In My Hands
by Sathya Achia
Genre: YA Fantasy Adventure
The fortune teller starts to trace the meandering lines from the center of my right palm, repeatedly. It’s soothing at first and combined with the sweet and woody scent of sandalwood incense and burning candles, a calmness sweeps over me. Then she stops following my actual lines and starts to trace the thick, wide scars on my palms.I stare into the jagged, raised scars. They’re ugly and I hate them. The more Surya messes with my palms, the
more they throb.
She continues to trace the lines but keeps getting distracted by the scars. “Head, heart, and life,” she whispers. “These lines tell me the story of your destiny.”
I imagine each line to be a separate winding road, no doubt taking her to a different place. Then she lets out a gasp and violently jerks my hand closer to her face,
her eyes wide and bewildered.
My eyelids start to feel heavy as if they carry the weight of the world. I wasn’t tired before, but now I just want nothing more than to drift off to sleep. I try to fight it, but it doesn’t feel right. I can’t fight it any longer.
My hands start to burn and the room around me spins as I become overwhelmed with the sweet fragrance of blossoming jasmine. I feel as if I’m sinking deep into the floor beneath the bamboo mat.
The world goes black and then a vision forms.
In the yoga studio, the lights are dimmed just the way Amma likes it, with only the flicker of
candlelight to guide my way. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up and I shudder. It’s eerily quiet.
“Amma?” I call out.
“Chandraka, I can’t keep you safe anymore,” she says, her voice hoarse as if she’s been crying, or worse yet, screaming. I can barely make out her figure near the meditation altar. She looks as though she is kneeling. “It’s coming for you. The darkness. And it will give you the fight of your life.”
I feel a wave of anger rising and falling as a pool of tears gather in my eyes. “But I need you!”
“The disc is your weapon. You must learn to wield it. Hold it in your palm, and it will give you answers to the past, lead you in the right direction in the present, and allow you to see the future.”
A sharp low whistle fills the room. The ground beneath my feet rumbles and it’s followed by a strange noise that sounds like the clicking of fingertips on a desktop. I pick up a candle for light and lower it to the floor when I see something haphazardly skitter across it. I lurch back in disgust.
There are hundreds of scorpions of all sizes scurrying across the hardwood floors of the studio and upon the meditation altar. They crawl over the sandalwood elephant, the bronze statue of goddess Durga, the lotus, and the tabla, digging their stingers into each piece. The
stingers must be filled with some form of acid because with each point of contact, they are able to damage the relics. I hear a low whistle again and they respond to the call as they creep away in the direction of the double doors leading to the courtyard, having completely ravaged Amma’s sacred space.
“You must go home to the jungle. Find the others. Destroy the rakshasi,” she says, breathlessly. She doubles over, screaming out in pain, and falls forward onto the altar.
The bright studio spotlights flicker on and shine down from above, blinding me for a matter of seconds. I rush for Amma as I scan the floor. The scorpions have disappeared.
“It got me,” she says in a hushed voice as I reach her side and scoop her into my arms, holding her close. “Chandraka, my journey ends here,” she whispers. “Know that I always saw you. I never said it enough…” Her eyes roll back into her head.
“Amma, wake up, wake up!” I weep as my body shakes with unrelenting sorrow. But she doesn’t wake and my heart sinks.
When my eyes open, I’m still in the fortune teller’s tent, my breathing is ragged, and my heart is exploding through my chest as the vision crosses from somewhere inside my head into my reality.
Panic sets in.
I know Amma is in danger. I can feel it deep inside me and know it’s true. I need to warn her, but I’m suddenly overcome with pain.
My hands are burning as if they’re on fire. I clap them closed, trying to stifle the throbbing pain. My jaw drops open, but nothing comes out. I fall forward clenching the disc against my heart and making a fist with the other pounding on the bamboo mat on the tent floor. I feel the disc fall from my waistband pocket onto the floor next to me.
Surya does not bat an eye at my distress, her intense, kohl-lined eyes focus on the disc. She glides to the side of the tent, grabs a bottle of tiny green leaves from her well-stocked shelves, shakes it, then pinches several of them between her pointer finger and thumb and dusts them off into a black mortar and pestle.
I watch through bleary eyes as she takes the handle of the blunt, clubbed-shaped pestle in her hand and moves it around crushing and grinding the leaves into a fine paste. She returns to the bamboo mat and kneels beside me. Anchored to the tassel enclosure of Surya’s lehenga is a small, glass vial containing a thick, deep red liquid. With just the tips of her fingers, she unties and releases it with ease from the tassel and pours it over the paste, mixing it some more. She works swiftly, finally combining everything into a coconut husk bowl. She crouches over where I lay, reaches her arms around me, and forces me back to a sitting position. “Drink it all,” she commands, the look in her eyes somewhere between
concern and a threat, as she holds the rudimentary bowl to my lips. It’s vile but she tilts my head back to force every drop down my throat. The terrible pain slowly fades away. My shaken nerves begin to grip reality and my fingers tingle, but my mind is focused on one thing—the visions.
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