Short Stories From Out There

Relative

I have an odd cousin. His name is Terence. He is magical.

When we were young, he would whistle the oddest tunes and create nonsense rhymes. I remember trying to make sense of the words and would get dizzy. He'd repeat his rhymes over and over again, changing the rhythm and the speed. He used regular words but said them so close together that the last syllable or two of one word would form a new word with the first syllables of the next. After a while, I'd have to stop as the dizziness would get stronger and stronger until I'd get nauseous.

His mom (my Mom's sister) and dad would visit us on the farm at least once a summer for a few days. I followed him one visit when he sneaked off like he often did. Terence walked behind the barn in a circle, singing his rhymes. This rhyme had a whole other layer to it. I tried to figure it out when I realized it was some kind of number sequence. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the living room naked and holding a marker. I had drawn strange patterns on myself, and the house shook.

I felt a sudden instinct to mess up the writing with the marker as I burned upstairs to get some clothes. As I obliterated the final pattern, the house calmed. I hid in my room until dinner time. As I pulled open the door, Terence was standing there, waiting. He simply smiled, put his finger to his lips, and went downstairs.

I wanted to tell someone, but I'd gotten in enough trouble the year before with my pranks of claiming snake bites, fires, burglars, etc. No one would believe me, even if I said something that made sense, let alone some wild story about my supernaturally gifted cousin who knew poetry that made one strip and drew house-shaking patterns on yourself while zoned out.

Terence watched me at supper as if he were reading my mind. I finally stopped and nodded at him, resolving myself to my fate of not sharing the most incredible thing that ever happened to me. He then smiled and ignored me after that.

My uncle and aunt had to go home that evening, so they all left after lunch. As we were saying goodbye, Terence held out his hand to me. Everyone was watching. I took his hand. He leaned in and said just loud enough for me to hear:

"Here's a parting gift, in generosity and apology."

I knew I'd never miss a shot at a basketball hoop again. It was great for a while, but it took as long as I used it. I learned magic uses your life energy as fuel unless you know ways around it, as he did. I wrote to him and asked about other sources for the magic, as I was joining the basketball team and wanted to use this ability to its fullest.

I knew the instant he read the letter because his voice suddenly filled my mind while I was waiting for the bus at the end of the school day.

"For all magic, there is a price. That is your price. Everyone has a different price to pay. If you want to change your price, you study and experiment. You have to figure it out yourself."

I stopped playing basketball right then and there. I never contacted Terence again.

A few years later, I heard he died in a freak accident. He was on the roof of a skyscraper during a particularly nasty storm. Lightning hit the building where he was standing. Someone had seen him up there, arms to the sky, shouting poetry no less. All they found were his clothes, neatly folded in a pile. He was nowhere up there or below and was presumed incinerated. The unscathed clothing was a big mystery but soon faded from the public's mind.

I know he's not dead. I know he's somewhere, searching. For what, I do not know. I find myself wondering about the adventures he's having. I wonder what horrors he has witnessed, or might have become.

I have an odd cousin. His name is Terence. He is magical.