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Souls of the Night Vol 3

65.

The jump - I couldn't think of a better word - was like falling into ice water. It took your breath away and paralyzed you from head to toe. Although I could feel that I wasn't injured, my muscles were burning and something stung painfully in my skull as if I had a brain freeze after a slushy. I pressed a palm to my temple, groaning, and crouched on the floor. Just as I was about to say it hadn't worked, I opened my eyes and saw grass. I ran my fingers through the blades, bewildered. It felt soft and real, cold and a little damp. At Lexington's tap on my back, I looked up - and realized I was in the garden of my parents' house. It was full of people, all wrapped up in warm sweaters or jackets but all in extremely good moods. I could barely hear the people, dozens of Arabic and English phrases, laughter, shouting, children screaming and giggles. Beer benches and tables were set up under a white party tent and some were occupied, but many people were standing around large silver patio heaters with glasses or small plates in their hands. I got to my feet with my mouth hanging open, automatically finding Lexington's hand and needing it so badly.

"This ... is the past," I said in disbelief, realizing that the paint of my childhood home in 2023 wasn't so new and fresh, the bushes not so small and neatly trimmed. And above all, I couldn't remember the last time there had been such a celebration at the Sharif house. I was completely disturbed to be here. Or ... not being here - oh boy. Yes, everyone had tried to prepare me. But "seeing" something was different from just being told about it.

"Not the past - but your memories," Lex corrected me, looking around studiously, squinting at the low sun in the sky. Two little girls ran past very close to us and almost made me jump out of my skin - but it was clear that no one here saw us. Otherwise, the commotion of these humans suddenly facing two gargoyles would have been pretty big. Of course they didn't see us, I reminded myself - nothing here was "real".

"A BBQ. Do you remember this?" my friend asked, held his nose in the air and sniffed and grumbled with relish. I smelled it too and my stomach growled. Back there, a whole skinned sheep was spinning on a skewer over a fire. The head was stuck on the side, the skin peeled off. Oh, how long it had been since I'd eaten mechoui.

With shaky steps, I made my way past the groups standing around towards the house. I was so insecure but I couldn't deny my curiosity as to what my subconscious was trying to show me here that had to do with Uncle Murshid. As two men stepped aside, a banner came into view above the stairway to the back terrace and I instantly realized where and when we were.

"I was seven then... I think. Just turned seven," I said breathlessly.

I stared open-mouthed at the colorful custom-made banner with the letters in pink glitter.

Its a girl! Welcome home little Jasmine!

Lex didn't seem to notice. He looked everywhere but at the decoration. I guessed what was captivating him. It was really unusual for Gargoyles to see a scene in daylight and even more unusual to see a human Muslim party.

I recoiled as a woman came down the steps with a tray of raw meat - and walked right through both of us, causing even Lex to jump back a yard with a shriek.

But she had just walked right through us. I palmed my torso, looked at Lex and he chuckled a little embarrassed.

"It's all good - memories don't change their ways for us."

We looked after the woman.

She was heading for the grill and it was with irritation that I recognized my mother.

My own mother, perhaps thirty years younger. She showed off her long black hair, which was in no way inferior to Jasmine's from 2023, without shame or discomfort, and wore western clothes, jeans and a green blouse. She even carried the little afterbirth flab with dignity. And most irritatingly - she sported a big smile.

"My mother smiles! And she has hair. And legs!" I marveled, stunned. "I didn't even remember she had legs under Khimar and Seroual."

"And not just legs," said Lex, who was just as perplexed as I was, staring at the memory of Hila Sharif being slapped on her plump bottom. By a man who was clearly my father - a younger and very Western version.

"Please don't stare at my mother's ass," I said in a constipated manner, unable to take my eyes off the people I knew and yet were complete strangers to me.

"I'll stop when you stop," Lex said equally tonelessly.

Hila Sharif giggled and had her tray taken from her.

"That's my father," I whispered at the sight of the clean-shaven man in his early thirties. He pressed a kiss to my mother's rosy cheek and marched with healthy, purposeful steps to an absurdly large grill area where other men were standing and took the lead there. From his body language, his confident, all-consuming facial expressions, the jeans that fit perfectly on his slim body and the cashmere sweater that could just as easily have been worn in a golf club, it was easy to assume that he was doing very well professionally, mentally and personally. He looked like a different person. He looked like a winner. September eleventh, 2001 was a long way off.

Lexington next to me sighed. "They both look so -."

"Normal?" I helped my friend.

"Nice. Happy I was going to say."

"That too. Totally terrifying. Why ... are these memories so clear? I don't remember them ever looking like this."

"Your subconscious," Lex whispered as if he feared someone heard him. "Like an iceberg. What you consciously remember is only ten percent of your memories. The other 90 percent floats below the surface... of your mind."

Lex looked back and forth between Hila, who was about to go back into the house, and Baz at the grill.

"Let's go after her," he decided, and I followed him up steps I remembered as older and bleached. Hila's footsteps were creaking there - but ours didn't. We followed her through the open back door. There was soft but cheerful music from Moein - an Iranian singer that I knew my father liked but that I hadn't heard for many, many years. The air in the living room was stuffy , the room full of people. I recognized numerous relatives, but in my conscious mind they were much older. Some looked completely Western - others, especially the older ones very traditional Muslim. Many smoked, many ate, some sat on cushions on the floor or on the couch sipping tea from glasses dutifully refilled by older female women. The hum of many voices referred to cheerfulness, lightheartedness. Hila moved through the rooms like a proud queen, many of the people touching her appreciatively, the women kissing her, even some of the men, all congratulating her in Arabic or English.

Lex probably had a hard time making out what everyone was saying through the babble of voices, looking around interested.

"If you want me to translate something for you-" I began and Lex chuckled. "You don't have to. Most magic items are also universal translators."

I frowned but then nodded. That really made it easier.

A large table almost buckled under gifts ranging from useful items to adorable little dresses, cuddly toys, discreet boxes that probably contained jewelry that the child would not be able to wear for a long time and toys that were also not suitable for babies but that indicated the hope that she would be well and healthy when she reached the age where she would be able to enjoy them all. A clearly homemade doll with a colorful Moroccan-influenced dress with billowing green flutter sleeves sat on a mountain of diapers.

"Congratulations on the birth of the daughter," I read, pointing to the next pink banner over the fireplace. Its a girl!, it proclaimed here, too. And there- in front of the window was a crib in which lay a tightly wrapped little bundle. Two women were bent over the crib grinning and purring Arabic baby talk-one of them my vicious Aunt Banu (Banu smoked in 1997? - and in 2023 she always held this bad habit against Jasmine as if the devil was in every puff ).

Lexington growled and I knew exactly why - because the growl was bubbling in my throat too. But I held it back. " It's just a memory, Lexington. It's 1997, no one cares if you smoke in front of a baby."

"In front of the baby? They blow smoke right in her face! Even if that's Jasmine - uh, becoming Jasmine - they should be ashamed of themselves."

"People didn't know better back then."

We moved toward the crib, being brushed by people who passed through us like ghostly shadows when we touched them. As unsettling as that had been the first time - if you didn't feel it, it deprived you of the terror.

We looked into the cradle and I just knew the two women next to us were as understandable to Lexington as they were to me even though they spoke Arabic.

"Awfully dark-skinned, the little Jasmine," whispered the one woman. "We can't get rid of that with no matter how much foundation we use."

"But those juicy lips will drive the boys crazy in a few years," Banu chortled, and it shook me. The older Banu from the mosque tightened her lips every time a woman talked to a man she wasn't closely related to - and here she was talking like this. How thirty years can change people.

I looked down at the newborn, who was trying to kick herself free with a pinched expression on her face.

"At least it's not a little worm like the firstborn," the first woman said quietly as Banu and she stood up.

"Strange child - from front to back. With those eyes - and alone all the time."

"With tall tales like the one about everyone turning into monster back then? Everyone is well advised to tell their children not to get involved with him."

"Shh, hush," Banu whispered, and both women moved away from the cradle because another man was approaching. My jaw dropped.

"That's-."

"-Uncle Murshid," Lexington added, embembering him from the picture on my nightstand, and in unison we both took a respectful step back as the man who had been my only support for years now stood at the crib. He waved his hand over the child, waving the smoke away as if he were the only one who realized how unhealthy it was.

"Oh Lex," I murmured, my voice sounding like I was a second away from bursting into tears. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it - strangely genuine in the midst of this Once upon a time-world.

We watched as Uncle Murshid looked around again unobtrusively, eyeing the other relatives and acquaintances of the Sharif family, and then - when he was probably sure that no one was looking at him and the crib - bent lower and pulled something out of his collar. A leather strap with a small pierced stone. On which was painted a blue staring eye.

"So, let's see then, little Jasmine." He muttered in Arabic, circling the stone above the child's head.

"What are you doing?" a child's voice asked and Lex and I as well as Murshid all raised our heads. Now it was Lex's turn to have his lower jaw drop. I was also perturbed. Who wouldn't be startled to see himself. His own younger self. What one had once been.

"Just a test," Uncle Murshid said - this time in perfect English that was almost TOO good and reminded me of the movie My Fair Lady. Although I was pretty sure that Murshid was not a Hungarian princess. The child narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

The child Nathaniel Sharif was small, his hair cropped very short. And though he was plump, he exuded a fragile aura - one that was uncomfortable even for me. Unusual for a child. Or for what adults assumed a child should be like. He must have sat behind the crib - perhaps to remain in the middle of everything but still unseen and unmolested by the swaggering relatives. And the way this child - me - was now standing at the crib, staring at the man handling the strange thing above his sibling's head - with those gray-blue defiant eyes - that made me smile.

"You look at Murshid like you're about to bite his hand off," Lex picked up on my thoughts and I nodded.

"I didn't know him then - or hardly at all."

"Seven years old - still more than twenty-five years a human and already the protective Gargoyle- Spirit," my beloved said appreciatively. I just let that stand in the room. But that Lex called the boy in front of us me was strange. Even if I knew my former appearance from photos, nothing connected me with this child. It was a stranger to me - perhaps because I could not really remember that time - those events. I could not bring myself to think of him as me.

"What kind of test?" the child asked, eyeing the continuing gyrating pendant with his lower lip pushed forward.

"Or rather a family tradition," Murshid murmured. " It brings good luck to do this." Then he sighed after eying the pendant swinging on its natural course. "Even if I'm not lucky again today." he then added somewhat dejectedly.

Jasmine - the baby - blinked up at the evenly swaying thing, opened her mouth toothlessly and cluelessly, and squirmed some more busily in the tightly pulled blanket. Until she realized that she would not be able to free herself to get to the pendant. She pinched her cherub face and showed an expression - perhaps for the first time - that I, as her unloved brother, knew better than her smile.

"She's about to scream," the child Nathaniel Sharif and I said simultaneously.

"Don't think so," the adult grumbled, putting the pendant away and instead pulling a small jar out of his pants pocket, in it a sweet-smelling paste into which he dipped a finger and smeared it on the child's lips as she was already drawing breath to start screaming. But there came only a small croak - then the child closed his eyes - and slept.

The child Nathaniel watched grimly. And still suspicious - but I knew, as the child already knew, that we were not allowed to question adult actions offensively.

"What was that?"

"Just a little aid. This time less family tradition than my secret. Got it from an old acquaintance. Did your parents tell you what a marabout is?"

"No."

Uncle Murshid frowned disapprovingly under his graying beard.

"Doesn't really matter." Murshid had stood up again, tucked away the jar of paste, and had pulled out an old worn notebook. With a deep sigh, he entered something in it with a pen.

"She failed the test?" the little boy asked, and Murshid raised his thick bushy eyebrows, apparently surprised at so much childish sophistry.

He smirked. "She didn't pass," he admitted. "But she's a healthy little human - what more could human parents want?"

Lex and I exchanged irritated glances at these words.

"Who are you again?" Murshid asked the child.

"I'm Nathaniel Sharif." Murshid seemed to think for a moment, flipped back a few pages in the notebook, read something, then nodded.

"Ah, the firstborn, of the America - New York Sharifs of E 45th Street. You're six now?"

"I'm seven," the child muttered, more suspicious than ever. "Why do you write down where we live?"

"I write down where all the members of this family live - after all these years, I would otherwise lose track," Murshid said with a shrug, putting pen and notebook away.

"Did you do the test with me when I was a baby?"

Murshid and the child looked at each other for a few moments. Neither of them broke eye contact and it almost seemed like a staring contest. It was strange for me to see that this boy had so much more backbone than I did as an adult. But that was probably understandable - all the traumas were still ahead of him - me - oh damn. Then Murshid smiled - and I really remembered that smile!

"Yes," he admitted. "I took the test with you too."

"And I didn't pass either?"

"Like I said, it's nothing bad. But ... after all these years, I get tired of waiting sometimes." Murshid looked at the young Nathaniel, who seemed more than confused now, with a much softer gaze. He reached out and ran a hand over the cheek of the child, who simply tolerated it. "Did you know that most newborns' eyes are blue? That's because they lack a pigment called melanin at such a young age, which only starts to produce during the first year. But your eyes ... they have remained blue."

Now the child lowered its head.

"I don't like my eyes, they're stupid."

"Why do you think that?"

"The others say they're scary and ugly. Even the adults say that when they think I can't hear them. One of the boys at school even says my Baba isn't my father because I'm the only one with eyes like that."

"Well, those others - even the adults - are fools. Genetic traits can also skip several generations. That's common knowledge. Don't take people's mindless chatter too seriously - they usually just say something for the sake of saying something."

"They say I have the evil eye," whispered the child, who had jerked his head up with wide eyes when Murshid had rightfully insulted the other relatives and clenched his fists as if he were holding himself back from punching an invisible opponent. I gripped Lexington's hand tighter, feeling my own old emotional pain. What did Brooklyn say? Remembering is both a curse and a blessing.

Murshid reached under his shirt again, pulling the leather band and pendant from his neck. "Do you see this? Do you know what that is? It's the "evil eye". A talisman and an ancient symbol of protection from evil. It is supposed to keep negativity and bad luck away from the wearer. You see, the same expression can have completely opposite meanings. You don't change anything about your eye color - but you decide what power you give your tormentors."

Murshid held it out to the child and let it fall into his raised hands. Little Nathaniel turned the pendant with the lacquered bead in his fingers.

"It's blue like my eyes," he said with a smile, and Murshid stroked his buzzcut with his large hand.

"Different colors of the Evil Eye have different meanings, but the light blue is the most common. General protection, widening of perspective and solitude and peace are symbolized by it. Blue eyes are rarer in our culture, but only narrow-minded people would see this as something negative. Seers or people with special spiritual abilities are said to have a tendency towards blue eyes. In many cultures, blue eyes are associated with the divine or the supernatural, or these people are even said to be descendants of gods. The ruler of the third race and many of his kind and followers have blue eyes." The child and the adult were both silent and it was strange how both people - me and my uncle - were able to create their own little sphere of sanctuary in this room full of people. I didn't really remember my first meeting with Murshid. Everything here was somehow familiar and foreign to me at the same time. But I missed him more than I had in decades.

"I like your eyes," Murshid concluded softly, his voice sounding strained as if he was struggling with an emotional outburst himself. "Your eyes remind me of family I haven't seen in a long time."

The child looked up, the adult hand on his head not shifting.

"Have they ... passed away? My grandmother in Morocco passed away last year. I didn't know her well but ... People say then 'my condolences'. My parents were away for almost a week for the funeral. I wasn't allowed to go, I stayed with Aunt Ardara. So ... my condolences?"

Murshid's smile widened under his beard. "No need to wish me condolences. They're somewhere. I can feel them in here." He tapped his chest. "I just need to find them."

"If you tell me what they look like, I can-" the child began just as a familiar voice called out, "Nathaniel."

Hila - young, beautiful and, despite an audible accent, as American as curly fries came to them with Baz on her arm. They both looked at the crib, then at Nathaniel, then at Murshid.

"Everything all right?" asked Hila - already the hint of suspicion in her voice that would become her trademark, along with her pointed tongue.

"Everything is wonderful," Murshid said, "your daughter is beautiful. Just like her mother."

This brought a proud smile to Hila's cheeks- a smile that did not reach her eyes. Only once did they light up briefly as a rather thick envelope was handed from Murshid to Baz, who tucked it away discreetly without looking inside. But it was not difficult to guess what had been inside. It was also not unusual for money to be given away for the birth of a child.

"I'm always so happy to see the individual branches of the family thriving," Murshid said dryly, a disappointment resonating in his voice that perhaps only I noticed.

"How long will you stay this time?" asked Baz.

"Maybe a few days - do some sightseeing. Grandcousin Safije is expecting her eighth little one in Agadir. But not until next month."

There seemed to be a strange tension in the air between the three adults, where the child seemed to notice it too, looking back and forth between the grown-ups, perplexed. But Baz - in this version, at this time - sociable, open and charming tapped the older man on the shoulder and laughed.

"Outside, the lamb will be ready in a moment. Please eat and drink plenty, Murshid. Our joy shall be your joy too."

"It always is," returned Murshid, looking once more at the peacefully slumbering Jasmine, and then stepping outside.

Nathaniel - the younger version of me - stayed behind on his own. He looked after the adults, glanced at the crib around which other adults were already flocking to admire and secretly and yet quite obviously assess the community's new arrival. Then his gaze slid over the lavishly filled gift table until his attention remained on the doll.

.

Suddenly I thought that the floor would be pulled out from under my feet. I was yanked backwards, threw my arms up to catch myself, and then suddenly found myself standing outside in the farthest reaches of the garden with Lex on my arm - now immersed in the deep shadows of twilight. I pressed my hand in front of my mouth in a fit of nausea. Lex rubbed my arm comfortingly.

"It's okay, I know the feeling."

"What was that?" I asked hoarsely.

"A time and place jump. Like a scene change in a movie. Less important parts are skipped and only what is relevant is shown. Otherwise your subconscious would boil over with information bubbling up. Just stay calm and cool."

"Cool- okay, if you say so." I was a little annoyed that he hadn't mentioned that aspect before. But he kept stroking my arm and I didn't want him to stop.

I looked around. Colorful lights had just been turned on at the porch and above the tables in the tent. It smelled like barbecue and mild winter evening but also like approaching rain. I looked up at the sky, mountains of orange clouds to the east, spreading overhead. Lex tugged on my arm and my gaze followed his outstretched claw.

Four boys huddled near us, hidden from the adults' view by the shed and a large lilac bush at the back of the garden, bare at this time of year (Jasmine had been born on January 4th so it couldn't be more than a few days later).When one stepped aside, I saw that they had surrounded me - the child Nathaniel. He made himself even smaller and pressed the doll against him. The doll, which I had seen on the gift table at the very beginning.

"What's wrong with you, taking a doll."

"Mom said I could take one of Jasmine's presents. She's too little for anything yet. I'll give it back to her later."

"That's all girl stuff! And you're choosing a doll! You could have taken a box with jewelry in it and sold it! The adults would never have noticed! Did they shit in your brain?" One of the boys, probably three years older than young Nathaniel, snatched the doll out of his hand and threw it on the floor. I swallowed the bitter lump of bile that this cruelty had formed in my throat and put my hand on Lex's on my arm. Just memories. Old shadows. I couldn't let myself get upset. My young self had dived after the doll and was trying to wipe it clean, sobbing a little as the four kids gathered around him. One of them hit him on the head - not brutally but decisively and I shouted "Ow" and looked at Lex in horror.

"I felt that," I whispered, and his mouth dropped open.

"That - that must be some kind of – pha-phantom pain," he stuttered.

"You're a crybaby, Nasser!" one of the guys yelled, and they all laughed.

"Stop being so mean!" whined my younger self.

"You're a big brother now but you cry all the time," said another.

"Your sister will think you're a girl yourself when she's older. Especially when you play with dolls!"

"That's not true at all! I'm not a girl!" shrieked this Nathaniel, jumping up and shoving the boy who had said that the second a bright flash of lightning twitched across the sky, making all the children look up. The brief amazement at the messenger of an approaching thunderstorm was quickly overcome as the boy Nathaniel had pushed shoved him back. So violently and roughly that Nathaniel fell to the ground. I felt his collision with the hard earth and gritted my teeth with a low growl.

The child scrambled to his feet and stared defiantly, downright hatefully, at his bully. But his - my - voice betrayed him, was full of fear, far too shrill and on the verge of a crying fit.

"The-there's nothing funny about b-boys finding something pretty! That- even grown men find things b-beautiful - like, like eyes or clothes! Me- I thought the doll was pretty and wanted to take a closer look at it. Just for this evening. Because her wings are-."

"Wings? The sleeves of the fucking thing? Nutcase!"

"You're weird, my Umm says! And a liar you are!" said another, looking at on of the other boys who probably didn't know the story, although he was speaking to this Nathaniel. "My mom knows from a friend who knows from your mom that when your mom was in town with you, you were suddenly running around yelling that everyone was a monster and the only humans were fighting with sunflowers and parasols. You're a baby and a lyin' nutcase and that's why you're always alone!"

"That wasn't a lie. I saw it all and I was different myself and everyone was different and no one knows but me! You're the ones who are wrong because you don't know anymore," that Nathaniel insisted. I heard Lexington next to me make a curious noise - something croaking between bewilderment and recognition. He looked at me open-mouthed, but immediately we both turned our attention back to the children.

"Doesn't change the fact that you're a lying pantywaist who plays with dolls?"

"That's it! From now on, everyone should just call you Nutty Nasser. That fits you!"

The other boys laughed, really proud of their brilliantly cruel cleverness, and both the child me and the adult me gasped at this. The same stunned sound, strangled by pain, even though there were thirty years between us and I was now a gargoyle. I wanted to tell Lexington that I wanted to get out of here, that I wanted to leave this past vision (however that was supposed to work because I hadn't seen a magical emergency exit door yet). But I knew that I HAD to see this somehow. The magic had a reason to make me get through this and I composed myself, brushed away a tear and smiled wryly at Lex.

"It's okay. I'll be fine." He smiled and plastered himself as close to my side, clutching my arm as tightly as he could, which was really comforting and reminded me that I had a lot of distance from everything here, even if the memories from my subconscious were being brought up like water from a deep well.

But of course the kids weren't done with me yet because- well, everyone who had ever told me that I was inviting my bullies to keep going had probably been right. It was too easy to kick again when someone was already down. The renewed flash and distant rumble of thunder went unnoticed by the humans, the darkness closing in around my child-me through the developing night and the bodies of the others blocking the light of the party area. The other children shoved young Nathaniel back and forth between them, chanting a quiet but malicious Nutty Nasser song that I could only now remember had really been a thing. My younger me tried to stay on my feet, I was really proud that he was making an effort, still had a fighting spirit and of course didn't run to his mom or threaten to tell on the other boys because that would have made things worse from the kid's point of view.

One of the others was hit on the chest by a swinging fist, the blow itself rather weak, looked scandalized for a moment and then laughed cackling. "You play with dolls, you scream and cry like a girl and you hit like a sissy. Nutty Nasser is nothing more than a sissy."

"Jeah! He-he is a faggot!" hissed one of the boys with a tone that showed he had never used that last word himself but had heard it used by older cooler kids. He grinned devilishly and although at least two of the other boys briefly looked as if they didn't know what to make of the word, the leader nodded appreciatively. "That's right, you're acting like a faggot! A really bad one."

"I'm not."

"What aren't you?"

"What he said!"

"You don't even know what you are yourself! Stupid and a faggot!"

"Leave me alone!" croaked little Nathaniel, glaring up at his tormentors.

He stood there breathing heavily and rasping, his features completely distraught in the semi-darkness, his face flushed with anger and rage and if that would be me from today (or a few months ago) he would have started crying a long time ago. Then I saw with my Gargoyle-eyes the tear. Or not a tear. One of the boys raised his hand and looked up at the sky. If the first drop had fallen on Nathaniel's cheek, it was now pattering sporadically on the parched earth and on the roof of the shed.

"Leave me alone," my child self shrilled again.

"Don't look at me," screeched one of the boys, kicking at Nathaniel." You with your evil stare. Grandma says you have an evil eye. Like the kuffar."

"Not true at all! There are people who think my ey-eyes are nice and cool and special! G-G-Gods have eyes like these."

"You got monster eyes! You're a liar. And a girl. And a faggot. And I'm going to tell all the adults and everyone at school that Nutty Nasser play with dolls." With that, the tallest and leader of the boys ripped off the rag doll's head, tossing both in front of Nathaniel.

He - I - looked at it for a second, frozen in shock and silence. Then my younger self opened his mouth and screamed. In that second there was a loud thunder that made all the people around cry out, the windows cracked, the sound echoed from the facades of the houses. Lex and I looked at the building when it started to pour.

The four boys immediately ran to the adults with their hands above their heads, having forgotten their victim immediately, because it would be worse to be scolded by their parents if their good clothes got wet or they themselves got sick.

The small me stayed behind, left standing in the pouring rain after its cry had died away - long before the echo of the thunder. And while the adults at the front of the garden jumped up, feeling unsafe in the party tent swaying in the sudden strong wind, carrying food, crockery and games into the house, searching for and collecting their children, trying to get the barbecue and food to safety, no one was looking after the heavy breathing child here in the dark - not even Lex and me.

I raised my arms, but felt the rain strangely attenuated in both intensity and wetness. Like the memory of rain on skin. But what was very intense was the massive goose bumps I was sporting. I didn't have a hair on my body but my skin scales were standing up as if the electricity in the air was leaping onto me.

"What is this, what's happening?"

I saw Lexington next to me rubbing his arms, his eyes wide, his gaze irritated at the sky with lightning flashing directly above us.

"Magic. I can feel the magic in your memory," he revealed, and if that's what it was, then that's what it was.

"Do- do I do that?" I asked, stunned, but not actually meaning me. I hadn't had magic as a child, I- I would have some memory of it if I had had special abilities as a child. ... I was sure. Quite ... sure. But ... I didn't even really remember my childhood ... I couldn't really say with certainty, I realized at that moment.

After a few seconds, I turned back to my little self for the first time, who was now breathing heavily as if on the verge of a panic attack. He had picked himself up, the torn rag doll in his hands. Unnoticed or forgotten by everyone else, he stared upwards, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, with a quiet desperation and helplessness that only children could display. He blinked because of the rain - seeking no shelter, no cover, not running for the protection of the house, the adults or his mother. He just stood there panting, apparently still shocked by the cruelty of the other children. As if he wanted to let the water cleanse him of their disgusting words, I thought. But only then did I see it. The water wasn't soaking him. It tried to ... and evaporated almost completely before it could reach his body.

"Oh by the dragon," whispered Lex, who must have just noticed it too, and I nodded because it really looked like that.

I thought I could feel the massive heat that the child must be experiencing in my body, on my own skin. But only the child in front of me was steaming as the rain on his skin passed the boiling point and rose from him as white, cloudy water vapor. Stunned, the child raised his arms, not knowing what to do with them.

And suddenly his feet caught fire.

The child Nathaniel fell over as flames burst out from under his feet and, horrified, the child began to scream shrilly.

"Ahhh"- I slumped down myself, slapping at my feet and although I knew by now that when I burned it didn't hurt me, I thought it did. Lex held me in his grip and his clothes tore under my claws as I tried to push him away before I burst into flames.

"It's burning. It's burning! " I gasped.

"You're not on fire, Nate!" he returned grimly, shaking me. More gently, he continued as I panted frantically to push back the heat - real or not. "It's not real. Just ghosts of unconscious memories. Think of your heat and the flames in the real world. This won't hurt you any more than that."

In that second, Uncle Murshid's memory rushed through me and Lex. He unlocked the fire extinguisher he was carrying and sprayed the child's feet with it. Then I felt the pull of the space and time jump again.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.