Wild Wood by Posie Graeme-evans Page A

nothing, he murmurs, “You’re in pain, Jesse, and not just from broken bones. It’s holding you back.”
    “What are you, Sherlock Holmes?” But the laugh is shaky, and she stares at her hands, willing herself not to sniff.
    “Something neurologically profound has happened to you.” Rory hesitates. “And we don’t yet know if that’s good or the opposite—but I do think it’s important. And not just for you, but for other people who’ve experienced brain injury because yours is such an unusual case. At the very least you’re displaying characteristics I’ve never seen before.”
    Jesse’s alarmed. “But the fracture was minor, you said that, and the bleed was small too?” She’s not sure if that’s the term, but he nods. “You told me it wasn’t serious.”
    “I still think those things. But there’s nothing in the literature I’ve so far found that is able to explain the phenomena you’ve been experiencing. The sketching, for instance.”
    She stares at him unhelpfully.
    He moves on quickly. “There could be an elegant and simple explanation for what’s happened. You might, for instance, have a genetic tendency for being ambidextrous, and not being able to use your dominant right hand has flushed that out. The ability to draw might’ve been similarly latent; perhaps the bleed after the fracture put pressure on an area of the brain that allowed those talents to finally express themselves. And yet . . .”
    “You don’t believe it, do you? That the answer is as simple as that?”
    “Simple is often right, I’ve seen that over and over again, but asking questions under hypnosis may tell us things you have never consciously known about yourself. That could be very useful in the search for answers.”
    She stares at him for a long minute. “It doesn’t explain the castle, though, does it? The fact the pictures show things I’ve never seen before.”
    “Let’s see what we find out, shall we?”
    Jesse exhales, a long sigh. “So you think there is an explanation?”
    “Of course. There’s always an explanation.”

    “First, make yourself really comfortable.”
    Jesse burrows deeper into the armchair, tips her head against the high back.
    “Good. Now, I want you to think of something pleasant. A place you like going to, or an enjoyable pastime—something that gives you pleasure. Soon I’ll count from ten down to one, but right now, all you have to do is breathe deep, relax, and listen to the sound of my voice.”
    Relax ? Huh.
    “So, here we go. Ten, nine, eight, feeling happy, and peaceful, and quite safe. And very relaxed.”
    Safe ? But Jesse’s eyelids drift down.
    “. . . seven, six, five; you’re in your favorite place now, you love being where you are.”
    Swimming in a warm sea . . . No. It’s not the ocean. There are reeds: bending and dancing. Sun on the water . . .
    “. . . four, three, two . . .”
    Like a mirror, the water, liquid silver . . .
    “. . . one. You’re feeling peaceful, Jesse, so comfortable. Zero. Nothing worries you at all.”
    I’m swimming. . . . It’s cool and clear and green and . . . What’s that?! Jesse’s eyes leap open and the flesh on her arm dimples.
    Rory says soothingly, “Just remember, you’re safe and calm and warm—mind awake, body asleep. And you’re detached, just an observer, like someone watching a movie. Nothing bothers you, or frightens you . . .”
    The sound of his voice has a rhythm like a chant and Jesse’s eyes droop closed.
    “Jesse?”
    No reply.
    “Can you hear me, Jesse?”
    The girl moves her head in a slow nod, as if it’s an effort, as if her head is heavy.
    Rory scribbles a quick note. “So, we’ll count down just like before. Peaceful thoughts, so comfortable, and with every breath you’re more relaxed, even more deeply relaxed than before. Ten, sleepy now; nine, lovely thoughts, so happy; eight, look around at where you are, this is your favorite place, remember; seven,