 
### Sick Teen

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool

Text copyright© 2016 Jon Jacks

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# Chapter 1

Have you ever wondered, as you've drunk a coffee while talking to someone, how shocked they'd be if you just suddenly threw it over them?

You _have_ , haven't you!

I sensed it: that instant spark of recognition!

I did, I really _really_ did!

Wow, how crazy is _that_?

And I thought it was just _me_!

*

Okay, okay: so now we've got _that_ out of the way!

Things are going really nicely between us, aren't they?

We're obviously kindred spirits.

At odds with the world – an ever-nagging sense that not everything around us is as it ideally should be.

Sure, we can't _quite_ put our finger on what we think's _wrong_.

But it's not our job, is it, to figure _that_ out?

That's way, way above our pay grade.

Not that I get paid _anything_ , of course.

Not at my age. Unless you count the odd holiday job.

And boy, how boring is _that_!

Surely I'm not fated to be doing _that_ sort of thing for the rest of my life?

Surely I'm better than _that_?

But that's what worries me, isn't it?

I'm not really so sure I _am_ better than that.

*

Here's another thing I'd better get out of the way: you couldn't _really_ consider me a 'nice' person.

Not in the way people think 'nice' people should behave, least ways.

You know: saying 'yes' when you'd far rather say 'no'.

Being polite, when the guy you're talking to doesn't deserve it.

That sorta thing.

See, I don't subscribe to that way of behaviour; going against your more natural instincts is what I call it.

So that means I'm not a 'nice' person.

Thing is, if we're all being really honest here, how many of us can really say that, deep down inside, they're _really_ 'nice'?

We've got all sorts of things filed and hidden away deep down inside us, haven't we?

_No_?

That _doesn't_ sound like you?

Well okay, have it your own way.

We all like to think of ourselves as being 'nice', don't we?

That if we were placed in a certain situation, we'd do the right thing?

Yeah, I can see where you're coming from.

But know what?

I reckon you're kidding yourself.

It's just one more thing you're hiding away.

*

Now don't get me wrong; I'm not looking down on you, not berating you.

I mean, who am I to see myself as being better than you?

Haven't I just _admitted_ that I'm no better than you?

And I wouldn't be even a teensy-weeny bit bothered if you're beginning to see yourself as being better than me.

See, I'm truly amazed by the amazing amount of people in this world who flatter themselves that you even care what _they_ think.

But they think, don't they, that somehow you should care enough to completely change the way you behave, just to satisfy them.

Like we're that shallow we'd just do what _they_ want, right?

So just to show the world that I don't really care what rules they've made up, the rules you're supposed to obey if you want to fit in, well; I go right against all those rules, don't I?

I dress how I want, see? Going for the long draping garments that hide my figure. The plastered on makeup that hides my face. The thick braiding and dreadlocks – and the dye – that hides what my hair looks like.

Thing is, I still dress this way even though, thankfully, it dawned on me one day – I'm still accepting all the rules aren't I, really?

I mean, if I really didn't give a damn about all those rules, well – then why am I making such a big deal about it, going to all this trouble just to show I don't consider myself bound by them?

I mean, if I really _don't_ care what people think, if I really _don't_ want to be bound by all these rules; then why the heck don't I just be _me_?

Because when you think about it, all I'm really doing is just hiding the _real_ me under this fake character I've created.

She's not the _real_ me, is she?

She can't be, can she?

Does that make sense?

I've got to admit, there's a part of me that reckons it doesn't.

And then again, there's another part that insists it does.

Wouldn't it be great if I could get all these different parts of myself to agree for once?

*

There's one thing, I suppose, that _most_ of my different parts do seem to agree on.

There's a guy at school – isn't there always? – whom just about every girl goes mad about.

Huh, like he's really all _that_ great!

Me, I can take him or leave him.

The only weird connection between us, the way I see it, is that we share this small yet dreadful birthmark on the side of our necks. You could say it's a whirling spiral, at best; a snail's shell, at worst. It's a sort of bloody purple too.

He hates it, obviously; he tries to hide it.

But I've seen it. _And_ I've seen the way he's embarrassed about it: about the way something so small can damage his otherwise almost perfect beauty.

See, I don't look for all the _wonderful_ things about him; no, I look for the _awful_ things about him.

The odd zit. The day he comes in with lank, greasy hair.

On those days, see, he's nothing special.

He's human.

He's fallible.

And now, too, he's dead.

*

# Chapter 2

So, if this boy's _dead_ , shouldn't I have said, then, that there _was_ a guy at school?

Seeing that, of course, he's not really _here_ anymore?

I suppose, if you really need to be a trifle pedantic, yeah; you're right. I _should_ have talked about him in the past tense.

But, see, he's still _alive_ to me.

In my memories, he walks, he talks. He plays football like, one day, he could've been a professional.

In reality, back in the past, it was, yeah, let's be honest; all a _little_ different.

He'd walk _by_ me; like he didn't see me.

He'd talk, but not to me; it was like he didn't know I existed.

He'd play the other girls like they were all part of one huge, joyful game for him: but when it came to me, I was never invited to play.

In the game of love, I'm the one who, when it comes to choosing a team, no one ever wants on their side.

*

Wait, wait! I know what you're thinking now!

That maybe _I_ killed him!

What? You think I'm really _that_ whacko?

It was _nothing_ to do with me!

A tattoo gone wrong; that's what caused it, apparently.

An infection; blood poisoning.

Yeah, sometimes, unfortunately, it happens

Me, I'd never even known he had tattoos until I'd heard this.

Apparently he had them where only his very _closest_ friends could see them.

So that excluded me then, right?

Thing is, the girls who _must_ have seen them didn't exactly go blabbing about them either.

No surprise there then: they'd hardly be thought of as 'nice' girls, would they now?

*

A confession: I didn't want him _dead_ , obviously – but yeah, I was a _bit_ miffed when he started dating my 'best' friend, Lisa.'

If I could've, you know, _replaced_ her in his affection, I would've done.

Sure, that's not very 'nice' is it?

Thinking that way about a friend. Especially a 'best' friend.

But, see, the odd thing about it all is that there was a very good reason why me and Lisa were 'best' friends.

Mainly, because we were both losers in the game of life.

Losers stick together, right?

To bolster each other's self-esteem. By being completely miserable about absolutely everything else around them.

Sure, I'm a saddo.

But _together_ , we were _saddoes_!

Then one day, Lisa wasn't a saddo at all.

Suddenly, she was easily the most beautiful girl in school!

*

It's the 'look' that says to every girl in school; Like wow, isn't _this_ what you really wished _you_ looked like?

The 'look' that says to the boys, Date her and every other boy will envy you.

Problem is, boys, dare you ask her out? See, if you're even partially bright, you've got to know the chances are she's going to ever so politely turn you down, every bit as efficiently as a vet puts down a slobbering little puppy.

'What've you _done_?' I asked Lisa. 'How'd you get yourself looking like _that_?'

'Like what?' she says, all innocent.

Yeah, like _no_ one's noticed the _phenomenal_ change in her!

It's not just me asking her this; it's _everyone_!

And the boys, suddenly they're all taking an interest too.

Like, suddenly, she's become the schools most interesting girl to _talk_ to!

All on account of a few layers of shovelled on makeup.

But then, _that's_ what's all so confusing, isn't it?

Way I see it – and I've got in real close to check, her being my best friend and all – there isn't _any_ makeup involved.

It's all a perfectly _natural_ beauty!

*

Even his death doesn't seem to affect how wonderful she looks.

Sure, she's sobbing regularly; gets the red eyes, the runny nose, every now and again.

But that's it – in every other way, she could be getting professionally prepared to appear on some daytime show; 'How I Lost My Love and Beat the Blues' sorta thing.

Like grieving is the world's most wonderful beauty regime you can hook into it.

All the cool girls, the 'in' crowd, they're all fussing over her.

Making out they're the only ones who care about what she's been through, poor dear.

Telling her how wonderful she still looks.

Asking, amongst all those considerate platitudes, if she can recommend a good shampoo: something that can give their hair a boost, the same way she has with whatever it is she uses.

She tells them, of course; the brand, the type.

Also what face wash she uses; where she buys her clothes; her scent – that kinda thing.

Course, none of it has the effect any of these girls are really after.

That remarkable transformation from zero to full on glamour.

She's keeping her secret, obviously.

I mean, you'd think – me being her best friend – she'd tell me, wouldn't you?

But she doesn't.

*

Not that I'm really bothered.

You've got to be pretty damn shallow, haven't you, to kid yourself being beautiful is so important?

Being beautiful isn't everything, is it?

And that's what I get around to telling Lisa one day

She's no longer the _truly_ great girl she used to be, I warn her.

She's just become like so many other girls at school; the ones she used to look down on, before she became 'best' friends with them.

Arrogant. Envious. Vindictive. Greedy. Mean.

Not wishing to share secrets with a best friend; how mean is _that_?

If you're not willing to be honest with your best friend, what kind of person are you, really?

'I _would_ share my secret with you,' she says at last, 'if I knew for _sure_ how it had all happened!'

'So, you're saying you just sorta _magically_ woke up looking like this one morning; that's what you're saying?'

'If you must know; yes!'

I laugh, give her a wary 'don't mess with me' look.

She doesn't laugh.

She gives me the stern glare, the straight, firm lips.

She's being _serious_.

'You must've done _something_ different,' I point out. 'Just tell me what that is: or I'll never speak to you again!'

So she tells me; she's got a tattoo.

*

# Chapter 3

A _tattoo_?

_That's_ it?

You're kidding me, right?

She's not kidding me.

She opens her blouse a little, pulls it off her shoulder, slightly turns her back to me.

It's a hare and moon. So tiny I can hardly see it. It's tattooed onto her back across her shoulder blade, like the rise in her white flesh is a hill the hare's gambolling over.

' _That_ makes you go from being a Z lister to a triple A?'

'Z lister?' she says, like she's a touch offended, immediately insisting, 'I was _pretty_!'

Oh sure.

No, I don't _say_ it.

I let my eyes convey it.

She reads them right.

'I just never made the _most_ of it, that's all!' she adds defensively.

Course, we'd all like to think that, wouldn't we?

_No_ way _is Lisa's change all down to just some fairytale tattoo!_

'Why'd you get a tattoo in the first place?' I ask curiously: it's not like she'd ever shown any interest in having one before.

'Well,' she say, all bashful, all little-Miss-Innocence, 'I'd sort of heard...you know, _whisperings_. That he had had a few tattoos–'

'I knew it! You'd had your eyes on him all along!'

'Oh, let's face it, Tana,' she surprisingly snaps back, 'neither of us had a chance with him–'

'Didn't you just say you were "pretty"? That you just weren't putting any effort into looking good?'

'Yeah, Tana; like he was interested in anyone who was just "pretty"!'

True; she's got me there.

I'll give her that.

'This tattoo,' I say, 'do you think I could get one?'

*

Whoope-de-do.

Sweet sixteen.

And already so _bored_ with life.

I mean, who _cares_ what I _really_ want for my birthday?

It's all just the sort of stuff they think I _should_ like.

'Nice' stuff; rather than the sort of thing mum wishes I wouldn't wear, which is what I'd really want.

The main thing, though, is that I'm 'at that difficult age'.

An age when most aunties and what have you at least admit they've got no idea what you might want.

So they slip you the money instead; telling you to 'get what you really want'.

And that suits me fine.

Because what I really want is a tattoo.

*

Okay, okay; so I'm a hypocrite.

Big deal.

Get over it, can't you?

It's just like, you know, when each Miss World contestant is asked what she'd really really like once she's crowned

World peace.

Give me a break! Course she doesn't.

I mean, who _really_ takes her seriously?

But she knows that's what she's expected to say.

Me, what else should I say but that being beautiful isn't important to me.

It's not like I _really_ had a choice, is it?

And now I do!

So I've changed my mind, naturally.

Isn't that what you're supposed to do?

Remain open to changing your mind when the situation changes?

Now look, don't get me wrong: if it came to a straight up choice between having hair that would make Wonder Woman sick with envy, or a world where no one suffers, of course I'd plump for the latter.

But yeah, I'd like the chance to _think_ about it a little bit first.

Especially if the downside is that I actually end up with flat, greasy hair like Jolei Ferres at school.

I mean, _no_ one should have to put up with _that_ , should they?

So yeah, I'd _really_ have to think about _that_!

It's not like _I'm_ responsible for all the world's suffering, am I?

_Nope_!

All I'm responsible for is making sure _I_ get on in the world.

And isn't that what we're always being lectured to do anyway: to take a look at yourself in the mirror, and start there?

*

The tattoo place is – well, a bit _intimidating_ , really.

If this is where _he_ got his tattoo, then I can well understand how an infection might have set in.

I've got no idea how Lisa conjured up the courage to go in.

I linger at the window, looking at all the alternative tattoos you can have.

Serpents.

Skulls.

Rearing horses.

Spiders.

But Lisa had been adamant; it _had_ to be the hare and moon, and it _had_ to be on the shoulder blade.

Strangely, they don't have it here in the window.

So how come Lisa asked for it?

I hadn't asked her that.

She must have asked for advice when she'd gone in.

Being nervous, this being her first time, she'd have wanted something small.

Something she could hide away from her parents.

'We've got just the thing, madam; a tattoo that makes you bewitchingly gorgeous!'

Ah, go on then; I'll have _that_ one!

*

Inside, it's no better than the exterior.

Dingy. Dim.

Seemingly empty, too.

Perhaps I should come back another day whe–

'Yes?'

Sh*t!

This woman sure as hell hasn't got a hare and moon on her shoulder blades!

More like a warthog and a supernova, I'd guess.

Then again, whatever it is she's got there, I reckon it would take an eternity to find it amongst all the other images she's had painted across her body. Her shop window has fewer tattoos on display.

She seems to have appeared out of nowhere but, looking at her now, I figure she could have been here all along, her flesh and similarly coloured clothes effective camouflage in a place whose walls are covered in yet more examples of exotic designs.

She's gone for the face beading, too, the metallic charms hanging from lips, nose, even eyelids and cheeks. I trust she makes sure to avoid any car wreckage yards, where any overhead electromagnet would whip this woman's face straight off.

Sure, she's forgone the usual earrings, which might sound a little bizarre to anyone who hasn't seen pictures of lobes stretched to accommodate what could be Royal Doulton dinner plates.

Wow, she's ugly!

Then again, maybe this passes for beauty in some cultures. The front cover of Vogue, say, in the sort of land you can't mention these days without being accused of being racist.

'Er...'

I'm looking for an excuse to walk out.

'The hare and moon?' she says confidently.

_What_? I'm _that_ ugly I look like I _need_ it?

The woman manages a smile that isn't half bad, considering every tooth has been filed to a point.

'Yes...er, how did you, er, know?'

She lifts up the hinged top of the counter, allowing access to the back rooms.

'I _always_ know!' she says.

*

# Chapter 4

I don't believe it; but it actually worked!

Well – not admittedly, the way I'd expected it to work.

I mean, it's not like, suddenly, like Lisa, I've got the 'look'. I'm not all dainty prettiness, the model-like legs and hair.

My look's more athletic build, like I'm down the gym every hour God sends me, flexing those muscles, lifting those weights.

As for the hair; wow, there's nothing to complain about there.

I've got to admit; I think I look gobsmackingly wonderful!

And just as Lisa promised, you just simply wake up looking like this!

Sure, mum and dad almost had kittens on the spot when I appeared looking like this at breakfast.

But what are they gonna say?

'Tana! Back to bed this _instant_! You can't go out looking like you're some Goddess's most favoured female!'

Thankfully, I had an excuse: I said it was all the Goth-like clothes I'd been wearing, the matted, braided hair, the plastered white makeup.

Hiding a natural beauty that had obviously been blooming beneath it all all along!

Now I'd grown up, I'd simply jettisoned the Marilyn Manson look, hadn't I?

All so yesterday, wasn't it?

Course, I didn't have many clothes I _could_ wear to suit my new look.

I'd borrowed some of mum's more causal wear, which didn't look too dated; not that it mattered, as on me they somehow looked like _the_ clothes to be wearing this season!

It's the weekend, meaning I can use the money I received for my birthday to buy some new clothes. Plus, I can return the stuff I don't want, trading it all in for something to go with my new 'look'.

_Damn_!

If only _he_ were still alive.

*

It's still too early for there to be a gravestone.

It not exactly the sort of thing people plan for, is it? A boy of seventeen dying?

The soil used to cover him up is still settling; still a bit of a mound, but dropping daily I presume.

Not that I'd know for sure, of course.

_What_?

No, I _haven't_ been visiting here every day!

No, not even every second day either, thank you very much!

Just how crazy do you think I am?

This is the very first time I've visited him – _it_ – if you _must_ know!

The fact is, I wasn't even invited to the funeral.

That was _Lisa's_ role, wasn't it; the grieving widow at the graveside?

But now here _I_ am!

The secret, beautiful mistress, who can only attend and lay flowers on his grave once everybody else has left!

(No, I _haven't_ brought any flowers! It's all just sort of that movie idea of it all, isn't it?)

His true love, left out of the will.

(Yeah, okay; I really am pushing it now, aren't I?)

But look; if he's looking down from on high – as I surely hope he is – he's just got to be thinking; Wow, who's _that_?

It's me!

Course, you don't recognise me now, do you?

Just _look_ what you're missing!

All this _could've_ been yours!

And you just didn't know, did you?

You just weren't prepared to take the trouble to find out what the _real_ Tana was like!

You could've loved me; not them – those girls who can't even be bothered to visit your grave!

There _could've_ been something good between us!

_I_ remember you, remember you as you were!

Oh sh*t! This is all getting _way_ too morbid, isn't it?

What's _wrong_ with me?

I never felt _this_ desperate about the guy before!

Then again, I was never in his league, was I?

Whereas now, I'm probably way out the other side, a league way above his.

*

It's too much, of course, for the A lister girls.

It's bad enough Lisa coming in one day looking like she's won the lottery for every nip and tuck operation the business can offer.

It's even worse when her friend turns up looking like she must've been attending the very same Lourdes Beauty Parlour; even if she does look like she's been spending most of her time on the exercise machines.

_Now_ they all want to know me.

To invite me round to their house, to parties, to sleep-ins.

To just hang out with me, and listen to whatever pearls of wisdom I have to deliver.

Okay, so I'm a hypocrite; but didn't I admit to that already?

I should just be sneering in these girls' faces shouldn't I, telling them to get lost?

Instead, I tell them all the beauty secrets they're eager to know.

'I think a girl's just got to have the most expensive hairstyling she can afford at least _every_ week!'

Yeah, that passes for the highest flights of wisdom amongst these girls.

These girls, they're soon gonna break daddy's bank at the rate I've got them spending on looking beautiful.

*

# Chapter 5

Thing is, despite now having quite a few boys at my beck and call – bless them, I'd never realised, but they really are such innocent, pathetic little dears, aren't they? – I find I'm not the slightest bit interested in any of them.

It's still _him_ that I want.

Even though, naturally, that's _impossible_!

That's _crazy_!

So what do you know; I'm visiting his grave again.

What...is... _wrong_...with...me?

Worse, I find myself thinking; you know what, I don't think he's really dead and buried – well, not forever and ever, at least!

I mean, what with all the food preservatives we end up taking into ourselves, these days a corpse doesn't even start to rot for ages.

_Stop_ : don't worry!

I'm _not_ thinking of digging him up!

As I keep telling you, I'm _not_ crazy!

Honest!

As I've also said, I just don't understand what keeps on drawing me back here

But I've been like this, of course, ever since I had that tattoo.

And it was a tattoo that caused him to end up here, in this grave.

Is that the connection?

If so, how the heck does _that_ work?'

*

I visit the tattoo parlour again.

Wondering if the ugly woman can give me a few pointers as to what might be going on in my life.

Soon as I step over the threshold, she's there, just about blending into the dim surroundings of the interior, like she's got no real boundaries.

I see her this time, of course, because I'm expecting her, I'm looking for her.

She sees me, naturally.

Very few people are unaware of my presence these days.

The men who watch me walk down the street like all their dreams have abruptly come true.

The women who secretly glower at me, their eyes mostly downcast to hide their hate and envy.

This woman, however, she instantly knows who I _really_ am; what I _originally_ looked like, before the inscribing of the hare and the moon on my shoulder blade.

'Ah, back already,' she says brightly, giving me the saw-tooth smile once more.

'Not for another tattoo,' I explain quickly, before she has time to attempt to persuade me otherwise, 'I was just wondering if you could help me regarding a friend of mine who died!'

'Then it _is_ a tattoo you need!' she insists, lifting up the top of the counter, stepping aside to invite me through. 'This one,' she says, pointing at a stick-like man etched into the side of her forehead.

' _That_ one?' I say, finding it hard to hide that I'm aghast at even the thought of having something so crude painted anywhere on me, let alone in such a prominent place. 'Why on earth would _anyone_ want _that_ one?'

'It allows you to converse with the dead!' she assures me, her skull-like grin alone enough to persuade me she's being serious.

'I don't need to speak _with_ the dead,' I assure her thankfully. 'I just need to know about a boy who had a tattoo here then later died, through an infection.'

'No, no: not an _infection_!' She says it light-heartedly, like it's all been nothing more than an innocent mistake. 'I know the boy you mean: he was too ambitious!'

' _Ambitious_?'

'It was far too big a leap to take; from a few small tattoos to one mostly covering the whole body!'

With the waving of a hand, she indicates a tattoo running up the entire body, serpent like, from at least the legs right up to the neck.

'I warned him his body wouldn't be ready for it,' she continued with a few sad shakes of her head. 'But he said that was all the point of the tattoo, wasn't it? To protect him from death!'

I chuckle; yeah, like a tattoo could do that!

She's not smiling. (Not that I can tell, anyway.)

'The Tree of Life!' she says, quickly indicating pictures on her arms and legs that – I can only presume – join up beneath her clothes, forming this complete tree running over her entire body.

There are long, dotted lines running down her, which could be some kind of prickly branches. Her hands could be roots, but there seems to be something similar adorning her ankles. Her upper thighs (revealed to me by an unashamed lifting of her dress) could be the trunk, maybe with some ivy like veins. The upper part of her chest, which she also unashamedly displays to me, could be leaves or blooms.

Then again, there are so many creatures and plants adorning her body, I'm simply presuming these were the areas she was pointing out to me.

'There can be no death when one is part of a Tree of Life!' she says firmly.

If a tattoo that size and extensive became infected, no wonder he died.

Ironic, too, considering it was supposed to _protect_ him from death.

'Did the police come here?' I ask.

'Of course,' she says. 'But as I said, they found no cause here of any infection. They checked!'

'Then what killed him?'

'His blood: a bad reaction. It couldn't be foreseen.'

'And me?' I ask anxiously. 'What if _my_ blood's the wrong type?'

' _You're_ blood's fine!' she reassures me, smiling again.

Thing is, it doesn't _really_ reassure me, does it?

I mean, if she can check my blood group just by giving me the once over, like she's making out, then how come she didn't spot that _his_ blood was just itching to stitch him up and hand him over to death's clutches?

*

There is no Heaven.

How do I know this?

Think about it: do you think there's any need for beds in Heaven?

Of course there isn't.

But how can it be Heaven without a bed?

I _love_ my bed

I love it on a night, snuggling up beneath its warm quilt.

I love it on a morning, when I can briefly get up to go to the bathroom, then get back under the quilt, feeling all warm and secure once more.

I hate it on a morning, though, when I've got no choice but to get up, and stay up.

Not the _bed_ , of course; it's not _that_ I hate!

It's the _morning_ : I mean, why do we have to have _mornings_?

Then again, I do have an additional impetus to get me out of bed these days.

It's not like it used to be, after all, when I woke up dreading the rest of the day.

Then I'd know I'd be walking around school with a miserable face. Pretending that's just the way I was, that I wasn't really just completely sour because the boys at best just ignored me, at worst threw insults my way whenever they could.

When I was really down, I'd turn on the radio, the stations full of people phoning into the DJs, chatting ever so cheerfully about how great their lives were going, how they'd planned a weekend getaway, a meal with friends.

And I'd think, Wow; just how sad can you be? I mean, flattering yourselves that everyone out there wants to listen to your warblings about your boring life rather than listen to Adele or what have you!

These are the guys who send the average IQ tumbling, inhabiting the total opposite end of the scale to all the high flyers like Mozart and Einstein.

Compared to these people, even I'm on the genius level.

And just knowing that would help get me though an otherwise uneventful, boring day.

Yeah, halcyon days, right?

Now, though, I know that my day's going to be full of boys literally falling over each other as they make fools of themselves, hoping to impress me with their childish antics, their ridiculously infantile sense of humour.

What the heck did I ever see in _any_ of them?

I've had more fun watching flies trying to fly out through the glass of a window.

Besides, I have another reason to get out of bed today; I want to see what my new tattoo looks like.

*

# Chapter 6

Miss Guess-What-My-Face-Used-To-Look-Like had offered me this new tattoo for free.

She said she wasn't busy these days (nothing to do, I suppose, with one of her customers agonisingly dying over three days?) and she wanted something to do just to keep her hand in.

As the business was quiet, she let me watch as she set her things out and mixed her dyes.

First time I'd come in here, I'd frankly been a little shocked by her 'equipment'.

I'd always thought tattooists used something equivalent to a dentist's drill; you know, all shiny steel, a needle probing and vibrating like it had dreams of becoming Versace's sewing machine.

These are sharpened animal bones, even fangs, I reckon. Plus a few thorns for extra detailing.

'Tradition,' she'd said, noticing the fearful widening of my eyes.

Her preparation of the inks, it turns out, is no less unsettling.

If another two women turned up looking just like her, I wouldn't be surprised if they dragged out a cauldron and started throwing in eye of newt and what have you.

There are shredded herbs, a number of oils, something that smells like sandalwood, something as black as pitch.

Whenever she opens one of the bottles of oil, however, I almost gag with the stench; whatever type of oils these are, I guess they're not taken from the usual things like pretty sunflowers and tasty olives.

Just like the hare and the moon, the tattoo she gives me is nothing too dominating; they could be the paw prints of an incredibly small dog, running along the inner thigh of one of my legs.

It used to be used by primitive hunters, she said, enabling them to run as fast as their dogs.

Now sure, I should be highly sceptical of such a wild claim; but isn't this the woman who miraculously transformed me into the girl of every boys' dreams?

So why should I doubt her when she tells me a cute paw tattoo will have me running like I'm set for an Olympic Marathon?

*

I've got to give it a try, haven't I?

We're out on the school fields, taking a sports lesson, which I normally hate.

Not that I'm actually enjoying this one either; but heck, I want to see if this paw tattoo really has got some kind of magical power.

I find myself naturally settling into an easy stride, the moves remarkably effortless.

It _could_ be the paw prints; then again, it could be that I'm not the dumpy lump of flesh I was a few days ago.

My legs seem longer these days too, but maybe I'm imagining that, as no one seems surprised by such a noticeably otherwise impossible change.

Then again, maybe that's all part of the magic; everyone just accepts who you now are, as if the previous you never ever really existed.

Whatever the reason, it's obvious to me that I've gone from a regular _C+, Must Try Harder_ to someone who's being badgered into joining the school team.

Yeah, like I've changed _that_ much.

Maybe next time I visit the tattooist, I'll ask for a tattoo that helps me think up good reasons to be excused from sports class.

*

No one loved him like I did.

Not that he knew it, of course.

He hardly ever noticed me, did he?

He only had eyes for Lisa.

And before her, before she benefitted from the hare and the moon, it had been Mary Harding.

And before her, Genifer Burn.

But do any of _them_ visit his grave?

No way!

But I do; so if he's looking down from wherever he is now, he can see that I'm the only one who remained true to him.

It's strange, wondering what he must look like now, now he's an angel or whatever it is we transform into when we pass on to the other side.

In places like Mexico, like Vietnam, the people there aren't as queasy about death, about corpses, as we are.

They actually dig the lifeless bodies of their loved ones up; dress them once again in their finest clothes, sit them up, give them a cigar, or a drink. Give them a jolly little party hat.

Can you _believe_ that?

Some party, huh?

Thing is, if my little tattoos – the hare and moon, the sweet, itsy-bitsy paw prints – can bring about so many amazing changes in me, how come this 'Tree of Life' didn't grant him what he wanted; freedom from death?

I suppose that's one heck of a big 'ask', isn't it?

Especially from nothing more than a tattoo.

'Oh, I'll have that one in your window, thanks; the one that promises you'll never die?'

'Certainly sir; our aim is to please! Have a nice day!'

Only he got just the opposite from his tattoo, didn't he?

Lingering death.

But...why was he so sure that it would work that he took such a ridiculous risk?

An all-over body tattoo!

He must have been in agony just suffering its creation; the forcing of the ink into his flesh, the sores that such an operation always causes.

Who's to say, though, that it didn't work?

Maybe we're all looking at this wrong: maybe we're all just accepting that life all revolves around our _bodies_.

But what of our _soul_?

What if what he was really looking for was a way of living forever on some sort of different plane to our regular existence.

He could be right here now, standing by me.

And I wouldn't know.

The soil of the grave suddenly shifts, dropping away as if a hand's about to erupt from beneath the earth.

I almost die right here, I'm so horrified, so shocked.

But then, thankfully, the soil stops moving.

It was just settling.

Wow! Like, how _unsettling_ was _that_?

*

If his soul is still hanging around on earth, does that mean he can be brought back to life?

Hey, you've always got to have an open mind and at least _consider_ such things, haven't you?

Thing is, what if I bring him back and he just goes running off back to Lisa?

There won't have been much point in resurrecting him then, would there?

Then again, surely he'd have to be a _touch_ thankful that I was the one who'd revived him!

That merits a kiss at the very least, right?

Yeah, like I'm _that_ desperate!

Seeking a kiss from a boy who's pushing up the daisies!

What the heck is _wrong_ with me?

*

# Chapter 7

True, I always thought I was a _little_ crazy.

But then, don't we all, deep down, think that? You know, if we're being honest?

I mean, everyone's dealing with life in a take-it-as-it-comes sort of way, aren't we?

Making it up as we go along.

Winging it: hoping it all turns out okay.

Sure, we _act_ like we're confident; like we can deal with anything life throws at us.

But it's not true, is it?

It's all just a façade we put on.

A front, to make it look like we're facing up to the world.

Inside, we're all just a little bit scared, at the very least.

Some of us, we're almost permanently petrified.

Not that we want anybody to know that.

Not that we even want to admit it to ourselves.

Who are we _really_?

See, we've adopted so many false identities, all these facades we put on when go out into the cruel world, we're no longer quite so sure ourselves when it comes to deciding who the _real_ us is.

Is it _you_?

Is _this_ the true me?

Me, I'm as lost as anyone when I'm trying to figure it all out, to find the original me I've managed to hide under so many layers.

Now, of course, I'm one of the cool kids.

So everything should all just fall naturally into place, shouldn't it?

But, strangely, unexpectedly, it doesn't.

See, I can see it in their eyes too, now.

Now that I can get close to them.

Now that I experience the way they come begging for tips on how to improve their looks, how to impress such and such, how to avoid getting turned down for a date.

Just like I was, they're scared inside.

Fact is, they seem more frightened than I was; frightened that one day they'll say or do something wrong.

Then they'll fall from grace.

And when you've been at the top, it's a longer way to fall.

They fear being found out.

Found out that, like everyone else, inside they're just a complete mess.

*

Maybe there's a tattoo for it: one that, once it's inscribed on my flesh, helps me realise who I _really_ am

That would be really neat!

Well, if you don't ask, you don't get.

I ask her, the woman with the face with more studs than any working boot.

'Ah,' she says, already sounding sufficiently wise and understanding, 'it is your _soul_ that you need to tie in place: you are in danger of _losing_ your soul!'

*

Who'd have thought it?

_Losing_ my soul?

But yeah, that would explain this sense of emptiness.

This feeling that I'm nothing much more than an empty shell.

Apparently, the soul can just up and leave if it feels that way; freely roaming around, without your body to hinder it – yeah, it really likes that. And if it takes a liking to hanging around with all the ancestral spirits and what have you, and can't be bothered making its way back home, well; that's it for you then. You're dead.

Thing is, if we're talking about this whole new level of souls, does that put me on a similar plane to him? I mean, if I'm right, if his soul is still here, still walking amongst us.

The boot-faced woman suggests a design that could be seen as hooks, to go on the back of my hand.

There'll also be a few of them on my chest too.

She assures me it will be worth it; it will 'tie-in my soul', keeping it close to my body – which is exactly what I obviously need, souls being well known for the way they might decide to just fly off to the Caribbean one day.

The soul likes beautiful things, she adds, pointing to the brightly coloured flowers blooming everywhere about her own body – and so they will always stay close to beautifully adorned bodies.

As a further piece of reassurance that I'll be doing the right thing, she informs me that she'll be adding what will look like beads, or _ngalou_ as she calls them; another word for 'talisman'.

I mean, with reassuring scientific details like that, I'd be a fool to refuse, wouldn't I?

This time, though, I ask her about the oils; you know, like where do they come from, why do they smell so bad, are you _sure_ they're safe?

They're each extracted, she says proudly, from numerous 'spiritually powerful sources'.

From wild animals, such as elephants. (I'd be pretty wild, too, if I was having oil extracted from me.)

The galls of tiger, bear, python.

Cobra venom.

The exfoliated skin of a revered 'arjan' (whatever that is!).

The chin fat of a corpse.

_Sh*t_ ; now I wish I'd _never_ asked.

As an extra persuader, she tells me these tattoos will also enhance my dexterity. The hooks on my hands will enhance my skills at catching fish and game (not that I know if I possess any such skills to be enhanced).

What the heck: give me the hooks and the beads!

*

# Chapter 8

Look, I admit it: all this is craziness on a whole _new_ level.

Thing is, this whole thing of new forms of power over everybody, seeing how I can control how they behave simply because of the way I look; well, I'd be bound to be just a tinsy bit excited by it all, wouldn't I?

Wouldn't it be every girl's dream to know what other people are thinking about you?

Like that saying about having your heart on your sleeve: don't you wish you could see how a boy reacts whenever you're close?

Go on, admit it; you would, wouldn't you?

Me, I _know_ what's going on in that tiny little muscle of his heart.

Every time I'm close, it's fluttering wildly; like it's gonna miss a beat any moment now, and the poor little dear's going to blush redder than any tomato.

You think I'm kidding?

No way!

I mean, I can just about smell their fear of saying something stupid in front of me.

Their fear that I could belittle them with the slightest sneer or put down.

As for the girls – I know what they're thinking too.

They want to be _me_.

They want the boys to be in fear of _them_!

*

It's going to my head is it, then; all this power?

You betcha!

Let's face it, before I was just a nobody; kidding myself I was nobody because I _wanted_ to be a nobody, I _liked_ being a nobody.

_Sure_ I did!

Yeah, I made out to everyone who would listen that I didn't care that I wasn't well-liked, that I was way too strong and independent to be bothered about such stupid things; but, back home in my bed, well the tears would just fall and fall sometimes.

_What have I done to deserve this?_ I'd wail, feeling truly truly sorry for myself.

Now, I reckon, I've got the odd boy crying into his own bedsheets on a night.

Tough, kid; that's just the way the world operates, I'm afraid.

Now all right, this might all seem a trifle vindictive, maybe even all a bit childish; but if I'm being honest with myself – and I've realised that that's important, being honest, at least with yourself – I've got to admit I'm not yet _fully_ an adult, even though I'd like to kid myself that I am.

I'm on the crux, see; caught between the two worlds.

One of infantile longings.

The other of adult longings.

A heady mix; no wonder we kids are always a bit confused at this age.

We're living in limbo, trying to pick and choose the bits of the two worlds we'd like to have, hoping to shrug off the parts we don't want.

Naturally, neither of the two worlds are having that.

_They're_ the ones determined to make the choice for us.

So we get all the bad bits of the adult world; responsibility, paying your own way, earning your keep.

Yet we're forced to keep all the sh*tty bits of the younger world; do as you're told, no you can't do that!

Thing is, I figure there is _one_ advantage; we're still quite changeable, unlike the adults you see, whose characters have been set in stone.

So if I can figure out what sort of person I really am, what sort of person I _could_ be, then I can change it now; before I've become just one more miserable, lost adult.

*

My dreams have become a bit odd, to say the least.

All _him_ ; all _me_.

_No!_ Not like _that_!

Well, okay – _partly_ like that!

Well, no – even all that's so tame its lame; a few dainty kisses on the cheek, and that's stretching what's really going on here.

I mean, these guys just don't know how to get it on!

But that's nice, I suppose; the innocence of it all.

What isn't quite so nice is that I'm using all these skills my tattoos have supposed to have given me, but in ways I can't really see the point of.

I'm hunting animals. I'm fishing.

I can use a bow and arrow, even a spear.

And wow, I'm so dextrous, I can whip you up a woven basket in next to no time! Not that I've got any to spare, as I need them all to collect all the masses of fish I'm catching!

I mean, who wants to dream about all that sort of cr*p?

Nightmares I could handle; but this?

It's like I'm auditioning for some sort of survival programme; one of those where they abandon you on an isolated island with nothing but a complete film crew in attendance.

There's also a large fire, one burning fiercely for several days on top of the very largest of mountains; and as it burns, it creates a house, one made of gold and silver, and some sparkling blue marble-like stuff, that glitters like a night sky.

But the house doesn't have any windows; not even one.

What's _that_ supposed to mean in the dream interpretation catalogue?

*

As I walk to school, everyone's staring at me

Not staring at me as they used to do, because I used to dress so oddly, have my hair matted and messy, scowl back at everyone.

But neither is it the type of staring I've begun enjoy recently, with girls looking on in envy, boys wondering if they've got the nerve to approach me.

No, it's a bewildered look they're all giving me, even startled in some cases; like there's something wrong with my face.

Don't tell me; the magic's wearing off, right?

As soon as I can, I find something I can peer into to check my reflection: first a window, in which everything seems okay at first glance, but I can't be too sure as the image isn't clear; then the wing mirror of a car, which again isn't perfect, the magnifying effect making my eyes seem to bulge – but once more, it all seems completely reassuring.

I haven't suddenly started ageing. I haven't suddenly started to become hideous.

So what the heck's going on?

Why's everyone giving me all these shocked glares?

*

No one dares approach me.

No one lets me even draw closer to them, making some excuse to turn away, or speed up, if I threaten to approach them.

That is, no one until Lisa thankfully shows up.

Like everyone else, at first she stares at me in complete shock.

Unlike everyone else, she walks over to me.

'Are you okay, Tana?' she asks warily.

'Yeah sure; why wouldn't I be?'

'I mean, well; the makeup.'

'The makeup? I don't _have_ to wear makeup!'

She scrambles around inside her schoolbag, dragging out a mirror that she tentatively hands to me.

I look into it.

It's my eyes.

They're bulbous, looking not a little crazed; like my head's about to explode.

*

# Chapter 9

I can't go into school looking like this!

I don't _want_ to go into school looking like this!

'Tell me,' I say to Lisa, once I've told her to tell the teachers at school I'm not well, I'm not coming in, 'are you having any strange dreams lately?'

She only has to think about it briefly; she shakes her head.

'None that's unusual, if that's what you mean,' she answers with a puzzled, curious frown. 'Why, are you...?'

'No, no; not really – not nightmares, anyway,' I answer truthfully. 'It's just that; well, they don't seem like _regular_ dreams, that's all.'

Soon as we part, I head off to the tattoo parlour.

I need to ask the woman there what the hell's going on.

*

Soon as I see her, I think: _sh*t_!

She's got the very same kind of eyes!

I'd never noticed before.

Why would I? Everything else about her is so odd, so exaggerated, her eyes don't really look that wild in her face until you really take the trouble to study her.

Which, I'm sure, not many people do.

In my face, however; well, try to imagine the Mona Lisa with two massive eggs for eyes, and you're starting to get the right idea.

'Ahhh,' she says excitedly, almost blissfully, as soon as she notices my eyes, 'you're having the wonderful dreams already, yes?'

'Wonderful? What's so wonderful about walking around looking like I've had an eye transplant with Charles Manson?'

'But they'll go down, they'll soon be back to normal,' she tries to assure me, her own eyes bulging like a freshly caught fish.

'How can a _dream_ do _this_ to me?' I ask, shaking in my anxiety.

'Because they only seem to a _bodily_ part of you to be dreams; but your soul is now tied to you, remember? It doesn't want to let you go!'

Sh*t!

If my eyes hadn't already been bulging, they would be now.

What's she saying?

That my soul's taking me with it when it goes off into its own little world?

*

Wouldn't you know?

That's _exactly_ what she's saying!

That my soul's got its own level of life to access, its own plane it really belongs on, where it normally drifts off to whenever I'm asleep so as not to upset me; because if it did it while I was awake, see, I'd probably get all uptight because I'd be worried it might abandon me.

Which under normal circumstances, it just might, it turns out, because it always enjoys itself so much when its freed of my ugly, restraining body.

But now I'm 'tied in' with it, it's taking me along; like I'm some long lost bosom buddy she wants to get to know all over again!

Hey; we're the very best of friends now, aren't we, me and my soul!

So naturally, it wants me to go along just for the ride.

Oh sh*t, sh*t and more sh*t!

*

# Chapter 10

'How do I _stop_ this?' I wail.

'You want to _stop_ it?' she says, like I'm turning down a lifetime's supply of free chocolates.

'Of _course_ I want to stop it! God only knows what else is out there in this spirit world!'

She nods, pouts seriously, like I've got a point.

Cr*p!

I mean, I was sort of hoping she'd say something more reassuring; like I was just imagining things, the spirit world can't harm you, or the spirits are every bit as friendly and harmless as little kittens.

'Yes,' she says, adopting the tone of voice a doctor uses when she's advising you to cut down on cream cakes, or else, 'there are some very, very, _very_ nasty spirits out there!'

Oh _greeeaaat_!

Just _great_!

All this is getting better by the minute, isn't it?

'Why's this happening to me?' I snap. 'Why not Lisa? _She's_ not having any dreams!'

'Hah!' Her already bulbous eyes light up. 'The girl with the hare and moon!'

'Yes, like me: but _she_ hasn't got bulbo – I mean, _she's_ not going through what _I'm_ going through!'

'But _her_ hare and moon were on her right shoulder!' she says, her elatedly widening eyes plainly indicating that she thinks that explains it all.

'Well so's mi–'

Ah, but it _isn't_ is it?

It's on my _left_ shoulder.

' _That_ makes it work differently?' I gasp. 'One on the right, one on the left?'

'All the difference in the _world_!' she says cheerfully.

'Why didn't you say? Why didn't you warn me?'

'You didn't ask,' she coolly points out.

'This...is...unbelievable!'

'Another tattoo?' she asks with what passes for an inviting grin on her face.

' _Another_ tattoo! They're what _caused_ all this!'

She airily waves a hand in the air, dismissing my accusations and my concerns with equal measure.

'Not _this_ one! _This_ one _saves_ you from evil sprits!'

She turns, starts to walk into the back of the shop.

'Er, where are you going?' I ask, feeling sure she can't really be expecting me to once again so foolishly follow her into her medieval idea of a surgery.

'I need to pee,' she says unashamedly, glancing over her shoulder to add with yet another grin, 'To mix into the ink!'

*

She tells me no one else has turned up to complain about the dreams.

I tell her they might not have been _able_ to turn up.

Once again, she unfortunately nods sagely rather than dismissing my comment as nonsense.

She tells me shamans use these tattoo-induced dreams to deliberately access the spirit world.

I tell her I'd prefer it if the spirit world wasn't accessing my bedroom.

'Isn't there some other way of stopping it, other than having yet another tattoo?' I plead.

'Some shamans have the joints of their hands and toes severed!' she says helpfully

Suddenly, a new tattoo seems wholly preferable to any other alternative.

'Why would they have their hands and feet cut off?' I say, unable to hide that I'm a little startled by this means of preventing annoying dreams.

'Well, to be honest,' she adds, smiling like it's only a minor point (which, in _her_ world, it may well be!) 'I _do_ mean when they're _dead_ : otherwise, their magic won't leave their body and, entering the uma, will cause sickness. Besides, as the shaman keeps the souls of her people in her possession, she might take them with her into her grave!'

She's mixing the ink as we talk: 'Tagneghli,' she explains as I watch, 'a magical substance of finest, darkest graphite from Siberia; the stone spirit that guards us from evil spirits and the sicknesses they bring.'

'And that's not really your...er, urine, you're mixing in with it, is it?' I ask nervously.

I tell myself there must be other liquids with a similar weak yellow tint, an equivalent sour stench.

'Tequq,' she says jovially, briefly reassuring me that it might after all be yet another fine ingredient purchased at great expense from far off Mongolia, 'which comes from one of the primary seats of the life-giving force of the soul; the bladder!'

'How does that severing of the hands work again?'

*

'First, to harness ancestral powers, you need "guardian" markings on your forehead where–'

'My forehead?'

She's managed to persuade me that the urine-mixed ink is a necessity: it's used to protect children from the possessive spirits awakened whenever someone close by dies.

Why am I suddenly accepting all this nonsense as if it all makes perfect sense?

Oh yeah; I remember – because now I'm beautiful, whereas a few days ago I wasn't even close to being pretty.

Still; the forehead?

That's hardly going to keep me up amongst the A listers, is it? A brow filled with 'guardian' markings, whatever they are.

Turns out they're the sort of things bored cavemen used to paint on their walls; stickmen hunting stick buffalo, throwing stick spears.

She's showing me a picture of these stickmen hunts like its bound to allay my fears about having them tattooed on my forehead.

She also gets out pictures of flowers, of starbursts, of peacocks, with tails like hundreds of eyes. Not for my forehead, thankfully, but across my waist, my back, my shoulders; 'then evil will bounce off your body like raindrops from a flower, while your ancestral spirits will communicate their magical and curative powers through you.'

Sh*t.

I'm going to come out of here looking like a bloody carpet, aren't I?

*

Fortunately, the results aren't anywhere near as bad as I'd feared.

Rather than using my forehead for her hunting scenes, Yatpan – that's the tattooist's name, I've finally got around to finding out – has hidden them all amongst my hair. So as long as I don't go bald, no one should notice that it looks like my six-year-old niece has gone to work up there with a whole set of coloured biros while I've been asleep.

All the other tattoos, thankfully, are hidden beneath my clothing. Although some of them, I've got to admit, are quite beautiful in their delicate rendering, their bursts of colour.

As for the bulging eyes, the cause of the need for all this excessive decoration, they've gone.

Apparently, although I didn't realise it, my sub-conscious had enough wit about it to recognise that my dreams weren't anywhere near as innocent as I'd supposed. There was a reality to this world that it normally wouldn't have access to, even while I slept.

Hence the bulbous, fear-filled eyes.

There's hardly any point in making my way into school now, however; besides, although Yatpan assured me that I had a remarkably resilient body as far as adapting to new tattoos was concerned, she warned me that my flesh might remain a trifle sensitive over the next few days.

I'm not quite sure if it's some sort of psychosomatic effect or not, but everything about me seems oddly unreal, just a little flat, like I'm looking at it all through some old stereoscope; you know, one of those ancient gizmos, allowing you to look at two almost similar photographs at once, giving it all an odd three dimensional appearance.

The only thing that appears reasonably real is a hovering hawk, one preparing to dive on some unfortunate prey it's locked its penetrating gaze onto.

Yet it doesn't dive; it just continues to hover there.

Or rather, despite the way it appears to be more or less motionless in the sky, it's always close by me no matter where I go.

Surely there can only be one explanation for that: it's _me_ it's watching.

*

# Chapter 11

Unlike me, Lisa's suffering no detrimental effects from her new tattoo.

Just the opposite; it's all completely positive.

She's hugely popular with everyone. I don't know anyone who doesn't wish to be her friend.

Whatever magic this hare and moon have wrought on Lisa, it's brought out the very best of her.

Me, I just seem to be getting stroppier with each passing day, rapidly alienating all the A lister kids at school who had previously all been falling over themselves to get to know me, to ask my advice on clothes, makeup, boys.

Rapidly alienating, too, the few friends I'd had before I'd started treating my body like I was my own voodoo doll.

Cr*p!

I'm mean-spirited. Rude. Insulting. Arrogant. Mocking.

I just can't help it; it really is like the hare and moon have begun to bring to the fore all my worst characteristics, not my best ones.

Or maybe, if I'm being honest, I just never had many good qualities in the first place.

*

Let me guess; there are things about yourself even _you_ don't like.

Things about your character you've hidden away; things you don't like to admit _are_ you.

Things that, if they were revealed to other people, would cause them to instantly dislike you.

That's _not_ you?

Hmmn, okay – I suppose I'll have to take your word for it.

I mean, it's not like you're capable of _lying_ , is it?

But truth be told, if you were telling the truth about this, it would make you a rather odd person.

An _unusual_ person.

Because everybody's got something to hide.

The way I see it, it's the only way to survive these days; to hide things about you that other people might not like.

To have a nasty side to you, that's prepared to say 'no', to put yourself rather then others first.

Can you _honestly_ say that isn't you?

Or, if you do suffer these selfish thoughts every now and again, do you, maybe, manage to kid yourself they've somehow just been magically wafted into you otherwise perfectly innocent mind?

Or maybe, instead, you persuade yourself that you've been put in an unfair situation, giving you no choice but to think, to act, this way?

Yeah, we've all been there; all done that.

Because we're _nice_ people, aren't we?

Not _nasty_ people, like everyone else?

Now me, I was always of the opinion that, if you didn't admit to having a nastier side, it would just fester away, becoming increasingly furious that it was being ignored.

But now I've got to admit that maybe I was wrong. Because I increasingly feel that I'm in need of a weapon, a serious weapon: one that could help me kill a whole multitude of– and here, thankfully, I'm not too sure _what_ comes next.

It would be bad enough to admit it's _animals_ : even worse, of course, to realise it's _people_.

*

It's not something you can just go along to the doctors and admit to, is it?

That if I were, say, given a double-handed sword, or a bow and arrow, somehow I'd feel that my bloodlust would be assuaged.

The only options opened up to me would be the doors to rooms in either an asylum or a prison.

So I have to confess that I really don't see that I have any choice but to visit the person who's recently become my own personal amateur psychiatrist; Yatpan.

This time though, I tell her upfront: no more tattoos!

Just _advice_ please!

'It's the way of the _hunter_ , that's all!' she declares cheerfully.

'But I don't _hunt_ : fact is, I was seriously considering becoming vegetarian at one point! It's just not _me_ at all! I just don't know who I _am_ anymore!'

'Well, did you ever _really_ know who you were?' she asks with a knowing smile.

'Ah, well, of course, then...well, I was at least _me_! Someone I could sort of recognise as being _me_.'

She pulls a face that says she doesn't believe me.

_I_ don't believe me.

How low can I get? _Lying_ to _myself_.

And I've always flattered myself that I'm honest when it comes to admitting I've been putting on a whole host of false identities, such that I no longer know where to find the real me; if, indeed, there ever _was_ a _real_ me.

'If I could give you this _me_ back,' she asks, 'what would she look like, what would she _think_?'

'Well...er...it's not easy to describe _yourself_ , is it?' I answer lamely.

'The real you, if it ever existed – you're intelligent enough to know she's gone. You thought you were the one in control, back when you were hiding those qualities that don't fit into the way we're supposed to behave, supposed to look. Even if we're putting on an identity for positive reasons, promoting those bits about ourselves we know will make us more attractive, we're still submerging the _real_ us beneath it all. Then one day, we realise we're no longer sure which of those layers are the false ones, the characters that are just a part of an act; and which were part of the _original_ us.'

_Ooopps_!

She's right, isn't she?

The real me – well, I reckon she vanished a few years back at least now.

Being relentlessly pushed to the back of the line as I acted out entirely new characters, ones whom I believed would make me popular, or at least _interesting_ ; you know, giving me a unique identity the real me seemed to sadly lack

'And you?' I ask. 'Do _you_ know the real you?'

'Of course!' she says assuredly.

She begins to unbutton the front of her blouse.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. I'm embarrassed.

She turns around, lets the back of her blouse slip down, revealing a large tattoo of what seems at first to be beautifully rendered wings.

Not angel wings, however, as you might expect.

No, these are the wings of a bird.

A hawk, with its back to us, which is why I originally thought it was an illustration of just the bird's wings.

It's so accurately drawn it could be real, if it weren't for its enlarged size.

The wings could almost be fluttering, in readiness to start beating vigorously at the air; and then, wonderfully, they are extending, flapping as if to help take Yatpan into the air.

But then she completely changes, transforming in an instant.

She's no longer Yatpan – she's a hawk.

*

# Chapter 12

Thankfully, Yatpan has transformed into a normal sized hawk rather than the more enlarged version she has tattooed on her back.

I say thankfully because as soon as she's transformed into this bird, she starts flying around the shop; and if she were any larger, it's so crowded in here with examples of work displayed everywhere that I feel sure something would be knocked over, despite Yatpan's obvious skills and remarkable manoeuvrability.

I'm taking all this morphing into a hawk a whole lot more calmly than I suppose I should.

There's a part of me, I realise, that _is_ surprised by everything that's happened, yet surprised only because I wasn't expecting it.

Crazy, huh?

What makes it worse, making it all even scarier than seeing Yatpan transform into a hawk, is that it's a part of me that I'm not really sure _is_ a part of me.

Crazier still, right?

Yet this part of me accepts _all_ of this like it's all perfectly normal.

Truth is, Yatpan looks a whole lot more beautiful as a hawk than she did as a person; a whole lot less scary too.

Eventually, Yatpan settles on the very top of an old wooden cabinet, one exhibiting innumerable signed photographs of ecstatically worshipping customers.

Obviously, _he_ isn't amongst them.

Yatpan glares down at me challengingly from the top of the cabinet.

'You've been following me!' I say determinedly.

That is, unless there just happens to be another hawk who's developed an unnatural interest in me.

'Watching me!' I add sternly, accusingly.

'Watching _over_ you,' she corrects me, her metamorphosis into a hawk obviously having no detrimental effect on her ability to speak.

With another abrupt flap of her wings, she takes to the air again, this time swooping towards me so fast that it makes me instinctively duck – but before she strikes me, she transforms once more, this time back into herself; if, indeed, this is Yatpan's real form.

'That was _amazing_!' I admit elatedly. 'Can I have one of those tattoos? A _hawk_ tattoo?'

She wags an admonishing finger.

'Ah ah: no more tattoos, you said – remember?'

'Yes...' I admit hesitantly, 'but _this_ is different! _This_ is _unbelievable_! I wouldn't have thought it possible!'

She smiles benignly if a little condescendingly.

'You have your own abilities; you just haven't recognised them yet!'

With a crook of a finger, she indicates that I should follow her into the back of the shop.

'You've had hints of what some of your powers are–'

'Weaving baskets?' I interrupt rudely.

– 'but inwardly you're too caught up within the rules of your world to accept and interpret them correctly.'

She leads me past the room were the tattoos are etched, heading farther down the dim and narrow corridor towards what turns out to be a locked door. Opening the door with a large key, she shows me into the room, insisting I enter first.

Inside the room there's a large table.

And laid out neatly upon that tables there's an ancient broadsword, along with a bow and quiver of arrows.

*

'The work of Koshar, the master craftsman!' she announces proudly as I marvel at the work that's gone into each arrow, let alone the magnificently engraved sword.

The feathers have been dyed, a glorious purple that reminds me of the colour of my birthmark.

The bow's all tenderly formed wood, polished to a wonderful sheen.

The sword and its sheath, well; King Arthur would hand over Excalibur for it any day of the week.

The blade shimmers, all these rainbow tints flickering along it. There are a number of symbols engraved there too, weaving in between an inscription; and one of them, strangely, is a whirl, a snailshell-like design, that reminds me once again of my birthmark.

I pick up the sword, amazed at how its heavy pommel balances out the long blade. I should be struggling with its weight, I guess, but it seems fine in one hand, let alone the two it's obviously designed for; there's little in the way of extravagant decoration on the long handles, although once again there's that blood-purple spiral in the embroidery wrapped around the handgrip.

The bow's handgrip is similarly decorated, and once again it could have been specifically designed for my hand, for it weighs comfortably yet securely within my grip.

The embroidery of the handgrips isn't even slightly worn. It could have been wound around the handles yesterday. The wood of the bow, the feathers of the arrows, the metal of the sword; all similarly appear to be perfectly new, like this craftsman Koshar that Yatpan mentioned has only just finished making them.

Even so, I sense that these weapons are not only remarkably ancient, but have also been used on a number of occasions.

Why do I sense that?

I don't know.

They just seem to reek of age, of history; of multiple deaths.

Weird, huh?

Maybe I'm just imagining it all.

Maybe Yatpan only recently purchased all these from one of those bizarre stores that sell these things like they're not deadly weapons at all but simply perfectly innocent ornaments for mounting on your wall in your sweet little homestead.

Along with the stuffed heads of any neighbour you've decided to try them out on.

'You'll need them soon; you should take them.' Yatpan assures me, like she realises my house is in dire need of some form of interesting decoration.

Either that, or there's something particularly ominous about the word 'soon'.

'Your mind is opening up,' she explains, 'you'll soon be able to see things that no others can.'

Yep, wouldn't you know it – it's the ominous version Yatpan's plumped for.

'I can hardly just walk around with these things!' I point out.

'Why not?' she asks, blinking in surprise.

'I'll be locked up!'

'Why? No one else can see them.'

'Seriously?'

She nods.

'I don't know how to use them,' I insist.

'Sure you do,' she replies adamantly, 'you'll see soon enough.'

There's that word 'soon' again.

Great; just great.

And what started all this off?

A cute little hare I thought would look really sweet tattooed on my shoulder.

*

# Chapter 13

'The dream, in which you were hunting,' Yatpan says as I continue to stare doubtfully at the weapons laid out across the table: 'that's a sign that you know how to use these weapons.'

Thinking back, in that dream I was using a bow and arrow that could well be this one, as well as a sword that had to be of the same calibre as this magnificent specimen.

Since when, come to think of it, had I been an expert on weapons?

Previously, I wouldn't have known an airgun from a sniper's rifle. Now I'm passing a knowledgeable eye over the type of weapons that Genghis Khan would feel right at home with.

'Tell me,' Yatpan continues, frowning with curiosity, 'what _exactly_ were you hunting?

'Well, the usual, I suppose; deer, boar – oh, and a lion too, just to give myself a bit more of a challenge, I think. Oh and the fish, of course; _plenty_ of fish – if that counts as hunting.'

Yatpan brightens considerably at the mention of the fish for some reason.

'Now when you were seeking out all these fish; did anything strange happen? Think carefully now, please!'

I pause, trying to recall more details of my dream.

'I thought it strange that, despite the way I was using nets and what have you, I sometimes dived into the water; deep into the water!'

Yatpan nods elatedly, like this makes perfect sense to her.

'And it was _dark_ in there; yes?' she asks excitedly.

'Very,' I say, nodding in agreement, 'and that really, was where it was far more, well, _dream_ - _like_ than the rest of the dream; you know, all a bit crazier, than all the more realistic parts of the dream.'

Yatpan nods, urging me to give her more details.

'In that darkness, there was spiralling of what I thought at first could be white foam; a kind of whirlpool. But then, as I swam down closer to it, I saw that it was this massive sea serpent.'

Yatpan's already bulging eyes are now wide with delight.

'You swam _towards_ it, yes?'

'Yes, though I don't why; the closer I got to it, the more monstrous it seemed to me. It was just getting ever larger, just waiting for me, I figured, to get so close that it would strike out for me.'

'And...?'

'Well, of course; I got so foolishly close, it suddenly whipped its massive head towards me, its huge mouth opening, ready to swallow me – and then, as if it had swallowed me, it was like I was spiralling down through its body. But I must've actually been spiralling _up_ , because suddenly I broke the surface of the water: and the monster seemed to have vanished.'

Yatpan is now almost clapping her hands in glee.

'Good, good!' she says, like all this nonsense from my dream all makes perfect sense to her. 'But this means you're going to need _extra_ protection; you need _another_ tattoo!'

I wag an admonishing finger before her face.

'Ah ah: no more tattoos, you said – remember?'

*

Isn't this every young boy's dream?

Walking down the street, openly carrying a massive broadsword, a bow, and a quiver of deadly arrows.

Trouble is, I'm a girl; and I'm sixteen.

I feel a complete _idiot_!

I feel like I could _die_.

And isn't the whole point of a weapon to _prevent_ your death?

Even when it soon becomes quite obvious that no one can see that I'm wearing these ridiculous things, I still remain embarrassed because _I_ still know I'm wearing them.

If I _have_ to wear these things, maybe I should go the full hog and get one of those pathetically stupid costumes you see fantasy characters wearing; you know, the kind of skin-tight leather armour designed to protect only your bikini line areas.

Maybe it would be easier if I just had one tattooed on; how more skin-tight can you get than that?

Truth is, I'm so tattooed now that even if I went around naked people would simply assume I was wearing some sort of colourful close-fitting jumpsuit anyway.

See, Yatpan got her way, didn't she?

I accepted her offer of what I thought would just be a couple of small tattoos.

A 'tiger chest', to enable me to become 'tiger-like' when my enemies approach.

('Enemies?' I'd repeated worriedly, eliciting nothing more than an exasperated raising of eyebrows from Yatpan.)

A python, along with a venomous centipede (yeah, I know; but thankfully it doesn't look anywhere near as bad as it sounds), as both are considered 'friends of the warriors'.

Added to all this were yet more flowers, drawing on their links to the spiritual world.

So, here I am, all dressed up and nowhere to go; isn't that the expression?

Whether it is or it isn't, it perfectly sums up how I feel; carrying weapons and tattooed with every device that's supposed to grant me all these powers, and all I'm doing – as I've done so many times before – is taking a stroll down the street.

I feel the perfect mug, like someone who's bought every self-help book and product going and simply finds herself with a stripped bank account.

Maybe I should ask for my money back?

Money?

Wait a minute; the only thing I've paid for is that first, original hare and moon.

Everything else has come free of charge.

My entire body has been transformed into The Guggenheim art gallery – and Yatpan hasn't charged me a single penny.

*

I glance up into the air, wondering if Yatpan is hanging around up there once again as a hawk, watching – or should that be, as she insists, watching over? – me.

She's there; or at least, if it's not her, I've got yet another oddly behaving hawk following my every move.

The sky around her is rapidly darkening, the signs of a swiftly growing storm. The heavy clouds swirl in hurriedly, the first drops of rain already tumbling, the wind gathering to bolster the force of their falling.

The wind and rain hit everywhere and everything hard, relentlessly. It sends the people about me scattering for cover, vainly attempting to cover their bowed heads with whatever's available.

Even Yatpan's headed for home, the violently pummelling wind apparently too much for her. I'm tempted to think, Huh, so much for her claim to be watching over me: but there aren't any other birds or animals around that I can see either, the storm surprisingly ferocious in its battering of anything in its path.

Soon the only people on the street are me and a boy who, like me, seems to think there's not much point running for cover now we're already soaked. The rain's so heavy, so distorting, that it's impossible to make him out clearly. Besides, his head's down against the driving rain, while his hair and clothes are plastered hard against him.

I might not be able to recognise him, but he seems to think he recognises me.

He waves, shouts, if a little doubtfully.

'Anat! Is that you, Anat?'

Obviously, his vision is as blurred as mine by the veiling rain.

What sort of name is Anat? Odd, too, that it's the exact reverse of my own name, Tana.

Then again, maybe he's someone form the spiritual world, huh?

Maybe there they all suffer from some odd kind of dyslexia.

'No, sorry,' I yell back, 'you've mistaken me for someone else!'

'Tana!' he excitedly exclaims. 'It is you! Thank God I'm not too late!'

Now he's closer, when he smiles, I recognise him.

'Zeb!' I whisper under my breath.

It's the very first time since he died that I've been able to say his name.

*

# Chapter 14

Zeb sprints towards me, embraces me like we're long separated lovers, reunited at last.

Arms tightly around me. His cheek touching mine.

He doesn't feel any colder than you'd expect someone to be when they've been caught out in the rain.

He doesn't feel like he's dead.

He doesn't feel like he's ever been dead.

What do I ask him first?

How come he's still alive?

Or what did he mean when he said 'Thank God I'm not too late'?

'How...I thought you were dead!'

He pulls back a little, still keeping his hands on my waist.

(Oh God! I hope he can't see my bloody sword and bow!)

He grins, like he's used to people asking him how come he's still alive.

'I almost was,' he admits, not unreasonably, 'but thankfully, I've learned an awful lot about myself recently; about us, in fact! And just look at you! Haven't you changed?'

He almost spins me around in his hands, he's so enthralled by the change in me. His eyes light up: something I would have given just about anything for just a few weeks back, but now I don't want any of all this – including that tantalising 'learned a lot about us' – to distract me from figuring out how come he's alive and looking so apparently well.

What makes this conversation so difficult is that we're conducting it in the midst of a miniature hurricane, the wind drowning out our voices no matter how much we shout, no matter how close we are to each other.

'Changed, yeah,' I agree, 'but not to the extent of coming back from the dead. You were in hospital; how could you fool the doctors? Your family!'

I'm aghast as it dawns on me that his family are in mourning for a boy who's not dead at all.

'There's so much to explain–'

'You betcha!'

'But look, let's get out of all this first,' he suggests, indicating the raging storm with a wave of hand.

'Good,' he adds, raising his eyes to scan the skies. 'No Yatpan!'

'You know Yatpan?' I say, bewildered.

Then I realise that of course he knows Yatpan; he's had the tattoos too of course.

And yet he was looking skyward when he was warily looking out for her.

'I mean,' I add hurriedly as we now both rush for cover, 'you know that Yatpan can be a...'

'Hawk? Yes,' he states confidently, finishing the fading off of my question for me. 'But do you know that she killed a child? And just for his bow and arrow too?'

*

The bow and arrows strapped to my back suddenly seem a whole lot heavier.

Surely, though, these can't be in any way connected with the bow and arrow that Yatpan had killed a child for?

How could she do that?

Kill a child?

We find the best that passes for cover in this storm, the indented doorway to a long-abandoned and now dilapidated store. It protects us from the worst of the wailing wind.

'How'd you know all this?' I ask Zeb, still unsure as to what I should believe, what I should still consider as nonsense.

'Aren't there things you know about now that you couldn't have even imagined a few days ago?' Zeb says, nodding his head my way as a means of indicating the tattoos hidden beneath my clothes. 'All down to these tattoos you've been having?'

'You've been watching me?'

I'm aghast, surprised; flattered.

'When I could; but obviously, only when I knew no one would see me. These people are so scary, Tana: I can't let anyone know I'm still alive. Even my family!'

As he says this, his head drops forlornly. I reach out to comfort him, wrapping my arms tenderly about him, cradling his drooping head against my shoulder.

He feels so warm. So comforting, too, for me.

His arms curl about my waist once more.

'Earlier,' I say quietly, anxiously, 'you said you were worried you were too late?'

'Because of Anat, of course,' he says, repeating that odd reversal of my name. 'I mean, I was worried that the Goddess Anat might have already completely taken you over.'

*

He senses my bewilderment; the way I jerk uncomfortably in his arms.

He pulls back a little, locks his eyes directly onto mine.

'All those tattoos, Tana; what did you think they were really for?'

'Yatpan said they break down the boundaries of the body. Allowing contact with the sprits who– ahh.'

Zeb sees the dawning of understanding begin to bring an apprehensive sparkle to my eyes.

'But– seriously?' I protest. 'A goddess? Taking over my body; like some sort of Mummy movie? But at least the pharaohs were real!'

'And so goddesses aren't? And what about me? You know who they'd prepared my body for? Baal – better known as Baal-Zebub, Lord of the Flies; Satan.'

'Satan?' I grin wryly. 'Now you're really kidding me, right?' I add hopefully, if a little doubtfully.

Zeb's face says he isn't kidding. He's deadly serious.

Well, he is supposed to be dead after all, I suppose.

'I get it,' he admits. 'I didn't believe it all at first either, of course. Only I had the extra – well, advantage isn't probably the right word – in that they almost succeeded in getting this Baal to take me over; and that's how come I know so much, if not, unfortunately, everything.'

'So, what went wrong? How did you fight him off, stop him from taking you over?'

'I didn't; I died remember? So I wasn't much use to them anymore.'

'The tattoo really became infected? So how come you're here?'

'I was in a coma; one of these even a busy hospital is going to confuse with death. It also helped me realise that this Baal had been inside me; I felt him leave, sensed some of his memories and thoughts that still lingered behind within me. I woke up at last just after the funeral; working quick, I shoved all kinds of heavy weights into the coffin, wrapping them up so they wouldn't rattle around when the grave diggers came for me – well, what they thought was me!'

'And so this Anat; how do I stop her taking over me?'

*

# Chapter 15

'I don't know.'

Zeb shrugs miserably. And that's his answer to my question as to how I can stop all this from happening.

'How did we get involved in all this?' I ask equally miserably.

'When we were born, in the hospital; a doctor there secretly gave us our very first tattoos.'

He touches the snail on the side of his neck.

'This? It's not a birthmark?'

I touch my own mark nervously; I've seen the power of tattoos, even small ones. What could one do if it was administered when you were fresh out of your mother's womb, still forming, still easy for the sprits to form to their needs if they've got a portal into you, an easy access?

Anat; Tana. Somehow, they even made sure I had a reversed version of her name.

And Zeb too, of course; Baal-Zebub. Though in his case they didn't even bother reversing the name.

'I've always hated it,' Zeb admitted, consciously stroking his own mark once more. 'So I went looking for a tattoo to cover it up; obviously, Yatpan talked me out of it – talked me instead into having other tattoos. Like the doctor, she's a Bent-Anat; a Daughter of Anat, a follower pledged to raise her once again.'

'But the mark never bothered me that much,' I point out. 'I'd never have gone for a tattoo if Lisa hadn't – ahh! Let me guess; they gave Lisa a free tattoo, right?'

'Probably,' Zeb agrees, at last grinning once more. 'There's not muc– look out!'

Firmly grabbing me about the shoulders, he pushes me almost brutally aside.

Whirling around to follow his frightened gaze, I see why.

A hawk is hurtling down towards us, its sharp beak and claws held in readiness to strike.

*

Perhaps Yatpan has made a mistake in giving me all these powers before her mistress has had chance to completely take me over.

A deadly mistake for her.

I move fluidly, quickly, withdrawing the sword from its sheath across my back, a motion that flows effortlessly into a rising, curving strike; all expertly timed to cleave the plummeting hawk in two.

And, if this had been any hawk but Yatpan, I suspect that that is what really would have happened.

Yatpan, however, was fully aware of the skills she had granted me.

The hawk quivered in mid air, breaking it's own flight, brutally halting it's own seemingly unstoppable plunge towards my whirling blade.

Just inches from me, the hawk becomes a woman who lands gracefully upon her feet.

But it's not Yatpan; at least, not the Yatpan I know.

This is a woman every bit as athletically built as I now am.

She might even be considered beautiful too, if you've got time for considering such things.

'Don't trust him!' she snarls, glowering at Zeb like she's about to kill him and I'm the only thing stopping her.

'Did you kill a child?' I ask her sternly, glowering back at her every bit a hatefully as she's staring at Zeb.

Somehow, I can see what happened.

It's an attack of eagles, of vultures, upon an old man as he tussles with a younger one over possession of the bow and arrows. Then Yatpan, as the hawk, swoops out of nowhere between them all; she snatches the bow, the quiver of arrows.

But the boy crumples to the floor, dead.

Yatpan tries to get away, but now the eagles swoop time after time after her. She gets way, but it seems she drops her prize, the arrows and bow tumbling into a raging river.

Now she looks at me, her gaze full of sadness,and guilt.

'Yes, I killed a boy,' she admits ashamedly.

She appears to rapidly melt, to shiver and swiftly dissolve in the air.

Then she's a hawk once more, rising up and away from us.

*

'What happened there?' a relieved Zeb asks me curiously, adding with nervous grin, 'You were lashing out there like you had an invisible sword!'

'Well, yeah, I know it sounds ridiculou–'

'Believe me, nothing sounds ridiculous to me anymore!'

'Yeah, it's an invisible sword; at least to you, and any other normal human.'

Did I really just say that? 'Any other normal human'?

Am I seriously saying I no longer consider myself human?

'Though not, of course, to Yatpan,' I add hurriedly, hoping Zeb doesn't notice my weird slip up.

'Obviously,' Zeb agrees with a nod, a narrowing of his eyes. 'She was Anat's maid–'

'How long ago are we talking here?' I gasp in surprise. 'I mean, sure, she looks ancient, when she's in the form we see when she's in her shop; but I reckon if we're talking of a goddess here, we're stretching one heck of a way back.'

Zeb shrugs.

'Who can say?' he admits. 'But as we are talking goddesses, I suppose time doesn't really come into it. It was Yatpan's mistress, Anat, who sent her to retrieve the bow from the boy.'

'So, this Anat is just as responsible for the boy's death as Yatpan?'

Zeb nods in agreement once again.

'Er, I know this is a little off subject,' I begin edgily, 'but I don't suppose you have any idea what this bow looked like, do you?'

He gives me another shrug.

'I'm not sure,' he says, rubbing the snail on his neck once again as if wanting to rid himself of it, 'but Anat used to adorn herself in what's called Tyrian purple, a dye produced from the murex snail. It might be decorated with a snail; just as we are!'

My heart sinks; this has to be the bow once belonging to the dead child. The purple grip, the spiralling embroidery?

'You'd think, wouldn't you,' Zeb continues thoughtfully, 'she'd be associated with something more bloodthirsty.'

'Bloodthirsty?' I repeat hesitantly, fearing Zeb's reply.

'Well, this isn't your kindly goddess we're talking of here,' Zen says, his grin half amused, half terrified. 'She's your original stroppy, uncontrollable teenager, who enjoys nothing more than wading through the blood of vast armies she's killed just for the thrill of it.'

'Ahh,' I sigh miserably, recalling my barely controlled impulses to go out killing masses of – well, let's face up to it now, right? – people!

Great; just great!

Here's my big chance to be some wonderful, all embracing goddess; and I get to pick a mass murderer who makes Stalin look like good old Uncle Joe!

*

'So, what do we do now?'

I'm thinking it, but it's Zeb who asks it.

Obviously, neither one of us is quite sure what to do.

'I suppose,' Zeb continues, his tone even more uncertain, 'the fact that I'm okay shows everything doesn't have to fall their way.'

'But you almost died,' I point out. 'I can't be too sure that my death would have the same results.'

'Yep,' he agrees, flattening the brief fluttering of hope within me that he might have worked out a way to safely replicate his own experiences, 'that's way too risky; playing with death.'

'At least you've warned me what to expect, what I'm up against,' I add a little more brightly. 'I suppose I'm just going to have to confront Yatpan; tell her she's got to stop this – or else!'

'Or else what?' Zeb asks, his eyebrows arching curiously.

'Well,' I say sternly, 'I am the world's archetypal vicious teenager, aren't I?'

*

# Chapter 16

'Okay, yeah; let's head there,' Zeb says, taking my hand to lead me back out into the storm.

The storm's nowhere near as violent as it was only moments ago; but the rain is still falling heavily, the gusts still furious enough to pick anyone up off their feet if they're wearing too voluminous a coat.

'You don't have to–'

'Yes I do,' Zeb interrupts. 'We need to watch out for each other.'

The streets have remained more or less deserted since the storm began. Now, however, there's a man struggling against the wind and rain, his head bowed to protect his face as he heads in the same general direction as us.

Another man appears from around a nearby corner, his head also bowed, a raised hand covering his crown.

He's heading our way too. Not quite as far ahead of us as the other man, but on the other side of the street.

A third man appears, one posing so many similarities to the other two they could be triplets.

Wouldn't you know it; he's heading our way too.

*

Zeb clenches my hand a touch firmer.

I can see by the way he's anxiously watching the men, his eyes flitting quickly from one to the other, that he also feels apprehensive about their sudden appearance.

'You don't think...?' he says.

'I think,' I reply.

Even so, the men aren't approaching us; they're rapidly drawing closer to each other.

Amongst the wailing of the wind, there's now a howling, but it's something far more animalistic in its tones than I'd expect of even a storm like this. Moreover, its not coming from the men gathering together ahead of us, but from behind. From either side of us too, as we cross a street.

Glancing to either side, I watch, startled, as the howling seems to be coming from the middle of the road. Here the heavily falling rain is swirling, as if caught within the grip of miniature tornados.

A fleeting look over my shoulder tells me it's happening there too: the howling is either forcing the rain and wind to chaotically whirl, catching up within its embrace anything like leaves or debris, or the coiling of the air itself is causing the bestial yowling.

Either way, the result is the same; the serpentine spiralling is rising to the height of men, expanding too, taking on the forms of yet more shady figures.

Now there are two more men behind us, and one to either side,

The three men ahead of us finally draw together, slewing to an immediate halt. They whirl around as one to glare at us; and as they do, they also become spiralling forms, merging into each other, until they loom over us as a three-headed giant.

Oh sh*t!

And to think; all this surfeit of joy is all down to me wanting a bloody hare and moon tattoo!

*

# Chapter 17

The giant's not in any real hurry to mash us to pieces.

He's confidently striding towards us, a malicious grin on each of his three ugly faces.

Unlike his three heads, his arms and legs have merged to become huge arms, powerful legs. His body, too, is one, only one of gigantic proportions. And doubtlessly every bit as powerfully strong as at least three men.

I briefly consider dragging Zeb after me down the road to my right, where only a single man is blocking our path.

But I suspect that's what they want me to do; all the man has to do is hold me up long enough for the giant to fall upon our backs.

Better, then to take the giant head on.

I reach for my sword, wishing I'd had the good sense to string my bow, wishing I hadn't worried about the rain spoiling the string, wishing I hadn't felt so embarrassed about carrying these weapons.

Wishing I wasn't wasting my time thinking about all these useless things.

As I reach for my sword, I spring forward in the same motion, bringing the sword down in a viscous whirl against the giant's chest, hoping it cleaves flesh and muscle in two.

Unfortunately, his flesh and muscle moves even swifter than my blade

As before, his body becomes perfectly fluid, impossibly curling away from my strike as if I've merely disturbed water that ripples away from me.

His whole body narrows, elongates, like the stretching and bending of rubber. The necks below each head are also now rapidly elongating, snake-like in their curling and coiling as each head rises up and rushes towards me, the faces abruptly reptilian in their angry snarling and snapping.

I whirl my blade again and again, but each blow cleaves through nothing but empty air, the writhing heads and body avoiding my every move as if pre-empting my own thoughts on where to strike out at next.

I'm nowhere near as expert at wielding this blade as I was in my dream; probably because I'll only reach that level of skill once Anat has fully taken me over.

Neither am I anywhere near as graceful, as athletic, as she was.

Out of the corner of an eye, I can see the other four men swiftly approaching an unsuspecting Zeb, who's too busy anxiously watching my failing efforts fighting the serpent.

I cry out a warning, but like my increasingly useless strikes with the sword, it's too late.

The four men grasp him firmly, his struggle to escape their combined grip as fruitless as my own attempts to defeat this writhing monster. I try to leap out of the way of the three snapping serpentine heads, to turn towards Zeb and at least offer him some help and free him.

But as soon as my whirling blade is no longer holding them at bay, the heads sense an opportunity to strike.

One rushes in below my still swinging sword, aiming for below my waist; it bites hard, ferociously, its huge fangs sinking deep into my flesh.

A surge of heat rushes through me, its venom flooding into my muscles, my veins.

The second head snaps its jaws around my lower chest, the third about my waist.

The pain's unbelievable, the rush of injected venom like flames hurtling through me as if I were nothing but straw.

The fangs are withdrawn, the serpentine heads pulling back, their grins a mingling of glee and malevolence.

At least the men have released Zeb.

My arms hang limply, my legs crumple beneath me. My vision is blurring, darkening.

I'm dying; there's no doubt about it.

Zeb worriedly rushes over to me as I hit the floor.

He's bent over me, weeping, tenderly stroking my face.

'Tana! No, no; don't leave me!'

*

# Chapter 18

It's as if the serpent had swallowed me whole, rather than biting me multiple times.

I'm swirling down and down inside what could be apparently endless coils.

The world's worst waterslide.

Finally, I'm sort of spat out into what could be a regular if very dark room.

It's dark despite having a surprisingly large amount of windows.

Then again, it's even darker outside.

If this is death, where is everybody else?

All the spirits of the dead? The ancestors?

Isn't your aunty or gran or someone supposed to be around to welcome you when you die?

Or at least a couple of angels.

No gates, no clouds, either.

Just a dim room. Despite all these windows.

I'm still wearing my sword, my bow and arrows.

Obviously, they can exist in both worlds.

And my body?

Strangely enough, it's the same body I had while alive, complete with all the tattoos.

I know this because, apart from the weapons slung across my back, I'm completely naked.

*

The darkness by me swirls, that spiralling whirlpool effect I had witnessed in the rain.

Once again, the whirling quivers, shudders as if disturbed; and then an old woman is standing beside me.

She doesn't speak.

I don't ask her anything.

As she approaches, I silently obey her visual instructions to raise my arms, to hold up my chin, to display my wrists, my ankles to her.

She's inspecting me, much as a doctor might perform a medical examination.

After a close observation of my inner ankles, she rises to her feet, smiles; then vanishes.

Alongside me, there's another swirling of the dark air. It forms once more into a woman, but this time a young girl of about my age.

'Anat?' I ask unsurely.

She laughs, pleasantly, rather than the malicious chuckle I might have been expecting.

'Hardly,' she says in reply to my hesitantly asked question. 'I'm Pagrhat, niece of Anat – who killed my brother for the bow you're wearing.'

*

'I'm sorry,' I say, noticing that mentioning her brother has caused Pagrhat to sadly frown sadly, 'but if it helps, you can have the bow–'

She raises a hand to stop me from taking the bow from my back.

'Thank you,' she says, 'but you can make more use of it than I can; and I need your help to help me find Anat!'

'Me? How can I help? Aren't I...well, dead?'

'The way I see it, you're merely on another part of your journey; a journey heavenwards through the Many Lodges.'

'Then I'm not in heaven?' I ask, glancing about me at the surrounding, dull room with a mix of relief and foreboding: after all, you'd think the one advantage of death was that all your cares would be over, wouldn't you?

'Who was the old woman?' I next ask, realising Pagrhat doesn't need to answer my first question; quite obviously, this isn't heaven!

'She performs an identification of whom you are; if she failed to recognise you, then she would push you back into the darkness, sending you plummeting back to earth!'

I nervously look behind me, expecting see a precipitous drop hidden somewhere within the darkness; but the floor seems level, stable.

'I can't see any drop there,' I admit, adding hopefully, 'Besides, I wouldn't mind going back to earth.'

'Ah, but as what? If you hadn't gained her approval then, believe me, the floor would have opened up behind you; and you would have no hope of ever gaining admittance to the spirit world again. This, of course, is what happened to your poor friend.'

She shakes her head sadly.

I'm horrified.

'To Zeb? Oh no! Then – what happens to him; when he dies again, I mean?'

'He may think he's alive, but his sprit is trapped in a body that, unfortunately, is still dead.'

All this is getting more horrifying by the second.

'Then – his body will rot about him? About his spirit?'

'Eventually; the reappearance of his spirit has only temporarily slowed down its decay.'

'Poor Zeb! How can I help him?'

It suddenly dawns on me that the position he's in is even worse; when I'd died, there was nothing to stop the serpent men from taking him.

'Wait,' I say abruptly, 'we were being attacked by serpent men–'

'The servants of Yam,' Pagrhat nods.

I'm not sure who this Yam is, of course, but can only assume he must be some ally of Anat. My main concern at the moment is Zeb.

'What did they do with him?'

'They let him go, of course; you were the one they were after.'

'But why kill me?' I ask, puzzled. 'Surely Anat needs me alive if she's to take me over,' I add, thinking of how Zeb's death had prevented Baal from moving into his body.

Pagrhat shakes her head.

'Their venom made your sprit flee your body, for it's deadly for spirit, not flesh; it will actually preserve your body, keeping it alive but in a coma approaching and not dissimilar to death.'

'So Anat can still take over my body?

'Yes, once the venom has cleared; but I might be able to help you, even as you help me. Our goals are not dissimilar, after all.'

*

# Chapter 19

'My father Dn'il is the only one said to make the Prince of Death wail; for he cures death,' Pagrhat began to explain. 'And yet in his way, he was the one who set all these dreadful events in motion when he decided to entertain Koshar the Craftsman, having heard of the fabulous bow he had created for my aunt.'

'What's so special about this bow, these arrows: why did Anat resort to killing to retrieve them?

'Ah, that's the irony of these arrows, I'm afraid: for they are TÌL, the Arrows of Life. And so when Kosher presented the bow to my father as thanks, it was these very arrows that gave him power over Death: for Death, of course, can fear no weapon but Life! My brother Aqahat claimed the bow and arrow as his, believing it to be more suitable for him and his eagles. Now Anat wanted this bow so badly, she offered Aqahat immortality; but he called her a liar, because old age and death are the lot of all men, as it should be. He then foolishly added, "What would a woman do with a bow?" So Anat sent birds of prey, who killed him and stole his bow.'

I'm tempted to interrupt, to say I'd heard it was Yatpan, but felt it was best to let her continue.

'Now according to Anat, she hadn't intended for Aqahat to be killed, so she was angry with the attendant responsible; he fled–'

'He? But I'd heard it was Yatpan?'

'Hah, I see that to you he appears as a woman, yes?'

I nodded.

'This, indeed, is his great skill. Indeed, not realising he was the once responsible for my brother's death, I originally sought him out to kill Anat for me. But not realising who I was – for I simply told him that it was Mot, Death himself, who sought Anat's demise, having already killed his brother Baal – he boasted of how he had killed Aqhat, and how it had all been for nothing; for as he fled Anat with the bow and arrow, he dropped them into a river where they were lost.'

'But...here they are!' I pointed out unnecessarily, drawing her attention once again to the weapons strapped across my back.

'Indeed; but who's to trust either Yatpan or Anat's version of events? Either way, as a result of all this, the land was plunged into seven years of severe drought, in which many died. Whereas I, when I discovered Yatpan's role, wooed him in his tent; then killed him.'

'Yet I've seen her – _him_!'

'Anat restored his life when he informed her that Mot was seeking her death: and as even Anat fears Death, she went into hiding – and no one, not even Yatpan, knows where she hides!'

'She _was_ supposed to reappear through me. Why, if she's in hiding?'

'She and her followers, the Daughters of Anat, had simply been waiting for the most auspicious time to reappear; and yes, they also needed access to the earthly realm, if they were to successfully face down Death – as that, of course, is where he operates most efficaciously.'

'But...isn't that a good thing? I mean, if they can defeat _Death_?'

'As my brother said, Death is the lot of men, and unchangeable; Anat seeks only to prevent her own miserable death. You still have a connection with her, I would think; and if you help me find her, I might well be able to help you conquer your _own_ death!'

*

'But my body! If its taken to the mortuary, it will be dissected and...'

'You body wasn't left there,' Pagrhat hurriedly reassures me. 'Yam and his servants removed it to a place of safety, waiting for the venom to be washed from your body–'

'So Anat's free to take it over!' I whisper, horrified.

Pagrhat nods in agreement.

'I would have thought that Anat would have brought all this to a halt once it was obvious Baal couldn't be resurrected. Somehow, she must have got word to Yatpan that she wished to go ahead with it–'

'The dream! _My_ dream!

'A dream?'

Going by her expression, Pagrhat seems to be every bit as interested in my dream as Yatpan was.

Perhaps this is the way the spirit world, or even the goddesses, communicate with those more fully aware of what's really happening between our conflicting worlds.

'When I mentioned to Yatpan that I'd dreamt of Anat – of myself – fighting a sea serpent, she suddenly seemed: well, really really happy!'

'Ah yes, yes.' Pagrhat nods again, but this time more thoughtfully. 'Yes, that was a message to Yatpan that she intended to go ahead with everything.'

'But why a serpent? Aren't they helping her?'

Pagrhat chuckles wickedly.

'Serpents rarely retain their allegiance to one side only!'

'Why use my dreams; couldn't she just contact Yatpan through _her_ dreams?'

'That would be too much of a risk for her; revealing herself to Yatpan could be like revealing herself to Mot. This way, using you, Anat passed on a simple message that she was prepared to make another attempt on Mot's life.'

'She's attempted all this before?'

'Many times; but each time, Mot has thwarted her in some way. If he can find out who either Anat or Baal are intending to utilise, he simply arranges for an early death, before the bodies can be taken over...'

'Zeb! That's why...'

Pagrhat nods again.

'Mot missed you, thankfully. Even Yam's attack upon you might work to our benefit; tell me, what else happened in this dream of yours? There might be _something_ in it that leads us to Anat!'

*

'Ah, yes, it's of an earlier time, when Yam himself, the Serpent of Chaos, ruled,' Pagrhat explains after I've recounted as much as I can remember of my dream. 'That's why even Baal didn't dare include a window in his heavenly Hall of Zafon; and it was only when he and Anat had usurped the sea and river god Yam that he felt confident enough to include a window, one through which he could order his brother Mot to stay within the confines of his own realm.'

'Then the dream _doesn't_ help us?'

'I think it _might_ ,' Pagrhat replied hopefully. 'At the very least, it gives us a good reason to visit the deserted halls.'

'They're deserted? Wouldn't it be obvious that she might be there?'

'Oh, she isn't _there_ , I'm sure of that: but if it appeared within your dream, then I'm also sure there must be some connection that could lead us to her.'

'How do we get there? Isn't it on top of a mountain?'

Pagrhat chuckled.

'It's far far higher than that I'm afraid; the Halls of Zafon are the heavens themselves.'

There was shivering of the air about her, a rapid trembling of her form, all of which I'd witnessed before when Yatpan had transformed into a hawk.

But Pagrhat didn't become a hawk.

She became a huge vulture.

*

# Chapter 20

Even with me riding on her back, Pagrhat rose effortlessly through the heavens.

Our surroundings now are like the Halls of Zafon as they appeared in my dream, the night sky a deep, rich blue, scattered with the flecks of gold of innumerable sparkling suns. The silver is the glimmering of other stars, the fire the golden flames of the sun itself.

We enter the hall itself through the window, the one and only window in these vast halls.

Pagrhat gracefully alights before a massive, glittering stone, smoothly transforming back into herself even as she lands. I simply find myself slipping slowly off her back and standing beside her.

The hall is deserted. No one sits upon the throne.

Noting my bewilderment at the emptiness of so grand a throne room – for it seems as if God himself has deserted us! – Pagrhat tenderly takes my hand.

'Mot responded to his brother's command with an invitation to a banquet; only for Baal to end up being the feast devoured by Mot. Ashtar, God of Irrigation, was given the rain god's throne, but he abhors these great heights.'

As she spoke, Pagaht stepped closer towards the empty throne, taking me with her,

The throne rippled fluidly; no, as if _alive_!

'The Throne is god's Power and Grandeur, one of Two Truths,' Pagrhat announced; but not so much to me as towards the throne itself, as if addressing it, flattering it. 'The other is Arsh, god's Knowledge, the horizon of the First Manifestation of God.'

The rippling became more excited, the throne dissolving until it transformed into what could have been an open portal looking out on to the heavens.

'Ashtar,' Pagrhat said calmly, speaking now as if she were addressing someone residing far off within that great stretch of space, 'It's Pagrhat; we have the TÌL, the Arrows of Life.'

*

This time, it was the heavens themselves that shivered, that rippled.

It could have been some far off equivalent of the Milky Way, writhing as if that too were now alive. It appeared to be growing, expanding, but – I realised – it was actually snaking its way towards us across the dark sky.

A blaze of light filled the cleft in the room that had been the throne; and abruptly, it was the sparkling throne once more, but his time with a man seated upon it.

I suspect that he must have been a large man; and yet his feet didn't reach the throne's footstool. Neither did his head rest securely against the headrest, which was set too high for him.

As soon as he saw me, his eyes opened wide in terror; he even shrank back a little in his chair, as if expecting me to throw myself at him.

'What treachery is this, Pagrhat?' he stormed, his horror increasing as his gaze fell upon the bow and quiver of arrows upon my back. 'You've led me into one of Anat's traps?'

'Of course not, Ashtar!' Pagrhat spat back dismissively, indicating me with a wave of her hand. 'This is one of the girls she's chosen to use; though the likeness is remarkable, I must admit!'

'And yet she has the _bow_ , the _arrows_!' Ashtar exclaimed fearfully. 'That's not _possible_...unless...how did she...?

'She offered them to me,' Pagrhat replied calmly.

'Then why...'

'Why should this poor girl place her trust in me if I take everything she owns from her? We need her, Ashtar: I believe she can lead us to Anat.'

'But the _arrows_ ; after all this time!'

'And so after all this time, Ashtar, there is no rush to take possession of them, is there?'

She glowers at Ashtar as if commanding him to relax, to trust _her_.

He lazily slumps back on his throne.

'Ah, yes, yes; of course!' he says, adding with a scheming leer, 'No, no; we don't need them just _yet_ , at least!'

'The girl has already been granted a relatively minor connection with Anat; a dream.'

'A dream?'

He sits forward in his seat, taking an interest at last.

'One recalling the time before Yam himself was...er, _replaced_.'

On hearing this, Ashtar grimaces disappointedly. He shrugs, slumps back into his chair once more.

'Then...of what use is such a dream to _us_?'

'A dream of _these_ halls,' Pagrhat explained.

'Really?' Ashtar says, at last jumping down from his throne, making his way towards us, towards me.

His eyes are firmly fixed upon me, snake-like in their intensity and probing.

'A dream, that's all: and yet, now I'm _close_ – I believe I can _smell_ her here!'

He sniffs the air about me as if he were an animal.

'The...er, the _connection_ , I suppose,' I say nervously.

'I'm not so sure...' he declares doubtfully, stepping back, his eyes never leaving me, still suspicious and a little scared.

As part of the motion of stepping back, of raising his head a little but keeping his gaze on me, of arching his back, he begins to become leaner, to elongate; and in an instant, he's transformed into a looming serpent, his fangs bared as his head hurtles down to strike at me.

*

# Chapter 21

I don't even need to think how to react.

It's all perfectly instinctive, it seems.

The bow's suddenly in my hand, bizarrely already strung, all ready for action.

An arrow is already out of the quiver, already notched.

No; it's already on its way, rushing toward the serpent's open throat.

The force and momentum of the serpent's sticking head combines with the speed of the flying arrow.

The arrow's head cleaves through the serpent's inner red flesh effortlessly.

It cleaves through muscle.

Through scales.

The serpent crumples, almost split in two.

'You _killed_ him? With an Arrow of _Life_?'

Pagrhat is aghast.

'I didn't _mean_ to!' I insist. 'It was all just so instinctive; I don't really know what happened!'

Pagrhat isn't listening; she's drawing closer towards the still quivering body of the dead serpent.

She callously digs amongst the dead creature's steaming flesh, as if she's noticed something odd there.

She pulls out the arrow, now covered in a viscously thick blood.

But she still continues digging away with her hand amongst the severed fresh, the split gullet, as if she's spotted something of great interest there.

She pulls out another arrow.

She turns towards me, frowning in bewilderment as she holds up both arrows.

As the glutinous blood runs down off their shafts, I can see little difference between them; they seem identical.

' _Two_ arrows?' Pagrhat says with obvious disbelief. 'How can there _possibly_ be two arrows?'

*

# Chapter 22

'Maybe he swallowed one?' I suggest.

Pagrhat ignores me once again. She's examining the two arrows, checking their size against each other, their flights.

'They're the _same_ : they're _both_ Arrows of Life!' she announces incredulously.

'Is that...is that so odd?' I hesitantly ask.

She looks back towards me; no, she's ignoring me again. It's the quiver she's looking at.

' _Eight_ arrows?' she says, the incredulity still prominent in her voice. ' _Seven_ ; there's only supposed to be _seven_!

She rushes towards me, spins me round so she can count the arrows remaining in my quiver.

'There _can't_ be _eight_!' she insists.

She glowers in frustration, trying urgently to puzzle all this out.

Suddenly, as if it had abruptly burnt her, she casts one of the arrows aside.

The other she clutches onto all the tighter.

'Of _course_!'

Just as Ashtar had done only moments before, she warily steps back and away from me, her gaze never wavering from its hard focus upon the quiver.

'Ashtar was _right_!'

'Right? About what?'

' _Anat_? Pagrhat whispers suspiciously. 'I _know_ you're _there_!'

*

'Where?' I ask Pagrhat uncertainly. ' _Where's_ Anat?'

Pagrhat chuckles nervously.

'You did say, didn't you, that you acted _instinctively_? 'But that wasn't you at all, I'm afraid.'

Now I'm the one that's getting nervous; is Pagrhat about to attack me, as Ashtar did?

'No, no Pagrhat: you've got this _wrong_! She's _not_ here: she's _not_ inside me!'

'Of course she's not _inside_ you!' Pagrhat growls. 'Yet she's _controlling_ you. _You_ weren't instinctively using the _bow_ ; the _bow_ was instinctively using _you_!'

'The _bow_ using me?' I laugh edgily. 'You can't be serious!'

'It _isn't_ a bow; and those aren't _arrows_!'

She's made her mind up; she's stepping away from me swiftly now, casting the arrow she's holding as far away as she can, the air already quivering about her as she affects her transformation.

Within less than a split second, she's a giant vulture once more; one screeching towards me, her claws open in preparation for riving me apart.

*

# Chapter 23

Once again, that instinct takes over.

I drop to one knee, rolling over as part of the same easy, flowing motion.

Pagrhat swoops over me, her claws close yet not anywhere near close enough to even scratch me.

My roll fluidly becomes a complete turn around, a rising to my knees, a snatching of the bow up into a firing position; an arrow notched and aimed at the breast of Pagrhat as she herself turns to strike once more.

I strain to hold the bowstring, to stop myself form releasing the arrow towards Pagrhat.

Pagrhat also halts her attack. With a shiver of the air, she becomes a girl once more.

The arrow is still aimed at her heart; I can't turn it away from her no matter how hard I try.

'I knew it _had_ to be you!' Pagrhat snorts triumphantly. 'But then, _you_ must know _that_ can't harm me!'

She indicates the arrow with a dismissive nod of her head.

'Pagrhat,' I say, attempting to remain calm and in control, 'I don't know _why_ I'm aiming this arrow at you: but then, I don't know why you _attacked_ me either!'

'I'm not talking to _you_!' Pagrhat snarls mockingly. 'I'm addressing Anat!'

'She's not _here_!' I insist firmly. 'She's _not_ controlling me!'

'The bow, the arrows,' Pagrhat says with a sneer. 'That's where she's been hiding all this time!'

'The Arrows of Life? But that doesn't make any sense!' I'm straining all the more to hold back from releasing the powerful bow. 'They were one of the reasons Anat had to _go_ into hiding!'

'The Bow and – well, _most_ of – the Arrows of Life are _still_ lost! That's why she's still so reticent about showing herself. They really _did_ fall into the raging river, didn't they? Into _Yam_ the River God himself!'

I fleetingly glance down at the split serpent.

'He's Yam?'

'One of his servants; seven serpents in all, just as there were seven arrows. One serpent to hide each arrow.'

'None of what you're saying really makes much sense, you know. I've got the arrows here, with me, haven't I? And if Yam and his serpents are helping Anat, why would she force me to kill Ashtar? And why wouldn't she know where the arrows are?'

'Ah, I lied, I'm afraid: the serpents are working for my master, Mot.'

'Ahh,' I say, trying to process this new piece of information, to slot it in amongst all the other puzzling pieces. 'Then why are they keeping me alive.'

'Oh dear; did I lie there, too? You're _dead_ , I'm afraid.'

*

_Dead_.

It hardly seems to make much difference to me, to be honest.

Here I am, after all.

I don't _feel_ dead.

I'm not acting _dead_.

My expression must be one of resignation.

Pagrhat's expression though; now that's completely different.

It's one of surprise, of dawning knowledge.

'But...of course!' she chuckles richly, like she's just recalled some fabulously funny joke.

'Maybe if you let me in on the joke, I'll continue holding this arrow back from hitting you,' I say irately.

'Well, don't you see?' she laughs. 'I _led_ her here! I _brought_ Anat here, to Ashtar! Anat not only _knew_ we'd kill you; she _wanted_ you to be killed!'

'But...Anat _isn't_ here!' I persist. 'She's _not_ me!'

'Ah, but she _is_ ; and fortunately, she revealed herself too early.'

She moved forward, moved as if readying herself to transform and move into the attack once more.

'Wait!' I snap, causing her to halt. 'If what you're saying is right, that these aren't the Arrows of Life; then this one will kill you, as it did Ashtar!'

She laughed, like she'd remembered another fabulous joke.

'My master, Mot; he secretly punished my father for having all that power over him. In the old language, _Pagr'_ is the word for corpse; I was _born_ dead, I _am_ death! Who better to relieve my father of such a dangerous weapon?'

She slips yet again into the continuation of her forward movement, transforming the move into a leap, a lifting of her feet up off the floor.

She instantly morphs into the giant vulture, viciously swooping towards me.

I release the arrow; what other weapon do I have?

*

# Chapter 24

The arrow doesn't miss; that instinct again.

It plunges deeply into the vulture's breast, around where I assume the heart must be.

It hits her with such a tremendous force that it slows her down, actually throwing her back in mid air, her wings briefly flailing uselessly. She screeches agonisingly, throwing back her long neck as she releases her terrified shriek. Her eyes are bulbous in their shock, their horror; their realisation.

'The Arrow of Life!' she furiously but exhaustedly wails, her rapidly weakening wings refusing to beat hard to keep her in the air. 'I threw away the wrong one!'

She hits the ground hard, heavily, that long neck now limply writhing as if broken and useless. Feathers scatter everywhere, the huge wings crumpling about her like an old, discarded fur coat.

Once again out of instinct, I jump out of the way as she falls and strikes the floor, fearing that those crumbling great wings might still stretch out and bowl me over even as she dies.

Then, at last, she's completely motionless.

She's dead.

Or, if she really _was_ dead, as she claimed, the Arrow of Life has somehow evened things out.

Is that how it works?

Who knows?

My hands are empty; I'm no longer holding the bow.

But standing beside me now is my mirror image; a girl who could be my twin.

*

Anat; it has to be.

I still have the great sword strapped across my back, I realise as I briefly reach behind me to check what's there; but the quiver of arrows has gone.

Anat doesn't speak to me: she simply steps forward towards the motionless vulture.

She _does_ have a bow and a quiver of arrows strapped across her back, but it looks to me (the weapons expert again!) like a much simpler version to the one I'd held. Similarly, the great broadsword is also strapped there, but it's a different sword to the one I still have.

Callously placing a foot upon the dead vulture to keep the body in place, Anat reaches down and effortlessly pulls free the Arrow of Life.

I notice that her left arm isn't properly formed, for some reason, as if it has been warped or badly burnt in a battle. Still remaining silent, she raises this arm, pointing off towards the corner of the room where Pagrhat had cast the arrow she had falsely believed was the Arrow of Life.

The arrow ripples, rises off the ground – and flies towards Anat's arm. Here it shivers, dissolves, and blends to become part of Anat's flesh, repairing what I'd thought had been an unnatural warping.

As she seems unwilling to speak, I presume it's up to me to open up the conversation.

'You've failed, you know?' I say calmly. 'I'm already dead; just as your precious Baal couldn't take over poor Zeb, you can no longer take over me.'

She turns to look at me with a curious, wry grin.

'Take you over? Now why on earth would I want to do that?'

'Don't you need to do that? I mean, as Pagrhat said; to take on this Mot, you need a presence on earth to accomplish it.'

'Ahh, so you're here, what: an hour at most? And already your an expert on everything going on around here?'

'I'm just going by what Pagrhat sa–'

'And you can't think for yourself? You trust everything everyone tells you, do you?'

'Well no, but when–'

'But when I'm confused, what choice do I have, right? _That_ ancient excuse!'

'Sh*t! I really _am_ you, aren't I?'

*

'You _used_ me!'

I've given up on politeness; this b*tch didn't mind that I was killed, that Zeb was killed – she even _counted_ on _me_ being murdered!

'Ah, big deal,' she says dismissively. 'And _you've_ never used _anybody_ to get what _you_ want in life, yeah?'

'I haven't planned on getting them killed!'

'If something's gonna happen, then you might as well take that into account, right? Use it to your advantage?'

'How...how _callous_ could anyone be?'

For once, I'm lost for words.

This girl is just _unbelievable_!

I've never come across such arrogance, such...

Oh okay; maybe I _have_ , right?

'Tana! Are you all right?'

The voice comes from behind me.

I whirl around.

It's Zeb; standing in the window.

*

# Chapter 25

'Zeb!'

Zeb lithely hops down from the widow ledge onto the floor.

He rushes towards me; turning, I rush towards him.

'But how did you _get_ here?' I ask gleefully as we joyfully throw our arms about each other; but before we can turn it into a full-on embrace, I anxiously lean back a little: 'Are you...?'

'Dead?' Zeb chuckles. 'I _was_ dead, after all, wasn't I? I realised that, thankfully; so I _ordered_ my body to let _me_ go.'

'Oh Zeb!' I hug him tightly at last, relieved that his spirit has been allowed to come through to here after all.

We kiss; at last. It's a cold kiss – but heck, it's Zeb!

'We can be together here no–'

He stops: I feel him freeze in my arms.

He's looking fearfully over my shoulder.

When I turn around to follow his gaze, I see he's staring at Anat.

And not because he's startled that she looks just like me.

He's startled because she's crouching on a knee and aiming an arrow over my shoulder; aiming directly at his forehead.

*

'It's an Arrow of Life,' Anat calmly declares.

'Ahh...' says Zeb, in a way that implies he's not really sure what's going on here.

'Anat! No!' I say, stepping between them, ensuring she no longer has a clear shot of him.

'Zeb means you no harm,' I continue firmly. 'He's the one who you'd intended to use to resurrect Baal. And now he's dead too, like me. Haven't we suffered enough for your warped purpose?'

'Suffered?' Anat snorts derisively. 'Hahh! I don't think Mot's suffered at all throughout all this!'

'Mot?" I frown in bewilderment. 'Anat, no way is this–'

'Your brother, Baal,' Zeb yells out nervously over my shoulder, 'isn't he really Baal-Zebub?'

'Of course!' Anat replies proudly.

'Then you _are_ evil!' I snarl, throwing myself towards Anat, intending to bring this impasse to an end by snatching the bow from her.

I'm no longer moving as instinctively swiftly as I had been only moments before. Anat, on the other had, is fluid in her moves as she leans slightly to one side.

She lets the arrow fly, aiming over my shoulder.

Zeb's head has been revealed by my slow, cumbersome move.

Similarly, I can no longer move swiftly enough to prevent the arrow from striking its target.

*

I might be moving too slow; but Zeb isn't.

He moves with a speed and skill almost on a level with Anat's litheness.

He grabs me firmly by the shoulders.

He pulls me into the path of the arrow.

Protecting himself.

Sacrificing me.

The arrow strikes me hard directly in the middle of my forehead.

And a frustrated Anat dissolves before my eyes.

*

# Chapter 26

The ink has to be mixed incredibly carefully; the ingredients are carefully measured – yes, even my urine, which gives the delicate inkings their potency.

My urine, Yatpan assures me, is even more efficacious than hers.

For haven't I had the rare privilege of being an intended manifestation – an _avatar_ – of the great Goddess Anat?

I have been dead; I have travelled in the spirit world unencumbered by earthly materials.

I have visited the Halls of Zafon; I have witnessed the majesty of the Throne, and the boundless knowledge of Arsh.

I have been a personal victim of Mot, who has held me firmly and even kissed me while in the guise of a friend.

And yet an Arrow of Life has restored me to life on earth.

Despite all this, I'm resentful that I failed Zeb; that I failed everyone else here on earth

If Anat had killed Mot, had killed Death himself, then I would have been restored to life anyway.

And so would Zeb.

As it is, Zeb remains dead.

While Mot remains alive.

*

With Yatpan, I now search for another one destined to help Anat defeat Death.

We look for the birthmark, the bloody purple snail.

They're incredibly rare, Yatpan informs me.

It has been over a thousand years since two appeared together, as they did with myself and Zeb.

Over thousands of years, there have only ever been three occasions when Baal- _Zbl_ – Lord of the _Heavens_ – has had an opportunity to aid his sister in her task.

'There _will_ be another time!' Yatpan assures me, almost everyday.

Meanwhile, I mix the inks, in readiness for the appointed one.

But at least I now know who I am.

I'm Tana: a Daughter of Anat.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool

