Author's note: poem incorporated into the story is by William Blake
The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction
by Akane-Rei
Chapter One: A New Day Has Begun
"What
the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?"
Thirteen years later . . .
"Come on, Hadj," cajoled Jonathon Quest to his long time friend. "Even your mother agrees with me on this. You need a break. Bangalore will not fall apart if you took a couple of weeks off."
"Says the self-proclaimed workaholic," Hadji said wryly.
Jon smiled in the phone as he looked at the view from his penthouse suite in New York. While being the president and owner of a large multinational company does have its perks, it also entails a number of responsibilities which he would rather do without.
"It really doesn't matter what you say, Hadj," he said. "Neela and I already arranged for the plane tickets and you, my friend, are going for a week of relaxation in the Quest Compound and a week of fun in Paris."
He heard a sigh escape the lips of his friend and he smiled with triumph.
He's giving in, he thought jubilantly.
"Alright, Jon," said Hadji with a resigned tone in his voice. "I will meet you in Maine in two weeks."
"Good," he replied. "It will be just like old times."
Silence greeted his words at the other end of the line.
Oh, damn! he thought. He could feel the familiar tightening in his chest. He could have sworn right then and there that he could smell the scent of the surf as it crashes against the rocks below the cliff . . .
The acrid smell of smoke worked its way around him.
Who was it that said that scent was the sense most connected to memory?
"I'm sorry," he said.
He heard a sigh in the other line. "It was not you this time, my friend," Hadji said. "It was I who took what you said and turned it into something else."
Silence.
"It is not good that friends like us have to watch what we say in front of each other for fear of triggering unpleasant memories," stated Hadji.
"Yeah, well," said Jon, "It's not like we do it on purpose."
Another silence.
"It's not like we could help it," he added quietly.
"Perhaps it is time for us to change the subject," said Hadji.
'He doesn't want to talk about it either,' thought Jon. No one does. Not even me.
Which was, in a way, terribly ironic that the one subject that seems to be taboo is the one subject that is constantly in his thoughts.
"I'll see you in two weeks," Jon said finally.
"Yes," said Hadji.
CLICK
Putting the phone back in its cradle, Jon sighed and stretched his arms. He walked towards the couch and sat down with a thud. He could tell by the jumble of his thoughts that this was going to be one of those nights.
Across the ocean, in a palace in Bangalore, the Sultan Hadji Singh approached his mother.
"Well?" she queried.
Hadji forced a smile. "I am going to Maine in two weeks," he replied.
She clapped her hands with delight. "We have succeeded," she said. "Now maybe Dr. Quest would not worry so much."
"Yes, indeed," said Hadji. "It was a brilliant plan, mother."
His mother blushed under her dark skin. "Well," she said, "It seemed like the most prudent way to approach the dilemma. We already knew that Jon would not take a break from work for himself, however, we also know that he would do anything for a friend in need of a vacation," she finished with a sparkle in her eye, remembering their plan.
"I know," agreed Hadji. "That is something about him that will never change, despite everything."
Both were silent for awhile, each lost in their own thought.
Finally, she said, "Do you think . . . well . . . do you think he still broods over her?"
Hadji's eyes widened and his face took on an expressionless mask. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Neela gasped upon seeing her son's veneer and immediately regretted asking the question. At this moment, her son looked much older than his thirty years.
"I am sure he does, mother" he said evenly. "I am sure he does."
He walked over to the window and rested his hands on the ledge.
Neela followed her son's progress and reached out and touched his shoulder. "I know you—we never talked about what happened that night," she said hesitatingly, "but perhaps . . . perhaps it's time we did."
Hadji stared at the view of the mountains in front of him. They were so majestic in their bearing. They epitomized strength and resolution. So unlike people. People were vulnerable. Easily hurt.
Scenes flashed before his eyes. Scenes which emphasized this fragility of the life of humans. Scenes of a darker time. The time when . . .
"I'm sorry, mother," he started to say.
"Why do you do this?" pleaded his mother. "You always brush me off whenever the subject of her comes up --"
"Mother, please," Hadji said steadily.
"It has been over ten years!" she exclaimed. "Surely by now you can at least --"
"Never," said Hadji quietly. "Never." He pushed himself from the window ledge and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hall.
"What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"
In another country, a woman woke up to the sound of her own scream. She stared unseeingly at the wall before her as she sat on her bed. She raised her legs and tucked them under her arms as she rocked back and forth, back and forth, whimpering.
She could hear her own harsh breathing, coming in gasps as she tried to wipe the tears from her eyes. She tried to huddle even more when she felt the breeze blow in from the open doors of her balcony. A shiver ran down her spine as the chilled wind touched her damp skin, slick from the rivulets of sweat that soaked her sleeping gown.
She trembled, whether from the cold or her nightmare, she didn't know. Finally, sick of the coldness that seemed to envelope her, she jumped from the bed and ran to the bathroom. She turned on her shower, making sure the knob is turned towards the hot direction. She entered the stall and sat on the floor, without taking off her gown. Again, she tried to huddle towards the corner as the drops of heat scalded her skin.
She ignored the pain that the extremely hot water inflicted upon her skin, hoping against hope that the heat would warm the coldness within her being.
"And when the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears . . ."
The stall in the shower bursts open and she slowly looked up at the intruder.
"Siann!" he exclaimed. He quickly lifted her from her huddled position, wincing as he felt the temperature of the water. "What in God's name are you doing to yourself!"
"I . . . I'm cold, Jean-Luc," she breathed out. "So cold."
"Same damn dream," he muttered under his breath as gathered her in his arms and carried her to her room. He gently placed her in her bed and walked towards her closet, grabbing a thick robe. Quickly and efficiently, he took of her soaked nightgown and wrapped her robe around her. He positioned himself behind her and began to gently rub her arms, trying to give her the warmth she sought.
Since he turned on the lights the second he entered her room, he could see clearly the redness of her skin. He sighed with relief when he realized that the burns were not bad enough to blister.
He held her against him and rocked her back and forth, his heart wrenching at hearing her sobs. "Shhh . . ." he said. "Everything will be fine."
It was hours before he got her to sleep again.
Making sure she wouldn't wake up if he left the bed, Jean-Luc slowly detached himself from her sleeping form and padded over to his own room. There, he lifted a phone and pushed the speed dial button for a certain individual.
"Did
he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make
thee?"
"She had another episode," he said wearily and without preamble.
He heard a sigh from the other side of the line.
"He's not going to like this," said the man.
"He won't like it?" reiterated Jean-Luc incredulously, "Hell, even I don't like it. She could have really hurt herself!"
"And just what do you suggest we do about it, huh? Tell her everything! The fact that --"
"No!" exclaimed Jean-Luc. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration and sighed.
"We both know she's safer this way," said the man on the phone.
"I know," said Jean-Luc icily. "It's just . . . I don't think the programming is agreeing with her."
"She's had these episodes before and they passed on after a while, if I recall. Give it time."
He sighed again.
"Rage wants her to lead a normal life and that's exactly what we've given her. If you'll notice, she's not a target of every Tom, Dick or Harry who a grudge to pick with him."
"I know," Jean-Luc said again. "Look, I need to get some sleep. She has an exhibit tomor—wait, tonight and I have to attend it in her stead."
"Oh," said the man. "She never does go to any of her exhibits, does she?"
"No, she doesn't," he replied. "I've got to go."
CLICK
"Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright . . ."
Rage stared out of the window of his home. The rain was beating down hard that night and appropriately enough, it matched his mood for the moment. Thoughts of Carla plagued his consciousness. He had done his best to protect her from the ugliness in this world, yet her own subconscious tries to undermine him every step of the way.
"Why won't the nightmares stop?" he implored to the empty room.
Finding no answer, he hobbled towards his bedroom.
His daughter has an exhibit today, and he wanted to be there.
An hour later, Zechariah Colere emerged from the room and drove off into the night.
"In the forests of the night . . ."
Zechariah made a beeline for Jean-Luc the moment he entered the gallery.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"The usual," said Jean-Luc quietly.
He nodded and headed for the private room in the second floor. He could feel his heart beating loudly as was its wont whenever he grants himself the privilege of seeing his daughter. He knocked hesitatingly at the door, unsure of his welcome.
"Come in," said a lilting voice.
He opened the door and saw his daughter, sitting in front of the television screen, watching the crowd below through a security camera.
"Mademoiselle Jacobsen," he said.
She looked up at him and a smile of welcome formed in her face.
"Zechariah!" she exclaimed happily. "I did not know whether you would come or not."
"Would I miss the exhibit of my favorite painter?"
She laughed at this and gave him a quick hug. "I wouldn't be here without you," she said. "You were the one that gave me the courage to try this . . . to believe in my talent."
She took his hand and led him to one of the plush chairs so that he could sit with her.
"Ahhh . . . Mlle Jacobsen," he said, "Not so."
"I thought I asked that you call me Siann," she said. "There is no place for formality between two friends."
A pang of regret twisted his heart. Remember, he told himself. It was for her own protection.
"Why," she continued, "You're like a father to me."
If only you knew, he thought, and said, "And you, ma chere, are the daughter I've always wanted."
They smiled at each other and sat in a comfortable silence, watching the proceedings below.
"What immortal hand or eye . . ."
"Zechariah," Siann said after a while.
He turned to her. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of looking at his daughter's face. Her presence for the past thirteen years has been a blessing for him in more ways than one. If only Abby can see her now.
"Why do you never take off your mask?" she asked suddenly, turning to look at him.
He watched her earnest face and took a deep breath. He had seen the question in her eyes for years now and had been expecting it from her. However, much to his dismay, he had no answer he could give.
"I don't know," he said.
She took his hand in hers and said, "It matters not. I understand." She smiled sweetly at him.
He squeezed her fingers and said, "And now, may I ask something of you?"
"Anything," she replied.
"Why are you not down there, basking in your success?" he questioned. "Most artists would take advantage of such exposure."
She smiled. "I guess I am not like most artists," she returned. "Just like you are not like most patrons."
Another silence.
"What an odd pair we make," she finally said. They've been sitting for hours, watching various buyers assess her works.
"Indeed we do," he said. "Indeed we do."
Zechariah took the opportunity to observe his daughter throughout the evening. He could see her familiar smile whenever something in the goings on below caught her attention. Not for the first time, he wondered whether it was the best decision not to inform her that he was her father.
Don't you want to hear her call you her father?
Yes, he did. More than anything. But her safety is his priority. He would never put her in danger. Never again. Not like--
He shook himself. What was he thinking? She was never in danger. Not while he's here to protect her. She's here and she's alive and she's going to stay that way.
The night was winding down to a close when he stood and bade his farewell.
"Zechariah," she said just when he was about to close the door on his way out.
He stopped and tilted his head in question.
"Just remember," she said looking directly at him, "You have a beauty that even I can never be able to capture in my painting." She stood up and walked towards him. She raised her right hand and touched his cheek through his mask.
She kissed his forehead and returned to her spot in front of the television.
He stared at her for awhile, then nodded and left.
"Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"
Back in his room, Zechariah took his mask off and stared the grotesque features of his face. His disfigure was there for all to see in front of the mirror. He looked at the horrible scarring, the jutting bones and the discolored flesh. For the first time in a long while, he didn't wince when his fingers touched his face.
October 09, 2004