Scene: Weaver’s private booth in the Café-on-Main. Weaver is drinking tea (WHUT!) while her boothmate is sipping from a bowl containing questionable liquids. It looks like frothy mud and smells like dirt. He is covered in swaths of saffron hued cloth. The cloth covers his face, obscuring him. He has just enough of his hands exposed to handle the bowl. There is no part of his hand that is not covered in tattoos. The fingertips had been dipped in something dark that stained his skin and fingernails.
“So you have to go back to the Plains of War. So what. You handled yourself well last time. I’m told the Fearless Legions replay your encounter with them as a teaching tool.” He held the bowl perfectly still. The contents stirred itself.
“A lesson on the unpredictability of the berserker, I’m sure. Which means they are more than prepared for me to step there again. Next time, I doubt I’ll even make it to the second round.” I shifted the tea mug in my hands nervously.
“So, you’re afraid of defeat? Even after the Path of Cheth?”
“I’m afraid of being stomped under the mud and not coming back up.”
“Losing a fight is not defeat. You lost the fight to cross the Path of Cheth countless times, and they still saluted you each time you came back to try again.”
I chugged my tea to stall for time. When I placed the empty mug back on the table, it refilled itself again with fresh hot tea. “I’m… afraid. The sphere of Geburah is not one I’d like to be in for any length of time.”
He lifted the bowl under the hood and sipped so delicately, the action seemed to stop time. He placed the bowl back on the table so softly, I never heard the touch. “[Weaver.] You are a violent person. Your language is violent. Your gestures are violent. When you move, you do not slip like the breeze with softness, you choose which obstacles to interact with to better propel yourself towards your target. Even when you are silent, you are violent in the way a primed bomb is silent and violent. You are a sentient weapon with a loose lock. You belong in Geburah.” He sipped his brew again. “Now, unclench your hands before you discover the failure point of the mug the unsafe way.”
I did not notice my knuckles were white from squeezing the magic out of the ceramic. It oozed between my fingers in glowing wisps. I made it my life’s work to disengage my grip, finger by finger, in an effort to calm down. He was right about me, so why was I angry? “Yea. Well. I won’t dispute I am good at destruction. However, I have determined that no one fires my cannon but me, and in Geburah, you are not your own. Or did you forget the first thing the legionnaire did was to trigger a berserker response from me. I was out of control from the moment the first punch was thrown.”
“What are you afraid of?” His voice was so calm. It tried to pull my attention down.
I was already on edge, and now his subtle attempts to calm me were having the opposite reaction. I felt under assault. “I will not lose control again.”
He was smiling under that hood. The gesture radiated in a burst of warmth. It felt like he was mocking me. But I knew he wasn’t, and this was just my fears twisting what I saw. I knew I was lying to myself, but I wasn’t sure which was the lie just yet.
“You go to Geburah not to lose control, but to regain it. You will be tested, of course. This is a new campaign, after all. They will not allow you to pass through without being tested. And if you fail the test, you will be trained to pass. Just as you were with the Path of Cheth. Geburah is not what you are afraid of. The Plains of War is not what you are afraid of. A beating at the hands of the Fearless Legion is not what you are afraid of. What is it?”
I turned away from him. The wall of the booth had fallen away and I was looking at a memory replay itself beyond. I felt a tear slide down my face.
“[Weaver.] Where are you?” His voice was already soft. When did it become so slippery that it slid past all my barriers? I could not hold back my answer.
“[A military base in the United States.]”
“When are you?”
“[Fuck, has it been really that long ago?]”
“That is not the Plains of War. That is in the past. What happened there is not the work of Mars. Do not conflate those humans that use war as excuse for evils for the necessity that is war.”
I managed to regain some semblance of will and I turned away from the memory. I closed my eyes to focus on stopping myself from shaking. “You said I am violent. That is the reason why. I wish I were gentle, and soft, and delicate. I wish I were the sweet zephyr that kisses each meadow flower as it passes. I am not. I am a hurricane that drowns those hiding in the shelter. I am the tornado that throws aside empty words of protection. They remade me to be a better cog in their machine, and when I broke from the pressure, I was discarded instead of fixed.” I caught myself nearly yelling and starting to rise in my seat. I had to tell myself a hundred times that the man hiding in hues of saffron was not my enemy, no matter how hard he has wrenched open a forgotten wound.
He said nothing as I forced myself to be calm again. He watched me silently as I struggled with my tears, my fear, and my sudden urge to break everything around me in an attempt to separate myself from the resurging memories.
“Fuck.” I laid my head on the table. “What the fuck do you want from me that you dig this shit up?”
“I want you to succeed. And that means facing what you have been running from. You will not be able to pass through Geburah again, if you continue to ascribe to that place what does not belong there. It is the Martial Plain, yes. But [what happened to you in the American military] does not belong there. And if you try to drag it in, it will be beaten out.”
“I’m afraid. I can not trust anyone like that again, and I’m afraid of being used.”
“I know.”
“I do not want to be… mindless. A drone.”
The bowl gently tapped me on my head. “You won’t be. This is the Plains of War, not slavery. You’ll just get the shit kicked out of you a couple times until you learn to fight back instead of allowing your fear to shackle you. Here. You should have some of this. It will help you see past the irrational fear that is blinding you now.”
I lifted my face. The scent of the lukewarm liquid was not appealing. “You know, I get it that the cafe is an enlightened establishment, but that is bowl of diluted, tepid mud. Did you sneak in the kitchen and get the vegetable rinse water?”
He chuckled. “Last time you encountered this [helper], you had your ass kicked by it because of your arrogance at the time. You are now ready to meet it again. And it is ready to help you.”
I sat up in the restored booth and wiped my face. “Oy. Do you know how much shit I have on my plate? This is not the time to be having any new audiences with any new spirits and/or entities. I have no idea what could be represented by a bowl of agriculture runoff, but this isn’t the time for more shit! I’ll get over my fears and go ahead and get stomped by the Fearless Legions, because some of my fears need to be conquered. I’m just… overwhelmed.”
He left the bowl sitting halfway between us. “And afraid.”
“And very afraid.”
“Geburah is no place for fear.”
“So fear will be purged. I know. It’s going to hurt. But I’m telling myself that when I come through the other side, it will all be worth the advancements I’ll be able to make. Just like how [certain meatspace endeavors] weren’t possible until I dared the Path of Cheth. Don’t mind me, I’m just having the pre-event pity party. It’s tradition, you know.” I scrunched my face at him as he sighed and shook his head.
“Bullshit your readers. You can’t bullshit me.” He tapped the bowl with a dark stained finger. “This is legal where you live. It will help if you allow it. Slow down that tornado to a dustdevil for a while, at least.”
He excused himself and bid me a polite farewell. As he left the booth, his form dissipated. The bowl remained. It stank like fertile dirt drying in a lazy afternoon. A pleasant smell if it were in a garden. As something to be imbibed… eh…
All this trouble for a god damn wand. If the sense of control that it represents wasn’t so vital to me, I’d say fuck it and leave it. Fuck. I’ll get there. Eventually.
I’m just not ready for the memories this is waking up. Not ready at all.