The Cat Who Knew How to Cry

8. HATE-YOU-ALWAYS (part 2)

Irson listened patiently, although after spending many long years at god-hating Lindorg, he could easily give a lecture on the horrors of the afterlife.

"But why am I saying all this? Because Veindor has his work cut out for him," Talia went on. "And all these jobs are of paramount importance. He doesn't have time to get caught up in all the little details, get sentimental with all those who... oppose having bodies." With her chin she indicated the illusory fox, who had come back into the room.

"And what's different now? Why do you think it's suddenly time for him to get sentimental?" Irson asked.

"Because those same tremors are looming. A crack didn't used to be dangerous, but now – look out! It'll unravel any minute now, and... and I really don't want to be crushed by the roof!" the an Kamian shrieked, smacking her palm on the floor.

Talia looked completely perky, but Irson was on a roll and didn't want to stop there.

"Super. We've come to the conclusion that you consider what you and Inon are doing to be necessary and important. In that case, I don't really understand why at the start of our friendly talk you averted your eyes and mumbled something about an Kamians acting up out of boredom?" he asked insinuatingly.

Talia looked crestfallen.

"Come on, Talia, I don't want to sit here all day, extracting every word from you with pliers."

"It's one thing to yell about danger and pester the masters. It's another thing entirely to try to seal up the cracks in the home by yourself. That's too bold, even for me," she confessed at last. "Inon's right: I can't have such a Path. I won't be able to patch up that crack, but I will make it wider with all my digging. I'm not cut out for this. You could hardly call my lifestyle ascetic. By any stretch of the imagination. I'm vulgar, crackbrained... curious to the point of obsession. I can't sit long in one place, and my ideas even scare me sometimes. I'm an ambitious, inveterate upstart. And the worst part is, I like myself that way!" She looked up at Irson bashfully. "I always thought there was a positive side to all that, but maybe I'm wrong. My diva's personality, no matter how you spin it, just doesn't jive with serving Veindor. Maybe I've played out my role and... now it's time for me to go?"

"Does that thought scare you?"

"Probably. That's why I 'mumble about bored an Kamians.' I'm afraid, Irson. Afraid to admit just how important all this is to me. Cause if I admit it and adhere to this Path with all my heart, and then it'll turn out I'm just not cut out for it... or..." she frowned.

"Or?" Irson urged her.

"Or if I'm just thought of that way! This fear, it... snares me like a net, paralyzing me – as if I've been forced into a tight sack. I don't like it. I can't breathe. It stifles me. It... it's stopping me from growing."

"Stopping you from growing," Irson repeated significantly. "Is it stopping you from growing into the creature you want to be?"

"It's like I'm becoming some sort of mangled freak with twisted bones... and crooked thoughts. And I don't know how to get out."

"It seems to me you've already taken the most important step towards freedom."

"Which was?"

"You grabbed your fear by the tail, dragged it out of the underbrush of gawkers, gigglers and naysayers, and looked right in its ugly mug. The same thing happened to me not long ago. You might laugh, but it was during my conversation with that same Veindor hater. It was as if I'd taken a whiff of a smelling salts! Everything in my head turned upside down! But anyway..."