Arizal Wars Series

"Can you hear me?"

It's one long blurred sound, like someone shouting at the other end of a tunnel. The words are there for a second, broken apart for me to hear, to make sense of, but then they're gone again, swept away as their call dies faintly in the distance. They repeat a moment later, in four distinct verses, the third highest in pitch. It's a question.

But what's he asking?

It must be important by the way his blue eyes flicker between mine. But then they're gone. Disappearing. They're always disappearing, flashing in and out like an erratic switch offering intervals of sight. One minute he's here, a moist brow wiped clean by an olive green sleeve and the next there's nothing. Darkness that is also white, quiet and still. And I'm alone.

"Fallon, can you hear me?"

The sound of my name triggers a rush of questions I want answered all at once. Is my name really Fallon? Why does that sound so wrong and yet, familiar? Where am I? What happened? And most importantly, why can't I remember?

I nod, although my guess at the question is only that.

"Tell me you can hear me." His voice echoes but grows tighter than before, more distinct. The hum is gone and words are here. The spells of darkness turn to sight and he's here, over me, wiping a brown curl from my face. "Fallon?"

"I can hear you," I say, surprised by the sound of my voice. That much is familiar.

"Can you sit up?"

I try, but my abdomen roars with soreness, like a muscle spasm from one too many sit-ups. My arms shake, but his hands are around them in a second. Soft and papery, like an old man. Like a grandpa. Is he mine?

He helps pull my back from the floor and I stifle a cry at the throbbing pain. Once up, I see my legs outstretched in front of me - frayed bellbottom jeans with splatters of crimson on my muddied Converse. The crimson dots the gray torso of my baseball tee, a few specks staining the black sleeves. A heavy pounding erupts at the back of my head and I reach my hand around it, feeling a large lump under the crown. A curtain of curls pads the bump which cups easily into the small of my hand.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm dizzy," I gulp saliva down a raw throat. "I feel like I've been hit with a cinder block."

We're in a narrow hallway, lined in brown cabinets, a few unevenly hanging from their hinges. A black oven sits to my left with a tattered dishrag of snowman and holly bushes hanging from the handle. There's a plastic gray trashcan across from me, cornered by two walls of yellow and orange wallpaper.

"Is this your house?" I turn to the man. He has yellow-white hair peppered with gray, and eyes that glimmer an unnatural blue, as if he'd picked the color from a paint shop himself.

"No."

"Are we trespassing?"

"We'll be fine," he offers his hand, "Come, let me help you up."

I take it but my legs are unstable. It's a struggle to put pressure on them but I manage and find myself upright, immediately overlooking a dining room with a solid oak table. Beyond it, a long, empty sitting space with a television, yellowy-beige couch and two maroon chairs - one near the kitchen and the other, caddy cornered by the sliding glass door. A narrow hallway separates the couch and chair on the same wall.

"Can you stand?" he asks, holding my elbows in his hands.

"I'd rather sit," I lock eyes on the couch beyond him. He walks me over, hands still cupping my elbows, and places me down gently. "What happened?"

He drops his mouth to say something but instead, turns and heads for the kitchen, opening a cabinet that sends a piercing squeak into the air. "Would you care for something to drink?"

"Water, if you have it."

The yellow and orange wallpaper continues into the room, lighting the space. A brown shag carpet lines the floors, sinking under a wooden stand which supports a small television at the other end of the room, a thin layer of dust coating the screen. There's a large sliding glass door to my right with billowing red sheers on either end, whisking in the scent of oncoming rain.

"Where are we?"

"In a friend's house," he turns off the faucet.

"Are they here?"

He approaches, his smile turning down. "Not anymore. Have some water," he says and hands me a glass of clear liquid. I take it and gulp the cool beverage quickly. It soothes my throat, the sensation trickling into my chest as the pain in my head abates.

He takes a seat opposite me, in the maroon chair near the television and crosses one khaki leg over the other. I empty the glass in one sip and set it next to me on a wooden end table. I lick my lips, lapping up the remaining liquid. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he smiles. "I always find a good drink does the trick."

"Should we check the cabinets then?"

"Maybe in a bit," he laughs, "although, probably not the best idea in your condition."

"I don't know. I'm sure all it can do is help at this point."

"And how are you feeling?" he tries, "A bit better?"

"Not great."

"It'll subside here in a moment."

A long, silent minute passes before the wait becomes unbearable. "I'm sorry," I lean forward as my stomach roars. It might be rude to be so direct but with a migraine forming, I'm in no mood for evasiveness. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Yes..." he starts, clearing his throat, "but first, introductions are in order, don't you think? My name is Clarence." He waits and as if anticipating my struggle to respond, offers to help. "And you're Fallon."

Fallon. There it is again. My name. Or what should be my name. Something rings in my core so I try it on, testing it out. Fallon. Fallon. "No," I shake my head defiantly, "you have me mistaken for someone else."

"For whom?" he glances around the stark room.

"But that's not my name."

"Then what is?" Clarence asks, resting his chin in the fleshy groove between his pointer and thumb. A pompous grin sneaks across his lips in a challenging manner. I'm not one to falter under a haughty threat but when I go to respond, nothing comes to mind. I don't know what my name is. Panic sets in, swelling me with newfound fear. He must see it in my face because his voice softens as he says, "There's no need to be alarmed. You're perfectly safe. And this is normal."

"Not knowing your name is normal?"

"Well," he starts, his smile wavering, "not knowing your name isn't normal but with the situation we find ourselves in, it is."

"And what situation is that?"

His smile vanishes completely. "Let's put that on hold for right now and focus on a few things," he threads his fingers together on his lap. "You're alive."

"Yes," I agree quickly.

"And you feel fine now?"

I lift my hand to the bump. "My head hurts... and I feel like I just birthed a rhinoceros," I look up to him, attempting to hide obvious panic behind calmer eyes. "Did I have some sort of accident? Did it cause me to have amnesia?"

"Oh no," he shakes his head, "nothing like that. You did have an accident - yes - but I saved you. If you know anything, know I'm here to help you, Fallon. I came for you as soon as I could."

He wants me to believe him. He needs me to. This will only go well if I put my trust in him. A strong feeling - is it intuition? - suggests I should, but uncertainty pollutes it with doubt. Taking my time, I choose my words carefully, focusing on his unblinking blue eyes. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"A policeman? Therapist?"

"No and no," he refuses my guesses with a humorous shake of his head, Rumplelstiltskin reveling in his cryptic secret. Clarence's mouth turns up after a moment, "I'm curious to know why my occupation should define me?"

"...Trade says a lot about a person."

"True," Clarence nods along, "but I'm a man of many trades."

Why won't he just tell me? It's a game to him - all a game. I play along though, hoping to win some truth. "And your current trade?"

"Depends on how you look at it..." he sighs, shifting in his chair as he crosses his other leg. "Some use the word magician... though I'm far from pulling rabbits from my hat. Others say missionary, thief... sometimes liar."

"And what would you choose?"

"Escort," he grins widely in a cocky sort of way, "at the present moment. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Depends on how you look at it," I shoot back. And then, after a moment, "Where would you be taking me?"

"Home. To your new home."

He's going too fast and not telling me anything. New home? What does this mean? A silent alarm rings in my head but I hide the fear in casual but curious words, playing along. "What happened to my old home?"

His eyes flicker from mine, to the kitchen on his right. "Give it a minute and you'll remember. All of it. All of this," he glances around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

"Remember what?"

Clarence returns my stare with sullen, eyes. How to tell me? After a moment, he utters two words so soft they could crumble into whispers at their weight. "The war."

The word is ice, sitting heavy in the air like a glacier, ready to break and crumble all in its path. I take a minute to repeat it, finding no friendlier welcome with my own rendition "War?"

"There was a war, a very terrible war, you see... and it was destroyed."

"My home had a war?" I ask, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice.

"No. Earth."