Magina (Untitled)- Prologue 2/3

The smell of Chinese pancake rose from the pan on the stove in the kitchen; the smell travelled through the house and seeped into Sean’s room. His mother flipped the pancake to the other side as he rolled over in his bed. Just when the pancake almost browned, she flipped it again, and Sean no longer could resist the smell that invaded his room. He woke up with an appetite for breakfast.

When his mother plated the pancake, Sean was in the kitchen, startling her as she turned.

‘Sean, happy birthday!’ she wished him. ‘You’re right on time for your pancakes.’

‘I could smell them in my sleep, mom. Thank you,’ he replied and snatched a fork. No matter how old he would be, Sean knew he would never stop liking pancakes. It was his favourite and his mother knew it, for twenty one years. He ate as he watched his mother moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of honey. She turned to him and Sean shook his head. He never liked it with honey. Just, plain pancakes.

At twenty one, Sean realized his life had been stable and safe. He knew about his father- that he was gone when he was young, and his mother had taken the role of his father, became his friend and his confidant. Another bite and Sean felt now his life had more to offer, or he had more to offer to life itself. Either way, he felt something missing and incomplete, that there was a need of greater importance, waiting in the future for him to unlock. Like a loading game, he was waiting to start, on his kitchen chair, in front of his favourite breakfast.

‘Where is the white box I gave you last night?’ his mother asked.

‘It’s in the drawer in my room. Am I ready to open it?’ he told.

‘It depends on you. When you are ready, you can open it,’ his mother said.

‘Anytime of the day?’

‘Whenever you are ready.’

***

Zesta heard the table next to him moved and he woke up to see his father trying to lift it.

‘Father, what are you doing?’ he asked, removing the wool cloth covering his legs.

‘Lend me a hand in this,’ his father replied, panting.

‘You’re not well,’ he got up from bed, uttered then helped his father to carry the table. ‘Where do you want me to put this?’

‘By the door. The table is not important; it is what is underneath it,’ he said then kneeled where the table was and swept dust and hay covering the floor. The floor now revealed a wooden plank. His father reached for a hammer and broke the plank into two.

‘What are you finding for, father?’ Zesta asked but his father did not reply. Instead, he dug his hand into the hole and retrieved a piece of cloth.

That piece of cloth, his father slowly peeled, hid a dagger of a kind, one Zesta had never seen before but it felt familiar. Unlike his hunting dagger and similar to his father’s, the handle of the dagger was intricately carved, the blade curvy and its spine silver and shiny.

‘This dagger is for you,’ his father managed to utter. ‘It is an identity, our identity, your identity.’

‘Why now, father? What identity?’ he quickly asked, confused.

‘You are ready, my son,’ his father said. ‘This dagger is power, for you and for anyone who uses it with purity in his heart.’

‘Is there something going to happen, father? Are we in danger?’

‘Danger is always around us; this time, it is about us.’

... to be continued