Crowned. Cheryl Ntumy S.
see the struggle in his expression. Finally he gives a terse nod. “I am going to stay right here and wait for you.”
I nod. My stomach is in knots.
“Do not let your guard down. Stay alert and focused, and if something happens use your gift to reach me.”
I nod again, then get out of the car and start walking towards the gate before I lose my nerve. I try to open it – it’s locked, and there’s no intercom. The gate slides open to admit me. Inside is an abandoned construction site. A wheelbarrow full of bricks and rubble stands to one side. There’s a ladder stretched against the wall of the incomplete double-storey structure, and near the far wall is a pile of dry weeds, their roots pointing towards me. The building has no doors or windows, and most of the right side is an assortment of naked bars and beams. I take a deep breath and walk across the yard towards the empty doorway. The inside of the house is covered with dust, the floor littered with bits of wire and metal and broken bricks. It will be quite a large house when it’s finished – except it will never be finished.
My senses are utterly deceived. The rubble crunches beneath my shoes, the dust tickles my nostrils and my eyes take in every brick, but my gift sees right through the magic. I feel the entire house pulse with energy. If I look carefully out of the corners of my eyes I can almost catch a glimpse of the walls bending before snapping back into solidity. It’s an illusion, a mental image projected from the Puppetmaster’s mind into mine. If it weren’t for the anklet, I might have fallen for it.
Up, says the Puppetmaster, and I turn towards the stairs.
Now the fear sets in, and despite knowing it’s not real I take slow steps to make sure I don’t fall. I walk up the half-finished staircase, trying not to look down. I sense his mind probing. He’s impatient as always, eager to get me in his grasp.
This way.
Blood pounds in my ears, loud in the sepulchral silence. I turn into the first room. The walls are whitewashed but the floor is hard cement, with fat drops of dried paint marking the edges. There are only two pieces of furniture inside – a high chair facing the window and a wooden stool opposite it. In the chair is a figure. Tall, with unnaturally long, spindly limbs. It’s just a projection – the Puppetmaster’s body is actually somewhere else – but my fear mounts, swelling in my chest and ringing in my ears, pleading with me to stand still. I fight through it, walking across the floor until I am standing beside the stool, facing the chair.
The fear melts away. The face I know has been replaced by a gaunt figure in a black suit. His eyes are sunken, his skin dark as coal and dry as paper. He has a sprinkling of white hair on an ashy scalp. There are no glasses this time. He looks old, not in the usual human way with wrinkles and liver spots, but old like an object. His face is faded and dusty, but his hands are smooth and shiny, the natural folds replaced by skin as taut as a pair of undersized latex gloves. The warm, friendly air is gone with the rest of his disguise, and yet that genial face was far more frightening than this. This is just…sad.
“This is your true face?”
He lifts his bony shoulders in a shrug. Stretching a human life has its pitfalls. I could live a good many years more, but I’ll never be known for my looks. He indicates the stool. Sit, dearest one. Welcome to our first meeting.
I lower myself onto the stool. “This isn’t a real house. It’s a projection, like your house in Kgale Siding. That’s why you decided on a house under construction – it takes less energy to keep up than a complex, furnished house with a lot of detail.”
He nods, pleased by my powers of deduction, but there’s an undercurrent of annoyance as well. Use your gift, Conyza. There’s no need for speech here.
“I want to speak.”
You should be honing your gift, not ignoring it. His eyes are faded, dark grey rather than black, but their gaze holds mine with formidable strength.
I relent. Arguing with him will get me nowhere, and to tell the truth I enjoy communicating telepathically. This is a strange choice for a meeting place.
I have my reasons. But this not a social call. We must discuss your progress.
You asked me here to discuss my progress?
You are indulging too many distractions. Jobs, friends – those things are unnecessary for someone like you. He smiles. I wish he wouldn’t. It appears to be an expression his features have outgrown and only perform under duress. The effect is unpleasant. I want you to develop your gift. You have great potential, but you are holding back.
Potential for what? I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. If he has something to do with the gifted growth spurt I want to know, but as usual he’s far too sharp to give anything away.
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