Seven Year Story

Chapter One

“This is a nine-dollar glass of wine? Are you serious? Do I look like an idiot to you?”

It took less than a second for her answer, “Yeah, you do.” Then she showed him her walking-away-from-asshole-customers-saunter.

Behind her the customer stammered and rose in a fit, dropping huffy money in his crackling wake. She didn’t even look over her shoulder, strolling down the cramped aisle toward the coffeepot.

She was stopped by another patron before she made it there. His freckled hand came lazily out of the booth to catch her.

“Clara, don’t let it ruin your night,” said the grizzly old guy.

Clara didn’t tell him to mind his own business, or even shoot him a treacherous daggerful of angry-eye. She slumped down next to him, and laid her head on his ancient, flannel shoulder.

“Ward, if I let someone like that ruin my night, I’d be as big a jerk as he is.”

The old man smiled as Clara launched herself from the booth, finally reaching the coffee. She poured a cup and placed it on his table as she made a round through the restaurant. Then she returned, trying not to grunt as she scooted into the booth across the table from him.

“Where’s the board?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

“We’re not playing tonight,” the old man replied. He watched her like he had a secret.

“Why?”

And suddenly The Warden was serious.

Clara had seen him turn that way only once before, several years earlier, sitting in the same seat. Ward had told a particularly vile old junkie from the street just how rude it was to be wandering through a restaurant, slobbering through sob stories, begging for money. The guy threatened to beat the money out of him, slapping his grime-caked hands on Ward’s table.

Ward had become very serious. He spoke to the street guy quietly, so that no one else heard. Clara had seen The Warden’s eyes. Whatever he said with those clean, terrible eyes, made the junkie speed walk through the back door, without a glance at any other potential donors on the way out.

Ward looked like that now. He said, “Because the time has come to tell you some very important things.” He looked sideways out of the booth, finding three empty tables and a family across the room, two tables back.

If The Warden hadn’t been who he was to her, Clara would have switched herself into patronizing mode, set her eyes to take in the old coot’s story, drank her coffee quickly, and soon dashed off to fulfill some other customer’s needs. But she knew him. And she knew this look he had on. She listened.

As he spoke, the room around Clara began to slowly fade from her awareness. Ever so slightly, sounds vanished from her hearing, and movements found no purchase in her peripheral vision. Soon she forgot altogether where she was, except listening to a crazy old man tell a fantastic story that in no way should be believed. But she absolutely believed it, and she absolutely listened.

The Warden told her some amazing things.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Far away from Clara and what The Warden was telling her, Sacho Ublest sat telling stories of his own.

Sacho hated psychic fairs. He loathed the so-called Seers, the Ministers of the Made-Up Church of Whatever God is Chic, the liars, charlatans, and misguided mentalists. And the other side of the coin: The clients. Idiots with no self-awareness, fools with whatever chronic illness was the rage, psychic groupies, psychic wanna-be’s, housewives out for a pseudo-spiritual adventure after the gym, and the truly pitiful, those who really needed to hear the truth about their lives, who needed help, direction, healing. They would not find it at any fair. Unless they happened by Sacho—who never attended psychic fairs.

Until he was tricked into attending one. The woman who’d booked him for the week just happened to be throwing a fair at the same time. Sacho found himself sharing space with the ridiculous insanity of the desperate New Age. And he was not happy.

Sitting in the corner of a large basement room, at the back of the bookstore, Sacho awaited his next client. His clients booked weeks, or months in advance. They knew what they wanted when they arrived. They knew how to act.

Around him, people wandered through the bookstore, browsing the couches and folding chairs, reading the stand-up signs of mediums, fortune-tellers, palm readers, hypnotists, clairaudients, clairvoyants, and Reiki practitioners. Some sat for fifteen-minute sessions with the various snake-oil salesmen. Some shook their heads and left.

People approached Sacho throughout the morning, asking things like, “What do you do?” and “How much?”. He spent much of the time between clients with his eyes closed, desperately ignoring the panderers and the pandered.

Sacho had never met the client he awaited. He’d only seen his name scrawled on the notebook that held his appointments. He mused about the man, and was soon distracted as two so-called psychics sitting across the room began arguing loudly about predestination, and the morality of warning people about boarding a plane doomed to crash. One of the arguers shouted, “Look you dumb bitch, you don’t know shit about predestination!” He’d been introduced earlier to Sacho as Reverend Jim.

Sacho’s client arrived at that very moment, ushered in by the bookstore owner. She introduced them, tossing a frown toward the escalating argument across the room.

“Have a seat,” Sacho said.

The man, introduced as Victor, sat in the plush chair. He didn’t wear the face of a typical referral. Usually when a new client came to Sacho, it was because someone had told that person about a reading he’d given them. Usually new clients came to him with a wary, wondering look. This guy lacked any sort of wonder.

Sacho felt a little uneasy about Victor. He decided to just jump right into it.

“Okay, so let me tell you a bit about what I do,” Sacho started.

“I know what you do,” said Victor.

Sacho raised an eyebrow. “Okaaay, then how ‘bout I just get to it.” He held his hands out to the man.

“Do, get to it,” Victor agreed, giving over his hands.

Sacho closed his eyes. His head dropped, as if he were suddenly asleep. He sought Victor’s mind.

Sacho asked, “Is there anything in particular you’d like to know?”

Victor replied, “Yes, I’d like to know why it is that you continue to travel around the country giving readings to people who will either ignore everything you tell them, or who don’t even listen to what you say. I want to know why you limit yourself.”

With his eyes still closed, Sacho used his mind to find Victor’s thoughts. He tried to access his recent memories, or to follow the thread of his life into the near future.

Victor continued, “I want to know why you’re still sleeping, why you haven’t yet answered the call.”

“The call? What? What are you talking about?” Sacho found he was speaking loudly. He kept his eyes closed—searching. Quietly, he deflected Victor’s questions. “Let’s not talk about me, okay? Let’s talk about you.”

Victor squeezed Sacho’s hands and ignored his suggestion. “I want to know why you haven’t freed yourself. Why you eek out a living, performing parlor tricks. I want to know when you’re going to wake-up, Sacho.”

“What do you mean wake-up? Parlor tricks?!” Sacho’s voice rose again. Inside, he became slightly frantic about finding some sort of grip on Victor’s mind. He could not read him. It was the first time anyone had been blank. There was always something to see, or hear, or feel. Usually thoughts and emotions bombarded him. Victor was still and void, and a little frightening because of it.

Sacho worried about not feeling anything from Victor’s mind. It angered him. It scared him. And what the hell was this guy talking about, anyway?

“I mean realize who you are.”

“Who I am? What do you know about who I am?” Sacho’s voice was barely below yelling. He crimped his eyes shut. He flung his mind wide open. He squeezed Victor’s hands.

“I want to know when you’re going to stop fucking around, and get serious.”

“Serious about what? Who are you, anyway?” This time he did shout. He was sure he was now disturbing the other people in the room. Possibly the whole store. He let out a deep breath, repeating the man’s name in his mind.

“I’m the messenger.”

“Messenger?” Sacho had his voice under control. Still, his mind could find no way to read Victor’s. He tried to relax, to let information come to him. He could only concentrate on Victor’s voice.

“I want to know why you’re still relying on these puny, wretched, tiny-minded humans. I want you to know why you can’t read me. Sacho, I want to know when you’re going to recognize me.”

Sacho opened his eyes. “Recognize you?”

He stared into Victor’s eyes. For a moment he did recognize him. But in the same moment, he recognized that the rest of the room had grown silent. Looking around, he found a crowd of people staring at him.

“What?” Sacho asked the room.

“How did you do that?” asked the medium who’d been arguing with Reverend Jim.

“Do what?”

Victor stood, bringing Sacho with him.

“Do what?” Sacho repeated.

“Were you reading his mind?” A blobby woman goggled out of the murmuring crowd.

“Your third-eye was glowing!” yelped a man swaddled in purple.

Victor tugged at Sacho, pulling him toward the back door.

“Was he reading your mind?” accused a gothic girlie.

Victor ignored her, pressing through the pushing people.

Sacho scanned the faces around him in the six steps to the door.

Victor led Sacho out of the shocked room and into the blazing day of deep summer Ohio. He told him, “I never once spoke aloud.”

“What? But I heard you. I mean, outside my head—with my ears.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But you were so, clear, and I never—” Sacho glanced back toward the store.

“Welcome to your wake-up call.”

People wedged out of the door behind them. A long black car roared into the parking lot and arrived at Sacho’s feet. Victor led Sacho inside. The car sped away, leaving the spilling crowd to wonder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Okay, sum it up.” Clara had new coffee, and sat across from The Warden, vibrating.

“You are one of twelve original humans. The end of the world is coming. You must find your jewel and activate it at exactly the right moment—in about seven years. The others are also seeking their jewels, and each other—those that have awakened. You will choose a side, for there are sides, and commit to reshape the world in the image you collectively choose. There must be balance among you, dissent will cause chaos.”

“And you’re here to help me.”

“Yes.”

“Then you can start by answering some questions.” Clara gave him no time for his subtle nod. She threw questions at him like water balloons. “Twelve original humans? My jewel? What do you mean sides? Why did you take so long to tell me all of this? The end of the world?”

“Do you remember your childhood?” The Warden shifted, his white head bobbing at the back of the high booth.

“I’m asking you questions.”

“Do you?”

“No. But it’s because of an accident.”

“An accident that caused you to lose your memories? Did it happen on your 21^st birthday?” The Warden leaned across the table toward Clara.

Clara sat back. “How do you know about that?”

“I was there.” The Warden was nearly laying across the table now.

Clara, though she’d just heard a wild tale about her being some sort of Chosen One who had to go on a seven-year quest to find a hidden jewel to save the world, could not believe what Ward was saying. She’d met The Warden only four years before, at the age of 30. A long time had passed between her memory loss and coming to grips with it.

“Ward, now you’re talking crazy talk.” She got up and checked on her tables.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Where are we going?” Sacho asked, glancing around the car.

Three large men occupied the bench seat across from Sacho. He’d not been introduced, and they didn’t make eye contact with him.

“Wyoming,” Victor answered. “To my home.”

Sacho watched out the window. “So what’s going on, Victor?”

Victor sighed, and reached for a bottle of gin from the mini bar. He slowly poured himself a drink, and tilted the bottle toward Sacho in an offer. Sacho declined, and Victor carefully replaced the bottle, and sipped at his drink. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, cleared his throat, glanced at Sacho’s burning eyes, took another sip of his drink, coughed, and leaned forward, dangling his glass between his knees.

“You’re a superhero, Sacho, or at least, as close to one as they come.”

“Yeah, I’m getting the idea that you think something like that.” Sacho leaned forward, too. He whispered, “Why is it I can read your goons, but not you?”

Victor leaned back in his chair, laughing. “So you’ve looked into Sugar and Bossy’s brains, did you? Not much happening in there, eh boys?”

The two large men said nothing. From what Sacho had gleaned from their minds, they also thought nothing.

“Look, Victor, I’d really like to know what’s going on.”

“And so you shall. But for now let me be cryptic and mysterious.” Victor peered between the goons, out the back window. “We’re close to the airport.”

Sacho sighed heavily. He knew he would be forced to board the plane. He figured he’d be held prisoner in Wyoming.

“Not exactly a prisoner, more a guest without the privilege of leaving.” Victor drained his glass.

Sacho glared at his contrite abductor. “Why can you read my every thought, and I can’t find a single aspect of your mind?”

“Because I won’t let you.” Victor smiled wide. “But that will all change, Sacho. And it will change soon. I know this is all dreadfully exciting, and you wish I would just cut to the chase, but I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you much of anything until we arrive at my home.”

“Exciting isn’t the word,” Sacho thought, certain that Victor would hear.

“We’re at the airport,” Victor answered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~