Terraem - Menaha's Discovery

By Bryan Meadan

Fourteen year-old Menaha Ohlend has never quite felt she fits in. She spends most of her time alone trying to ignore the strange noises and voices she often hears inside her head. After winning a sponsored essay contest, Menaha can hardly believe her luck as the grand prize is a trip to Camp Squamish, a place she has dreamt of going her entire life. Yet, Camp Squamish will have to wait, for Menaha will soon enter a world beyond her wildest imagination. The van waiting in the parking lot will not be taking her to Camp Squamish, but will instead be the first step on a journey to Terraem, eight light years away, where she was not only born, but where her father, someone she has not seen for years, has been living all her life. With the help of her new Terraemi friends Sananda and Soter, will soon learn to grow and understand her natural gifts, both as a young Terraemi put onto Earth for a specific purpose, and as a normal teenage girl growing up in North America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781471017209

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Terraem - Menaha's Discovery

Terraem

Menaha’s Discovery

By

Bryan Meadan

For Uriah, Maayan and Shahar

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters and events are either a product of the author’s wild imagination, or that of someone close to him, and used fictionally.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is very strange and coincidental.  Some places on earth, but not all, are real and the author highly recommends visiting them.

Text copyright © 2006 by Bryan Meadan

Cover art copyright © 2006 by Bryan Meadan

Cover Art Photo by Danna Meadan

Additional design by Uriah Meadan

All rights reserved.  Published by SUM Publishing

through Lulu.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, telepathic or otherwise, without the expressed written consent of the author and publisher.  For information regarding permissions, write:  [e-mail]

Summary: Living with her single mother and unaware of her true identity, fourteen year-old Menaha Ohlend is taken to her home planet, Terraem, and trained for her mission on earth.

ISBN  978-1-4710-1720-9

Printed in the U.S.A.

First Edition, August 2006

Written in Canadian English by request

of the Council of Leadership

1

Preparing for Camp Squamish

She was sure her thoughts were private, that they were the most personal part of her being, only shared with those she trusted.  Some have difficulty holding in these thoughts and expose to public scrutiny the very essence of that internal conversation going on in their head.  Others hold theirs buried deep inside, revealing little to few.  Being one of these people was comforting, although she had never given the idea much attention.  However, as Menaha shuffled through her belongings in search of the essential items she needed to pack, she was completely unaware of how much she would soon be concerned about her personal thoughts. 

Put out everything you will need for the summer and take half, is what the letter from camp had said.

The rains had passed and the sun was shining on the still damp city.  It seemed the perfect day to walk in the lush hills or bike out to Trout Lake, her favourite place, not the most beautiful in the city, but her favourite nonetheless.  She knew it better than her own tiny room.  She loved to jump on her bike, ride out to the side of the lake, and sit in the quiet, undisturbed grass, away from all of the people who brought that awful noise into her head.  In the summer, the rains were so much scarcer now.  She recalled as a small child, summer rains were almost as frequent as the constant winter ones – or at least that was what she remembered.  But maybe it was just the feeling that when it rained, she was stuck in her small, damp, not-quite-fit-for-friends house.  For Menaha, there could never be enough days of sun.

Her room had a single bed, with a wood frame that looked like it was nailed together in wood shop at school, which was not far from the truth.  Her father had found the wood next to a dump and brought it home to make her first actual bed.  Up until then, she had slept in a large crib where her feet dangled outside the bars.  One of her few memories of her father was an image of him dragging the new bed in from the yard and having a hard time fitting it in through the small door leading into the kitchen.  She remembered being afraid it would not fit and she would never get a real bed.  However, he finally got it in, and this was the last thing her father ever brought her.

Now the clothes and supplies she thought she needed for the next two months completely covered the bed.  On the floor was a trunk with the name MENAHA written in big pink capital letters on the inner lid.  With the trunk on the floor, there was little room for her to stand without knocking over the junk scattered all over her pale aqua student desk.  The room was a light shade of baby blue, with small butterflies hand painted on the doorposts and above her bed.  The hardwood oak floor was barely visible with the bed, trunk, and desk covering most of it.  The walls had no pictures, but there was one on the tiny nightstand in a gold frame.  It was of her dark-haired Punjabi mother wearing a green, flowered sari and her blonde, Nordic-looking father in a Team Canada hockey jersey holding an even whiter baby high on a hill overlooking the city of Vancouver.  Now Menaha had grown up, but she never lost the glow that came from her light features and blonde hair.  Her fair skin reflected the light from above and even as a young adolescent, she still had a child’s figure.

Menaha looked at her watch.  She only had a few more hours before she had to get to sleep.  First thing in the morning her uncle would show up, and she knew she could not afford to be late for him.  If there was one thing that she had learned in her life, it was not to mess with her uncle’s time.  Time was sacred to him, and if he were ever late to anything, he would blow a gasket.  She folded another blouse, took a deep breath and said to herself, I’m hungry.

It was dinnertime and Menaha went to the kitchen to cook something.  Her mother would wake up shortly and prepare to leave for her next shift.  Menaha wanted her food ready so as not to keep her waiting.  Avani worked hard to provide Menaha everything she needed and Menaha did the same for her mother.  When the camp scholarship opportunity arose, Avani immediately spoke with Menaha and convinced her she would be fine without her over the summer, and she had nothing to worry about.  Menaha had always wanted to go to camp, but could not imagine how her mother could endure without her.

I survived many years before you made my chapatti, Avani told her.  It will be good to get back to fairing for myself.

Menaha thought it would save her mother funds by taking the scholarship and moving out of the house for the summer.  Although she was quite thin, and ate so little that her family thought she was born without a stomach, she always felt the food she ate was a valuable luxury.  She was well aware of the hardship Avani had making ends meet for them.  Menaha never knew the comforts many her age experienced, but she always had the support and love of her mother.  She often wondered what it would be like to have money.  What would she do?  Where would she go?  Avani wanted to return to India and visit her friends and family, but ever since her father disappeared, she knew they could not afford such a long journey.  But what would she do?  She was aware both her mother and she lived for the other.  Their dreams were for the other, not for themselves.  Avani worked for Menaha, and Menaha worked for Avani.  If she ever had money, it would be for her mother.

Menaha entered the dark kitchen and flicked the light switch.  A spark flew out from the lamp with a sharp popping sound and went dark.  There was still plenty of light from the soiled window above the sink, so Menaha moved over to the white, wooden cupboard door, opened it and rummaged through the mounds of plastic bags saved on the upper shelf until she got her hand on a new light bulb.  She looked at the wattage, thought a 75-watt bulb was too much to waste on the kitchen, but took the bulb out of the box anyway.  Sixty watts would have sufficed, she thought, but that was all she had.  Before removing the stepladder, she moved over to the refrigerator and jotted down light bulbs on the list stuck to the door with a magnet from Seven-Layer Pizza.

Placing the stepladder directly under the burned out lamp, she stepped up and reached to change the bulb.  The kitchen was quiet, and she could hear people walking outside.  They didn’t seem to be talking, but she could hear them nonetheless.  One of them seemed to be saying something extremely rude about the other, but there was no response.  She thought if someone called me dumb cluck, I would punch him.  As she climbed higher, the silence returned, and she realized it had never really left.

Menaha!  What do you think you are doing? yelled Avani, watching Menaha teeter on her toes on the top of the stepladder.  You’ll kill yourself.

Calm down, Mother, she said, stepping off the top of the ladder and making her way down.  I finished.  Turn on the light.  I was just going to make us something.  Why are you up so early?  I thought you’d rest a bit more.

Enough sleep for now.  I need to make sure you are set for tomorrow, she said, sliding out the chair and sitting with a thump.  How’s it going, eh?  She had been in Canada for over 20 years, but her accent was still distinctly Indian.  An elegant Georgette sari in shaded light sea green and periwinkle blue accented her dark features.  Sequin thread and Kundan embroidery lined the blouse, and even though she had just awoken, her hair was perfect, although Menaha didn’t notice.

I’m fine.  I have a bit more to pack, but I’ll have it done soon.

Well, then let me just spend these last few hours with you.

Menaha opened the refrigerator, pulled out two pots, and placed them on the stove, which despite its years of wear was sparkling clean.  Menaha made sure of that.  The scarred white doors and silver handles of the oven older than Avani were leftovers from a generation long before Menaha’s time.

Every day after coming home from school, Menaha’s routine was the same: prepare lunch, do homework, clean the house, and if there was any time left before preparing dinner for her mother, she could read a book or ride to the lake, where she could play with someone's dog.  That was the extent of her social life.  She never invited friends over to her house.  Ever.

Just as she began heating the food, she was startled by a knock at the door.  Avani just smiled. I’ll get it, and left the kitchen.

The bustle of what seemed to be about a dozen people entering the house unsettled Menaha.  She had so much more to do and was not in the mood for entertaining.  When there were guests in the house, it was Menaha who entertained.  Avani just chatted.  But when Menaha left the kitchen to see what all the commotion was, she was surprised to see each of the guests carrying a dish.

What’s this? she asked, surprised and curious.

It’s your going away party, said her aunt Suvali, gracefully decked out in an ocean blue Choli Shahara.  We will miss you, you know.

My sweet Menahashi, came a voice from the other side of the room.  It was Lochan, a distant aunt by marriage and a good friend of her mother’s, although Menaha could not understand why.  Lochan seemed to notice everything – particularly things no one wanted her to notice.

You look so pale.  Are you all right?

Before Menaha could answer, her cousin’s deep voice barrelled in from behind her, Of course she’s fine.  She always looks pale, that’s her natural state.  The blonde sure doesn’t come from our side of the family.  Menaha turned on the spot, smiled as if all her dreams had just come true and jumped into Kundan’s arms.  Hi girl, it’s been too long.  You’re as golden as ever.

Kundan was Menaha’s favourite cousin, and in fact, he was the only relative she really liked at all.  His family always said he could have passed as a Bolliwood actor with his handsome dark features, strong build and soft smile.  But it was his gentle demeanour and compassion that attracted so much appeal…although being an Indian hunk didn’t hurt.  Having him there made the whole evening worthwhile for Menaha.  He was almost seven years her elder, and had taken care of her during her hardest moments.  He was like her big brother, although they recently had not spent much time together.  Kundan had just returned from a year in California where he did an internship at Cal Poly in space engineering.  His dream was to be an astronaut.  It had been his dream since he could remember, and Menaha had joked that when he took off into space for the first time, she would be right there waving the flag of India.

Entering the house behind Kundan was perhaps the strangest girl Menaha had ever known, her adopted cousin Ambika.  Ambika, Menaha was told, had a growth disorder; she grew very quickly until the age of seven to about two heads taller than the rest of her class and then just stopped growing all together.  She was six months older than Menaha, and since the first time they met when Menaha was eight and Ambika towered over her, the family expected them to be best friends.  But as far as Menaha was concerned, growth was not Ambika's only disorder.  Just her presence in a room made Menaha anxious.  Menaha, why don’t you go play with Bikush in your room, they always told her.  They too wanted her out of the way, Menaha thought.  She was always clasping her hands together and looking around, eyes darting from place to place like someone was about to attack her.  She did not make good conversation and seemed not to care much about the games Menaha suggested.  They usually ended up silent in her room, each doing her own thing, which for Ambika meant doing nothing at all. 

The chatter in the room was getting louder and louder.  Menaha started to feel tense; she wanted to run out of the room into the open – or better yet, to the lake.  An ache began in the back of her head and she had the feeling everyone was talking to her at once.  Worst of all, she was overhearing people talking about her.  How she looked so thin; what a shame she didn’t have any of her mother’s features, but she was still beautiful, for a Canadian.  She heard, or thought she heard, people talking about the people they were talking to.  The sounds seemed to be coming from inside her head, but they sounded a lot like the voices of her relatives.  Suddenly, Kundan grabbed her arm.

What is it?  He had an alarmed look on his face, as if all of the noise in her head was jumping out at him.

It’s happening again, she said quietly, but urgently, eyes tearing.  It’s happening again.  Tell them to stop.  Please, tell them to stop.  She looked as if she was about to pass out. Kundan put his arm around her and led her back into the kitchen.  He sat her in the chair her mother had vacated, and went to fill a glass of water.

Here, drink this.

What is it, Kundan?

It’s water, he said, puzzled by the question. 

No, what’s happening to me? she pleaded, hoping as a space engineer he would know these things.

Don’t know, but you should go see a doctor.  Maybe you’re sensitive to noise.  That had been everyone’s assessment.  Menaha was afraid people would think she was crazy.  She had seen movies about mental wards, and wanted nothing to do with shrinks.  Alternatively, maybe she had a tumour growing slowly, but consistently in the back of her head.  Kundan had asked her if she was able to track when the headaches and noises occurred, that perhaps it was something she was eating, or not sleeping well.  But she just said, It almost always happens at family occasions.  Kundan replied that that was understandable.

Kundan put his dark hand on her bright blonde head. Hang on.  I’ll be right back.

A moment later, Kundan came in and said that if she could handle it, they would all just like to say goodbye.

What did you say to them?

That you weren’t feeling well and were pressured since you needed the time to pack, he smiled and added, and you don’t like surprises.

After a few minutes, she was fine.  Apparently, the guests had not even noticed her absence even though it was supposedly she they had come to see.  Menaha smiled and took another sip of water.  She stood up, straightened her blouse and led Kundan out the door to the living room.

We’re sorry, darling, said Lochan.  Feel better and we’ll see you at the end of the summer.

The clan started filing out, and Menaha was relieved.  Even on a normal day, when she was free from the pressures of packing, there was a limit to how much of her extended family she could take.  Kundan started out with them.

Kundan, can’t you stay just a bit longer? she asked half-praying and half-begging.

No, I came with them, girl.  Maybe I’ll come see you at camp.  They do have visiting days, don’t they?

Saddened, Menaha gave him a hug, and watched as he closed the door behind him.  Just before the door shut, she caught a glimpse of Ambika glaring at her from the sidewalk.  The door closed and the house went silent.

2

Sananda and Soter

I fear I know the reason you called me here.  Does it have to do with…, Aksel’s voice trailed off as though suddenly deep in a recollection he was afraid to utter.

Foresti paced back and forth, his tall, trim figure shadowing over the aqua tinted room, his white light illuminated from where the green-blue walls met the domed ceiling.  Long white hair fell straight down from the centre of his scalp as if ironed flat, slightly flowing as he whisked back toward the smaller man.  Foresti’s steps caused his maroon chemise to flop about as he skimmed over the stone floor, feet clicking as he moved.  He raised his stare into Aksel’s foggy blue eyes. It is time, Aksel. It is time.

Aksel looked back at Foresti’s sharp features; a rough, aged yet wise face.  Aksel swallowed hard as his thoughts became vacant and white and were immediately replaced with those of Foresti.

Aksel was always able to distinguish Foresti’s thoughts from all others.  They were clear and precise, with no room for misinterpretation.  From childhood, well before his joining the Council, before his long white mane symbolizing his years grew to reach his belt, at a time when they were both just honing their skills, Foresti had the power to convince by calming.  For whatever the mission, whatever the danger, Foresti could pacify all around him.  He was well known for this gift, and thus easily taught others in the ways of the Leadership.

The song of thoughts flooded Aksel’s mind, his knees became weak and he felt a tingle in the back of his neck.  The collar on his blue and white shirt tightened and he straightened his torso to meet Foresti’s eyes.  It is time to bring her back.  That was the message he received in his mind, the one message he had been waiting for all this time, and the one message he had feared would come too soon.

No! he said, breaking the silence.  She’s not ready.  She won’t survive the journey.  No, not yet, Foresti!

Yes, she will do well.

Aksel shook his head.

She will return with Sananda and Soter.  They will see to her safety.  They will arrive at second sun dawn.

She can die, Foresti!  I know it’s your decision, but please, I beg of you, she is not ready.  The pressures of the Cranellian cloud will be too great.  Give her another year to develop.  You know she needs more time!

You must release your fear.  Foresti’s thoughts calmly made their way into Aksel’s mind.  Aksel stepped back to sit on the red, quilted bench, feeling his legs would give way at any moment.  Foresti stepped closer to him and took his hand.  His Council of Leadership necklace hung in front of Aksel’s eyes, its silver and blue spirals almost moving on their own.  Aksel felt the heat from his hand make its way up his arm, around his back and spine, over his head and settle in the centre of his mind.  It was a warmth that caused him to tear, and with it came the words, It is already done.

Aksel closed his eyes and cried.

Uncle Henry had no time to bother getting out of the car.  It didn’t matter that the trunk was bigger than Menaha; he couldn’t find it in himself to assist.  He expected Menaha to be waiting by the curb when he showed, and nothing short of promptness and punctuality would do.  After all, he was doing her the favour.

Three long honks rattled the neighbourhood at 7:30 AM on the overcast Sunday morning.  It was not the sunshine that had greeted Vancouver the day before and the forecast called for rain the first half of the week. Menaha thought it would be fun to see authentic rain rituals of the First Nations when she arrived at camp.

Camp Squamish was a dream come true.  Nature and First Nations’ culture had been one of her passions ever since she was a young girl when she participated in the Children’s Anthropological Program at the University of British Columbia.  She took a bus all the way across the city to the museum and spent the entire Saturday with a group of kids hearing stories about First Nations’ life and culture.  She thought she would have made a great hunter.  She was quiet, patient, and athletic enough to be able to make the kill.  But she knew she would have more likely spent her time gathering berries and building canoes.  Now she would experience the lives of native British Columbians the way she had always dreamed.

When Menaha turned twelve, her mother asked her what she wanted for her birthday.  It was just out of politeness, since Avani knew she could not afford much anyway, and for the third year in a row Menaha would settle for only a cake.  Nonetheless, she asked, and Menaha’s answer caught her by surprise.  Camp Squamish, said Menaha.  One of her classmates had gone the year before and could not stop telling intriguing stories of ancient rituals, hunting games and living in tepees.  It seemed the perfect fit for Menaha, and from that moment on she knew what she wanted.  But there was no money for that kind of luxury, and the dream was