Girl From the Tree House, стр. 49

“Lucifer? Who is Lucifer and how do you know him?”

“Don’t you know him? I’m afraid of him.”

“I don’t know him. Is he hurting you?”

“Luci? No, not us. He’s just very, very angry and puts all the kids in the dungeon. It’s cold and dark in the dungeon. We don’t like it there.”

It’ll take more than a few kind strokes over her blond locks to calm her down, but Ama is capable of doing it. Ever since she saw the front page of the newspaper, Maddie began spiraling down into the pit. We can’t let that happen. The pit is a dangerous place, many of our young parts spiraled into the pitch-black darkness and we never saw them again. Now I wonder whether the pit and the dungeon are the same. Although, now is not a good time to explore the connection.

We created a room in the tree house for our lost souls. It has branches with lots of little silk bows tied to it. A bow for every soul we’ve lost to the pit. I’ve read a book once of a multiple who had a graveyard for their souls that died. The thought of putting one of us into the cold ground was inconceivable. We’ve decided long ago that we want every part close-by. Nobody gets left behind.

Not even Elise. It’s early days, but she’s on her way to becoming one of us. She moves in and out of being comfortable with us. It vexes me that she can’t hear me. I’ll have to write to her about the potential danger the Gateways people pose should they recognize us.

I’m impressed with how she handled Scott. Her thinking is becoming sharper and clearer. Weaning off the tons of meds dumped on us has been a blessing. There are a few hiccups with withdrawal symptoms, but they are manageable. It’s like a cloud is lifting from us. It has to be a good thing.

After a long day, everyone went to bed exhausted. Still, fear and pain are stirring through the tree house, like smoke rising from glowing embers in a fireplace. Oh yes, everyone is resting in their rooms, but their minds are far from being at peace. Do we even know what that is, a mind at peace? We long for it with all our hearts but does it even exist? Or is it a myth, an unachievable goal we chase because we don’t know any better?

I snap out of my thoughts when someone steals down the stairs. It’s Maddie, poor little darling. She hasn’t been the same since she saw the place of her torment on the front page of a newspaper. A sliver of moonlight is stealing through the window, lighting up a corner here and casting a shadow there as if it feels pity for the child and wants to help her find her way.

She stops at the stove range, takes a matchbox, and lights two of the oil lamps Ama always collects on the dining table before she retires. I’m surprised she knows how to strike a match without burning the house down. She leaves one lamp on the loom and puts the other one next to the basket with the wool.

With two balls of wool in her hand, Maddie settles on the piano chair and weaves row after row, back and forth. After a while, her shoulders drop, and tension leaves the body. She smiles as she picks a new strand of wool and mumbles a name of a Tribe kid as she works it into her piece.

Maddie. Wise beyond her years, our little girl did the only sensible thing at this moment. She helped the Tribe to calm down and feel connected by weaving and connecting the different strands. It’s a reminder that together we are strong. Each thread can be torn in no time as long as it’s only one thread.

The woven cloth, no matter how large or how small, will withstand most threats. I like the metaphor. Weaving is symbolic of the parts of the Tribe coming together. Each thread is distinguishable and beautiful, but together, they turn into a sensational piece of art, a strikingly beautiful symphony. It stands for the dreaded integration everyone talks about.

Some people create pieces of exceptional, sought after beauty with clay and a pottery wheel. Others make their name with exquisite carvings of greenstone or pounamu as the locals call the jade found in the rivers of the South Island. Elise and Maddie’s unique woven wall hangings can compete with the best of those.

Maybe that’s an idea for later. Once I read a definition of integration that said, “Integration is when all parts of a person’s personality can say I.” I like that. It doesn’t focus on becoming ‘one’ person. What do people mean by becoming one person? I doubt very much they know either. My gaze drifts over to Maddie who has forgotten the world around her and works on her weave. Love for this beautiful, courageous girl sits high in my throat. I swallow hard. My heart expands against its boundaries to contain the love for her. A life without her is unimaginable.

I’ve seen so-called normal people change just as dramatically as we do, going from meek and mild to furious in seconds. The difference is, we don’t always remember what another part does, and we have a name for most of our parts.

When a woman brought a sick puppy to Horace’s clinic, I saw her talking to the receptionist like an adult, to Horace or Elise like a mother, and when she spoke to the puppy, she became the frightened kid. People shift into different parts all the time. The difference is, we are doing it a hundred times better than they do.

A shriek snaps me out of my dream state. Maddie stands frozen in the middle of the room and stares at the large window. I rush to her and hold her shaking little body.

“Sweetie, what is it?”

“I thee