A Mouthful of Prayers by JM Cyrus

It is on days like today that my headphones are not so much of a burden. A northern-hemisphere January mid-morning, the sunlight low and strobing, the air cooled to pinching; I can be comfortable in my wrappings and my headphones. The over-ear noise-cancelling pads keep my ears shielded.

On summer days they are harder to wear. I am still unable to leave my home without them, unless I wish to be subjected to a deluge.

I decided to treat myself at a familiar cafe with a hot drink I would not be able to make at home, before going to the supermarket. The lady behind the counter recognises me, smiles a glittered berry lipstick smile, and doesn't give a second glance to my resistance to remove my headphones.

She asks what I would like today, enunciating carefully. I have learnt to be very good at reading lips, out of necessity, but I appreciate it.

She offers a baked apple danish, they’re just out of the oven. I say yes, feeling the buzz of my voice within me without hearing it through my ears.

Carrying my frothy, expensive coffee and plate, I find my favourite table. It is tucked round the side of the counter, just the other side of the cafe’s counter wall, right next to the coffee machine and milk frother. This table is usually never taken; it is the loudest seat in the house.

I sit, unravel my scarf from my neck, and put my notebook and a cookbook on the table. Time to make a list.

The warm pastry is delicious, and the coffee is the perfect balance between bitter and sweet. Today could be a nice day. I industriously make my way through a week of meals, writing out ingredients.

The man taps me on the shoulder. There is a shoving undercurrent in his tap, indicating he has been trying to get my attention for a while. I look up, and he shakes his head at me. I gesture for him to speak, and he gestures back at me to take off my headphones. He has a smile I do not like.

I do not wish to, but he looks like he might do it for me, so to avoid a scene I remove one side, holding it away from my ear a precarious inch and a half.

The noise of the coffee maker is loud, and thankfully masks a lot of the cafe's background noise. There are a lot of people here this morning.

He smiles. He probably thinks it is his most charming smile. I wait.

And yes, there it is.

As he speaks, I hear both his voices at once. The one that says what he wants to say, and the other that tells me what he wants me to hear. I feel calling one a prayer is being generous, but he probably views it as such, and so here we are.

“Is this seat taken? Would you like to have sex with me?”

The latter sentence only I hear, attuned as my ears are to the wishes and prayers of others. I know it is not the sentence he spoke, there is a clanging quality to it; like it has been shouted into the bowl of a bell.

I have been gifted (afflicted?) with this for nearly a decade, and yet now I have to try not to roll my eyes at the obviousness before me.

I keep my face polite as I glance about the cafe, seeing if there are any other free places he could have sat. My coffee is only half finished, I wanted to finish it in peace.

I shake my head, hoping to answer both his questions at once. I keep my body language guarded, moderately unwelcome.

He smiles, and sits. I return my headphone cup and finish my list quickly. I down the rest of my coffee, and get ready to leave.

I can feel the man looking at me, trying to catch my eye, but I look everywhere else but at him.

I leave, waving to the lady behind the counter and into the cold open air from the close warmth of the cafe.

My breath mists in front of me, and my cheeks numb in the change of temperature. The glinting sunlight comes through the skeleton tree branches, and the sabres of light make me squint.

I walk quickly, trying to keep the cold from penetrating my skin.

I bump into someone turning a corner, and in the confusion my headphones fall down the back of my head. In my rush to put them back, I hear the other person speak.

“Oh I'm so sorry! Are you alright? Please let me pass my exam.”

“It's quite alright! I'm fine!” I say, apologetic. I resist the urge to wish them luck.

I pause and watch the person continue walking, brisk, coat flapping, anxious about the eyes.

The supermarket is not too busy, and I can peruse in peace. I try to realign my day and get it back on track.

But then, they get my attention. I feel the shooting arcs of pleasure travel from the soles of my feet up my legs and across my middle. Tendrils of sparkling delight extend up my spine, tickling my ears and neck. I know my eyes momentarily glow. I look towards the fridge doors, and I see the reflection of the yellow glimmer on the glass, amongst the milk, cream and cheese.

I hold my breath and there it comes. A voice in my head. It is wonderful and terrible, welcome and undeniable. It phrases a request that isn't a request.

“It is time. There is one here for us. Please remove those hindrances you call headphones and listen.”

I look up and down the aisle, there are several individuals and a couple. Shouldn’t be too loud. I push my headphones down to my neck, resting them on the thick weave of my scarf. The reassuring weight of the ear cups settle on either side of my chin.

The simultaneous noise of tinny music, carrying voices of other shoppers, trolley wheels and shop sounds is disorientating after my headphone silence. But it is the quiet shout of prayers, the clanging wishes, and the insistent hopes that make me weak. I must hear them all, I must listen.

The voice in my head again.

“They’re not in this aisle. Go to laundry detergent.”

So I go, walking past desires spoken and unspoken. A woman is reading the back of a packet of cheese “I wish I knew how my grandmother had made her cheese and onion tart,” her whispered regretful prayer. A man is looking at his phone whilst standing in front of the discounts at the end of the aisle, “Will she ever reply to me?”, a pleading entreaty.

The couple are looking at each other, chatting. She holds the basket and looks up into his face. He smiles down at her.

“What would you like to have for dinner today? Please say yes to wine.”

“Do you want to try that pizza recipe I found? Invite me to stay."

With the power of the celestial within me, I could grant all their wishes, be the answer to all their prayers, give them the resolutions they need. But I am at the mercy of a discriminating deity with their own logic.

My trolley rattles as I walk, one wheel swivels manically, obeying its own rhythm.

The man stands in front of the laundry detergent. His basket is on the floor at his feet. I can see a raw chicken, a packet of egg noodles, carrots, celery, onions, a large knob of ginger, a bottle of soy sauce, a glass jar of stock, some cooking apples, and a small box of painkillers. He holds two bottles of laundry detergent, looking from one to the other, his expression pained. His clothes are crumpled. One of his shirt collars is tucked into his jumper.

“That’s him. Listen.” The voice tells me.

I pause at the end of the aisle and hear the man. His wishes and hopes are a subconscious roar.

“I wish I knew which of these was better. Could I open one to test the smell? I hope I do not get skin rashes from any of these. I hope this doesn’t come up too expensive.”

And then, there, the prayer that clangs above the rest, “I hope she gets better soon.” His urgency, his heart, its feeling form a serrated knife in my chest. I feel the tingling in my fingers, the coiling in my ear.

“That one?” I ask inside, though I know the answer.

“That’s the one.” They answer.

I walk up next to the man, working out my strategy.

“Oh, excuse me.” I say, feigning the need for the bottle on the shelf right in front of him, accidentally knocking the basket with my trolley wheel.

“Terribly sorry. Help me.” From the man, as he shuffles out of my way.

I take a bottle, and then putting on my best chatty demeanour, my friendliest smile and brightest eyes, I look at what he is holding as he glances at me.

“Struggling to decide?” I ask, giving him an opening.

He laughs, his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You could say that. I just don’t know which of these would be better. Help her.”

I look over at what he holds. “Delicates or normal wash?”

“Normal wash.” He looks grateful. “Please, somebody help her.”

“That one.” I say, the wealth of infinite experience and knowledge temporarily granted to me helping me give him an extra wish.

With relieved shoulders, he puts the bottle into his basket and picks it up, I laugh, and say “Looks like someone is making chicken noodle soup!”

He looks down at his basket and laughs, a touch nervous.

“Yes, my daughter has the flu. Quite badly, actually.” He finishes on a mutter. He moves some of the things around, to reweight the basket. “Please help her get better.”

I peek in, so wary of overstepping my boundaries, but this has to be done. I touch the ginger, feeling the tingle as the prayer’s answer exits my body, its energy entering the fibrous root. “You've chosen the better stock, which is great. And the ginger is a really good idea, really excellent. Make sure you use plenty! Maybe fresh green chilli if she can stand it?”

The man peers at me, sensing something or just enjoying the feel of a caring human connection, a respite from his worry. He relaxes a little about the hinge of his jaw.

“Thank you. I will bear that in mind. Thank you.”

I smile, and we go our separate ways.

I feel the buzz as the deity leaves, their departure making my fingertips numb and my tongue crave salt. I rush to push my headphones back on, as I see a mother and four children under the age of ten approaching me from the other end of the central aisle.

Back home, I enjoy my salted cashews and my own tiny space with my ears naked. I choose to go to bed early.

---

I have three jobs. One is for money, another is for love, and the third is because a deity compels me.

The work I do for money is part time. I work from home, thankfully, as I usually can't hear wishes through the telephone or over video call. The company is based over 300 miles away, so there is little risk I would have to join them in person.

The other is digital art commissions. Most of my clients are overseas. I cannot go to conventions or shows, the complexity would be too difficult to even try, but I make do with what I can.

And, I answer prayers. This is really my full time work. It is unpaid, obeys very odd hours, and is literally my calling.

I live alone. I keep myself to myself. I have online friends, and I see my family once a month. My parents and brothers know I am a mouthpiece, and they take it in their stride, treating me as me and giving me the human connection I need whilst not crowding me. I am very lucky.

But I miss friendships. I am a little over 30, and I was first visited the day after I graduated with my art degree. My whole life changed, and the constant interruption of prayers was overwhelming.

My great aunt allegedly served, however, and my father was able to dredge up stories from family history and help me navigate what my life would become. With the internet and a certain degree of care, I am able to have a life.

I had one failed attempt at a relationship, but the constant expressions of prayers and desires proved too much; after three dates I had to call it off. The idea of spending enough time physically with someone so I can tell them what I am makes my ears and head hurt.

I once tried doing an internet search for what I am, but of course there was nothing useful. Can you imagine asking a search engine about people who can hear prayers or deities that can grant wishes?

I have never been able to find out the name of the one who visits me. Through years of interactions I have come to the conclusion they are not one of many, but instead are many as one. Their voice has a dry, factual humour; they are omniscient and capable of omnipotence (though they use me for the administration of miracles); and they obey a logic I can not decode.

I have assisted in things as ordinary as guiding someone on the path to finding a lost sock right through to getting the job they hope for to conceiving a baby to rescuing someone from abuse. All through gentle touches, and a bit of divine energy transferred from me to them. A few times I have been able to check in with a prayer granted, and have seen it come to fruition, welcome and miraculous.

I keep track of the wishes I have granted, writing them out in large notebooks of which I now have a full shelf. I am called to work anywhere between one and fourteen times a week. I have been woken in the middle of the night to go out and find the prayer, I have been redirected from a dentist appointment, and I have even (once) been instructed to catch the train and travel 200 miles. There was some resistance from me about the cost of the train fare in that case. But the following month I had an unusually bumper order of commissions, so I know the deity is not limited to me for the administering of its power.

Usually the prayers are local, however. I can pretend I lead a normal life.

I do not often make wishes or prayers, knowing what goes into granting them.

---

With my morning of calls over, I look at the bright February day. The threat of rain has dissipated, the grey roof of cloud is rising and thinning to translucence. There is a hint of spring among the frost, the ground looks ready to birth something.

I decide to spend my afternoon at a park that is a bus ride away.

I pack a thermos of soup (roasted tomato and garlic) and some bread rolls. I spend a few minutes debating whether to take along something sweet, and pack two bananas and a bag of chocolate almonds.

The bus is quiet, the middle of the working day. The windows have misted over, the breath of a few people is still enough to bring condensation to the cold glass. My headphones are on my ears and are also on; I listen to some uplifting instrumental orchestras.

By the time I reach the park, the sun had burned the clouds away, and the sky is mostly blue. A few cirrus clouds dust the blue ceiling.

I take a deep breath of the chilly air. The grass is still frosty in places where the sun has not yet hit it, the shadows under a group of trees, the lines under the slats of a park bench.

There is no one around. I remove my headphones and feel the air eddy around my ears and the tingling of the cold. I hear the sound of a few hopeful birds.

I enjoy my walk. I feel like singing, my heart is light in my chest. I see some crocuses bravely emerging by the path. The green tongues of daffodil leaves are splayed in a flower bed.

I feel rested after a deep sleep the night before, having had a visit in the evening. It was on my return from an errand, and I stopped off at someone else’s house.

The old woman was looking for her son’s phone number, he had recently moved house. I feigned knocking on the wrong door, but in handing her the parcel I found on her front step, I sent her the energy to prompt her memory. The scrap of paper was in her handbag all along. I saw her memory awaken in her watery brown eyes.

The park is almost deserted. One hardy runner goes past me, his brief interruption of “Please make me strong” not enough to make me rush to replace my headphones.

I lean on a railing by the lake. There are ducks paddling, and a heron watches a squirrel in a tree.

On the other side of the lake I can see an older couple sitting on a bench, too far away for me to be able to hear either speech or prayers. They sit a foot or so apart, gloved hands on their laps, lips moving a little, watching the birds in gentle companionship. I envy their friendship.

There is also a young woman, a little way away from them. I watch her walk. I like her coat. It is a frock coat, a beautiful shade of dark green, like emeralds in the dark. She has a scarf, hat and glove set in a pale green wool, like pistachio ice cream. She looks very smart, glamorous and warm.

She is walking slowly, a few dozen metres down the path from the couple. She looks around her, at the sky, the lake, the ground, the topiary hedges that are by that part of the path. Her mind is active and she looks deep in thought.

But then, I see something that almost makes me shout aloud. She freezes, and there is something about the hold of her shoulders and her hips that is familiar. I see her mouth open a little, she freezes about the chest, and then her eyes glow yellow. It is a glimmer I can see from even where I stand, across a cold lake.

Could she be…?

She looks at the older couple, and picks up her pace, her walk purposeful. I watch as she removes her hat and matching earmuffs as she walks. She sits down beside the elderly woman and introduces herself to them both. The body language of the three is polite, kind, gentle. The mist from their breaths cloud above them.

This has never happened before. I have never consciously come into contact with another mouthpiece, and here we are separated by a lake.

I look from side to side, the water extending in either direction. It would be a few minutes walk to get to a bridge, and what if I do not get to her quickly enough? What if she leaves and she goes to the other gate? What if we do not meet?

I watch them, watch their chatting and my mind tumbles on what to do next. Do I run to their side? Do I try to follow? Do I wait to see which direction she goes?

I can read their lips from where I am, still unable to hear. They are talking of how it is such a cold day, looking forward to a hot lunch. My own stomach rumbles, and I cannot tell whether the sticky clawing is my hunger or my anxious wishing and praying.

Because, yes, I find myself wishing, sending prayers into the heavens for a bridge or a path to cross to the other side, for her to look at me, for us to meet.

I listen internally. I do not feel the potential of my own visitor. I look up and down the path for other people and there are none. This feels hopeless.

A bird calls, a raven or a gull, loud and penetrating. It rescues me from my worried reverie and I look up at it in the tree above, and then back at the bench across the lake. I see the woman smile and touch the arm of the older woman.

I don't know if it is my imagination or my wishful thinking, but I think I see the spark in her hand, a golden caterpillar that passes from the woman's hand into the lady's sensible periwinkle anorak.

My chest hurts from hoping. I didn't realise I wanted company so much.

The lady's body rocks in a laugh, her head thrown back in happy, beautiful abandon. I can almost hear it, echoes undulating across the cold water.

Then she stands, gestures goodbye, and walks the opposite way to what I expected. It is lucky I didn't run around.

I walk parallel to her, watching her arrange her earmuffs and hat back on her head, careful and methodical. Pulling a stray tendril of hair from beneath the earmuff, folding the wool rim of the hat over the felt discs just so. Her movements are elegant and refined, and she is magnetic.

She doesn't seem aware of me, and we follow our paths on the lakeside.

I am no longer able to relax into nature meditation; my senses too wired, my pulse too tingly from seeing what I saw. What were the chances?

Up ahead I see the end of the lake, and some tall reeds and cattails partially hiding a wooden slatted bridge, tidy and new. The afternoon sunlight is hitting it at an angle, and if I were a hopeless romantic I would get all teary about its beauty.

But that's my chance. I take a last look at the woman, walking slowly down her path, and I speed up to reach the bridge first. Can't let her get away. Must meet. Must know.

As I walk I realise I have never heard my own prayers. I suppose a fortune teller can't read their own palm, and a doctor can't usually treat themselves. I wonder what she will hear of mine. Do I know what my prayer is?

My pace doesn't slow, and I arrive at the bridge, crossing to halfway. I stop and lean over, looking out for her.

Her path curved round a dense thicket, leafless but still opaque from twig and branch. She is hidden from me, and I start to worry.

Then there she is.

She emerges from the side of the thicket. A shock of greens in wintry surroundings. Spring has come early.

She sees me as she begins to cross the bridge. She gives me a tiny half smile, polite, acknowledging; and dips her chin to break our gaze.

But I don't want that, no, I want her to see me. I want her to know me.

I wait in front of her route and as she gets closer I wave at her, trying to rejoin our gazes.

She looks at me, eyebrows peaked in confusion. I gesture at my ears, naked to the elements.

And then I realise, I can't hear her.

I notice a kindred hesitation, an almost imperceptible reluctance to her movements as she folds her hat and shifts her earmuffs. Her movements graceful, her bone structure even more beautiful up close.

She looks at me, and her expression changes to realisation.

I smile and ask, "Shall we have a chat?"