Although not a single drop of rain falls within the two-meter circle around me, the steam doesn’t respect that boundary. Within seconds, I can barely see the tip of my nose. All that’s visible are my hands, glowing like red warning lights. My clothes haven’t caught fire yet, which means I still have some energy left—but I’m not standing because of adrenaline alone. It’s something else too. A feeling. A longing. Not for something but for someone and that’s quite unsettling for someone who runs everything through the emotion shredder.
Despite my exhaustion and all that has happened, I find myself longing for one person, and one person only: my mother. I know she must be here… somewhere. “Mum?”
The rain stops abruptly, and as the mist dissolves unexpectedly quickly, the square reveals itself to be completely empty. The soldiers, the Flintstones, Gnat, Shadow, Slug, Gran, Porkchops—all gone. No Wolf-man, Scoptz, or Kwant. The fence, the trucks, the tents—everything is gone. Only the square remains. I’m back in the shadow world, and once again, it is completely different from my earlier visits—this time, in an even more unsettling way. It has grown.
In every direction, as far as the eye can see, stretches a sea of black tiles. Apart from that, nothing. No school. No houses. No roads. No bus stops. No cars. Just black tiles and—God knows why—the tree, now more ominous than ever, its size monstrous. I feel like an insignificant speck on the hem of an endless, black dress.
I just stand there, motionless, unsure of what to do, until the sharp, acrid scent of burning fabric stings my nose. My trousers have caught fire, and for the first time tonight, I feel the flames scorching my skin. Every ounce of energy has drained from me. Shadow's voice echoes in my mind, her mantra from training: Calm down, Max. Control. Trust yourself. You can do this. Breath. In. Out. In. Out.
To my surprise, it works. By the third deep inhale, the flames die out, and by the fourth, I collapse. I'm hurtling toward the hard black tiles, bracing for the impact of my head hitting the square.
But it doesn’t. Someone catches it, laying it gently on something soft. A cool hand presses against my fevered forehead. I catch a faint scent—familiar, though I can’t quite place it. Perhaps it's just another illusion, but even if it is, I don't mind. There's something oddly comforting about it. I embrace it, even in this unexpected moment. With my eyes closed, I savor the fleeting sense of peace and calm. But eventually, curiosity wins. Of course it does—I can’t help myself. I have to know. I open my eyes and when I do, I look myself right in the eyes. More wrinkles maybe, bigger bags under the eyes, stronger lines around the mouth and with longer flowing hair, but it’s me nevertheless... totally. This is the third time we have encountered each other but this is the first time I recognize her as my mother. Not because I look like her, but because she smiles and when she speaks her voice is unexpectedly warm and soft. The metamorphosis is almost as big as that of my father earlier. Somehow it seems as if everybody shows his or her true face tonight. Gran, Perkins, Bleach and many others. Still, my mother’s transformation is the most extreme. I can’ stop looking at her, taking in every detail. And then she speaks.
“Maxime, my little hero. You have exceeded all expectations.” She looks so unapologetically proud, that I’m at a loss for words. I just press myself deeper into her lap, seeking comfort in her presence. For once—completely unexpectedly—I feel like someone’s little girl. The sensation is so powerful and overwhelming that, for a moment, I let myself forget where I am or how I ended up here. I breathe in her scent, feel the gentle weight of her hand resting on my forehead, and listen to the soothing rhythm of her breathing. My gaze drifts, following the tendrils of steam curling from under my head. STEAM?!
I must still be glowing hot. I shoot up in alarm. Panic surges as I search my mother’s face for any sign of pain, but to my astonishment, my normally destructive heat doesn’t seem to harm her at all. Instead, her smile only deepens—a radiant, unabashed smile.
"Don’t worry, Tinderstick. Fire or heat can’t harm me—they can only transform me." Her laughter rings out, bright and clear, over the infinite black square. The same laugh when she was about to kiss my teenage hairy hippy father on this very square. Finally, I can’t help but laugh too. The irony is almost unbearable. She water; I fire. We’re destined to be an explosive combination, yet, at the same time, incapable of hurting each other. Elementary physics.
For a moment, silence settles between us again. I know we’re still in danger, but I have so many questions—so many things buried in mystery or obscured by Gran’s sayings and proverbs.
"Mom... you left me?"
"Ow... yes, leaving you was the most painful thing I ever had to do. Believe me, Tinderstick, I’ve shed seas of tears over the past fourteen years. But then again, water is my talent." She smiles and looks at me so intently that I have to look away.
"But if you were so keen on helping, Mum, why weren’t you there? Why did you treat me so... well... mean when I did see you?" She looks genuinely surprised.
"Mean? That wasn’t mean, sweetie. It was the most loving thing I could do." Here we go again. Talking in riddles clearly doesn’t skip a generation.
"How else could I teach you so much in so little time? How else could I prepare you to survive? When your grandmother and father chose to shield you rather than train you.” She sighs. “Maybe I should have expected it, given what happened to your Gran during World War II when she lost her little brother. A freak accident in a food supply silo, is the only thing she ever told us about it, but it must have been deeply traumatic. Perhaps that's why she has been more protective of you than was wise. And your father—well, he was always such a gentle soul. Balthazar on the other hand should have known better. He should have guided you. But then again, he’s a Gardanto with a heart of gold, but he’s not the brightest, nor the most talented of his kind. I still have no idea why they did pair us with him all these centuries."
"Well, yes, but luckily, I’ve had help. My friends stood by me against The Flintstones."
"Friends... yes, I saw that. I’m so happy for you. And by Flintstones, you mean those four ugly kids?"
Despite the danger we’re in, I have to smile. Ugly kids. “Yes, genuine beauties, brilliant minds, and activists for environmental issues and world peace too,” I laugh. My mother looks at me, puzzled. Apparently, she’s not used to the dark irony of a sixteen-year-old. It’s oddly comforting to see her out of her depth for once. Maybe she’s just... inexperienced.
And then it finally hits me——the tragedy of my mother’s life. The sacrifice she made just to protect her daughter. Never had to deal with the mood swings, the constant challenging and pushing of boundaries. Let alone someone as stubborn, willful, and obstinate as me. No first smile. No first step. No first tooth. No first day of school. No first anything. She was never there to dry my tears when I scraped my knee. Never able to laugh at a funny slip of the tongue or be surprised by an unexpectedly smart comment.
Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming urge to embrace her and tell her that I understand—finally. But the words escape me, so I retreat to my default emotional emergency exit: irony. “And they always help old ladies cross the street too.”
Slowly her face lights up as she’s starting to get that I’m joking.
“Yes, they’re real gems,” she adds. “If they hadn’t been so completely messed up, of course”. I can’t help but laugh. This newfound mother of mine is a quick learner.
But when she continues, her tone is serious again. “Powerful talents don’t always bring out the best in people, Tinderstick. You know that. Then again, in our day, people said the same about us. Not that we realized it, of course. We lived in our own little bubble, believing ourselves to be school royalty," she sighs. "Without even realizing it, we made life quite unbearable for many of our fellow students.
For the first time, I flinch. I abhor any abuse of power, but I don’t want to ruin the moment, so for once, I stay silent as my mother continues. "It's not something I'm proud of, Max, but back then? We thought the world was at our feet. We were young, in love, and blissfully getting into all sorts of mischief. We honed our talents, and I found your father. Life couldn't have been better. Then you were born, and all hell broke loose."
“Mprrrehgggfff.” I mutter embarrassed.
"Sorry about that, dear." Her eyes drift away. "They’ll thoroughly reprimand me for this delay, but I just couldn’t resist the temptation to spend a little time with my girl." Her eyes lock onto mine again. "But now you have to go. You’re standing on the threshold. From here on, you’re on your own."
“Wait a minute! Threshold? On my own? Who are they? What’s this all about? I don’t know anything about thresholds, let alone that I know what to do after I cross them. I go in blind.”
“I’m so sorry, dear, but I can’t make the same mistake your Grandmother did.”
She gets up so abruptly that my head hits the ground with a dull thud. Ouch! Apparently, my ten minutes of quality time with my new and improved mother are over.
"Sorry, dear," she says absentmindedly, already scanning the dark plain. “He’s coming. I can feel it.”
"Who, Mama? Who’s coming?"
"Ah, sweetie, I’ve missed being called Mama," she says with a wistful smile, ignoring my question.
"Mama, who?" I press, louder this time.
"Mastro, darling. Mastro is coming."
"Mastro? What’s a Mastro? It sounds like a credit card."
"Ha ha, it does, doesn’t it? But no. Mastro the undisputed leader of The Guild. And this Mastro is even more special than any before him–the youngest ever. He was still just a boy, no older than myself, when he was initiated. We were briefly classmates in our first year, but he rose through the ranks at lightning speed. It was astonishing to see how even the older Guild members followed an 18-year-old without hesitation, but then again, he possessed so many extraordinary qualities, so much knowledge, it seemed like he had already graduated from five universities before even stepping into school. His voice was like music, and his hands..." She trails off with a sigh. "Well, his hands could heal anything, take away any pain."
Nausea rises to my throat. I know that boy—no, that man. My neighbor. My confidant. My friend. At least, he was... until tonight. Of course, he seemed to know an awful lot about The Guild—but then again, he knows a lot about everything. But the leader of the very Guild that’s been hunting me all night? I can almost hear the pieces clicking into place. How could I have been so blind? I’ve been played. Manipulated. Like some naive, starry-eyed schoolgirl, I let myself be seduced by a few scraps of attention. How could I…” But then I’m cut off by a voice I know all too well.
"Angel, darling, come. I told you they would be here."