Warren Beasts

7: There is Another

They need Talia, whose control over her own humors had achieved legendary recognition, at least locally.

At least, before yesterday...

Now everything is all messed up. And Peter is determined not to add to all that.

Hell, the awful gawkiness of his own body is enough to handle. Peter imagines handling a whole bunch of bodies he just manifested. The thought is simply too much.

And yet...

Peter clambers out of his chair and picks up his trusty old electric guitar from the corner of the room. He begins strumming the instrument experimentally, letting all the emotions and confusions roiling within him recede to a dim tide. Then he tries to pluck at a specific feeling, just as he's plucking a specific guitar string. The hope he tries to nurture. The hope he'll be able to help out his team. He clings to that hope. He plucks that hope. He breathes out that hope.

A cloud of what appears to be dust whistles out from Peter's mouth. It pools on the floor in a funnel. Very soon it turns into a mini-tornado. It whips up all the loose papers in his room, twisting and turning them around and around until they all scatter to the ground like autumn leaves. The wind from the humor's cloud finally dies down, leaving only Peter and his humor.

It looks like a girl.

With tawny brown hair and long limbs. In a simple fluttering white dress. Only thing is, the girl has no face. Just a blank stretch of skin where her eyes, nose, and mouth should be.

Peter should be afraid, but he's not. Something draws him towards her. Something inside him. Deep. Intense. Raw.

"Mom?" The word pours from his lips before he's even thought to speak it aloud. But now Peter has said it, it feels like the only thing he could have said in a moment like this.

The girl, no, the humor, is just standing here in the middle of his room. Unmoving. Unsaying. Without even a mouth to say anything with.

As if it's waiting for something.

Waiting for him.

To do what?

"What do you want from me?" Peter's words shiver out into the suddenly cold air closing in around him. He's having difficulty breathing now. But he forges on.

He just has to.

"I'm sorry Mom," Peter says, crouching down closer to the floor from the weight of everything. He places his guitar gently down as well, "I'm not like Talia. I'll never be like Talia. I'll never be as good as Talia at any of this. I can't- I'm not- I'm not good enough. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Peter collapses onto the floor, great heaving sobs wracking up and down his body. He feels weak and useless. He probably is.

His Oma must have been listening at the door, because she comes rushing inside her grandson's room. She flies right through the humor, which vanishes into a thin and wispy nothingness. Oma, whose short white as snow hair bobs up and down with every step, kneels where Peter lies, nudges the guitar away, and grabs him up in the fiercest hug a ninety pound old lady physically can.

"You are good enough, Peter. You shouldn't say those things about yourself. You're wrong. You're more than good enough." Peter's Oma says.

"You really think so?" Now Peter finds himself in a kneeling position, he's able to wipe the tears from his eyes. Oma runs her hands along the length of his gaunt face, pulling his hair behind his ears. They touch foreheads.

"I know so. You surprise me everyday." Oma says.

Peter chuckles. The sniffs start to subside. "I surprise you? That could be a bad thing, you know." He says.

"Well, in this case it's not. And sure, Talia may have great thaumaturgical skills, but she can't help the team now, can she?" Oma says.

"No." Peter nods, conceding her point.

"But you can."

"b-b-But what if I mess up?" He says.

"Better than not trying at all, sweetheart."

***

It's just before practice the next day. It's Thursday, the day before the Jackalopes' Exhibition Game, and Peter can feel the energy in the tubhouse.

It crackles like a looming electrical storm.

Peter nervously asks everyone to gather around.

He's got something to show them.

He's terrified, but he is resolved now.

He's the only one who can take over as thaumaturge, and now is the time to reveal to the team what he's capable of. The new coach has her arms folded.

"What is it Donkersmit?" She asks, not unkindly.

"I-I-I can be- I mean, I am a thaumaturge. I can take over for Talia, for a while. I'm not her, but I can-"

"That's amazing news! Show us what you got." Coach Wu says.

Beside her, Sage Sawyer blows a bubblegum bubble. It bursts, and Peter jumps a little. Still, he refocuses himself. He catches Artie's eye, who gives him two grubby thumbs up. Peter's best friend doesn't even try to hide his excitement.

Peter forces himself to settle down. He starts breathing in and out, slowly. He stretches out his palm. He supposes it's a little dramatic, but he also realizes this moment probably calls for a little drama.

Luckily, surrounded by those he knows well, he doesn't feel too daunted. That is, as long as he stops thinking about everyone looking at him right now.

Peter closes his eyes.

Lets a tiny pink cloud escape his lips. It rolls to just above the surface of his outstretched palm, tickling the skin there. Out from the cloud steps an impossibly pink pig. It's just big enough to fit in his hand. White pigeon wings sprout from its sides. It's even wearing miniature versions of Artie's oversized goggles. It flies up into the air and starts zooming gleefully about the hangar.

Peter opens his eyes.

Coach Wu gives him a golf clap. The rest of the team, for the most part, are a little more enthusiastic, striding over to him and slapping him on the back.

"Excellent. Peter Donkersmit, you are now the starting thaumaturge for the Jupiter Jackalopes," Coach Wu says. She limps over to whisper in his ear, "only thing is, we're gonna need a bigger pig."

Peter nods while a nervous chuckle escapes his belly.

Let the games begin.

***

Photos courtesy of Nihal Demirci on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/@nihaldemirci. Edited.