The Carousel: Love and Possession

Not much to say about this one. This was my first writing session of last November's nanowrimo. Like most Caris and Zel encounters, this one has yet to develop into anything.

 

 

Becky spreads the muscles in her mouth to scream but only a soft hiss and a distant whimper seep out. I clutch her hand in mine, and her nails dig into my skin. And Zel’s palm on Becky’s sternum is doing whatever it is that Zel does when she’s feeling around someone’s soul.

And poor Walter, drained and bruised from one demonic exorcism is now having to relive it, this time through his own daughter. The minister’s faith is leaving him. I don’t need to be intuitive to recognize that.

“What’s happening to her?” he chokes as if he is trying to wake up from a nightmare. I give a Zel a chance to explain, but she’s locked in a tussle with Becky’s intruder. Walter rephrases his question with added volume and an un-pulpit-worthy appositive.

“Demonic possession is a seed,” I explain amidst winches from Becky’s grip. “When it plants itself in a human soul the vines slowly sprout over time and gradually latch hold of the host like a real vine does to its surroundings. This is why exorcism is so difficult, because you’re uprooting it and yanking it off its solid perch. But a demonic vine isn’t passive like a plant. If it’s strong enough, it’s going to seek out new fertile ground.”

Sweat drops shake from Becky’s face as her head jolts against her bedpost. I grab a handful of her bedspread and try to position it where it will cushion the blow should it happen again.

“So she’s being possessed?” Walter asks.

“She’s being attacked,” says Zel.

Walter moves slowly across the room. “Rebekah?” His voice is pleading. “Becky?”

I pull my hand away while Zel recites something to her from an ancient tome. I place my hands on Walter’s shoulders to keep him from interfering. “Reverend, I know you’re strung out. But this is the Lonesome Valley. You need your faith.”

“God’s not here.”

“Then find him!” snaps Zel.

I sigh. Bedside manner is never going to be Zel’s strong suit. I take Becky’s bible off her dresser and hold it out to Walter. “Please, she needs you.”

“I don’t even know what to pray for.”

“Then just listen.”

Walter sinks down beside the bed. Becky’s eyes are now open, and they’re staring blankly at Zel. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look of an executioner. No feeling. No morals. No questions. Just the task of elimination. I’ve seen it too many times.

“I didn’t know you spoke Latin,” I tell Zel.

“It wasn’t Latin.”

“What are we going to do?”

Nonchalantly, Zel scurries her fingertips on the bottom of Becky’s exposed foot. Becky tries to pull it away but Zel grabs her ankle with her other hand, pinning it down. The tickling sends Becky into convulsions, snarling, spitting, and growling several assumptions about Zel’s heritage, of which approximately thirty percent are accurate from what I know.

Then she lets out a screech. Like that of an owl, only it doesn’t stop. I cover my ears to block it out but the sound is so deafening I think I might pass out. A moment later I find Walter’s arms supporting my weight while I regain my equilibrium. Becky is quiet and unconscious again.

And Zel stands over her, grim and uncompromising, with the look in her eyes that I’ve seen too many times. I never truly forget that Zelphina is a demoness. But I usually don’t consider the religious implications of loving her. I tend to think of her a one lost little girl who found another to love and be loved by. And if my demoness wasn’t a gift from God, then the ability to love and trust is.

At the same time, there are moments such as this, where I can’t help but fear that her being a demoness matters, and that right and wrong are in my blind spots. But I do know what I feel. And I feel the difference between running from a fear and standing up to it.

“Caris,” Zel says. “It’s time to fight.”

I nod. No questions. I kneel down beside Becky’s head and I lean in to her ear.

“Becky? I want to tell you a story.”