Beginnings have an irritating but essential fragility, and that should be taken to heart by all who occupy themselves with history.The Phenomenon of Man, ­- Pierre Teilard de Chardin,

Bina stared across the pond, watching the wind stir the trees and riffle the water, tracing filigrees and serifs in the mystic script of some invisible being. She imagined a giant bear or a winged elephant, hovering and exerting forces on the world that only she could see. She wondered if her Watcher saw and thought the same.

Who was she today? Feyre or Katara? The pond would be a good tool for Katara, whipping up watery fists or daggers. The Watcher would be impressed and dismayed at her power. She scented the soft fall breeze. If only she could actually do that with water. It would be so cool.

She knew this game endangered her and her mother, but the thrill of trying to discern who or what lurked in their woods was irresistible relief from the boredom of life away from Uncle Adam, and a sizzling supplement to her inner stories, like a hot coal in a campfire doused with water, hissing and dancing in a puddle, bubbling off new ideas and scenes.

She missed exploring and understanding her power with Uncle Adam, using it to help the yunk. She also missed the routine pleasures of life out in the regular world before they went into hiding, new books and videos, foods from other places prepared by other people. The smothering blanket of her mother’s worries about peril everywhere and the need for concealment was suffocating her.

Another paragraph appeared on the surface of the pond then vanished and she remembered living near a different lake, sitting with the muscular bulk of Caramel purring in her arms, enjoying the freedom of nature without worrying about fallout and murderers.

Katniss and Prim had a cat. She could feel Caramel’s weight on her lap and put her hand there but felt only the cold metal of her mother’s pistol. She should have a bow and arrow, learn how to use it like Katniss, provide for and protect her mother. Instead, she had the gun. If only she had been old enough to use the gun when they killed Caramel, she could have saved him. Or not. Her mother’s warnings about guns and danger and making sure she never put herself in the position of needing them whispered to her conscience. It’s not a toy. She dropped her hand back to her side.

Her Watcher never showed. After several hours, she returned to the house, locked it down and set the alarms. She put the pistol back in the drawer in the kitchen. She ate a cold dinner then messaged her mother that all was well. Only a brief response, no mention of the fight from before she left. She debated watching an old video, then decided to go to bed early and continue with the adventures of Zenobia and Alessia. Bina wondered if the Watcher was out there in the dark.

She lost herself for a while in the story of the warrior princess friends and their struggles, but her mind wandered. She turned the book over and looked at the cover art, the two women standing back to back with their weapons, Zenobia’s assagai and Alessia’s two swords, bloodied with gore from the pile of dead demons at their feet, the vivid colors and intricate details capturing her eye. She put the book down and laid in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about the woods, her mother’s fears, and the thrill of her surveillance. She flipped back the covers and sat up. She got down onto the floor and started her exercises, neglected since her mother’s departure. First calisthenics – knuckle push-ups, crunches, squats. Then her kata – kicks, punches, parries.  She broke a sweat as she finished, then got a drink of water. She toweled off and headed back to bed, then changed direction, went to the kitchen and retrieved the pistol and put it on her nightstand. Sleep came quickly.

The next day was the same — long stretches of sitting at the pond, sensing the presence, but drawing no closer. When the wind shifted, she briefly caught a distinct scent, but then the Watcher moved, maneuvering back downwind from her. She changed position to relieve the jabbing of the pistol concealed under her shirt.

The third day it rained, but Bina wore her poncho and a sweater underneath, and actually felt cozy on her log, the water drip dripping all around, dimpling the surface of the pond with blooming circles. Whoever it was still lurked across the water. It had been almost a week and soon her mother would return, her longest trip leaving Bina alone. This game needed to move along so she could prove to her mother that she could handle herself in more ways than making meals, cleaning up after herself, and managing their hideout house.

Overnight, the wet weather moved out, the skies cleared and the temperature dropped, heralding the coming autumn. The new growth deciduous trees amongst the surviving conifers displayed hints of changing color, flecking the greenery with touches of flame. She continued her vigil.

Bina pushed her bare feet into the sandy mud at the pond’s edge, wiggling her toes, her brown skin blending in. She pretended to peer at the water while she strained her senses to detect the Watcher.  The trees murmured in the breeze, stirring the faint char smell of the recurrent fires that burned through years ago after a prolonged drought. She knew the thick new growth underbrush concealed at least one, maybe two, observers.

This was exactly what her mother warned about, but rather than run, as she’d been told so many times, she reveled in the adrenaline rush of using her talents to find the source. So far, she sensed this presence posed no threat, but also knew her mother had no faith in Bina’s intuition, despite their long lessons practicing and refining Bina’s emerging skills. Carrying the pistol was her way of showing her mother that she was being careful, the weight in her lap a reminder of her mother’s expectations.

She put the pistol down in the leaves and bent to the water. She picked up a handful of muddy pebbles and held it up, pretending to examine it, while looking beyond at the opposite shore. Turning slowly, holding the mud in front of her, she scanned the far brush. She let the mud drip out of her hand, watching it drop into the water, then bent to pick up another handful. She heard movement in the brush across the water.

Betraying no sign of noticing, she repeated the maneuver, dripping the mud bit by bit and focusing her surveillance.

There.

A branch moving out of sync with the intermittent breezes. She bent for more mud, held it up, and saw the eyes.  Dark brown, topped by pointy ears. 

A fox? No, there was intelligence and intent in that gaze. Too big for a raccoon or opossum, either.  A dog, a big dog.

Emboldened by this victory, she picked up her sandals and the pistol and moved to a different spot.  She waded into the water, and sure enough, the dog followed, tracking her movement.

Now that she had a fix on the dog, Bina expanded her surveillance. She continued her feigned explorations, turning her attention back and forth, methodically probing the shore of the pond, listening, watching, scenting. She looked at the dog. He was now less cautious, his eyes clearly visible.

In a careless moment, Bina could not stop herself from locking gaze with the animal, and they stood for a moment staring at each other across the small stretch of water. A bird call broke the reverie, and the dog’s gaze snapped to the side, staring at a point down the shore.  Bina looked too, then looked back, but the dog was gone. She knew she was alone once more.

On her walk back home, she considered whether to share this news with her mother, then quickly rejected that. She needed to figure out a way to cover up her indiscretion until she could determine the intentions of these visitors.