H - A Thyme for Hope

Thyme resurfaced in her own bed, some soft flute music drifting over
her. She was in the house; he was not. Moving to get out of bed, time
stiffened muscles complained. Moving carefully, she made her way down
the hall and into the living room, her mother cross-legged on the
floor, back turned to Thyme.

"Mama . . ."

It took a few minutes to untangle the knot her mother made of herself
as she stood and spun round in the same motion.

"How long have you been awake, sweetheart?"

"Just a few minutes. I don't remember . . ."

Cutting her off again, her mother replied, "No, the doctor didn't think
you would. Mild heat stroke and exhaustion will do wipe the memory
clean."

"Something happened at the festival, Mom."

"I know it was hard for you, being left alone and all. I'm sorry, dear;
I never should have agreed."

"Mom, please, I need help."

The child stood, head drooping, eyes on the carpet. Sharon's breathe
caught in her throat. "How can I help?" she asked quietly.

Thyme moved to the couch, and her mother curled around her, while she
did what she had never done, trusted. She told her mother about before,
about the eclipse, about after.

The next morning's trip to the metaphysical bookstore began the search
for a way to restore control of her gift.

School was trying for Thyme. So many children, and contrary to what
most people believed, far from innocent. Innocent souls were pleasant,
restful, but not her classmates.

Setting her jaw, Thyme would steel herself before walking through the
door. While most would notice the bright colors everywhere, or the
sounds from all corners, Thyme noticed none of these. A heaviness
settled on her, rounding the small shoulders and bending the head.
Tears choked her each morning.

At recess, Thyme was always the first out the door, at a dead run for a
stand of trees just on the edge of the school yard. She would slip into
the copse, and sink to the ground at the foot of a tree, bark rubbing
through her shirt. And silence fell. The grasp on her chest would
loosen, and she could breathe freely again. Hair tangled in the loose
bark, she would listen for birds, for wind, for squirrels, for peace.
There was nothing, and it was wonderful!

Then that shrill whistle would sound, and she would have to drag
herself from the quiet, and trudge back to that place, that building
full of, of, of ickiness. That's all she could call it. It made her
feel like when she had tried to swim in a strange green pond, and
emerged coated and stinking.

Why were they like this? Why did they hate and envy and taunt? Never
out loud, of course. The teacher wouldn't have stood for it. It wasn't
even words that she could hear. It wasn't thoughts. It was truth inside
of a person. Some were in pain, some were looking to inflict it. Some
had seen too much, and some had no idea, but did not care.

She'd heard a story once, when her parents let her go to a church with
a neighborhood girl. It was about this man who was supposed to be God.
When the adults tried to shoo away the children, he said to let them
come to him. Sometimes she wondered why. Why would he want them around.
Couldn't he feel them? Then she would shake herself, and remember what
her mother had said, that no one else "felt" people. But she did wonder
how he "felt", if so many children wanted to see him.

She didn't want to see anybody. Her mother wasn't too bad, tolerable at
least. Her father had left. He told her mother he was having
nightmares, seeing Thyme's eyes in his sleep, and feeling like his skin
was being peeled away. The teacher always told her it was okay to be
sad about it, but she never had been. He had felt cold, hard, and
slick, like the silverware they ate with. But no reflection. It was
better with him not there.

After he was gone, sometimes she would feel something hot in her
mother, almost like flames licking out, reaching for her. But it would
disappear as quickly as it came, so she did her best to ignore it. At
least her mother could see that she was not like other children. Little
comfort, but she took what she could find.

Thyme stopped just outside her front door after school that day. It was
calm, someone was so deeply calm inside. It couldn't be her mother; she
was excited, relieved, waiting. Thyme couldn't remember a time her
mother was so positive. Still, it took a deep breathe to brace her as
she opened the door.

"Thyme, dear, I'm so glad you're home. I have someone for you to meet."
It all spilled out in a single word.

"Hello, Thyme. I'm Tera." The stranger smiled, all the way to her core.
That calm washed over the six year old girl, like when she sat in the
woods. It was soft, amber gold, and so welcome.

"Hello."

"I know you weren't expecting a visitor . . ."

"No one visits us." The emerald eyes searched, 'looked' and still the
amber flooded inside, no edges, not even a tingle.

"Your mother mentioned that. But she's more concerned about you. I
understand you are gifted, kind of like I am."

Suspicion rose without a reason. But it was in herself, not from the
stranger. And she couldn't find any deceit. Could it be?

"You can see?"

"No," the lady answered, still honest. "I can feel. I'm what's called
an empath. Could we sit down?"

Hopeful, tentative, but no trick. Thyme moved to her favorite chair,
the worn brown corduroy faded where she curled with books. It was safe,
almost walled, with it's squared arms and back. She tucked her legs
under as the woman sat back down on the couch beside her mother.

"Your mother mentioned that you can read people. Is it their
thoughts?"

"No, it's what's inside."

"How they feel?"

"No, deeper. Who they are."

Tera leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap, but Thyme could see them
shaking just slightly.

"Not a pleasant thing, is it?" she asked.

It wasn't a trick. It wasn't viewing a sideshow either. She wanted to
understand. But Thyme had seen, known, too much about people.

"Why are you here?" the child now asked, reacting to the truth, instead
of the question.

"When I first remember feeling someone else's emotions, it was a
constant thing. Is it like that for you?"

It wasn't cold, or hard, like most. But it wasn't normal for her
either, Thyme knew that. People shouldn't play stupid, at least not
around her.

"You already know. You can't lie to me. I always know."

"I'm sorry. Your mother . . ."

"What didn't she tell you?" The girl's voice was soft, but solid. She
wasn't trying to be difficult, that Tera would know. Still, Thyme's
mother looked around, stuttered an excuse, and left the room.

"She didn't tell me if you ever know things that will happen before
they do. And she didn't say if you ever really trusted anyone."

Maybe she would turn out okay. But she was still . . . new. "No, I
don't know anything ahead of time. And I trust her. That's about
it."

No six year old should be this solemn, Tera thought. It wasn't fair,
but it happened. It had happened to her.

"Thyme, I was about your age, and I felt everything that anyone around
me did. Is it that way with you, I mean, all the time. Does it ever
shut off?"

"No. What did you do?" It was Thyme's turn to scoot forward in the
chair. "It must have been hard."

"Yeah, it was. It took a long time, but I learned to screen and things
got better."

"What do you mean, screen?"

The jump in her chest made Tera's heart stop for just a second or two.
The girl had been startled by hope.

"It's how I make room for myself. Keep the emotions from swamping
me."

Thyme still hadn't found anything to mistrust in Tera, no matter how
deeply she looked. And the possibility that she could help, that she
had a way to stop the onslaught, was too much.

"Please, if you know some way . . ." a deep sigh slowed the flow of
words, "I want to learn. It isn't pleasant. Not at all."

"Thyme, you need to know, it could turn out different than you expect.
It's possible that it won't work. Gifts, well, they are unpredictable
for the most part. And it could work too well. You could wind up shut
off from everyone, permanently. Are you sure . . ."

The reply was all wrong, coming from a child just barely old enough for
school. But Tera knew it was coming, how desperate even a child could
become.

"I don't care. It has to be better than this."