Elysium: Book Six of The Liminality

Chapter 2: Inverness

A blast of sun caught Karla full in the face. She squinted and smiled, reveling in the warmth of those fleeting rays.

An overcast as dense as an iron shield had ruled each of the four previous days. Living in the north of Scotland one had to grab some sun when they could.

Today, the clouds seemed in a rush. Whether they were in a hurry to come or to go was anybody's guess, but it was always a safe bet to assume things would soon get cloudier.

She lay back and pondered the sky's intentions, reclining on an old and tattered tablecloth flung on the damp grass by the pond behind the farmhouse. An open bottle of Thistly Cross cider sat within her grasp. A sketchbook and a half dozen colored pencils were strewn around her.

She couldn't sketch worth a damn, not nearly as good as Izzie. The creativity gene had skipped her entirely, but that didn't mean she never tried. She couldn't sing or dance very well either, but that rarely stopped her from belting out a tune in public or whirling across a dance floor like a maniac.

The clouds now seemed about to rally. Reinforcements were pouring over the hills from the west. She had half a mind to go back inside, but the sound of Izzie's bleating stopped her. She was squabbling with Mrs. Ambrose about something trivial again. Mrs. A was as easy-going as they come, but her sister always seemed to find a way to test her patience.

Yesterday it was about the chickens. Izzie had a bad habit of coming home with any surplus chick or duckling she could sweet talk their neighbors to part with. The coops were now bursting with gangly adolescent poults that she no longer wanted any part of.

Whatever they were arguing about now was likely none of Karla's business. If she went inside now, each of them would seek to pick their side on whatever issue was at hand. And each would feel betrayed if she sided with the other.

Besides, whenever she stayed indoors all day, she only felt compelled to repeat chores she had already done. In a fever of redundancy she would sweep where she had already swept, dust places her cloth had already swiped several times. Gleaming toilets would compel her to scrub them a second or third time.

Her compulsions were the residue of growing up with Edmund Raeth as a father. She and Izzie would be regularly berated or even beaten if Herr Raeth was not satisfied with the order of the house. Any mote of dirt neglected on the hardwood, any drop of water unwiped on the kitchen table, were grounds for corporal punishment.

Mrs. Ambrose had no such expectations whatsoever. She was not fastidious in the least. If anything, she leaned towards being a mite too slovenly for Karla's taste.

Her obsessiveness came from within. The ghost of Papa was forever looking over her shoulder, doubting, critiquing, punishing, haunting her every action or thought. The scary part was that he wasn't even dead yet. He was imprisoned a hop, skip and a jump away near Dundee in HMP Castle Huntly, an open prison for inmates whose release was imminent.

Ripples shattered the pond's mirror as a breeze ruffled the tall grass. The sun's bright sword continued to keep the advancing clouds at bay. It had been such a long and dull winter. Yet another reason to stay outdoors a little longer. The house had been cozy enough, just too darned confining.

Mrs. Ambrose had taught Izzie how to knit. Karla had not partaken of these free lessons. The only weaving that interested her did not result in scarves and shawls. But those days were gone. The Liminality was no longer accessible to her. Melancholy and boredom did not suffice to summon roots.

Mrs. A. had also tried to get them to attend church with her on a regular basis. Even though the Church of Scotland was as far removed from Papa's strict Catholic-influenced sect as Disneyland is from Alcatraz, the old woman had no luck convincing either sister to join her. Neither Karla nor Izzie could bring themselves to go anywhere near a place of worship, no matter how benign.