“We shuttered the windows. We couldn’t stand witnessing the destruction. Eli believed we would be next. So we waited for death to come. For a week we survived on nothing in the nest of our despair.
“But one day I opened the window and saw an image that had a powerful and immediate effect on my heart. The world below was blue and clear, beautiful again, even after the atrocity it had endured. We knew there would be survivors, like us. So, we set out to repair what we could. We saved as many as we could and brought them to the Four Cities.”
“Thank you. You saved humanity,” Aris says.
“That’s like thanking me for breathing. It’s something anyone would have done in our shoes. Humans cannot survive without each other. It’s not possible,” the Crone says.
She continues, “Over time, however, Eli was not content in solely saving. He wanted to make humanity thrive. And become better. He was quite a reader and an appreciator of music. A simple thought came to him. It bred the ideology of Tabula Rasa. He believed if people truly knew, not just in theory but by living the consequences, that life is short, they would be kinder to each other.”
“The best way to rid society of the evils of human nature is to periodically wipe each person’s mind of the prejudices learned through life experience. With the mind a blank slate, everyone has the freedom to author their own soul.” Aris recites a passage from the Manual of the Four Cities.
“Eli gave that speech to the Councils before enacting Tabula Rasa,” says the Crone. “It was a revolution. It changed everything about how we view our lives in the puzzle of this universe. Attachment is the seat of need and greed. No memory means no attachment.”
She sighs. “But he was hesitant to impose such a radical idea until . . .”
“Until what?” Aris asks, leaning forward.
“What’s not in the historical record is that it was I who gave him the reason to move forward.”
“What happened?”
“I had an affair. It was with someone who meant nothing to me. Eli and I had grown apart over the years and under the pressure of carrying the Four Cities on our shoulders. And I guess I just—It’s not an excuse for breaking my marriage vow. There’s a truth I didn’t know . . . Some things, once broken, cannot be fixed.”
Aris looks over at Metis’s peaceful face. He told her he had forgiven her for not remembering. For having moved on in life. But has he really forgiven her?
“Eli moved forward with Tabula Rasa as a gift for me,” the Crone says. “He thought he had chained me with marriage and his love. Tabula Rasa would allow me to author my own life every four years, so I would be free to take life in at its fullest. No attachment means no jealousy, no betrayal. Each person, if they so choose, can experience falling in love repeatedly with as many people as they want.”
“But that’s not enough?” Aris says.
The Crone looks at her with her downcast eyes. “Even with the decades I had with Eli, it still wasn’t enough.”
She still loves him.
“Eli couldn’t comprehend what I did as just a mistake.” The Crone wipes her eyes. “His gift was a curse. Now I only see him in dreams.”
Aris realizes that even as a consciousness with no body, the mind still perceives the physical as it did in flesh. Like a person who can still feel pain in their phantom limb. Like knowing something is missing and living it out in dreams.
“After Tabula Rasa, he left Earth. He moved back to the space station and never returned. He left me here. Alone,” the Crone says. “But he always knew where I was, keeping track of me. That’s how I woke up as this, after what was supposed to be my death. He couldn’t just let me be. It’s not in his nature to let go. To give up control.”
Her aura glows brighter in the darkness of the lonely cottage. “I created Absinthe so he would know that he can’t control everything. He will not take my memories. I will always remember. The Dreamers will always remember.”
The Last War, the Planner, the Crone, Tabula Rasa, love, pain. Each had pushed the world forward. An ideology born from the beauty of a song and launched by the ugliness of deception is the last sacrifice of a heartbroken man. His gift to humanity. Tabula Rasa. And they all pay the price for it.
“Can it be stopped?” Aris asks.
A light smile dots the corner of the Crone’s mouth.
“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked this exact question.”
The Crone looks out the window. The sky is becoming lighter.
“I will answer it the same way I’ve answered countless times before,” she says and disappears.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It is that lonely time folklore calls the witching hour. There are few souls wandering the streets of Callisto. This late they are either drunk or tired, or both. No one is paying much attention to the two figures who keep to the shadows.
Aris whispers, “How far?”
They are heading to Carnegie Hall. He told her there is a station below with express trains to and from various cities. It’s only busy when there is a concert. They will take a train from there to Elara.
“Not far,” he says.
She’s glad. It is becoming more difficult with the heavy loads on their backs. She has the pack with the helmet and computer. Metis is carrying the provisions they took from the cottage.
“What do you have in there?” Aris asks.
“Flour, rice, salt, hard cheeses, water, a first aid kit, a flashlight, a water purifier, a knife, and a tool that has multiple tools embedded inside—I can’t remember what it’s called.”
“I’m impressed.”
“The Crone told me to put it all together for this possibility. I just never thought it’d happen to me.”
“I wonder how many Sandmen she’s had to send away.”
Metis shakes his head. Aris doubts he even knows how many came before him. He must have a lot of faith in the Crone to do her bidding without question. Or maybe he had asked, but his questions went unanswered.
“How long do you think what we brought will last?” she asks.
“I’m hoping a week. Then we’ll have to figure the rest out. Maybe there’ll be some things at the cave, but I don’t know.”
They settle into their own thoughts. The grayness of the streets and buildings deepens in the night. The steady rhythm of their feet against concrete is the only sound Aris hears. She looks at Metis’s somber face and wonders what is on his mind. Even though he is next to her, she feels as if he is hundreds of miles away.
“Are you okay?” She asks after she can no longer stand the silence.
He stops and turns to her. His eyes are pools of sadness. “Aris, I’m sorry. You’re in this situation because of me. I don’t know how, but somehow the Interpreter Center or someone knows I’m associated with Absinthe. I’d understand if you want to leave.”
He looks guilt-ridden.
“I don’t want to leave. I choose to be here with you,” Aris says.
Metis leans down and kisses her. His fingers wind through her hair and trace the length of her neck. Aris wraps her arms around his waist and presses herself closer. He pulls back and clears his throat.
“Usually there are drones at this hour,” he says, “Just try to—”
Before he can finish, Aris hears buzzing in the air. She looks up in the direction of the noise. Something dark is moving against the night sky. City lights reflect off clouds, revealing their location. There is a flock of them. They are flying low between the gaps of the buildings.
“Drones!” she whispers and flattens herself against a wall.
As soon as they pass, Metis grabs her hand and they run. They zigzag through the city, turning left and right and right and left block after block, trying to put distance between them and the drones.
Aris feels wind whipping against her face and hair. The
names of the streets blur by and she cannot tell where she is. They continue until she can no longer catch her breath.
“Wait,” she forces out the word as she clutches her side.
“Just a bit more,” Metis says, “We’re almost there.”
Ahead she sees the familiar brick building. They make their way to the back. Metis opens a door, and they run down the dark corridor toward the stairs.
Out of nowhere, someone appears in front of them. Aris screams. It is a familiar face.
“Thane!”
“Aris! What are you doing here?”
Her heart drops to the ground. Thane sees Metis, and the expression on his face changes from surprise to fury.
“Aris, come with me,” Thane says. “He’s dangerous.”
“No! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
“You can’t be with him. He’s wanted by the Interpreter Center. Come with me now, or I won’t be able to save you.”
Thane stretches a hand to her.
“No, Thane, you have it wrong. It’s the Interpreter Center that’s dangerous. Dreams are memories. They take away memories and destroy hope. Everyone whose dreams they erased killed themselves. You’re on the wrong side.”
Disappointment shows on Thane’s face. Then resoluteness. He lifts his wrist to speak into his watch. Aris does the only thing that comes to mind. She swings her fisted hand against Thane’s face with all her strength. A sharp pain travels through her fingers. Thane falls backward onto the floor.
She turns to Metis. “Run!”
They sprint past Thane and down the stairs. They turn so many corners Aris loses count. They go past storage rooms and metal pipes, following the path of silver ducts and electrical wires. She is glad Metis knows this place like the back of his hand. She would not be able to navigate it on her own.
Footsteps echo from somewhere behind them.
“Thane’s coming!” Aris whispers.
Metis yanks open a door labeled Elara. They see a train waiting at the station. Metis pounds at a button and its door opens. They jump through it. Aris hits another button and it snaps shut. They are the only ones in the car.
The train moves forward. Once they pass the platform, Aris takes a seat. She looks at her left hand, the one she punched Thane with. The pain in her fingers increases. She cradles her injured hand.
“Are you okay?” Metis asks.
“I’ll be fine,” she says. “The ring bruised me, I think.”
A loud guffaw escapes her. The situation is so absurd it feels surreal. Metis looks at her as if she has gone insane.
“I’m sorry. I just . . . it’s just . . . Oh, never mind,” she says, wiping a tear off one eye.
“Who was that man?”
“Thane. I used to work with him at the Natural History Museum. Until I learned he was spying on Benja for the Interpreter Center. He wrote the report that advised the Interpreter to erase Benja’s dreams. There were others on his list. I don’t know if they’re all Dreamers. I didn’t see you on it. But Thane was probably the one who found you. He’s very smart.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I didn’t know you were a Dreamer and the Sandman until recently.”
She gives him a look that ends his questioning.
Metis gently touches her hand.
“Ow. That hurts,” she says.
“I hope you didn’t break any bones.”
“Even if I did, it was worth it. I’ve wanted to do that since I found out what he did to Benja.”
The brightly lit train travels at top speed through the dark tunnel deep underground. The only sound is the soft whir of the train. Aris stretches out on the seat with her head on Metis’s lap. The last few days seem like one long endless day. They were always on a train, coming from or going to somewhere else. Exhaustion weighs heavily on her shoulders, but she cannot sleep.
In the hours when the mind is foggy, Aris feels it is at its most imaginative. To the hazy brain, the subway tunnel could be anything. Outer space. A wormhole. The birth canal. She pictures them traveling through time, only to emerge hundreds of years from now in the future. What would that world be like? Would there still be the Four Cities and Tabula Rasa?
A thought comes to her. “The flowers they stole. They make Absinthe, don’t they?”
“They’re called hypnos. A hybrid the Crone created from a few species of flowers. They only grow at her cottage.”
“How would the Interpreter Center know about it?”
He shakes his head. “They must know more than I thought they did.”
“How do you make Absinthe with it?”
“You use the oil extracted from the flower. It’s pretty complicated, and each batch takes half a month.”
“So who’ll make it now?”
“No one. I made the last batch needed for the meeting before Tabula Rasa. But now that it’s stolen . . . I suppose the Crone could tell the new Sandman the instructions, but they’d need water from the mountains.”
“What?”
“In the spring when the snow melts, the water travels into the creeks at the nature preserves in all the cities. It won’t be spring until after Tabula Rasa.”
“Why melted snow?”
“The processed water we drink in the Four Cities has too much salt.”
She remembers Benja saying the water she gave him after he took Absinthe was salty.
A thought comes to her. She sits up. “I asked the Crone if Tabula Rasa can be stopped, but she didn’t tell me.”
“She doesn’t readily give answers. Not often anyway. It used to really bother me. But I just figure it’s her way of telling you to find out on your own.”
“Do you think it can be stopped?” she asks.
He turns to look at her. “Do you want to stop it?”
The question is one she cannot easily answer. Tabula Rasa has robbed her of memories of Metis and everyone she knew. It took away every bit of knowledge she had of herself. She had to discover who she is and rebuild a new life around the new person she’s become. Even so, Aris still believes it does more good than harm.
“I don’t know. It controls my fate. Starting me at zero every four years. But it brought peace to our world. I don’t think I can be the one to make that decision. It would affect more than just me. And I don’t think I should make it for someone else. How about you?”
Metis sighs. “We’re taught that attachment is bad. And sometimes I feel selfish for wanting you by my side for the rest of my life. It’s desire and greed. It’s everything we’re told is the bane of humanity. And there’s truth in that. Because I can honestly say at this moment that if someone were to make me choose, I would sacrifice everyone in the Four Cities to save you from harm.”
“That’s horrible,” she says.
“I know,” he whispers.
“If someone were to make you choose, I would really prefer you spare the Four Cities,” she says. “I don’t think I could survive the guilt.”
“That’s your logical side thinking. I have that ability too. To weigh the pros and cons. To understand and see the value of each life being equal. To know that trading many lives for one is not a fair exchange. But in practice, my heart would win out every time. I’m not capable of choosing others over you, no matter how many,” he says and pulls her tight against him.
“That’s a scary thing, isn’t it?” she asks, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Let’s hope no one will ever make me do the choosing,” he says.
Silence shrouds the train car. Questions pile on top of one another like dead leaves in her mind. Aris stares out at the gray tunnel wall and pretends she is floating on a raft along a river. It calms her.
The train slows down. A feeling of déjà vu hits her. They were here just a w
eek ago to say goodbye to Benja. Now they are back for a reason just as grim. They are hiding. From the Interpreter Center and the world.
She sees a flash of red on the tunnel wall. A web with no beginning and no end. A flower. A mandala. A microcosm of the universe. She lifts her hand and looks at her ring—a reminder of a promise she made. A bread crumb from the past. The overhead light casts a soft shine on its silver metal. A green bruise is forming on her ring finger.
“Aris,” Metis’s voice speaks. His voice sounds far away.
She looks up. Beyond her palm are blurry figures standing on the train platform. She drops her hand. The figures become clearer.
The thin form of Apollina, the Interpreter is there. Her pale face and blond hair blend into the white surroundings. Around her is a group of men. They are all wearing brown fedora hats. Officer Scylla. They are all Officer Scyllas!
Clones?
Aris’s heart thumps uncontrollably. The sound of blood pumping through her veins fills her ear canals. She has read of cloning. Throughout history, scientists had done it with animals and plants. But at one point, every country agreed to enact a law to prevent its use on humans.
Suddenly her arm feels as if it’s being ripped apart. Metis is yanking her. His mouth is moving, but she cannot hear him.
“What?” she asks.
“Aris! We need to go! Now!” Metis yells.
Her feet begin to move, and they sprint toward the back of the train. It is long and empty. The bright light overhead hurts her eyes. Her head throbs.
They reach the last train car. In the back is a door. Metis opens it as quietly as he can. They lower themselves to the ground, and their feet touched gravel.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
“The red graffiti on the wall. Someone had put it there. There must be access into—and out of—that spot.”
The underground tunnel is faintly lit by overhead lamps placed sparingly at equal intervals. They are walking from darkness into the light, then darkness again. Their eyes, so used to the abundance of light, struggle to adjust.
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