Roles
by Rhyo
When I look back at the beginning, the depth of my ignorance and arrogance
takes my breath away. I'd wanted a Sentinel and so I went looking for one and,
just when I was ready to give up, found him. I thought I could study a modern
tribal watchman dispassionately, without personal involvement; walk a couple of
steps behind him, observe, take notes, encourage him a bit, maybe even warn him
when the bad guys got too close. It amused me to think of myself in the
sidekick role, but I knew it could never interfere with my roles as a student,
an anthropologist and Naomi's son, the wanderer.
But that isn't how it worked out, of course. I stepped in, took the job and
then discovered how enormous it really was. I pushed him to accept what he was
and what he could be. After just a few weeks, he trusted me and soaked up my
faith in him like a starving man does sustenance. And then I kept pushing. At
first we fought over his senses but I came to see that the Sentinel, more than
most people, is the sum of all his parts. When he was upset or ill his control
of his senses dropped enough to be dangerous to him and I couldn't let that
happen. So I began to integrate Jim the man and Jim the Sentinel together. I
removed irritant chemicals from the loft and from Major Crimes. I altered his
diet to make sure his body had the energy reserves it needed. I gently pushed
him to make the spiritual connections to other people - so what if it meant
poker nights and Jags tickets, it was still connection with those around him.
Because I am responsible for him now -- senses, body, mind, heart and spirit.
His senses are a gift and a heavy burden, but one I know I can ease. I wasn't
prepared for that level of commitment to another person, hadn't even conceived
of wanting that kind of attachment or responsibility to anyone. I hesitated at
first-we're grown men, for God's sake-but I couldn't leave him when he was
vulnerable. And now I just won't leave him.
I might have started out by winging it all, but I hadn't killed him yet. That
sounds laughable, I know, but I've gotten better in the few years I have been
doing this. At first the only tools I had were a book written in the nineteenth
century, a huge stack of case studies on individual heightened senses, a lot of
extra energy and a serious imagination. Over time I have gained other tools and
skills.
Like the five points on my left arm that are throbbing with the beat of my
heart right now. Five points that Incacha left with his dying grasp on me as he
passed the way of the Shaman to me. The next morning the imprints of his
fingers were outlined in livid bruises. The marks are still there, a year
later, but apparently only I can see them. They are a gift, a legacy, and
function as a sort of early warning for danger to Jim. I've only ignored the
warning once, deep in the mire of my own hurt and misery over being tossed out
of the loft, my home. The price Jim and I paid was lesson enough to ensure that
I will never ignore another warning.
Tonight, though, I don't really need the warning throb, the hint from the
spirit plane, to tell me that all is not well with Jim. When I got home the
balcony doors were wide open and the loft was freezing. My Sentinel stands on
the balcony, looking out across the lights on the harbor. The ever-curious part
of my brain wonders what he can see, how far out he can see. The rest of my
brain gauges his body language, from his locked knees, ram-rod straight spine
and stiff neck to his twitching jaw muscle. The problem for my TMJ-posterboy
tonight is not in his eyes, it's in his heart.
I look at him with my Shaman's heart, not my eyes, and see the swirling colors
of his emotions. Sickly, muddy colors that I can't name, but I know them. Anger,
guilt, shame, sorrow. My rational brain assigns reasons to the colors. A
stakeout gone bad. Jim was not the primary, was not in charge, but people were
hurt and two people were killed and Jim wants to assume responsibility for
everyone and everything, especially all the negatives.
I study him a bit longer. He knows I am here; he always knows where I am now. Does
he want my help? As if in answer, he turns to look at me. He doesn't say
anything and his face is carefully blank. He moves slightly to his right.
I know an invitation when I see one and I smile and step out on the cold
balcony with him, standing next to him at the railing, but not touching him. He
shifts his weight slightly and touches his shoulder to mine. I feel the contact
as a rich spreading warmth in my own body, and I can see the same warmth smooth
over him as well, driving away the colors of his discontent.
It's cold out here and I am not really dressed for it, but as long as we stand
together, connected like this, I know I won't feel the cold. "Hear you had
a rough day."
He nods. "Glad you're home," he says softly.
I nod in return, feeling the tension sliding out of him, slithering away. This
is my role now and I accept it. Friend, guide, shaman.
The End
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