Crowned. Cheryl Ntumy S.
you to understand. By the end of our third meeting, you will have the answers you seek. But be patient. I’ve lived a long, long life, and we have a lot to cover. He looks at me with a benevolent smile. Are you ready?
I nod, though fear has stirred again. The anklet might keep the Puppetmaster from using magic tricks on me, but it can’t keep him from using good old-fashioned manipulation. I don’t want to come out of this a convert to his twisted logic. I promised Lebz I’d come back as myself, and I intend to keep that promise. I take a deep breath and turn towards the photographs.
There are no baby pictures. The earliest one, the one that flickers most, is of a young man in a hideous suit and hat, standing outside a large house. He’s tall and thin, but apart from a wide grin his features are unremarkable. Smallish eyes, big ears. An ordinary guy.
I came into my telepathy early, he begins. I had always known that I could read people and convince them to do things. People gave me whatever I wanted. Toys, money, clothes. When I was sixteen my father’s employer gave us his house.
My eyes widen. I look at the house, then at the Puppetmaster. His expression is calm, unruffled. “You took his house?”
He gave it to us, he corrects me patiently. But instead of being grateful, my father beat me senseless. He was worried people would accuse us of witchcraft. So I left.
The next photograph is of a train, and the one after that is a colour shot of a red-faced man with a fistful of money.
You ran away.
He frowns. Running away is what children do. I left to seek my fortune.
I roll my eyes.
I met a wealthy businessman who gave me money to start a business of my own. There were others after him. Many others. He smiles slyly. People liked to throw money at me. It was quite remarkable.
I’m sure it was. I’m growing impatient. When is he going to get to the part where he goes from petty thief to evil mastermind?
I had a plan. My parents were too busy trying to blend in to be of any use, so I had to find other people like me. Gifted. Ambitious.
Crazy. Ja, I get it.
His eyes slide in my direction. The knowing expression in them tells me he sees through my armour of disdain. I purse my lips and fold my arms across my chest. I want to understand how he became what he is, and what he’s after. But I’m terrified to find out. Somehow I know that when we reach the end of this tale, everything will be different.
It was difficult to find gifted then. The world wasn’t as open as it is now – everyone lived in shadow. But I found kindred spirits.
We come to an image of a group of friends sitting in what appears to be a bar. It takes me a minute to recognise the Puppetmaster. He wasn’t handsome, but there was a certain appeal to his face, an air of sophistication. He looked like the sort of person who would always have something clever to say.
I reach up to touch the wooden frame. It feels surprisingly solid beneath my fingers. “When was this?”
He shoots me a disapproving glance, annoyed by the sound of my voice. Over a century ago. 1860? Maybe 1850. The years start to blur together after a while.
My hand freezes on the picture frame. A flare of panic makes my throat tighten.
You knew I was old, Conyza. He’s bemused by my reaction.
Yes, but I thought… I don’t know what I thought. So how old are you, exactly?
It’s hard to say. A hundred and ninety-something, probably.
I hate to admit it, but I’m in awe. I’m standing next to a man who has been around for almost two centuries. The mind that is now moving through the outer rim of my thoughts has lived through things I’ve only read about, things that seemed almost to have been part of a dream the world has long since woken from. I swallow hard, too overwhelmed to speak.
It passes quickly, he muses. At first. But the older you get, the more you feel it. The mind tires of stretching so far and you have to start cutting things away.
I lower my hand. Things like what?
Things you no longer need to remember. I have no childhood memories any more. Everything I know about my early years comes from notes I wrote in my twenties. That memory, the one of my father’s employer’s house, came from my first journal. I don’t actually remember it. He points at the photo in front of us, the one in the bar. This is my earliest true memory. I was forty or so. I remember the bar because we spent so much time there. I remember that there were five of us. I don’t remember their faces, so I replaced them with others.
There’s something callous about that. I can’t imagine forgetting my friends, though I suppose one day I might. I feel funny now. Too thoughtful, too serious. This meeting isn’t turning out at all the way I thought it would.
I follow him to the next set of photographs, eager for a distraction. The next photo looks like a still from a horror film. It’s a man, or half a man, and half a…something else. It’s as though his face is melting. I lean closer, trying to make out the details, and I see the blurry edges.
He’s shape shifting!
Yes. In all these years I’ve never met anyone as good. He shifted so fast it was impossible to see the transformation taking place. I was fascinated, so one day he slowed the process down for me.
I look up from the photo. I didn’t know that was possible.
Very few shifters can do it. It takes great discipline.
I suppose he must have died long ago.
Yes. The Puppetmaster’s tone grows wistful.
He’s the one who taught you how to shape shift?
What makes you think I’m not a natural shifter?
Natural shifters don’t need accessories, I point out, remembering the items I found in the box he left in Ntatemogolo’s house. I deduced that some of them, like the copy of Ntatemogolo’s watch, were used to aid the Puppetmaster in his transformations.
He smiles, pleased as always by my powers of deduction. What a weirdo. Everyone knows the bad guy is supposed to be furious when his enemy figures out one of his secrets, but apparently Johnny here didn’t get that memo.
The next photo is of a pretty woman. Her skin is swarthy and her hair long and black. Is this Mrs Puppetmaster? I sneak a glance at him. The idea of him in love is a little disturbing.
He chuckles. Romance is not something I spent a lot of time pursuing. But she was my lover for a time. She was a gypsy. She taught me a great deal.
I try to stifle it, but I’m impressed. Everything I know about gypsies comes from popular culture and is probably offensive and inaccurate. What was her gift?
Sorcery, like your grandfather.
I flinch. Ntatemogolo has never referred to himself as a sorcerer. He reserves that word for powerful types with great ambitions. He prefers to think of himself as a wise man, in