living room. My cousin Callisto, who at eighteen is two years older than me, is bustling around the tiny flat, jabbering about spare pillows and blankets and which switch to flick if I want a hot shower. I can barely take in any of what she's saying. I lower my half empty rucksack to the floor, and allow myself to sink heavily into the threadbare sofa. I realise I'm exhausted. I've never travelled so far a distance in so short a time.
"I can't even remember the last time I saw you Eusine," I hear Callisto say. My head feels as though it's been wrenched out of a bucket of water: my ears clear and suddenly everything seems ten times louder. She's staring at me, waiting for a response. I swallow. My throat feels scratchy, and I know my voice is going to rasp.
"Years ago," I croak.
"Definitely years ago, back in Kanto. You don't half look different," she says as she surveys me with a smile. I try to return her smile, but I can't. Instead, my eyes linger on the irises of hers – clear blue, like my father's, like Tristan's. She is what an Ecrutetian should look like. Her hair is fair, and her skin is clear, and her nose straight. In other words, she is my opposite. And I can only guess just how strongly my father would approve of her. I begin to feel embarrassed by her scrutinising me. I haven't had access to a shower for over twenty-four hours, and I can feel my lank brown hair clinging to my skull. I don't realise that I'm coming across as rude - difficult. "I'm sorry it's a bit of a dump," she says, bravely attempting to get more conversation out of me, "and I'm sorry I can only offer you the sofa…money's a bit tight." Her voice lowers, and her eyes are downcast now. I think, with horror, that I'm a burden.
"Callisto –" I break off awkwardly, knowing that I could be condemning myself to a night on the streets, "If me being here – if it's too much for you - I'm sure I can find somewhere else –"
"Don't be stupid!" she interrupts me, "You're no hassle to me at all – I'm just sorry you don't have a bed." I manage to give her a genuine smile this time.
"I don't need a bed to be comfortable," I tell her. And I discover, with a jolt, that I'm telling the truth. I feel a relieving loosening in my chest. I hadn't been aware that it was tight, that my lungs had been constricted and my heart compressed. It was only by the absence of the sensations that I was aware they had existed at all. It would seem that a mere ten minutes in my cousin's cramped flat was sufficient to lessen the effects of ten years of anxiety at the hands of my father.
-o-
It's only been two days, but I already feel at home living with Callisto in Ecruteak City. I surprise myself. Being sent away by my father had initially felt like exile, but once 'exiled', I realised it was better to be alone and to be free. My shoulders feel light, unburdened, and I can hold my head up higher. I'm not known well here – not by sight anyway. The Ecrutetians have never witnessed my father's relentless bullying of me and his obvious preference for my younger brother. Perhaps, here, I can start again. I have never before been able to use my time leisurely. In Celadon City I was never permitted to leave the house alone. Being under my father's constant scrutiny had given me a nervous disposition. As a result I was aware of every movement I made, and every word I spoke. Here, in Ecruteak City, nobody watched me. Even Callisto was barely around; as a Kimono Dancer she was all day in classes, and when she finally arrived home in the late hours of the evening, she flopped into bed after a mumbled "hello" and an easy smile, and would fall sound asleep. This I did not mind. I was still discovering what it meant to be gloriously alone.
Of all the places I discover, Ecruteak's Library is my favourite. Once through the doors, complete tranquillity settles upon me. It's silent, but not the sort of silence I have ever before experienced; silences in my father's home only meant one thing – anger. I had come to associate silence with growing unease; taut necks and gritted teeth. A silence never remained so for long, it always inevitably broke with a red-hot crescendo. But in this library, in this ancient city, the silence had a different quality altogether. It was self-assured somehow, as if the silence itself knew that it need never be broken. It hung heavily about my ears, and yet my very being quivered with the tingling awareness that, beyond this silence, there were hundreds upon thousands of worlds clamouring to be discovered. All I needed to do in order to discover them was open a book. I spent hours amongst the oaken shelves, the squeaky tread of my old trainers muted by the thick burgundy carpet. The librarian came to know me well after a week of daily visits; just a smile and a small nod as I came through the front doors. I was no longer required to ask permission to access the balcony, and on this balcony, overlooking the multitudes of shelves, did I spend my first week, my nose inches from the chosen book in front of me.
-o-
Callisto's pale eyebrows draw downwards in a frown. Her small mouth puckers slightly in apparent distress, and yet I can still appreciate just how very pretty she is.
"Eusine," she says sharply, dropping her bag containing her dance kimono and shoes on the sofa. I look up from where I'm stirring the pasta sauce – I've never heard her sound quite so conflicted. What can I have done?
"What is it?"
Her frown deepens, but she does not respond immediately. I can see the caution in her eyes; she is clearly trying very hard to decide how best to phrase whatever is on the tip of her tongue.
"The Director called me back after practice today," she starts slowly, raising her narrowed eyes to meet mine.
The Director?
"Of the Dance School," she clarifies, noting my confusion. I can feel a tension creeping through my muscles, travelling up my spine and seizing my shoulders. I'm ignorant as to why. Callisto exhales shortly in agitation. She is waiting for me to reply. I realise that she's expecting a reaction; whatever she knows, she assumes that I know it too. But I do not know, and neither do I know how to react to her next words. "Eusine…is your father cruel to you?" My cheeks flame with a surge of hot blood. I recall, in a rush, the snide comments, the eye rolls, and sighs of exasperation; upper lips curling with distaste, an eyebrow raised in contempt, and an endless string of comparisons to Tristan. Callisto does not probe further. I can only imagine the explanation that she gains from the expression in my wide eyes and the redness of my face. "He rang the Dance School," she says, a sour expression passing across her delicate features, "today." The blood rushes to my ears. Again, that roaring. "He asked the Director if he'd managed to make an Ecrutetian woman of you yet." Callisto's voice is trembling. She is furious, I can tell, but I find myself wondering if she is about to cry. The roaring in my ears changes to a high-pitched keening. I can feel my fingers begin to tremble. I grasp the kitchen unit, cool and solid against my perspiring hands. "Eusine?" she implores tentatively.
"He enjoyed telling me that I would never make an Ecrutetian man." Was that hard, empty voice my own?
Callisto's nostrils flare, and the skin around her eyes tightens. She stares at me for a long while, saying nothing. I try to swallow, but my tongue feels too large for my mouth, and my throat does not want to open. However, the ringing in my ears begins to subside and I feel the sharp ache of relief when my rigid fingers finally release the countertop. Callisto sweeps across the room and envelops me tightly in her arms.
"You're worth a hundred of him," she whispers into my ear, "a thousand." I nod, my chin bumping against her shoulder. She releases me, but keeps her hands upon my arms, her earnest eyes searching mine. "We don't have to talk about him anymore," she says resolutely. Once again my chest loosens; once again I hadn't realised just how heavy it had become. For Callisto's benefit I arrange my face into what I hope looks like a smile.
"I'd like that very much."
"And tomorrow, when you come to the Dance School, you can tell the Director that he -"
My face burns, the flush shooting down my neck and back. Surely Callisto can feel it herself, I am positively radiating heat.
"The Dance School?" my voice sounds high, as I interrupt her; strained, "Callisto - I'm not a -"
"Nonsense," she scoffs with a toss of her ash-blonde hair, "the Dance School isn't for girls - it's for Self-Contemplation."
"For what?" I ask, my mouth falling open. I feel my eyebrow quirk upwards in derision, and I promptly rearrange my face. I don't want to be anything like him.
"Self-Contemplation; it's one of the ways we attempt to become one with Pokémon…battling, of course, is the other way."
I try extremely hard to keep the scepticism from my face. She's completely serious, and I don't wish her to think less of me. She's already coming to feel more like my family than my father and brother ever did.
"Callisto…I don't really have any – any desire to become 'one' with Pokémon." She laughs to my surprise, a tinkling wind chime laugh, and her eyes sparkle gleefully.
"That's because you don't understand them."
"I can't see how a dance class can help." I can feel my innards writhe. A dance class. I picture Tristan's sneering, mocking face. I cannot attend a dance class. It will confirm everything that he ever thought of me; soft, delicate, mute, weak. Callisto rolls her eyes at my reaction, but I can tell she isn't annoyed.
"You can't understand until you've experienced it yourself - and I know what you're thinking, I can see it in your eyes. When your father grew up here, it was just a dance school aimed at girls…but things have changed. The Ecruteak Dance School is far from effeminate, trust me. Mortyattends every practice," she says matter-of-factly. My face is blank. This name means nothing to me. "Morty - my cousin on my father's side?" she clarifies. I nod slowly. "Pyrrhos Makarios," she then states.
Pyrrhos Makarios. Blessed by Fire.
"What do you mean?" I ask carefully. Callisto peers steadfastly into my eyes. She knows I'm not asking for a translation. Everyone with Ecrutetian blood has heard of Pyrrhos Makarios. Her smile is non-committal, and her eyes are guarded. She is daring me to contradict her. She knows something I do not.
"It's real this time," she says simply.
Unwillingly, I hear my father's voice reverberate inside my head: "'Pyrrhos Makarios' my arse! It'll be another crackpot old codger who realises he's on his way out, looking for some spiritual enlightenment - or some old hag who's gone senile. Blessed by Fire indeed…"
I had heard of it, of course I had, but it was a myth, a fantastical myth. Callisto must be able to see my inward struggle; I can feel the scepticism shaping the lines of my face. I desperately search for a response that doesn't sound derisive, but she cuts in before I can speak.
"Come with me tomorrow," she says, still smiling her mysterious smile, "you can decide for yourself."
-o-
A silver-grey flash of movement skids across the waves at lightning speed, but the sea beneath it remains smooth and calm, the surface undisturbed.
I squint more intently in an attempt to catch a glimpse, my hand shielding my eyes from the bright sun above, but I can feel myself waking, and the dashing thing is gone.
-o-
Callisto has insisted over and over that it isn't 'dancing' as such, that it's a way of moving your body and engaging with your mind that helps you to connect with Pokémon. I want to believe her, but I can't. It sounds like dancing to me – and I can't imagine anything worse. But she wants me to come, to see it for myself, and I don't wish to disappoint her. She turns to flash me a quick smile, before she places her small hand upon the handle of the door to Ecruteak's Dance School, and slips inside. Taking a deep breath, I follow her.
The hall is large and warmly lit with brass lanterns; the intricate wooden beams supporting the roof are carved in the shape of Pokémon – of Eevees I think. The air is heavy with the rich smokiness of burning incense. I glance around. Despite Callisto's assurances, I see only females in the room, and each has an Eevee – or rather, an evolved form of one. A blinding flash of light to my left reveals another Eevee, a black one with golden rings upon its fur. An Umbreon? The Pokémon follows my cousin lithely to the centre of the hall, where she engages in conversation with her friends. Feeling awkward, and very much out of place, I move to the side of the hall to sit on the low wooden benches. It's what Callisto advised me to do. From here I can watch, without having to make a fool of myself by partaking. Not yet anyway, she had teased.
An elderly, and yet upright, man appears on the raised stage at the far end of the hall. His moustache is impeccably neat, and his suit crisp and clean. His dark eyes twinkle merrily, and I decide that I like him. The Director.
"Take your positions everyone!" he calls in his warm, authoritative voice. The girls and their Pokémon stand in formation throughout the hall. An older woman in a navy blue kimono is seated against the stage, and she begins to play the shamisen. Callisto is right, to an extent. The strange movements that she and the other females are employing do not look like a choreographed dance, and yet the fluidity of their steps, the grace of their arms, and the carriage of their slim necks makes the whole exercise mesmerising. Mesmerising too is the reaction of their Pokémon. They are not mimicking the steps of the girls; it's more than that. The Pokémon are moving in harmony with them, using their own steps, and yet, somehow, the humans and the Pokémon complement each other perfectly. They are in sync both mentally and physically.
"Excellent," the Director says quietly, and yet his voice carries across the room. The tone of the shamisen changes; it is now faster, more sprightly, and the dancers and their Pokémon change their technique accordingly. I watch Callisto with pride, for she is clearly the most beautiful, the most skilled. Her lips remain in a half smile. She and Umbreon move with one another, despite her eyes being closed in total satisfaction from the experience. I can feel my mouth fall open, and yet I don't think to close it. I realise that I must look gormless, but here, in this room, I know I won't be judged. I have never before seen anything like this – and they know it. But had I found their 'dancing' fascinating before, it was nothing to what it had become now. What was fluid now became perfect, what was graceful became weightless, and the happiness on the girls' faces transformed into pure ecstasy. The Pokémon too change noticeably, their steps become lighter, and their movements more supple; they seem not to move with the music but, rather, through it. They are a part of it.
I start.
My preoccupation with the 'dance' meant that I had failed to notice the arrival of another. A young man, about my age, sits casually atop the stage, his legs dangling. I don't know how, but I know for certain that it's his presence that so transformed the dancers. They seem to gravitate towards him unconsciously.
I find myself staring.
His beauty chokes me. Without glowing, he somehow appears to glow. Or does everything simply appear dim in comparison with him? His beauty is not contemporary but ancient, timeless. Even Callisto, whom until now I have considered flawless, has nothing on her cousin. For who else can this be but Morty – Pyrrhos Makarios? Never before have I conceived that a man could be beautiful. Handsome, yes; for I knew that my father and brother were considered this, but beautiful? It is not a beauty that I am able to comprehend. My throat constricts and my very soul seems to ache. Tears spring to my eyes. He is not, he cannot be quite human. There is something more to him that I am unable to make sense of. Normal people, people like me, don't have the capacity to process such utter flawlessness. It's too much. I can't stay here. And so I run.