On The Verge Of A Verdict

It is some time after the incident that Bethany has enough time to contact her former instructor. It is more difficult than she first thought, as she has not seen him in months, and has never had the need – or desire – to call him to her. There has been no opportunity to see him in quite a while. He has left no indication of where he is, and in his absence, there is no sign that he will come back.

She considers writing him, but surmises that his address has likely changed (if it was ever accurate at all). She does not know where he is, so she summons him to the market.

In the daytime, when the market is no more than a series of erect and slightly colourful stalls, Bethany removes from her suitcase a piece of handkerchief, frayed with age, and lights a candle. She holds the cloth over the candle until it catches light, then sets it aside, watching it burn without charring.

She is watching it so intently that she does not notice immediately when her former instructor appears behind her.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

She reaches toward the fire and places her hand gently over it. Smoke snakes in the space between her fingers. When she removes her hand, the handkerchief sits in one piece, not even hot to touch.

Bethany turns to face her instructor.

“What is it that you want?” Her instructor asks.

“Why can I not touch him?” Bethany demands.

“Because we made it so,” says the vested man, simply.

“Why? What am I being punished for?”

“You are not being punished. It is more of a precaution and a barrier, of sorts,” her instructor says.

Bethany’s hands tighten. “What does that mean?”

“To prevent your… unfortunate attachment to him from deepening.”

“This game has nothing to do with him. I can focus on the game completely with any interference. Isn’t that why you put us here? To deal with the other market-folk? To see how we deal with that?” Bethany says.

“You know nothing about the conception of the game. Do not assume otherwise,” Her former instructor says.

“Undo it,” she says.

“No.”

“Why not? It has no effect other than holding us physically apart.”

Bethany waits, scowling at him, and briefly recalls being in this same position when she was young. A little girl in lace and ribbons, scowling at the man who rescued her from the museum.

“You two are not students/no longer students. You are competitors. You are on the opposite sides of a scale. You do not touch. No matter which way the scale tips, or if you are equal, you remain separate. Do not attach yourself to that gutter rat.”

“Gutter rat? You found me in the basement of a museum,” she says, struggling to keep her anger in check.

“And I trained you to be one of the finest competitors this, or any, game has ever had,” he says. “Do no throw it all away on some boy you hardly know. If you do, you throw away everything.”

Bethany clenches her fists at her sides. The scarfs and textiles around them ripple in a slight breeze, blazing with colour. “What do you mean?”

Her instructor smiles, though it is not, Bethany realizes, an expression of genuine happiness. “The loser of the game forsakes all ability to resurrect. You will not raise anything, ever again.”

For a moment, Bethany cannot speak. Her throat aches as though it is suddenly full of glass.

“That is the verdict?” she whispers. The decision is more terrible than she had imagined.

“I let you have your little tryst with Mr.Marchand,” her instructor continues. “But you can rid yourself of any delusions of love toward that boy. Remember, you purpose is to beat him.”

“You have never been so adamant about isolating myself from anyone before,” Bethany says. “Why now?”

“I have never truly believed you were in a position to loose.”

He starts to leave, then pauses. “Do not call on me again.”

He turns and walks down the avenue, slipping into a shadow and disappearing.

The handkerchief on the table begins to crumble into ash, the wind sweeping it away into nothingness.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Karol Bak