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    Normal!
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    Ebook291 pages4 hours

    Normal!

    By Charles G. Dyer

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    About this ebook

    Fiona is an only child. She always knew she was not normal, but not how far from normal she is.
    Follow her life from dangerous tomboy escapades through the trials and tribulations of adolescence in a convent to young woman at college.
    She develops her strange ability. Initially, her only guidance comes from an Indian shaman.
    From life-saving premonitions to spirit warrior, she uses her extraordinary abilities to root out evil, and bring criminals to justice.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles G. Dyer
    Release dateAug 8, 2014
    ISBN9781310674358
    Normal!
    Author

    Charles G. Dyer

    Charles Dyer is a consulting engineer, former senior lecturer and former technical magazine editor. He creates 3D models to help with visualisation and realism in his writing.

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      Book preview

      Normal! - Charles G. Dyer

      Normal!

      CHARLES G. DYER

      Copyright © 2014 Charles G. Dyer

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN: 9781310674358

      Smashwords Edition

      License

      Thank you for purchasing this book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

      CONTENTS

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty One

      NOTES

      About The Author

      CHAPTER ONE

      Once upon a time, I thought I was normal. Ha! Hoo boy, was I horribly wrong, or what?

      My height is less than average, and my weight is slightly less than what the medical experts say it should be for my height. So, in that regard alone, I'm not normal. I would hate to look like a painting by Rubens, but I guess that might be slightly more acceptable than the anorexic look of a ballet dancer.

      So many aspects of my life were not normal that I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps my earliest recollection of being different from those around me happened in grade one when I compared myself with my peers.

      To be honest, I don't remember much before then anyway. Apparently, I was too much of a handful for my maternal grandfather.

      Ernest George Stevens, Steve to his friends and Gramps to me, was my grandfather, and he had served in the Royal Flying Corps during World War I. In 1917, he had lied about his age, and joined up when he was sixteen. They made him an observer in a British RE 8 two-seater biplane. Somewhere over the Somme, a German aircraft attacked them, and a bullet went through the pilot's shoulder to end up in Gramps's calf. They had the bullet split and made into broaches for their respective girlfriends.

      When he told me the story, I asked to see the scar. He lifted his trouser as far as his knee and there, halfway up his calf was a deep indentation about the size of a quarter. I was suitably impressed.

      He served in the Air Force in Italy during the Second World War. Near the end of the war, he was discharged as medically unfit thanks to angina. As a first lieutenant, he got a military disability pension.

      He worked from home because of his heart condition. My maternal grandmother worked, and so did my mother. My father and his parents were long gone from my life.

      One vivid memory from the age of four is branded into my brain. Mother and father had an argument, and he had left the house.

      When he returned, she refused to open the front door that had a frosted glass panel at the top. In a temper, he picked up an empty milk bottle and threw it through the glass.

      Fortunately, Mom either had her back to the door or she turned quickly. Her back was peppered with shards of glass.

      Later, I stood in the doorway of her bedroom. She was sitting on a white towel wearing only a white bra and a floral print skirt. I stood quietly and watched the doctor removing fragments of glass from her skin and mopping up the blood. There must be very few people who have witnessed something like that, if any, hence not normal.

      Needless to say, that was the end of daddy from my point of view. However, he dragged his heels over the divorce for a full four years. Somehow, his clever lawyers diddled my mother out of a decent alimony settlement. The cowardly pig only sent her $10 a month.

      So, back to me. My grandfather complained that I was too much of a handful for him to cope with. What I did to warrant that accusation was never revealed to me.

      Perhaps the last straw was when I ran around the house with the dog on a lead. That in itself was not a problem, but I skidded around a corner on a rug and split my eyebrow open on a window sill.

      Because I didn't cry as he put four stitches in my head, the doctor said, Ooh, what brave little girl. Normal girls wince and cry.

      I'm not normal, I said as he tied off the last suture.

      He chuckled and patted my shoulder. No, I guess you aren't. There, all done now.

      I was packed off to school at the earliest opportunity. I recall that the Mother Superior was not at all impressed with me counting on my fingers at the interview. She wanted to put me into kindergarten because I was deemed too young. Having a birthday in August meant that I would be five years old for the entire first year of school.

      How they wangled it remains a mystery to me, but I was the youngest in the grade one class, and I was the smallest. That meant that I was always at a disadvantage in any games played.

      Rather than be a loser, I chose not to play. Of course, not playing meant being an outsider and a loner. That did not seem to bother me. Nothing changed and nothing memorable happened until I got to my final year of lower school.

      I rather liked the school, and the cute uniform that I had to wear. Is that normal? The Dominican Convent of St. Margaret nestled on the steep banks of the Briar Branch Creek, Westside, Houston.

      I loved the wild feel of the place. There were plenty of trees and open spaces on the grounds. Although it was out of bounds, the river was a perfect place for adventures or quiet contemplation. Not that there was ever much leisure time to take advantage of the facilities.

      To my eyes, the three and four-storey high red facebrick buildings with white window frames, doors and doorframes were marvels. The steep terracotta tiled roofs lent them an air of European romanticism. What can I say? I had seen plenty of pictures in magazines, and they had coloured my impressions of the world.

      It might sound a bit gloomy and even a little sinister, but I thought the black and white plaid was just perfect for the skirt of our uniform. Some girls whined about the fact that skirts had to reach the middle of the kneecap when standing. A white short-sleeved blouse or oxford shirt had to be tucked into the skirt in such a way that the waistband of the skirt was always visible. Only plain black shoes with low heels were acceptable. In summer, we wore white knee-highs and traded them for black in winter.

      The whole effect was like a Scottish Highland dancer in a tartan kilt, and I thought it was neat, but odd. It was strange in the sense that a Spanish priest founded the Dominican Order in France, so why the Gaelic pagan look?

      Black blazers were required for all formal events, including assemblies and school liturgies, as well as any sporting competitions with other schools. The badge was the black and white Dominican shield with a cross, and under it was a scroll with 'Veritas' that meant truth.

      Cardigans or sweaters could be worn at any time as long as they were black. Of course, we were forbidden to wear jewellery of any kind. Any accessories worn on our heads for the purposes of keeping our hair neat could either be black or white or a combination of those colours.

      I preferred the quick and easy simplicity of black elastic bands for my hair. They could be used for ponytails or plaits.

      The moment I entered the hallowed halls of St. Margaret's Convent, the nuns drummed what they deemed decorum fit for ladies into my tender hide. There were so many things that could not be discussed that I wondered why God gave us voices at all.

      ***

      When I was seven, Christmas was a bonus year. Gramps gave me a bicycle, probably in the hopes that I would be at home less often. I eagerly took it outside to try it out.

      Ah, he knew that I was not too keen on girlie things, so the bicycle was boyish blue. It was the Schwinn Tornado model with 20-inch wheels and a coaster brake. The saddle was blue at the back and white in front.

      We had a sloping lawn in the backyard. I went to the top and used gravity to help get me going. Of course, I had no idea how to stop or turn or even how to pedal at the first attempt.

      The slope saw to it that I got up a fair speed by the time I reached the bottom of the garden where a dozen mature rose bushes awaited me. I was viciously punctured and ripped from top to toe.

      By New Year's day, I had acquired several more minor injuries, but I could ride without hands. I even managed to lift the front wheel and ride a reasonable distance on the back wheel. Did that make me a normal, well-balanced child?

      Road sense was drummed into me from an early age. I adapted that knowledge to cycling and always looked behind me before turning. One day, I was happily pedalling down the road with the intention of turning at the next crossroads.

      Suddenly, I felt panicky for no apparent reason. I looked behind me and saw that there was no traffic. Of course, my arms were folded across my chest, and then I hit a brick that I hadn't seen. One foot slipped off the pedal and ground along the asphalt as the pedal whacked me on the back of my calf.

      The bicycle twisted, I fell and skidded along on the side of my elbow to a stunned and painful stop. Winded and shocked, I just lay there, too surprised to move.

      A rough dark hand grabbed my arm. Are you OK, Missy?

      Ow, was all I could say, and as usual, I was not prone to tears.

      The man gently picked me up and set me down on the sidewalk, and then he retrieved my bicycle. He began picking gravel out of my elbow. Missy, you really outta git dis seen to. For sure, dat's gonna leave a nasty scar. It turned out that he was right. I had a scar the size of an egg on the outside of my elbow, but it looked more like a birthmark.

      The only damage to the bicycle was that the chrome finish on the end of one pedal was deeply scratched. The handlebars were slightly skewed, but the kindly man straightened them before seeing me off.

      ***

      I joined the Girl Scouts as a Brownie. I loved the uniform. On my head sat the dark brown beanie with the red-orange Brownie emblem. The short-sleeved light brown dress stopped a finger's width above the knees. A belt, socks and shoes that were all dark brown complemented it. The anklets had the Brownie emblem on the sides. A tangerine tie had a brown Brownie on it, and a green trefoil encircled the emblem.

      The only things I did not like were the white gloves. I thought they were impractical even if they were meant to be ladylike. Fortunately, our Troop Leader was of the same opinion, and she said that we should only wear them for ceremonial purposes.

      The badge on the pocket made me proud. To me, it was like the war medals on the painting Gramps had had done of himself in uniform in Italy. I was determined to get as many badges as he had medals, and hopefully more.

      The Troop Leader was called Brown Owl and her assistant was known as Tawny Owl. She told us that those were the names the British used for their Brownie leaders, and asked what we thought. The girls all agreed that the owl names were nicer than the lame alternatives she mentioned.

      Our Troop crest was the Robin, and he was colourfully depicted on a beautifully embroidered elliptical green badge. The troop number was '1951', and it was sewn on our left sleeves under the crest.

      Brown Owl was keen to have all her girls earn as many badges and awards as possible. That suited me fine. I could hardly wait for each weekly meeting. We whizzed through the Brownie Quest in seven sessions.

      The quest awarded four badges. Three of them each had a series of activities to complete, but the final one was given for completing the quest. Discover, Connect and Take Action were the three keys of leadership that were the elements of the quest.

      I easily earned the Bicycling Try-it badge, having had the rules of the road heavily impressed into my brain since I could walk. I pointed out a fault on the badge to Tawny Owl. "Why's a boy's bicycle on it?"

      She laughed. Gosh, you are a bright little thing. I bet Brown Owl never spotted that either.

      Gee, I thought, why do people have to bring my size into every conversation? Still, I liked Tawny Owl, so I didn't hold it against her.

      ***

      We had a little black-and-white 17 inch TV that I occasionally watched. One thing that piqued my interested was a documentary on army parachute training. The men climbed a tall tower and were fitted into a harness. They then jumped and rolled when they landed. It looked like fun.

      My problem was that there was no tower or suitable structure for me to try jumping from. However, we did have a two-foot wide six-foot high cotoneaster hedge that ran perpendicular to the garage. The garage had a flat corrugated iron roof and a parapet wall. Perfect!

      'Be prepared' is the Girl Scout motto, so I gave the exercise some thought. The hedge would surely provide me with a soft landing. Any adventure into the unknown needs equipment. I took a little ball of string and my Kutmaster folding pocketknife, made in Utica, New York. It was a thing of beauty with a red handle that had 'Brownie' and a Brownie badge on one side, and 'Be wise, beware, use me with care' on the other side. I kept it nice and sharp for whittling.

      I guess the drop from the top of the parapet to the top of the hedge was at least six feet. Not quite as high as the parachutists were jumping, but it looked suitably intimidating to me. I ran along the parapet and launched myself into space.

      What a thrill it was to be flying, even if it was only for a short time. Landing on my bottom on the hedge was cushioned nicely by the springiness of the plentiful slender branches and soft new leafy growth on top. The first two jumps were very satisfying. It was quite easy to climb down through the centre of the hedge after landing, but it was a nuisance to have to run around the garage and climb the ladder for the next jump. I also had to be sure that the enemy did not see me at any time.

      All the while, I had this nagging feeling that it was a bad idea. The problem was not recognition of the danger, but the overriding thrill of excitement. I felt great.

      For the third jump, I wanted to go further, so I decided to land on my feet. Big mistake! I crashed straight through, and could not cry out for fear of alerting the enemy. My arms were spread out on top of the hedge, but one leg dangled free. The left leg hurt like crazy, and it was bent up so that my thigh was parallel to the ground.

      I was breathing through my nose with my mouth firmly clamped shut, and my eyes were screwed up kept me from crying. Perhaps a tear or two did escape.

      A pencil thick branch had ripped into my calf and I could not move. It was hard to see what to do. I groped around with my right foot trying to find support. The best I could do was tiptoe on a fork and hope that would hold my weight. There was no way to free my left leg.

      For several painful minutes, I contemplated my desperate situation. I was determined to resolve the problem like a good soldier, and not be captured by the enemy. Then I remembered my Brownie knife. With difficulty, I wriggled about until I had it in my hand and managed to open it. Then I reached down and carefully started cutting the branch that had impaled me. Each cut hurt like mad, but eventually it broke and I fell through to solid ground.

      The chunk of wood in my leg came out quite easily. Amazingly, it did not bleed that much and I could see the bone. I gingerly scraped the remaining splinters out with the tip of the knife. Luckily, I made it to the bathroom without being spotted by the enemy. It took five strips of Elastoplast to cover the three-inch long cut.

      I had to wear long socks for a while to hide the wound. It should have had stitches, and that would have made the scar less noticeable. In the end, the scar was nearly half an inch wide and most conspicuous.

      Yay, my one-upmanship on Gramps was working out well. My scar was much bigger than his war wound, and I did not need a walking stick. I can't remember what excuse I gave when it was finally noticed.

      ***

      At the age of eight, I was in grade four and I was still the shortest girl in my class. At a mere three foot nine, I was six inches shorter than almost everyone else.

      We had just moved into a new house. Well, not new actually. It was a rental that was slightly newer than the one we had been living in. Built in 1957, the ranch style house had four bedrooms, two full bathrooms and a double garage on a third of an acre. It was in Hunter's Creek Village, Westside, Houston, Texas and just a tad over a mile from my school.

      By then, I had become quite the tomboy. I preferred climbing trees, whittling wood and playing with mud pies to dressing dolls or playing house.

      There were empty packing cases in the garage. These were sturdy plywood tea chests that still had an aluminium foil lining. Each box had sides of about nineteen inches long and stood two-and-a-half feet high.

      The side door to the garage was three steps above the enclosed yard where my mother was hanging out the washing. Even as I conceived the idea of a variation of a parachute jump, I knew that I should stop. The anticipation of a thrill shoved common sense aside. I pushed a box into the doorway and climbed onto the top of it.

      Look Mom, how high I can jump, I yelled as I launched myself into space. Not only could I jump high, but also quite far. Too far for my own good. I snagged my scrawny neck on a washing line, swung around and fell six feet to land flat on my back on the concrete-paved yard.

      I did have a good excuse for not seeing the vacant washing line. I was shortsighted and nobody had noticed that awful defect in me.

      There were no whirling of colours and birds twittering around or bells clanging. Only cold frightening darkness, and the incessant screeching whining sound of those ghastly cicada beetles.

      I didn't know or care at the time, but I was delirious, and in a semi-comatose state. A heavy pressure on my ears felt as though something inside was trying to get out. A terrible weight pressed down on my chest, so much so that I wondered if I would be pushed through my bed. Then I realised that I was an immense grey mammoth on a vague piece of white cotton thread, whose ends, if any, were at an infinite distance from me.

      The shimmering grey void beneath me seemed to pitch back and forth, making me seasick. I was sweating with fear that the cotton would break or that I would lose my balance and fall and fall through the gloomy mobile grey void, never ending.

      I did not dare even look to the sides for fear of losing my balance. I just knew that I could not stay in one place either. The situation was simply too precarious to avoid taking some action. The only option open to me was to move forward as quickly and cautiously as I dared.

      Dampness! I was constantly aware of being drenched in my own sweat. I knew that I had to keep moving. Sliding my clumsy elephantine feet along the thread, one step at a time so that I might eventually reach the end where I hoped to find solid ground, and colour.

      It was a toss up for what I longed for most, solidity or colour or silence. The ethereal floating sensation was numbing, but I remained acutely aware of the dampness that enveloped me. It made me feel as though I had virtually no control over my limbs. I was drowning and fresh air was beyond my reach. The charcoal grey mists were even worse. Little spirals and swirls of paler grey occasionally broke the monotony. The insipid mist alternatively crushed me and released me. Surely colour would liberate me from that dreadful oppressive cloud.

      Nothing was in focus except that minuscule white thread. I wasn't even sure which way was up or down anymore. Sometimes, I was tempted to jump on the thread to test its strength, but then I thought better of it.

      Three days later, the cicadas died, the mists cleared, my ears popped and the cotton snapped. I fell and woke up on the floor next to my bed. Wet hair clung to my face and damp pyjamas stuck to my body. My neck was sore and I had a dreadful headache.

      The mirror showed me a wretched wraith with a huge scab on her neck. My face was gaunt with black rings under my eyes, and my hair was an absolute mess.

      It was then that I noticed that my hair had changed colour. As an infant, it was an almost white platinum blond. The tangled tresses in the mirror were strawberry blond, and I preferred it that way.

      There was an awful taste in my mouth, and I was thirsty and starving. Wobbly legs carried me to the kitchen to fill my empty stomach.

      The bathroom scale told me that I had lost four pounds. My weight was then a paltry forty pounds.

      ***

      Shortly afterwards, one of my favourite teachers, Sister Winifred caught me screwing my eyes up at the blackboard. She sent a note home, and I ended up with thick glasses that were so heavy that they cut into my ears. I had permanent red marks on the bridge of my nose. The horrid tortoiseshell frame always sat

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