Inked Skin

3: Green Strings

Mason woke from his much needed rest. 

His eyes remained closed as the memory of Shaya came to his attention. It must have been imaginary. Maybe he dozed off at the coffee shop. No, he was in a bed. Maybe he got so rapped up in his head, he went home without realizing it. 

"Mason?" With this voice, all of his conclusions came crashing to the ground, along with his feet. His eyes opened to show Shaya, but not in her usual attire. 

Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and around her shoulder from behind. Her shirt was gray with a brown jacket placed around it, the zipper half up. She wore black pants with a belt that held a small bag. She also wore black boots that seemed to blend with the pants quite well.

"The mother from across the way got you some clothes. Ones that might help with our journey." She gestured to a chair that held a pile of fabric, soon to be worn. "Also, I have hired some warriors to keep us out of danger." 

Mason stood and slowly made his way to the new clothes.

"Thank you, Shaya. I'll be changed in a moment." He replied. As if it were magic, she left the room before he could finish his sentence, as if she knew what he was going to say. 

Oh, right. She did know what he was going to say. She knows everything, that's the way he wrote her.  

She had been born to a family who gave her to a poor woman who could not give birth. Shaya had been named, raised, and loved by this woman. Her name was Henya. That's right, like Henya's Heart. Mason's book that made it big on the charts. She was a good mother to Shaya, but was a witch. Henya was trying to help Shaya, but hurt her instead. She gave her the worst gift of all, she knows every possibility, sees every possibility - past, present, and future - and feels it. Even if the knowledge isn't certain, she still sees it.

So of course she knew what he was saying before he had said it. 

A good ten minutes later, he welcomed the sun for the day. The sheet that closed off the small sleeping space fell back into place behind him as he stood in front of a weapons rack. 

"Take one." A strange voice emerged from beside him, off in the distance. His eyes shot up to greet the person who said it, but no one was found. "Just take the one that calls to you." Now the female spoke from the other side, sending his head whirling to the other side. 

"Where are you? And who are you?" He said looking around. 

"I'm right here, Mason." A hand fell to his shoulder. Swiftly, he turned to see an older woman. "And I'm someone you don't remember writing." 

Her voice was quite familiar, but he didn't recognize her. Maybe he created her when he was young and had freshly welcomed himself to the world of writing his own stories. Birthing his own worlds to fill the imaginations of others. 

"Just take the one that speaks." She looked over at the weapons. His head tilted to them and then returned to an empty space. The woman vanished, but he felt like he had to grab a weapon. 

His hand drifted over each of the swords, the bows, the daggers, and the axes. None spoke. 

Whispering emerged from a bag under the rack. His hand lifted the small item from the dirt covered floor. A lock held it closed, but he needed to see the contents of this strange object. The lace sown into it looked like the ribbons on his computer bag, green and worn. The lock was a small silver rectangle. His hand glided under it. A small tug and it opened. The whispering stopped.

A small katar fell to the ground; the bag turned to dust in his hands. 

He leaned over to grab the katar, feeling dizzy as he grasped it. 

White engulfed his vision. Giggling soon filled his ears. A tree stood above him, the leaves falling slowly. He sat up, his eyes greeting a young boy. He was running in the rain-like falling leaves. Suddenly, the boy froze, fear consuming him. His hand found his pocket and pulled a piece of string from it. He held it tight as he looked at Mason, then behind him. His hair a light blonde, almost white. His brown eyes ignored the rest of him, darker than his skin and every other feature. His tiny body was held by old worn down clothes. 

He held the string as if it was to help him. He stepped back.

"No please..." He said, his voice shaky and cracking. 

Behind Mason, another voice hit him. He felt the anger in it. The man not too much different than the voice. His eyes stayed on the little boy who stood in front of him. "Get over here, boy!"

Slowly, the boy became more familiar. 

"Don't do this!" Mason turned and yelled. 

The man looked past him. 

"He can't see you, remember?" The small boy whispered in a calm, non-alarmed tone. 

Soon, the man walked forward, sending the boy into chaos. Mason turned over to him, watching him pull the string. Soon, the string twisted and changed. A katar sat in his hand. 

"I told you not to do this." The boy said, calmly. He took a step forward, the tears drying up. The leaves stopped falling and the wind froze. The man stopped in his tracks. His eyes blinked in disbelief. The small weapon floated above the boy, as if by magic, and soared into the man's chest. He stumbled backward a little, looked down at the object sticking out of his chest. The young boy smiled as the man fell to the ground. 

Mason blinked, suddenly remembering the old story he wrote as a child. Trees and people came to view and the boy was gone. He looked around and everyone was looking at him with very concerned eyes. Without a sound, he looked down.

A little green string rested in his hand.