WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) (8 page)

“Without your demons there are no angels. How you survive is what makes you who you are.”

I saw myself kicked out of the family nest, a fledging falling to the ground, left to survive on its own.  Life and death in the hands of the unknown. 

“It is time Willodean.” 
Maw Sue stood up, the little girl followed. 

Time? Time for what?
 My mind spun, the
star faded in a last twinkle.  T
he little girl stung me with her eye stare
and made me see, hear and feel. 
I was forced to bear the unthinkable. Believe the unbelievable. 
Her acceptance and my denial raged an internal mind battle until I surrendered to their wishes. 

“Accept the namesake you denied.”  Their words ran together until I felt cornered, overruled, defeated. I gave in. 

I wished for eyes to see and ears to hear. I wished to remember what I could not bear. I wished to be me—true to my namesake, me. I wished to bear the great horrible, tragic splendid gift because I am a Cupitor. I am a seeker and that’s what seekers do.

Once I spoke the words, my adrenalin flushed as if some parallel universe shifted on its axis affecting the earth’s
atmosphere. 

“It’s time to go back Willodean.” The little girl nodded 
and grabbed my hand.  I f
elt a warm burn and thought of Mag and our need for touch when we were kids, a hug to mend us, a hand to hold, to squeeze and remind us we were alive. Maw Sue went to chanting or praying, I couldn’t tell. Her feathery voice set me on edge while her lips spilled out prophecies bearing my name. Prophecies I could never, ever, in a million years live up to. And the next thing I know, I’m right where I began. In the window, alone. 
No ghosts, no shadows, no star candles, just me and a man pillow.  Alone. 
I hate that word.

I
lean out the window and take in the suns gaze while my eyes fall upon the web again, while the leaf spins and the crackle grips to hang on.  I feel carried away in thought, beyond myself and suddenly I mesh with the earth as nature spills out its
tender mercies that unravel my soul. Tears pool i
n my eyes.  My body is squeezed, crushed and I’m breathless. 

“Quit over thinking Willo
dean.” Maw Sue’s voice rang out. 
“Just believe.”

I did not see her, but I could hear her hot and humid voice riding the edge of the wind, slapping my skin to life,
to live. 

“You are 
not
 
a sleeper. You are a Cupitor.  Seek.
” Her voice was
rolls of thunder.  My head began to throb.  I felt a sludge of fear trickle in. 
RETREAT. RETREAT.
I want to run. 
Sirens went off inside the house inside me, a warning alert to danger, too many emotions, too much pain.  When this happens I talk to the dialogue devil inside my mind. 

So what are you going to do Willodean? You’re stuck—you’ve made some bad decisions. Sure, you’ve messed up terribly. But you are the only one who can change it. Follow your heart. Believe for the unbelievable. Let go of what doesn’t work. Embrace the unknown. Let go. Do it. Remember the blue jay feather, the lilies of the field—stars of heaven—the crumbs of life. Simp
ly be. Remember all the stories and what they mean?  And how about the
magic? Your family is from the great lineage of Cupitor
’s.  Some do not get a choice. 
Remember that.

But I’m scared. I hate change.
I don’t want to move forward into something I don’t know, something uncomfortable, unknown. 
What will happen? What
if I don’t like it? What if it’s horrible?  What if it crushes my heart like earlier when I couldn’t
breathe.
  Maybe it was a warning. 
I can’t take any more pain. I just can’t.

Voices ran together like large bodies of water, streams meeting at the ocean,
fresh tears meeting salty waves, pounding me with fear.  As always, w
hen fear consumes me
they
 show up. Summoned from the fear room where they slumber, inside the house, the Amodgians appear. Anything remotely different in character, a hesitation, a change of mind, a step forward, always provokes them to swarm like gnats. They are the dark shadows my grandmother warned me about. They take the gift in me, the buried treasure, what i
s rightfully mine before I have a chance to discover what it is and use it.  The earlier they strike, the better chances they have in keeping it for themselves.  In r
eality, if I don’t know what they’ve taken, if it’s gone, removed from my spirit, my life, m
y everything—I’ll never miss it because I don’t know what it is that’s missing.  It’s like I never had it to begin with. 
Or that’s what they want you to believe.
They are wrong.
For instance, Cupitors know when a namesake is missing. It may take a while to realize it’s gone, but when they do, watch out, because they will seek to the end of time, to
reclaim it.  The Amodgians are the Cupitors worst enemy.  They play to a seekers
weakness and strengths. Considering myself, they know everything about me and it’s their nature to hinder, stir, stop, or provoke. I am the only one who can see them, feel them, sense them—
because they are mine.
 Old Cupitor legend says for every great gift God bestows to his children, a great and awful Amodgian shadow is attached, ready to remove the gift, destroy it, taint it, make it what it isn’t and lead us astray to ruin our lives. To prepare me for life, she told me the old stories, and after hearing them, Dracula and Vampires w
ere mere cartoons in comparison. 
She said the greatest warriors are made by the strike of an enemy’s sword and the
shadow Amodgians will strike, it’s just a matter of time.  F
or every shadow Amodgian assigned to me, each has a lesson of preparation to learn, confront, deal, overcome, 
whatever
, which somehow prepares me for the next level of life. She made it seem like a
great adventure awaited me but I fear I have messed it up somehow. 
I see wreckage and ruin and I’m surrounded by these horrible gargling pits of dark water, the shadows swarming, isolating me from land and firm footing. They keep me stuck, immovable in fear while they target my mind, my weakness. They are experts in memory muzzling, harboring all our good memories of childhood, of love, of hope, inside their dreadful rooms of captivity. My childhood is a blurry mess of inc
onsistencies and I’m surprised I remember anything at all.  Here lately, subtle memories are returning more than I can contain them.  The little girl whispers it’s t
he kindling blood of a warrior beating in me, awakened to something more,
and it shall not rest till it has it. 
Whatever
it
is—it has stirred up a ruckus inside the house.
A rumble of doors shake, locks click, windows rattle and the walls buckle.  

From what I can remember of the old stories, the shadows recognize facial expressions, body mechanics, eye signals and much more. They are the great observers of man, the enemy of all he
was created to be. 
They engage mankind from his or her birth, onward, studying everything about their subject, mannerisms,
character, functions, fears, tempers, weakness, strengths, likes and dislikes and more. 
They use this information against us to keep us from forming
our greater self,
o
ur purpose, our life
. I can assure you they wrecked a world of havoc on me as a child, which has basically rendered me i
ncapacitated as a woman, an adult.  They had a big part in killing Maw Sue.  Others say she just lost her mind, but I know the truth. 

Inside the house, inside me, right now,
they
 are in a state of sheer pandemonium.
My thoughts of going forward have called them to arms. 
They use weapons of intercepting voices into my head, to throw me off, to distract
and make me doubt.  They want to keep me where I am, stuck.  They have the ability to
disguise the great light of the universe, they are the gentlemen in white suits, the prince to save you, a chameleon of your dreams, the great opportunists—but they are 
deceitful. They are not who they seem, and if given a chance, they will destroy you. 
My lips tremble and my teeth chatter because it brings to life all I fear.
Among their many weapons, an interception of confusion is second best, to memory muzzling. 

“Willodean” the shadows whisper in my gullible ear, “You don’t know what you’re saying.  Go back to sleep.  Take another pill.  You probably need to rest.”

No I don’t, I’ve slept enough.  I am getting better now.
 
They are trying to fool me.  I see the enemy of who this shadow of doubt is—his lies
blending into the dark room, seeping into my ears, invading my thoughts, pools of
black water at midnight without a moon. 

“
You don’t know what you’re doing dear. 
There is pain ahead.
And Willodean, you of all people, cannot handle pain.  Just come back to the room where you don’t have to feel.  We will take care of you.”  My heart beats rapid and h
is desperate pleas almost persuade me. A part of me wants to believe them, to rest in nothingness where I don’t have to feel, to fight, to do anything.
Take the easy way out.  And then another part of me, is telling me to step up, move forward or I’ll simply die in that room.

“Don’t do this.
You know where it always leads.  Pain.
”
Another shadow appears and intercepts into my mind, and he presses the pain button of memory to remind me of what I will face if I move forward.  I buckle over.  Breathless, palpable fear swells.  When I look up the room is full of shadows.  They are stronger in groups, their
fluctuating vortex of lies pull at me, slicking my skin with smoke and mirrors.

“You’re weak.” One says.
Yes. He’s right, I am weak.  Maybe I’ve always been weak.

“Yes. Way too weak to face another disappointment.” Another one says, “Come, join us in the room.”
But I don’t know if I can go to the room, something in me has changed…I don’t want to go but I don’t want to hurt either. 

“They are right. Come.” Another one says swooping in.  The room is like large black gnats.  They all start talking at once, pushing and pressing words into me.  “Come and r
est. Just stay awhile.”
Too many words, too many things….I can’t take this. 
I
bury myself into the man pillow.  I scream and cry.  I need someone, a strong man, an able body to save me, tell me what to do, help me, take me, do for me what I
cannot do for myself.
I need. I need.
 
Oh God, how I need. 
Need.
 I hate that word.

“NO. You are not weak.” The lioness voice roars into the room.  I raise up frightened, my hair blows straight backwards and my skin flaps as if Maw Sue is only inches from my face.  I smell the camel cigarettes, moth balls and old lady powder.  I cannot see her, only hear her voice. 
My ears tingle
in hearing her words.  I want to believe her, acknowledge the words and eat them as food, consume them to give me strength and courage.  Form a new life in me.  I want it so much. 

“Willodean Hart.  Use
your gift. Do not forget who you are—and where you come from…”

“You will fail.” The shadow
cuts Maw Sue’s words off.  It snatches them into his cloak of blackness.  Snatches are just one more weapon in a shadows arsenal of tricks.  They grab encouraging words like crumbs before the words have a chance to soak inside the soul.  They know the power of words.  The shadow is at my face, circling me. 
I feel his hot sweaty breathe ignite 
every inch of my wasted flesh.   

“You will fail. Again.” He s
ays.  Then he s
hoots an interception into my mind, making me remember my failures, my attempts of love, of life, failure in everything.
It is what I am.  A complete failure.  I grab my ears and scream unable to take his words, his pressure and prodding.  I cannot bear to see myself, to view the memories of the truth, my sad
pitiful self. 
Failure. Failure. Failure.
Pain surges inside and out.  I had forgotten how powerful the interceptions are.  They are among
the greatest of weapons, to prick and intensify my fear, remind me of what was, what is, what will never be. 
My failures, my marriage, my divorce, my sins, my secrets, the horrible things I’ve done, the unforgivable, the unpardonable sin
.