Chapter 35
I chew a gritty piece of jerky and glower at Axle as we hike through the middle-of-nowhere. Would you like to know what that knucklehead did? He dropped all of our jerky in the dirt this morning. That's all I was looking forward to- a nice piece of beef jerky. Considering my sufficient lack of sleep lately, I don't really think I'm asking a lot.
"Slow down 'Sid. It's not even 7 o'clock yet," Ginger calls after me sourly.
I slow down a little bit and wait for Ginger to catch up. Sheesh, some people don't know how to walk at a faster pace than a donkey. "Why don't you speed the heck up?" I mumble under my breath.
"Alright," she says after taking her sweet old time catching up, "This isn't really the ideal time or place to teach you this, but you're going to have to deal. It puts a lot of mental strain on the user when they're not used to it. We don't have much of a choice; who knows what those freaking Enigma are going to pull out of their butts?"
"Do you care to tell me what this mentally straining technique thingy is? You've been going on about it for some time now," I say impatiently.
She rolls her eyes at me. "I was getting to that. Have some patience, why don't you?" Ginger stretches her arms and looks up at the patchy sky. For her sake, I hope that she doesn't walk into a tree. "It's called Mind-molding. It's probably the most versatile of any technique a psychic can learn. That's because it can be defensive or offensive. Right now, you're going to defend. Well, I suppose I really can't teach you now… I wouldn't want you collapsing here. Tonight, when we set up camp I'll teach you."
At nightfall, we're almost at the foot of the mountain. After we pitch our tents and lit a fire, I find Ginger, ready to face it. To tell you the truth, though I suppose I would rather just crawl into my sleep sack and call it a night.
Ginger waits impatiently by the fire. Everyone else has cleared out, feeling rather nervous at her sudden change of heart. Personally, I think she may want to torture me more, but since I won't find another teacher within a thousand miles of here, I'm not really complaining.
"Are you ready for this?" Ginger asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I reply.
"I'm not gonna lie. This is going to be physically and mentally painful. I'll probably be dredging up old memories that you would rather let collect dust in a corner of your mind. You're going to have to push me out- with Mind-molding. Or face the consequences."
"Oh, that's it? Dredge up old painful memories, force me to block you out, physically and mentally harmful stuff- I'm glad that it's not anything bad," I say sarcastically.
"What do you want me to do? That's how I learned, and if you don't like it, stuff it or find a new teacher! This is why I don't teach brats like you!" Ginger explodes at me like a small canon blast.
"Okay, okay, sorry. Can we just get on with it now?"
"Fine. I'm going to start now, so be ready."
I close my eyes, trying to hold everything in place. It starts to happen, regardless. The prodding around in my mind, I mean. Ginger takes memories, examines them, and just puts them back. As if she's searching for something.
"Got it," she mutters under her breath. Got what?
A flash of my dead parents suddenly hits me…their funeral… them, going up in flames… their ashes being shoveled into the communal urn. The shrouds flew up to the sky like little singed doves, then plummeted towards the earth like dead little black doves. It makes me want to vomit. I actually did puke on that day. I hardly could find any words or tears to describe what I felt, so I guess vomiting on the Urn Keeper's shoes had to suffice.
I don't know what to do, how to fight this. Everything I learned from Greta is utterly useless; my wall is as cracked and crumbled as an old, abandoned building. I suppose it's a good fit, because I abandoned that thing a long time ago. I have no idea how to Mind-mold. The memory replays over and over again, and I have no idea how to stop it.
"C'mon, push me out already!" Ginger snaps.
"I'm… freaking…TRYING!" I retort.
Mind-molding makes me think of one thing: clay. The sort of clay we used to use in Early School, when I was about five. Mine, however, in this scenario, won't budge, no matter how much I knead and prod. I try to mold my "clay" into a shield, but I can't even move it.
Sweat runs down my face in cold droplets. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat, the blood pulsing through my veins. If I don't figure this out, my head might just explode. I feel myself crumpling from…. Well, everything.
It stops abruptly. I look up at Ginger.
"You're going about it all wrong. Stop thinking 'shield' and start thinking 'defend'. Imagine that you're controlling an army! If you put yourself in that mindset, you'll eventually do it subconsciously," Ginger advises me. "Anyway, you look pretty beat. Go get some rest, and we'll try again next time we get a chance. Go on."
"I drag myself into the tent, and take off everything except my undershirt and shorts. A little cold for winter on a normal day, but this day is far from normal. I slip into my sleep sack. I dream a black night; no nightmares, no frightening visions. I guess my psychic side is dead from earlier this evening. I fall into a (for once) undisturbed slumber.