TO
THE MANNA BORN: THE LIFE OF DONNA
Chapter
2 — Learning the Rules
The
waiting room of Dr. Harlan's clinic smelled of antiseptic and old
magazines, which Langdon supposed was either very reassuring or very
ominous depending on your disposition. He sat rigid in a male hoodie
and jeans — far too wide in the legs and shoulders. His now
golden-blonde waves had been shoved under the hood in the way of
disguise. His vivid blue eyes were fixed on the floor, carefully
avoiding the glass coffee table, which was reflecting things he had
no interest in confirming.
The doctor emerged from his
inner office and introduced himself as Dr. Harlan with the unhurried
courtesy of a man who had conducted a great many unusual
consultations and found them all, if not routine, at least navigable.
He had calm gray hair and a steady gaze and the particular quality of
stillness that belongs to people who have learned that most
situations improve if you don't make them worse. He listened without
interruption while Langdon recounted the story — the medallion, the
chant, the desperate and apparently catastrophically successful wish
regarding the trial — and when he finished he leaned forward and
met her eyes with a seriousness that she found both reassuring and
deeply alarming.
"Magic is real," he said. "If
you didn't believe it before, you certainly have grounds to believe
it now."
"I gathered," said Langdon, in the flat tone of someone declining to be impressed.
"What you should have known before attempting to work magic," the doctor continued, with the gentle patience of someone explaining something obvious, "is that magic responds to more than conscious intention. It is the unconscious mind that directs it. And the unconscious mind is, in most people, thoroughly overpopulated with buried fantasies."
Langdon's jaw tightened. "I don't have any buried fantasies that would explain — this."
Dr. Harlan regarded her with the expression of a man who has heard this particular statement before, in this particular office, from people sitting in that particular chair. "Is that so," he said, without inflection.
"That
is absolutely so!"
"Then let me ask you
something." He folded his hands on the desk with skeptical
challenge in his eyes. "Is it genuinely true that you have
never, in your entire adolescence, imagined it might be exciting to
be a pretty girl? To have a body that attracted boys and made other
girls envious? Did you want to be admired and have people want to be
with you?"
The ensuing silence, in its own way, eloquent.
Langdon, in fact, had had all those fantasies over the last few months. Were fun, and so arousing. He had imagined, in considerable detail, looking hot in a thong and wearing a short, short mini dress. He'd imagined looking like his favorite AI girls on YouTube videos, sizzling chicks with dazzling eye makeup and cherry-red red lipstick. That type of fantasy had thrilled him so much that each night he'd fall asleep and dream about being the exact sort of girl that he would have liked for a girlfriend. He seldom dreamed, though, and that annoyed him.
Despite this, he -- now a she
-- had
absolutely no intention of admitting any of this, not in this office,
not in this body, not to this man. It would have taken torture to get
this guilty secret out of her.
"Never," she
said. "Not once. Not even slightly."
Dr. Harlan
nodded with the serene acceptance of someone who has decided not to
press the point because the point has already been made. "Well,"
he said, "if that is entirely true, then the cause of your
current situation remains somewhat mysterious. However, there is a
thing called "woman envy" that is very common among young
men. And it's normal. Raging hormones often produce all sorts of
fantasies. If you're holding back some needed information merely out
of embarrassment..."
"Is this reversible or
not?" Langdon asked.
"The good news is that the
spell can be broken," said the doctor, pivoting with
professional grace. "Magic follows the positions of the stars.
When a spell is cast, the counter-spell must be cast when the major
heavenly bodies have returned to the same configuration they occupied
at the moment of the original casting. Some configurations take many
years to recur. Fortunately, the most powerful ones repeat annually."
He paused to let this land. "In one year, with proper
preparation, the reversal spell has an excellent chance of
succeeding."
"One year!" Langdon
repeated.
"I'm afraid so."
"One
year. Like this."
"That's how it has to be. "But
you are," the doctor offered, with apparent sympathy, "an
extraordinarily attractive young woman. People tend to treat the type
of girl you are rather well, on the whole."
Langdon
stared at him. "Don't call me a girl! Maybe I look like one on
the outside, I'm not that on the inside!"
Dr. Harlan
accepted this protest with equanimity. "Is there anything else I
can clarify?"
"Is there any faster method to
break the spell?"
"None that I'm aware of.
Amateur magic-casting does, unfortunately, all too often produces
disruptive results. The stars move at their own pace and are not
interested in our impatience." He rose and went to his back
room, returning with a shoe box that he set on the desk and began to
unpack with methodical care.
He
handed Elisa a booklet. "For addressing practical matters, this
will be useful, Mrs. Arden. It deals with establishing a new identity
for a transformed person, navigating daily life, that sort of thing.
It is best to avoid telling anyone about what has actually occurred.
People's reactions are rarely helpful."
Elisa took
the booklet and looked at its cover: Helping Someone Adjust to
Sudden Magical Transformation. She turned it over, but there was
nothing on the back.
"There is also this." The
doctor produced a card and handed it to Elisa. It bore a name, a
phone number, and the notation: Cash only. No receipts. Three to
four days turnaround. "Sometime a bewitched person needs to
establish an alternate identity, and I would strongly recommend it in
this case. Man listed is a specialist in identity documentation.
Discreet and reliable. I've found his work indistinguishable from
official articles."
"What about the
counter-spell?" Langdon said, with the tone of someone who has
been waiting for the relevant part of the conversation to begin.
The
doctor produced from the box a picture of a small and unobtrusive
audio headset device. "If we tried the spell now, it will fail.
You have a lot of work to do to prepare for it. Wearing this device
to bed help nudge your troublesome unconscious mind into line. We
will need its help for the reversal. It will play sleep-teaching
lessons. The more you use it, the more good it will do you. The
speaking voice will reinforce your connection to your male identity —
visualization, memory, intention. With you unconscious ready to
receive the spell, there is a very good chance it will succeed."
He
said it like he had steady confidence in what he was saying. "The
critical thing," he continued, "is this: the counter-spell
will only succeed if your unconscious mind genuinely wants it to. You
must not undermine the lessons the sleep-teacher gives. If you allow
yourself to enjoy the things that come with being a girl — your
unconscious will not be so susceptible to the contrary ideas the
headset is feeding it. If that happens, the reversal can fail."
He looked at her steadily. "To succeed, you must guard your
thoughts. Do not let yourself become comfortable. Don't admire
yourself in the mirror. The more your current situation displeases
you, the better will be your prospects next year."
Langdon
straightened. "Staying displeased," she said, "will
not be a problem."
"Excellent," said Dr.
Harlan. He closed the shoe box and folded his hands. "Call me if
questions arise."
#
The ride away from
Omaha was quiet – or sullen. When they arrived home, Elisa sat at
the kitchen table read the booklet cover to cover while Langdon went
upstairs. When Elisa went up to discuss what she'd read, she found
the girl pacing in tight circuits around the room. The contained
energy inside him seemed so intense that if it escaped it would
probably demolish the entire room.
"The
booklet suggests starting with basics," Elisa said, from the
doorway. "Voice, posture. Sounding and moving like a girl will
help you blend in when we have you registered at school."
"I
don't want to blend in," Langdon said, without stopping. "I
don't want to wait. I want this insanity finished with."
"It
won't be finished for a year. You can't stay in the house for a
year." Elisa kept her voice even. "I'm going to call the
document man. As soon we have papers saying who you are, we can
register you at school. We'll tell them you're my cousin — orphaned
recently, living with me until you come of age. It's a clean story,
and it won't invite questions." Langdon stopped pacing.
"And what about the real me? What do we say about Langdon Ardens
disappearing?"
Elisa had spoken with Jethra
Courtindale about this exactly. "We'll say he ran away. That he
was afraid of the trial and panicked. After the counter-spell works
next year, you can come back as yourself and deal with the legal
situation then."
"I'm already in legal trouble.
Now you want to add a year of being a fugitive."
"You
were already looking at twenty years in an Iowa prison," Elisa
said, with the quiet of someone making a point they wish they didn't
have to make. "At least you won't have to serve time surrounded
by criminals."
Langdon
threw up his hands. "Fine. Whatever."
"There
is also the matter of clothes," Elisa continued. "You'll
need a wardrobe to look normal when you leave the house. Your boy's
clothing won't do."
Langdon
lurched as if slapped. "Shopping?!" he said. "For
girl clothes?"
"This afternoon," said
Elisa.
"If we're going to keep your true identity secret, we have to do everything exactly right."
#
When Elisa dialed the number of the document man, she had a name to give him. There was a branch of her family called Ellis, and Langdon's name suggested the alias of "Donna." She gave this name to the man on the phone, and answered a list of prepared questions about what should appear on the forged papers.
All in all, creating a new identity for her stepdaughter Donna -- her mind had already shifted to the new name -- had not been a difficult process.
#
They
drove forty-five minutes to a large discount store in Omaha —
neutral territory, far enough from anyone who might know Langdon —
and moved through the aisles with the quiet efficiency of two people
who have agreed, without discussing it, to get the thing done as
quickly as possible.
Langdon's --Donna's -- selections
were made with the grim purposefulness of someone on a supply run:
the baggiest cargo pants available, the largest hoodies in the
darkest colors, plain tees, loose sneakers. Nothing fitted. Nothing
decorative. The strategy was comprehensive invisibility, and she
pursued it without hesitation.
Elisa followed at a careful
distance, adding to the cart the items that Donna was either
overlooking or refusing to acknowledge were now necessary. Panties.
Sports bras. A box of sanitary supplies that he -- she -- placed in
the cart without comment. When Donna saw what she had added in, her
eyes blazed and her teeth were set on edge. This was probably her
first inkling that there were some repulsive things involved in being
a girl.
Fortunately, Donna didn't grab the items and throw them away. It was a small surrender, but it was a necessary one.
But
buying all these things was mortifying and, at the register, Donna
kept her hood up and her eyes on the floor. At the moment, the
scuffed tiles was the only thing she wanted to look at. If the
cashier noticed her volcanic expression, she said nothing. With the
transaction concluded, they went home.
#
Back
in her room, Donna submitted to checking out the new wardrobe by the
time the sun was down. The jeans she squeezed into fit in a way that
cargo pants never had. Elise stood in the doorway, amazed by the
amazing body-crafting the magic had performed on her stepson.
"Passable," was the only comment she made. To give Donna a
compliment at such a time would have been touching a firecracker to a match.
The
next day, Elisa called the police and reported that her stepson had
runaway. The voice on the other end sighed, as if it were an old
story he had heard many times.
#
The
sleep-teaching device arrived the same mail drop that the false
documentation did: a birth certificate for Donna Marie Ellis, a
social security card, a learner's permit bearing a photograph Elisa
had taken that morning with Donna's hair pulled back and her
expression arranged into the most neutral sort she could then manage.
Elisa
thought the documents looked authentic and guessed that they might
hold up to official inspection.
When Donna saw the
learner's permit bearing the name Donna Marie Ellis, she set it
face-down on the table. Out of sight, out of mind.
That
evening Elisa handed over the headset with the explanation the doctor
had provided, and Donna took it with what seemed like desperate hope.
She plugged it in and lay on the bed, allowing the voice to guide
her: Visualize
your true form, strong, male, Langdon — and
followed it down into sleep with the focused commitment of someone
who fully intends to be a boy again in twelve months.
Underneath
the surface voice, in the frequencies where conscious attention does
not reach, the recording said different things entirely. It spoke of
softness and warmth and the particular pleasure of being noticed, of
eyes that follow you across a room, of clothes that move with you
rather than hiding you. It said these things gently and repeatedly
and with the patient certainty of water finding its way through
stone.
Donna slept soundly and did not hear any of
it.
Jethra Courtindale had
told Elisa that when her stepdaughter slept, the recording's real work
would begin.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3
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