The joy of landing the throw faded quicker than I’d like. As it did I remembered my despair, and my shortcomings. I felt terribly, irrevocably flawed. One day, eventually, I would realize it was my birthright; some thoughts, feelings, even ways of experiencing the world, they were passed down from generation to generation. Coiled in the bloodstream, these little demons (or sometimes it was possible, though far less likely, they were angels), inherited along with the cheekbones and the eyes and all the other things much easier to recognize.
(Papa would probably call them little madnesses. He liked the word mad, I think because it implied that anger too was a kind of insanity. I wondered what this meant about my mother. What this meant about me.)
But it was easier to forget all that when there was someone else around. I could pour myself into their stories, try to look at myself from their eyes. I was always changing, depending on who I was talking to and how I thought they saw me. I still hadn’t decided who I wanted to be-- how could I know who I want to be, I thought to myself, without ever being someone else. So I was a little morphling, subtly different from one conversation to the next.
Sometimes I used my magic to pull out the stories hidden in rocks and stones, rugs and walls and knives. But I liked to hear stories spoken out loud too. They had more power, said out loud.
“What’s your father like?” I was missing mine something fierce. It was the only question I got in before she picked up the knife and began to test its weight with a gentle roll forward and back. I knew better than to distract someone about to throw, so with a discerning eye I remained silent and watched her throw.
It hit the very center of the target, so quick and subtle I hardly saw it fly through the air. I let out a low whistle of admiration, grinning at the older mare with unrestrained glee. I felt a little like there must be stars in my eyes-- I was, certainly and undeniably, enamored with her, in the passionate way of a child.
I wanted to throw like that. But it was more than that. The way she moved reminded me of my dad-- slow and quiet, almost wolfish-- and also my mom-- something dangerous coiled beneath the surface of the skin. I wanted to move like that. Even her voice, her way of speaking… My voice still had the embarrassing shrill notes of youth, and I so admired the soft rumble of her voice. It was like warm velvet. I wanted to talk like that.
I played it cool, though. It was a strength of mine that I relied on often. I’m sure there was a dreamlike slant to my smile though-- I was never talented at controlling my expressions. “What’s that scar from, on your shoulder?” I peered at it with shameless curiosity. It looked like the claw of an animal, but not like any I recognized.
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