Covenants: Quantum Dream (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 11)

by Terra Whiteman

  There are ghosts following me.

  Living ghosts, never coming too close, but tailing nonetheless. Others flicker in and out of existence as I pass, eventually joining the group. I am getting nervous, but try not to look at them. Most are silent, others echo nonsensible things in languages I can only sometimes understand. I pick up the pace, opting to vis-capture the situation in the event of my untimely demise.

  The further I walk, the more desperate the group vies for my attention. Their nonsense takes on a pleading tone. I begin to question their intentions and turn around.

  They are gone.

  I am alone again.

  Confused, I stand there for a few seconds, trying to grasp what just happened. I conclude it is impossible to inject logic into this situation, and press on.

  A crunch occurs beneath my boot. I look down at the dead flower that I’ve stepped on, the petals now rendered to white dust. An inexplicable sense of déjà-vu washes over me. My attention rises ahead. The empty sprawl is replaced with a stretch of tall grass, vines woven through them adorning white and gold flowers. Their petals open and close slowly, as if drawing breath.

  There is a giant tree at the center of the stretch, its size contending against the ones I’d seen back in the forest. The bark is white and the leaves are deep red, its canopy stretching nearly as wide as the area itself. A large hole rests at the base of the tree, hollowed out to form a kind of dwelling. In front of the dwelling is an unlit hearth and a lonely pot, hanging coldly on its spit. Another gate lays to the right of the hearth, shadowed by the massive canopy.

  A waystation. It appears to be abandoned.

  I marvel at the scenery for a moment before heading toward the tree. I inspect the hearth as I pass it, looking inside the pot. There is a layer of brown sludge caked to the bottom. I pause in front of the hollow, allowing some time to be spotted in case someone is in fact here. I count to ten, then step inside.

  An abandoned waystation seems like a useful way to collect some data. Purely-observational data, that is. Uncontaminated by any bias, intentional or not.

  The air is murky and the cool darkness hinders my vision. I switch spectrums with a blink. Like the other wayfarer’s dwelling, inside the hollow are remnants of sticks and baubles on a low-hanging shelf, carved out of the tree. Another shelf holds a collection of herb jars, some broken, others knocked over. I vis-capture this, and then return outside.

  I circle the hearth, looking up at the tree, then toward the gate, then back at the hearth. At my request, attica pulls up Zira’s thread and I skim to the portion detailing the waystations. He documented the waystation’s scenery was generated by the wayfarer. But there is no wayfarer here.

  If there is no wayfarer, why is—?

  “Hail, Traveler,” calls a meek voice behind me.

  I spin, finding a robed woman vacating the hollow. I just came from there, and it is no bigger than a walk-in closet. There is nowhere that she could have hidden from me. I say nothing in response, only watch her approach. The wayfarer isn’t deterred by my pensive demeanor.

  “Come to my hearth and have some tea,” she says, heading toward the pot. “You will need it for the journey ahead.”

  “Your hearth is cold,” I point out, now somewhat confused.

  She doesn’t seem to hear me, and stirs the pot. It makes an unsavory scraping sound as the ladle hits sludge and metal. Her features look like mine, but her hair is dark and her eyes are greyish-green. I try to calculate the chance of finding someone so close to my likeness, so early in my journey no less.

  The wayfarer takes a bowl and scoops invisible tea, handing it to me. Her smile is wide, but her eyes are empty. I get the feeling there is no one home.

  All of this is very wrong, but curiosity keeps me here. I take the empty bowl, humoring her, and sit on the log. She sits across from me, the unsettling smile unfaltering. “What is your name, Traveler?” she asks.

  “Aela Dilusin. What is yours?”

  “Names bind us to time and space,” she responds in monotone, as if reading from a script. “Neither time nor space exists here, Aela.”

  “So you do not have a name,” I conclude. “I am following the train to the Sorceress, Laith.” The wayfarer nods, her unhinged smile seeming to widen further. “Can you tell me if I am still going in the right—?”

  The wayfarer vanishes before my eyes.

  I startle, nearly dropping the bowl.

  “Hail, Traveler,” says the wayfarer again, stepping out of the hollow.

  I only stare from my seat on the log.

  “Come to my hearth and have some tea,” she says again. “You’ll need it for the journey ahead.”

  How curious. This is a memory, on loop; I am beginning to understand now. Whose memory, though? The wayfarer’s?

  She produces another bowl and once again ladles air into it. There was only one bowl prior. I look down. Surprisingly, there is nothing in my hand anymore. I think of how it felt—smooth, cool, just as it should have. I am baffled by how real the illusion seems as I receive the bowl again.

  This time, the bowl feels different. It is smooth and cool, but… different. I feel different as well. Both feelings are inexplicable. The wayfarer’s smile is inviting, and I am soothed by it.

  “What is your name, Traveler?” she asks.

  I open my mouth to respond, but pause. My heart skips a beat when I have to really think about the question. For just a moment there, I didn’t remember my name. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, seeing as this was a memory on loop, and it would play out the same regardless.

  “Names bind us to time and space,” she responds, predictably. “Neither time nor space exists here, Aela.”

  There is a resounding boom in my mind. Her answer unnerves me, but I can’t explain why. Without responding, I set the bowl down and leave the hearth, heading away from the tree.

  “Where are you going, Aela?” calls the wayfarer.

  I freeze, realizing I don’t know where I’m going. I can’t remember.

  I turn to face the wayfarer. She has stood from her seat, watching me with that soothing smile. I am drawn to return to the hearth. Its flames are warm, and I suddenly feel very cold.

  Flames. Was the fire there before? I can’t remember.

  Halfway back to the hearth, the lulling is stripped away for just an instant. I remember that there wasn’t a fire when I arrived. A war is waged between the recesses of my thoughts and the ones on the forefront—those that are telling me to return to the hearth.

  I think of the flask of serum on my hip. I don’t remember what it is for, but instinct is telling me to drink it. I take three, long gulps.

  There is a numbness on my tongue, a constriction of my chest. I hyperventilate, watching the scenery around us being rendered opaque. Then, transparent.

  “No, please,” says the wayfarer, dropping to her knees. She is transparent as well. The soothing smile is gone, her face now twisted into a desperate wince. “Please, I am so hungry.”

  All knowledge of prior events returns to me. The scenery changes to one of dead, brown flora. The tree is still there, but rotted and leafless. There are contorted bodies fused to its trunk in varying states of decay. A robed person is lying face down in front of the cold hearth, pools of dark hair spilling out from around the hood, which signifies her identity. The real wayfarer.

  I am left wondering how anyone could be truly dead here, in a place where physicality is as foreign as logic?

  Yet this wasn’t physical either. This presentation is a fabrication—someone’s doing, though obviously not the wayfarer’s. The macabre details of the scene dissuade me from any further investigation into the matter. For the first time in my career, I don’t want to know.

  At least I think I don’t, until I see it.

  Beside the decaying trunk is a figure wrapped tightly in soiled strips of cloth. A tattered, black robe hangs from its starved frame, open in the front, revealing contorted lower limbs. Its croons are p
itiful, akin to that of a suffering animal. I’m not certain if I can say it’s alive, but it is animated despite looking far worse than any of the corpses shoved into the tree.

  I stagger, disoriented, everything around me swaying for a moment. I don’t know if it is Yahweh’s serum or whatever is happening here.

  “Please,” says the robed thing in the tree, hobbling toward me. It uses the wayfarer’s voice. “Please, I’m so hungry.”

  The corpses in the tree begin to animate as well, twitching their heads and limbs. My stomach roils, and I struggle with a decision of whether to fight or flee.

  Fleeing would surely be a disservice to whoever wanders here next.

  I release a scythe and pivot forward, waiting for the thing to get within arm’s reach. It takes a minute; they do not move quickly. I also question their intelligence when they continue to advance after I raise my scythe in warning.

  They die unremarkably, and the rest of the scenery fades, including the decapitated thing at my feet. All that is left is the decrepit gate and cold hearth, along with an oily puddle where the creature was slain.

  I take another sip of the flask, allowing my hand to regenerate. The scenic imprint was generated by the creature, which apparently was looking for something to eat. I don’t know exactly what it ate, but it’s safe to assume that the intended meal was something of mine.

  I update the thread, detailing this account as a precautionary measure for future expeditions, if any. During this time, I receive a ping from Qaira. He’s finally returned my request.

  —Around five and a half days.

  I think of my comatose self in RQ4, seated in that chair for five days. A chill descends my spine, and I shake it off.

  —Also, welcome to the club.

  I am about to question that statement, but another ping points me in the direction of his vis-capture of the TriColony Sigma anomaly. He and Zira came across a similar place, with similar circumstances. I can’t help but wince at the ensuing violence, and consider myself fortunate.

  Augur. That’s what it’s called. They are categorized as non-threatening, but neither of our accounts can vouch for that.

  I turn in place, realizing the train is gone. It had led right through here, but—;

  No, there it is. Several hundred yards from me, leading away. I am certain I was following it.

  I was following it.

  As I make my way back toward the train, I recall the group of ghosts. They followed me, up until the very moment I crossed into the Augur’s mindscape. A few have returned, but they only watch as I pass them, statuesque. I realize now that they were trying to warn me.

  I am no longer afraid of ghosts.

  SHADOWS

  “LEID DIDN’T TELL ME YOU WERE COMING SO SOON,” says Laith. Her eyes are cast down as she stirs her pot. It seems like she is speaking to the tea, not me. Her tone relays disappointment, though I am uncertain as to why.

  “You should have received word the day that I left,” I say, yet omit the fact that I watched Adrial send the message himself. For a reason that eludes me, my welcome wagon is less than warm. Perhaps we are seen as unnatural here; or, perhaps she was hoping for Zira.

  “I must have missed it,” says Laith, abandoning the pot with a steaming mug of tea. She hands it to me, and I murmur my appreciation. “I am glad that you made it here safely nonetheless.”

  I take a sip of the tea. It tastes much better than the one from the previous waystation. “I nearly didn’t. There was an Augur’s trap in my path.”

  Laith hesitates, her wary expression crinkles the space between her eyes. “Where was the wayfarer?”

  “Dead, I think. I didn’t turn the body over to verify.”

  Laith tosses an accusatory glance across the hearth. “Did you hear that? You missed another one.”

  The black-clad figure, who up until now was silent, utters a sigh. They are toiling with a pile of athanasian stones; their perfect, spherical shapes seem to be crafted. According to attica, this creature is named Nibli, a product of Poekka’s misdeeds. They are frightening to look at, though their obvious display of irritation sparks both surprise and amusement from me.

  “Rogue waystations wander,” says Nibli, both the tone and inflection of their response hinting at this not being the first discussion on the topic. “I can’t find it if it doesn’t wander in front of me.”

  “All of the scrying training I’ve given you,” scolds Laith. “For what?”

  “If you’re such an adept, why don’t you find the stragglers?”

  I refrain from smiling, hiding my face behind my mug as I take another sip. These two are quite animated.

  Laith only clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Such an insubordinate Augur.”

  Nibli returns to the pile of stones at their feet. “Because I am not an Augur, I am a wraith.”

  “I killed it, if anyone is wondering,” I add, after a moment of pensive silence.

  Laith nods. “Thank you kindly, but let’s not make a habit of killing things you come across here.”

  “Noted,” I say, finishing my tea. I am surprised to find that I want seconds, but refrain from saying so. “What are Augurs, exactly? Our notes on them are incomplete.”

  It was an unknowable amount of time later that the train came to a stop at Laith’s waystation. According to her, this is only temporary—as are all the stations she mans—until a new recruit can take her place. Since the Poekka incident, Laith and her wraith, Nibli, have scoured Eschatis in search of abandoned posts in order to rejuvenate them with strange rituals, which she and Nibli are currently preparing in front of me.

  The scenery of the waystation is scarce, unlike that of the lush meadow I’d wandered through after the rebirthing cave. A gate and hearth are its only markers. Sitting here in front of the lonely fire, surrounded by a sprawl of otherwise nothingness, gives me quite an eerie feeling. I peer around, hugging myself. Being a wayfarer must get lonely.

  Laith does not answer my question at first, lighting incense cones in athanasian bowls, setting them down in front of rock piles, fashioned by Nibli at each of the station’s poles. She is lovely and esoteric, wrapped in a red, gold-embroidered robe. Laith’s eyes are the color of emeralds, with narrow irises. Her hair is braided into an elaborate bun on top of her head. Her chin is decorated in tribal Evgan ink—artwork of her past, beautiful enough that she wished to preserve it here. The incense smoke lassos around her as she rises.

  “An Augur is a wayfarer’s counterpart,” she says. “Wayfarers are no use to anyone without their Augurs.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “A clear mind is key,” she says, a bit solemnly. “We can’t have any shadows.”

  Shadows. “And where do they come from?”

  “From us,” she says, overseeing Nibli’s construction of the next rock pile. “They’re our shadows.”

  I don’t respond, a little confused.

  Laith sighs and takes a seat next to me. “Within each of us, there are two selves. One of them is a shadow self. A wayfarer’s first ritual is to create an Augur. This allows them to separate from their shadow, but still keep it with them. No one can wholly escape their shadow, yet by separating we can focus on our duties without the negative aspects that our shadow causes.”

  “A shadow self,” I repeat, thoughtful. “Do you mean the parts of us that we don’t like?”

  “Among other things, yes. Do you remember what happened when you crossed the gate?”

  “The cave?”

  Laith nods.

  “I had memories.”

  “They weren’t good memories, were they?”

  “No, they were not.”

  Laith pays me a smile. “That was you facing your shadow. The gate found you strong enough to allow you entry, so that means your equilibrium is sound.”

  She is spitting facts faster than I can update my thread. “And what do you mean when you say equilibrium?”

  “An equilibrium between y
our shadow and light selves. Tipping to one side or the other may cause problems. And not just to the traveler, but to our environment.”

  I can only wonder how Qaira made it here, then. “What happens if Eschatis rejects your entry?”

  Laith shrugs. “It varies. Some consequences are worse than others. My mentor once told me it is quite probable that every conscious being in existence knocks on our gates at one time or another, without even knowing it.”

  I think of the ghosts.

  Then, I think of every time I, or someone else I’ve known, has had a nervous breakdown.

  I think of psychoses.

  I think of dreams, nightmares.

  And then I am very overwhelmed.

  Laith seems to understand that I’ve finally peered behind the curtain, and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. All I do in response is hold on to my seat, because the world around me is spinning. She leaves me then, rejoining her wraith as they finish the final rock pile. I say nothing for a long while.

  Nothing at all.

  *

  We are constantly weaving between the multi- and meta-verse; never truly existing in one place or the other. The subconscious is never inactive, nor do our physical bodies vanish from thin air whenever we dare to dream.

  I erase and re-enter this postulation numerous times into our thread. It is a rough idea, something not quite as profound as it deserves to be. I play with the wording, but am unable to convey the true weight of it. I’d told Yahweh I wasn’t here to hypothesize. He’d known better. I wonder if he’d already reached this conclusion on his own.

  Laith walks the perimeter of the station, passing each pole where the rock piles lay. I am told by Nibli these piles are cairns, used to protect the area from any outside influence of wary voyagers, or worse. The bowl of incense she holds wafts smoke into a filmy line, clinging to the air long after it should. It archives Laith’s path. I marvel as the smoke begins to move on its own, coiling around each cairn. She kneels at the bonfire, only several feet from me—silent, contemplative, staring into the flames. I open my mouth to question what she is doing, but Nibli stops me, shaking their head. I hold my tongue.