The Soul Prophecy, page 7
Donning my baseball cap and sunglasses from my backpack, I feel like a fugitive as I change trains and hide my face from the security cameras dotted around the station. Within a matter of hours my life has once again been turned on its head. It was little more than a week ago that my counsellor, Dr Larsson, convinced me that my Glimmers weren’t real, that Phoenix had supposedly gaslighted me with fantasies of Soul Hunters and First Ascendants. But it turns out that it’s all true. Dangerously so.
I feel an odd sense of relief in discovering that I wasn’t crazy. In fact, Dr Larsson had been the one manipulating my mind, even if his intentions had been good. Instead of listening to him, I should’ve been spending my time preparing for Tanas’s return. Although his second incarnation in this life of mine was unforeseen, his eventual reincarnation in another was guaranteed. So, rather than rationalizing and explaining away my trauma over these past six months, I should have been acquiring the skills and knowledge that could protect me in those future encounters … as well as in my present life. If only I had done so, then I –
A sudden stab of guilt pierces my grieving heart. If only I had, then I may have been able to save my parents’ lives; it’s my fault they’re dead. Just like Phoenix’s mother was killed in an attempt to eliminate Phoenix, my parents were murdered in order to get to me. The sharp sting of bitter tears pricks my eyes and I clench my fists as a silent scream rises in my chest.
Suddenly my emotions threaten to overwhelm me: the grief at my parents’ murder … shock at Tanas’s resurrection … horror at Damien’s release and relentless pursuit … guilt at my own failure … and fear that my soul is once more in the balance. Desperate not to draw attention to myself, I suppress the urge to cry out and take several deep breaths, counting slowly to ten to calm myself.
The storm within me subsides, and I realize my sessions with Dr Larsson weren’t a total waste of time and money. But my distress is soon replaced by another troubling thought – the apparent loss of my samurai fighting ability. Phoenix assured me that once I’d experienced a Glimmer of a particular skill, that skill would be with me always. While the recent Kalari training and circus acrobatics are fresh in my mind, my samurai martial arts seem to have dwindled. What if all my abilities slip away? I barely managed to escape the Hunters this time. Next time I may not be so lucky.
The gleam of hope I held earlier in my heart now begins to fade. I rest my head wearily against the carriage window and watch as the underground stations pass by in a blur. Entering the dark tunnels, I lose track of time and place –
‘We can’t wait much longer,’ I whisper. ‘The train will be here soon!’
Like two sewer rats, we crouch tense and nervous behind a pile of debris where the ceiling has caved in. The U-Bahn platform is dimly lit and deserted. Old newspapers litter the floor and a faded sign for NORDBAHNHOF hangs crookedly from the tiled wall.
‘This may be a ghost station,’ Hans replies under his breath, ‘but that doesn’t mean it’s entirely abandoned.’
He nods towards a walled booth at the far end of the platform, where a pair of dark eyes peer through a narrow slit in the brickwork. Before the Berlin Wall was built, this used to be a busy U-Bahn station linking East and West Germany. Now it’s a crypt haunted by phantom-like armed guards.
But the watchful eyes are drowsily closing.
‘At last!’ mutters Hans. The previous night he’d befriended the guard and plied him with drink, with the aim of exhausting him for his shift. With the guard now asleep, we scurry over to the barrier erected alongside the track. Under the greenish glow of the flickering fluorescent lights, Hans takes out a pair of pliers and furiously snips away at the tangle of barbed wire.
Feeling dangerously exposed on the platform, I shudder as a chill runs through me. Many before us have tried to escape East Germany and failed. Hans considered crossing over the Wall itself, but the combination of razor wire, landmines, attack dogs and shoot-to-kill patrols persuaded him not to. He’s seen far too many perish along the ‘death strip’ to take such a risk with me and my soul. But the infamous Stasi officer Gerhart Wolf and his black-eyed henchmen have finally tracked us down to East Berlin. With nowhere left to run, the closed U-Bahn station offers our last hope of escape.
The old newspapers rustle like leaves on the platform and from the tunnel a rising whine tells us a train is approaching, its headlamps growing larger in the gloom.
‘Hurry!’ I hiss. The train is our ticket out of East Germany. I snatch a glance towards the bunker where the guard still dozes. But for how much longer?
Pulling the barbed wire aside, Hans makes a gap large enough for me to crawl through. He’s right behind me as I leap down on to the track bed.
‘Careful of the middle rail,’ warns Hans. ‘That’s live.’
I nod, steeling myself for the most dangerous part of our escape plan. Lying flat on our backs on the track bed, we wait to catch our ride. The train trundles over us, mere centimetres from our faces. As soon as the last carriage passes, we jump to our feet and run after it.
All of a sudden an alarm goes off. The steel door to the underground bunker clangs open and the hung-over guard emerges, a gun in his hand.
‘RUN!’ shouts Hans as a shot echoes down the empty platform, a bullet ricocheting off the train’s rear carriage.
I sprint hard, trying not to step on the live rail. The train enters the tunnel and begins to accelerate away. Chasing its red tail lights, I make a grab for the door handle. Hans hoists me up on to the back runner. Turning, I stretch out my hand to him, just as a second shot rings out. Hans stumbles and falls to his knees.
‘NO!’ I cry as the train continues to pull away.
‘You’re free, Erika!’ he shouts back, the guard looming over him. ‘Just never stop running –’
As the train disappears into the cool darkness, a third and final shot echoes down the tunnel –
My head jerks up as the doors open and a recorded voice announces, ‘This is Heathrow Airport, Terminal Five. Change here for …’
In a daze, I step off the train and allow myself to be carried along with the tide of other passengers. The Glimmer of escaping East Germany and seeing my Soul Protector sacrifice his life once again for mine brings home the deadly race I run. Hans told me to never stop running and it seems I never will. No place is safe and without my Protector at my side I feel doubly vulnerable. I have no shield. It’s just me.
Keeping my head down, I tag on to a family loaded with suitcases, hoping people will think I’m another of their kids. As the children chat excitedly about their imminent holiday, I have to blink back the tears. I’m keenly aware that this is exactly what I should have been doing today with my own family. Instead, I’m on the run, alone and frightened.
Taking the escalator, we arrive on the departures level and I stop beneath a large screen displaying the upcoming flights. In my backpack I have our tickets to Barbados. The plane doesn’t depart for another eight hours, but my uncle, aunt and my dear Papaya will hopefully be waiting for me at the other end. That’s where I really want to go.
But it isn’t even an option now. I can’t put their lives at risk.
As I scan the other flights listed on the departures board, my mobile phone vibrates in my pocket, interrupting my search. It’s Mei. I notice several missed calls from Prisha too.
‘Gen!’ cries Mei down the other end of the phone. ‘Where are you? What’s going on? Are you OK?’
‘I-I’m fine,’ I reply unsteadily, then wince from my still-aching jaw. ‘At least … I’m still alive.’
‘Well, that’s a bonus!’ says Mei with a forced laugh. She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘The police have been going nuts here. They questioned me for nearly an hour. They’ve been asking me why you ran. To be honest, I’ve no idea what to tell them. But you ought to know that that detective inspector thinks you’re involved in your parents’ deaths.’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘I know,’ Mei reassures me. ‘I said you were with me all night at Prisha’s. But you running away like that has made you a suspect. So, what am I supposed to tell them?’
‘You could tell them the truth, I suppose. That Soul Hunters are after me … but they won’t believe you. They didn’t believe me the last time.’
‘Gen, listen to yourself,’ says Mei cautiously. ‘You have to admit, it does sound a little bit unbelievable.’
My hand tightens round my phone. ‘Well, DI Shaw is framing me for murders she is guilty of! I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Mei, shocked.
‘She released Damien and his gang,’ I explain. ‘They were waiting for me. Damien had the jade knife. He must’ve been the one who burgled your house – and I’ve no doubt he killed my parents with that same knife. Which, in my mind, means DI Shaw is equally responsible for their deaths.’
‘But why would she free Damien?’
‘Because Tanas is back.’
On the other end of the line Mei falls silent a moment before continuing carefully, ‘How can he be back? You told me he’s dead.’
‘Not any more, it seems.’ I sigh wearily. ‘That’s why I’ve got to run. I’ve no other choice.’
‘Gen, I’m worried about you,’ says Mei, her voice edged with heartfelt concern. ‘Where will you go? What’s your plan?’
‘I don’t really have a plan,’ I admit. ‘I’m figuring it out as I go along –’
‘Last call for Flight BA0209 to Miami,’ interrupts a terminal announcement.
‘Are you at an airport?’ questions Mei.
‘Yes.’ I resume my scan of the departures board.
‘Oh, Gen, don’t flee the country! It’ll only look worse,’ Mei pleads. ‘Come back to my house. We’ll look after you. You’ll be safe –’
‘No, I’ll only be safe with Phoenix,’ I reply firmly.
‘But you’ve no idea where he is!’ cries Mei.
I spot the flight I’m looking for: a plane leaving in a little over an hour to Los Angeles.
‘I’ll find him,’ I reply with determination, ‘or else he’ll find me.’
13
I take my seat on the plane by the window, stowing my backpack at my feet. An old, white-haired woman in a peony-pink cardigan sits herself down next to me, and I smile politely, then turn back to the window. I expect police cars to come charging across the tarmac at any minute to stop the flight. But none do. When the plane takes off, I’m finally able to breathe.
I managed to book the flight to Los Angeles at the last minute online, using my mum’s credit card, as well as sort out the necessary travel authorization at the same time. With everything automated, it was a relatively easy process to pass through airport security. I even used my ticket to Barbados for that, rather than the LA one, in an effort to throw the police and Hunters off my trail. I’m not naive enough to think they won’t eventually track me to Heathrow. But with any luck, when they get there and scour the airport for me, they’ll be working on the assumption I’ve fled to Barbados. By my calculations this gives me a seven-hour head start. The only problem is the flight to LA is eleven and a half hours …
As the plane reaches cruising altitude and levels out, the adrenaline triggered by my frantic escape begins to dissipate and exhaustion seeps into my bruised and aching bones. I recline my seat to try to get some sleep. But every time I close my eyes I see Mum and Dad on the kitchen floor, lying in a pool of their own blood. I still can’t believe they’re actually dead. Despite knowing I’ve had many parents over my many lives, the pain of losing them feels just as raw and unbearable as if they were the first to die at the hands of Tanas and his Hunters.
‘Are you all right, sweetie?’ asks the old woman, hearing me stifle a sob.
I give a silent nod, too afraid to reply in case my grief bursts out in a flood of uncontrollable tears.
‘First time travelling alone?’ There’s a soft Californian lilt to her voice, and again I nod. Her sun-weathered cheeks wrinkle into a sympathetic smile. ‘I remember the first trip I made on my own. It sure was daunting, but in my experience travelling solo is the best way to meet interesting people. As I like to say, those you meet on the journey make the journey. I’m Rose, by the way,’ she adds, offering her hand. ‘What’s your name, honey?’
I stare at the woman as a faint blue gleam enters her watery eyes. I immediately recognize the star-like shimmer for what it is. She’s a Soul Sister. Not a Protector like Phoenix, but a good soul nonetheless – one who is on my side, even if she’s not aware of it. Think of them as angels on Earth, Phoenix once told me after a favourable encounter with a trucker called Mitch. Sometimes they turn up in just the right place at just the right time.
Sensing I can trust Rose, I shake her hand and introduce myself.
‘So, Genna, ever been to LA before?’
‘No,’ I reply, and suddenly I’m struck by the formidable task ahead of me. How am I supposed to find Phoenix in a country as vast as the United States?
‘Well, in my experience it’s always best to have a local contact in a new country, for when you happen to need a little help.’ She gives me a sage look before searching in her handbag and fishing out a business card. ‘If you ever need somewhere to stay, or a recommendation for a place to visit, then you just call me.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, pocketing the card as a flight attendant interrupts us to take our drinks order. I ask for a bottle of water and then, reassured by the presence of the Soul Sister at my side, I settle back into my seat. In an attempt to keep my mind off my grief, I scroll through the in-flight movies and randomly choose an action flick. The opening scene features the heroine escaping across the desert from a band of sabre-wielding bandits on camels. Watching her trek over the sun-baked dunes, I’m suddenly gripped by a real thirst. I sip some water, but my mouth remains parched. Worse than that, my lips begin to feel dry – even cracked – and my skin sore, as if sunburnt and sandblasted. I wonder if it’s because of the air conditioning in the plane. So I drink more, draining the bottle, yet I still can’t seem to quench my thirst –
‘Water!’ I rasp as I drag my sandalled feet through the oven-hot sand.
Amastan weakly passes me his goat-skin bladder. Lowering my veil, I raise the open stopper to my cracked lips … but barely a dribble runs out. I offer him the last drops. He refuses, despite being in need of water just as much as me, and insists that I drink what little remains.
‘But what about you?’ I croak.
His eyes, as deep blue as the indigo robes he wears, send me a look of resignation. Our camels are dead, our bladder is dry and the remorseless Saharan sun is rising fast towards its zenith. Amastan knows we’re both living on borrowed time. Without water, there’s only so far even a Tuareg of Amastan’s renown can get.
But there is one small sliver of hope: my guide and protector knows of a salt mine midway along the trading route to Oualata. If we can make it there, we may just survive.
So we stagger on. The sun beats down, harsh as a hammer. I pull my veil back across my face, my dark skin already raw from the whip of the scorching desert winds. Our feet sink in the sand, making our going painfully slow. Then, as we crest a dune, a shimmer of water floats in the near distance. Praying it isn’t a mirage, I glance at Amastan for confirmation.
He nods. ‘I see it too, Sura. Maybe it’s an oasis.’
Our pace quickens in spite of our exhaustion. The water gleams and ripples at our approach. But when we reach the edge of the lake, we discover it’s bone dry. The sparkling glint was just salt crystals refracting the sunlight. I look around in desperation. There are no trees, nor any other shelter, nothing but sand and salt stretching out as far as the eye can see. Then, to our left, I spot a series of small dark mounds. Another mirage?
‘Taghaza,’ Amastan croaks.
We lurch towards the mine, our feet crunching over the dry flakes of salt. Like a mirror to the sun, the arid lake reflects the heat, baking us in an open furnace – but now salvation is tantalizingly close and we press on. We pass deep holes dug into the sand, where layer upon layer of salt slabs have been exposed and removed. Numerous cutting tools lay strewn across the barren ground.
Through the narrow gap in his tagelmust headscarf, Amastan surveys the desolate scene. ‘The mine’s been abandoned …’ he mutters.
Before long we come across a human skeleton bleached white by the sun, lying in a shallow grave. More bones litter our path as we enter Taghaza itself. A mean and ugly village, consisting of meagre dwellings built from blocks of salt and roofed with stinking camel skin, we find it desolate and deserted. Many of the houses have been razed to the ground and the only life is a plague of flies that descend on us in a feverish buzz.
‘What’s happened here?’ I ask, feebly swatting away the flies.
Amastan shakes his head in dismay. ‘A raid, most likely.’
I squint against the glare of the sun. ‘There’s a well,’ I point out hopefully.
We hurry over to the ruined hole in the ground beside a ragged rope tied to a rock. Hauling on it, Amastan pulls up a small bucket, which contains a thin slurry of liquid in the bottom. He takes a cautious a sip and immediately retches.
‘It’s more salt than water!’ He gags. ‘We may as well drink poison!’
Discarding the bucket, we slump down in the scant shade of a salt-built mosque, the only building left standing.
‘What now?’ I say despairingly. I pick up a large crystal of pure salt. It gleams in my palm like a jewel. This single crystal would be worth its weight in gold in Marrakech, but here in the middle of the desert it’s worthless.
Amastan sighs. ‘It’s another ten nights on foot to Oualata. There’s no water on the way and, without camels or supplies, we cannot hope to survive the journey. Only death awaits us in the desert.’
He takes out a leather tube from under his robes. ‘With the strength we have left, we should bury this. We don’t want Tanas getting his hands on it. And, who knows? Even out here, if you can find it in a future life, its precious contents may be of use to you.’
