Chapter Five-- Galatea

Tonight, I sit before the fire in my little two bedroom home, barely aware of the torrential rain falling outside. I am breathing hard, my head pounding, my heart racing. My joints ache and my veins throb fire. Images flare through my consciousness, unbidden and unwanted, and it feels as though some wall inside my mind is crumbling into dust.

I see myself-- feel myself-- pulled down, down, down into a dark place, cramped and constrained and bound, panicking, suffocating, my immaterial form slamming against invisible barriers again and again to no avail. Somewhere close to me, a voice speaks in a language that I should not recognize and understand, but do. Do not resist, it says. You will soon forget. I see a vessel, an elegant and ornate blue bottle that looks as though it was made to hold perfume. I know with a sudden certainty that it was, in fact, meant to hold me.

I am in my Traveling form, my form as Siabhra, then, but that is not the name I call myself. And it is not a hate them.

projected form, but my physical body. I thrash and struggle and scream wordlessly, furiously, my arms chained. I know no language, only fury and fear. Figures surround me, observing me silently and dispassionately, and I want to claw their eyes from their skulls. I

They own me. They own me, and I still hate them. They wield me like a weapon, like a tool, and call me Galatea, as if they have any right to Name me. They call themselves my Wardens, as though they have tasked themselves with my well being. I know words now, have learned, have studied the world I have been bound to, its customs and languages and traditions and religions.

I see a familiar face, then. The high cheekbones and dark hair and intense blue eyes, the sardonic smile. But I do more than see him-- I feel him, in my mind, in my essence. We work in tandem, and he... he does not wield me. We wield each other. But he is there, there in my mind, laughing and seductive, and I feel nothing but adoration for him. It terrifies me, for he has a greater power over me than any of them ever did.

“You are not Galatea,” he purrs in my ear, his hands sliding slowly up my body, stroking and teasing. “You are not their marble lady. You are not their creation. You are mine. Only mine.” He closes his mouth over mine, tongue probing deep, and I can no longer tell if these images are in my mind or if they are happening, now, here, on my sofa before the hissing and crackling fire. I can feel his touch as it ghosts over my skin in molten patterns, breathe in his scent of cloves and honey. He seeps into my mind like perfumed wind, tickling the furthest reaches of it, parts of my consciousness that I never knew existed.

I open my eyes, and for an instant, a fraction of an eternal second, I see him, gazing at me with those jewel-like eyes. Then he is gone, and it is as if I have woken from a dream. I sit up quickly; the aches in my body have gone, but another ache has taken their place. I take a deep, shuddering breath.

I stand on shaky legs and pad barefoot across the carpet to the elegantly carved wooden trunk that I keep the mementos of my Travels in. Carefully lifting the heavy lid, I gaze down into it. The perfume bottle Trick gave me the other day rests in one corner, wrapped in a blue silk scarf. I carefully unwind the scarf, letting it fall away, and gaze at the bottle. Of course, I knew this while I was in the midst of the-- vision? Dream? I knew it was the same bottle. I had just wanted to be sure. And yes, here it is.

I slowly, uneasily pull out the stopper, and a draft of whispering wind brushes past my hands. I lift the bottle and look inside; somehow a trick of the light causes it to look expansive, endless. A sound like wind through the trees echoes from within, and I feel, ever so slightly, a pull towards that wind. I hurriedly replace the stopper, re-wrap the bottle, and set it back into the trunk.

The phone rings, and I nearly fall over.

I jump to my feet and snatch the cordless receiver off the table beside the couch after glancing at the caller I.D.

“Hey, Alice.”

“Evelyn. How are you?” There is a note in her voice, some sense of worry, and I wonder at that.

“I'm... I'm fine,” I lie. “Just relaxing.”

“I thought perhaps you would like to watch some movies,” she says. “It's been a very long time since we've had a movie night. We're both always so busy...” There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

I sigh. I really don't feel like having company tonight. “It's a bit late, Alice. Maybe another time?”

She is silent for a moment, and then says very softly, “Evelyn...” She falls silent.

“Yes?” I prompt gently.

“Evie. Would... would you tell me if you... if something happened in your life? Something drastic? Would you confide in me?”

“Of course I would.”

She is silent for a moment. “Evelyn, I know you took the book.”

I swallow hard, and she quickly adds, “I... am not angry. I'm only concerned. I want to talk to you, Evelyn. Soon.”

“I'm sure you do,” I say, a bite in my voice. I sigh, and add, more gently, “What is it about that book that makes it so important to you, Alice?”

She takes a breath, and I can just about feel her mind working as she tries to figure out how to answer me. “It... is an heirloom. It's a very precious possession of my family.”

“Seems to tell a story. You know, given the illustrations.”

“It does.”

“What story?”

She sighs again. “Evelyn, this book is a very personal thing. It's not something we really share with people who aren't family.”

“I was under the impression that you and I were family.”

“We are. We are. But not blood family. Blood is different.”

I practically growl, “Yes, it is. Blood family thinks they can do anything they want to you and get away with it because they're blood. No bond is that strong. No bond should be.”

A tinge of ice creeps into her voice. “You have always been quite adept at making broad assumptions.”

“Alice, has it occurred to you that I had good reason to take the book?”

“And what reason was that?”

I shake my head. “Hey, you've got your secrets apparently, so let's just say I have mine. Sounds like a nice, healthy arrangement, dontcha think? Secrets, secrets everywhere.”

“Evelyn. You will give this book back to me. I will not permit you to keep it. It does not belong to you.”

“Fine. I'll bring it with me in the morning,” I snap, and push the “End Call” button on the phone.

A moment later, I'm standing over the book, lying open on my coffee table, snapping pictures of each page with my digital camera.

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