Going home (sad feeling warning)

[iwantmoresleep]

The wind was blowing in his feathers. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was. Somewhere in the midwest. He’d found a semi hauling logs, and it had seemed a good spot to hunker down and catch a ride. He could fly the entire way, but between the heat and the winds, it would have taken far longer. Even here, he could feel the sun baking into his feathers, and he knew he’d have to find some clean water soon, or he’d risk dehydration. But there were dark clouds on the horizon, promising rain, perhaps a storm. Water wouldn’t be an issue.

There wasn’t much else to do, in his spot on the logs, except to ride along, watching the scenery, and thinking. Unfortunately, thinking was the last thing Isaac wanted to do. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the fire from two nights ago. A litany of ‘should haves’ kept springing to his mind. He should have gone home sooner. He should have been there. He should have done more. But he hadn’t. And all the reasons for not doing it weren’t enough to cleanse his palate from the bitter taste of regret. He closed his eyes, fighting against thought, against memory. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Salem was somewhere ahead. He’d only told two people he was going back to Washington, but not why. He’d packed his belongings, in case he didn’t make it back. Given gifts, where he could. It was a tradition, actually, though no one in Salem knew it. His mother’s family always gave gifts at a funeral, so that the memory of the deceased would be held with joy, instead of grief. Joy and gratitude.

Much like now, he’d caught a ride on the back of a semi to get to Washington. It was faster, actually. He couldn’t fly as fast as a truck could drive, not for long periods. Not with a wound still aching at his side. And it had been good to be home. His father was just as Isaac remembered him. Tall and physically strong. His hair gray and a little thinner on top. Except his eyes were sadder, older. But his mother…

She’d been so energetic once. Strong and vital. But she looked old now. Her skin thin and wrinkled, from the effects of radiation and chemotherapy. Her hair was nothing but a few wisps, hidden underneath a carefully folded scarf over her scalp. Her eyes were too large in her face, and shining with tears she did not bother to try to hold back.

“Isaac, my son,” She said, speaking Arabic. It made him smile.

“Hanan alamwm,” he answered. Mother, though a more formal way to say it. “Maman,” he says, then. More familial. Intimate. The same meaning. He knelt by the couch and let her take his hand. Touch his cheek, pull his head to her chest. He could feel the beat of her heart, its numbers so limited now. Grief threatened like a wave, and he could hear his father get up to leave the room. Isaac knew his father couldn’t stay, or watch. It was too painful.

And all of it was too painful. Her every breath was pain now. She let him straighten, and smiled. “I am glad you are here. It is time,” She said, in a voice so very weak.


Isaac opened his eyes. A dream. He’d been dreaming. He was on the truck. Going back to Salem. He didn’t want to dream. What had happened later that day, once the night had fallen was too painful to remember in a dream.

They had gone to the trees outside, deep into a small area, carefully cleared. His father had carried her. She wasn’t strong enough to walk so far on her own. And Isaac had transformed. She’d touched his feathers. She’d smiled with wonder. She’d whispered of her pride, and her love. And then the darkness had been shoved back with the light of flames. She had died, not to cancer, but to the fire.

There’d been no screams. She wasn’t strong enough to scream. Only a terrible scent on the wind, and then her own power, latent all her life until this moment, had joined his. The fire had grown, somehow. Brighter. Hotter. Impossibly stronger. Because while her death was real, her spirit was not destroyed. Transformed. Maman would be no ghost. Her spirit was freed and empowered. She was djinn, now. Undying and eternal.

Isaac had flown around the clearing for a while more, containing the fire. His father was still there, watching. Nothing was left to bury. The wind was already carrying away the ashes. Nothing. Nothing to hold or to keep. No funeral. No farewells by song and prayer. Finally, his father had turned, to return to an empty house. And Isaac had watched. All the night long he’d watched, hoping to see something more, perhaps to see some sign of his mother. But there’d been nothing. The fire had eventually grown smaller, faded, and died. The last lingering heat dissipated.

And still nothing, the next morning. Nothing he could say to his father, or anything his father could say to him. In silence, they’d had coffee. Neither of them would eat, even if there’d been an appetite. There’d been no tearful embraces. No words of good bye. Isaac had just known it was time to leave. His father would never forgive him for the fire.

Isaac wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself.

He could feel that things weren’t the same, though. He’d killed. He’d done something of old, and deep magical significance. He didn’t know that his eyes were red now, even in raven form. But he could feel … a change in the power that coursed through him. A sign on the interstate told him he was ten miles outside of Cleveland. Salem wasn’t that far away. He was going… home.