by B L Barkey
They all stepped closer towards the flowers, their faces becoming slightly more illuminated.
“So why…” Ammon started, gesturing around the room with his eyes.
“Why all this space for such small rings?” Celia finished. She smiled then, covering her mouth gently with her hand.
“The plant before you is known as the Ansemithum, often referred to as the Ansem, for short. You may remember seeing it in your gliscs, though I assure you, there are none growing naturally on our island.” Ammon did remember the flower from the gliscs. He remembered the sketch from its otherworldly beauty, though no photographs had been stored.
Celia continued. “Herbalists call this the ‘flower of the veil’, for it only flowers on the very edge of perfectly opposing conditions. It requires opposites in all aspects of energy to grow. Heat, light, moisture. Even emotion.”
“See, it all rests on the very line between each sensation,” started Terra. “The warmth of the light, with the coolness of the earth, balances the plants at moderate temperature. The plants sit perfectly on the ring of light where the column becomes shadow, resting in between.
“The moisture is balanced at fifty-percent humidity. Even one-tenth of an error would ruin their bloom. Luckily, we have technology to compensate for any shifts in humidity, as long as the change is gradual. Hence, the quarantine at the front.”
Ammon was astounded. “Wow. That sounds impossible. What about when the Sun goes down? What keeps the balance of light and heat?”
Celia took over, stepping back into the conversation, as if stealing her husband for a dance. “Yes, that does sound tricky doesn’t it?” She stepped closer to the plants and pointed to the ground at their center.
“Buried right there is a light. It charges during the day, like so, then casts natural light onto the plants when the sunlight fades. Whether in storm or nightfall, the light senses the darkness and activates. The light also provides heat. We have measured both the light and heat from this lamp carefully, to keep that perfect balance.”
“And the plants upstairs?” Mikael asked, his eyes watering just at the thought of them.
“Vicious, aren’t they?” Terra answered. “Blue-halo plants. They’re recorded in the gliscs as the only other flowers ever found growing near the Ansemithum. It makes the plant feel safe and protected.”
“What makes it feel unsafe?” asked Ammon.
“Meee!!” yelped Lumena with sudden joy. Celia picked her up, shushing her gently.
“The little one speaks true,” Terra said, laughing.
“The Ansem plant feels threatened around humans. If it wasn’t this way, then the plant would be imbalanced in emotions. If the blue-halo plants were absent, and a person then approached, who was perfectly neutral in emotion and being… well, then it might be possible to approach the flower without it wilting in seconds. But such expectations are ridiculous. Humans are an ocean of emotions, ever-shifting like waves. Most of us, anyway.”
“Eloquent,” Celia said, pushing against his shoulder. She bounced Lumena on her hip.
“Hey, it’s true,” said Terra, shrugging.
Ammon hesitated. The next question on his mind seemed rude, which usually meant he shouldn’t ask it. Yet the question kept nagging at him.
“If it’s so difficult, then why all this trouble for one flower?”
Celia answered almost immediately, as if anticipating this question. She sounded patient and rehearsed, perhaps having recited the words many times before. “If harvested at their peak, which lasts about thirty seconds each year, the petals of the flowers can be dried and mashed into a powder. This powder, if swallowed, will then transport a person through what we Arcanums call ‘the veil’.”
Terra spoke up, continuing the dance with his wife. “You may have heard this theory before, that we all were once living spirits before our births on Proelum. Before receiving physical bodies.” He gestured towards himself. “Celia and I are full believers in this. We believe all humans were once spirits who knew a great many things, whom then decided to be confined in this mortal life, so that we may grow. And if this proves true, what happened to all our prior knowledge?
“This is what we call ‘the veil’. It is a thin but powerful barrier between our conscious spirits and the knowledge we once had. When we first came to this world, we still knew many things. Yet as we developed, the veil grew stronger. By the time we learned to communicate, this veil was complete. That’s why some of the most profound things can come from innocent, spirit-connected children. You should hear some of the things Lumena says.” He smiled at his daughter.
Jonah took over from here, his unquenchable thirst for knowledge wielding itself with brilliant indiscretion.
“Can you imagine it? Even for just a few moments, looking past this mental barrier into the vast well of knowledge, from which we drank before this life? It’s no wonder this plant is so hard to cultivate, let alone why it must be grown on the very precipice of balance itself. It rests on the veil of all things, only to break the veil to our premortal lives.”
Ammon could feel warmth in his chest, though a portion of his mind still felt cool with doubt. These doubts took the form of words, which then tumbled from his lips.
“So you really think it does these things?” He sighed. I really could have said that better.
“It’s hard to say,” said Terra, revealing that the family had discussed the exact same thing before. “Perhaps it is a plant that doesn’t even flower at all, and makes fools out of people like us.”
“But there’s only one way to find out,” finished Celia.
“Membance! Membance!” Lumena cried, jumping up and down.
“Yes, dear. Remembrance,” said Celia, deciphering the language of childhood. She then looked at Ammon and Mikael.
“We’ve been teaching her that word, to practice her annunciation. It also applies to this place, for it is a shrine in hopes of remembrance.”
She turned then, her hair floating for several breaths. It seemed a mystery to Ammon how any young girl could ever grow to be as stunning as this woman. The gap seemed so colossal. A canyon between two opposites.
“Isn’t it unbelievable?” Celia continued, her eyes shining. “Being able to revive these plants from the ancient world. It brings me peace knowing beautiful things live on through the ages, despite the tragedies of this world.
“Even if the Ansemithum holds no abilities, proving the gliscs false, it has already brought us remembrance of a world long-forgotten. Despite the vast expanse of knowledge preserved in the Leviticum, do you realize how many records were lost from the ancient world?”
Ammon was at a loss for words. He felt he was still learning so much at the Leviticum. The thought of even more knowledge… It was incomprehensible.
“Cephasonians are a forgetting people. Life used to be much different only a century ago. Another century before that, not much changed at all. That’s when one starts to wonder how much change will occur in our near future.
“We are seeking answers to these questions, whilst trying to remain calm and balanced. Sometimes we must accept it as…” She looked down at her hands. “Sometimes it’s just the way of things.”
Ammon nodded, smiling gently. “Master Kodin’s favorite saying,” he said.
Celia laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is. He’s a wonderful man and teacher.”
“Unlike some Levitians there…” Terra started, looking to his wife.
“Now now,” she scolded. “Only positive words here.” She then turned to the boys. “You didn’t come here just to talk of flowers. Come. Let’s all get outside and talk about your lives.”
II
The six of them left the earthen room with careful, deliberate steps. They entered the quarantine together, shut the internal door behind them, then opened the door to the outside. Lumena jumped right back into Mikael’s arms while Celia and Terra held hands. Jonah held his hand out to Ammon with a swooning look in his eyes. Ammon swatt
ed it away. “You wish,” he muttered. They both laughed.
After walking along a trail to the south and picking a few blackberries from the nearby bushes, Celia spoke.
“So tell us boys, what have you been studying lately?”
“Nothing, dear,” Terra answered for them, squeezing her hand. “They have the Trials next week, remember?”
“Oh yes! Both of you are trying out, huh?” she asked Ammon and Mikael, rhetoric light in her tone.
“We are,” said Mikael, bouncing Lumena up and down in his arms as she giggled. “Assuming we pass the Prelims. No words from the Masters yet, which is a good thing.”
“Gawdens!” Lumena cried. Celia came to the rescue with translations once more.
“That’s how she says ‘guardians’. It’s not very different from how she says ‘gardens’, though she is far more thrilled by the former. You remember the stories you believed as children about the Sector Guardians? Those stories were around even in our time,” she said, gesturing to her husband.
Ammon gave Mikael a sideways look. Oh yes. We have heard the stories. And we’ve seen them. We even keep a few of our own.
“Anyways, what I meant was,” she sang, bumping her husband off the trail. “What have you been learning about the last several months? Any new books or Leviticum courses calling to you?”
Ammon wondered himself what he had been learning about.
“Well,” he started, swiping a few more berries from the bushes as they walked. “I’ve been reading a lot about the origins of Cephas, along with stories from the ancient world, just before the Great Fire. Most of what I find is stories, particularly of Cephas Island. Some excerpts definitely seem to be missing. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I feel there are gaps in our history starting from the Great Fire.”
Ammon finished eating the berries from his juice-stained hands, then realized all he heard was footsteps. No one spoke. He looked to Celia, who was giving Terra an inquisitive look. He had seen the same look on Mother’s face many times. It was the look shared between secret-keepers, as if to say, ‘Should we tell them?’
They could have passed it off as nothing. Instead, the Arcanums seemed eager to share their own thoughts. Terra spoke first, glaring at the dirt path before his feet.
“As we have begun reviving the Ansemithum flower, we have been thinking much about remembrance. What things we would like to remember, if we are indeed able to cultivate the flower. It doesn’t seem likely, as we’ve said before. Yet we would rather prepare for success than failure.
“So we have wondered what we would like to recall. In searching our minds diligently, we came to realize a truth.”
He took a deep breath. “We are a forgetting people. Neither forgotten nor forgetful, but forgetting.” He paused again, allowing the gentle tunnel breeze to speak peace to their souls.
“There is a veil of memory descending upon the world. It isn’t replacing the existing veil, the one clouding our premortal lives. No, it’s in addition to, a second veil, obscuring all that we knew in the last one-hundred-and-thousand years. Or so it seems.”
It was clear that Terra and Celia didn’t quite agree on this point, yet she said nothing.
To Ammon’s surprise, Jonah spoke next.
“It seems evident that Cephas Island was first inhabited by our people at the start of the Great Peace. Less evident, though also supported, is the fact that things have slowly been changing for the last one-hundred years.”
“You’re in on this, too?” Mikael said, stunned. Lumena laughed aloud, excited by Mikael’s outburst.
Jonah nodded. “Yes, and we are not the first in our family. It was my grandparents who first started collecting records from their own parents. Through these records, we’ve learned astounding things. These notes were kept within the family, as they were never meant to achieve any sort of victory or glory over others.
“There was no reason for us to doubt the contents of the journals. Yes, some of our ancestors were lackluster in their describing abilities, while others seemed to lose their sanity. Yet all have contributed something useful to our new understandings.
“And that’s when we realized.” Jonah paused, looking at his hands as if they belonged to another.
“Realized what?” Mikael asked, taking the bait for them both.
Celia was the one who answered. “Tell me. Why do you think there is no one of elder age on the island?”
Ammon’s first instinct was to laugh. Of course there are old people on the island. And then he thought about it again. He knew automatically that Vothek was the eldest person on the island, and he was only forty-five years old. Is that all? Is there truly no one older?
“Well, how old is Master Lyon?” Ammon asked, knowing his question was of little worth.
“I believe he’s forty-three,” Terra answered. “But I think you are understanding. There are no grandparents. No great-grandparents. For an island of people who live such healthy lives, we should easily have whole generations of people in their sixties, eighties, and even hundreds. We found a set of records last month from our great-great-grandfather. Do you know how old Cephasonians used to live? Do you know how they used to die?”
Ammon was shocked. He realized this was something he had never once thought about. By Terra and Celia bringing up the topic, it was as if they were pointing out a backpack on his shoulders that he’d worn all his life. And now that he was aware of it, he realized how excruciatingly heavy it was.
“I… I’ve never… But how? How come we’ve never thought of this before? How has this never come up in Leviticum classes? Surely they must know about it.” He paused. “Are they hiding it from us?
“We’ve thought about that,” Celia said, “though it doesn’t seem likely. Such behavior would lead to great distrust and chaos on our island. No… What seems more likely is that the Levitians, and the Sector Guardians, have also forgotten. The information, and even the logic and curiosity of such information, has faded.
“The new veil seems to be so strong, that it even blurs our curiosity. We don’t even have the questions that we used to have, let alone answers to those questions. The danger with forgetting is that you forget what you forgot. Redundant, I know, but thus it is. It’s impossible to remember what you forgot, until you again remember. You can ever only do one at a time.”
Terra stepped in. “Even some of our records are forgotten, as if pieces of them were scattered, coded, or even tossed out. This seems possible, as we are forgetting the value of things. I remember burning several boxes of texts that we’d read through carefully, before deeming them insignificant. But now that I look back, I can’t recall what was in those boxes.”
“The pieces that are still remaining have taught us much,” said Jonah. “Most things we’ve discovered seem trivial, though sifting through them is still a huge joy to us. Other things are quite significant. We have talked about it, and we are willing to share some of these things with you both, if you’d like. Just know that it will bend your mind. You will get a headache. We have read much in order to surpass this new veil, and our minds have adapted. Yours will be taking on this new information without preparation.”
Jonah spoke with clear, concise thought, absent of any slurs or slang. He suddenly seemed older. He would make a good Levitian, Ammon thought.
“Just spit it out. Of course we want to know!” Ammon said. Jonah and his family looked to Mikael, who nodded the same confirmation.
“Just spi’ tout,” mimicked Lumena, grabbing both of Mikael’s cheeks in her hands and looking very serious.
Celia smiled endearingly at her youngest child. “Lumena shares her own secrets with us at times,” she said. “Though she is getting older, and her veil is almost in place, she can still recollect a few things from the ‘before’. Tough thing is, she doesn’t know what to share. It all seems like common knowledge to her. It’s like telling someone that water is wet. It seems so obvious, you would hardly consider it knowledge at all. An
d where to begin with describing such a thing?”
“Anyway, Lumena has spoken,” said Terra. “We will tell you what we know.”
III
All three of the Arcanums shared bits of knowledge then, while Ammon and Mikael listened intently. It became difficult to distinguish who spoke, for they all spoke of the same knowledge, adding to different parts of the conversation in fluid succession.
“We will speak of how Cephas Island used to be at the start of the Great Peace. It seems likely that this was also the state of the whole world, but we don’t know this for sure.
“First and foremost, we have forgotten how we were created, and most tragically, why we were created. We have forgotten who we truly are. I speak not of Gardeners or Guardians, but of our deeper spiritual purpose. The rest comes as branches from this sure truth.
“We never used to take life, whether of plants or animals. The fruits of the plants were taken and eaten, but never the core of the plant. We ate fish, but they are of a different realm in their own right. Taking them is like taking the fruit of the ocean. They feel no pain or emotion. They do not carry the same blood. When we crafted homes or furniture from trees, it was only with consent from the woods, for we used to speak to them as clear as we are speaking now. When we would harvest the wood for crafting, the lives of the trees were only repurposed. Life existed stronger than before as they were physically joined with other trees and used for the purpose of protecting humans. We would not speak with the wood in our homes, but would feel their intelligence and goodwill at all times.
“We ate only out of necessity. It was most delicious that way. We used all foods entering our body to the utmost degree, wasting none of it. The plants and fruits were efficient, and so were our bodies.”
“Wait a minute,” Mikael interrupted. Jonah was already laughing.
“You’re saying,” Mikael continued, pausing for a moment, “that if our bodies used the food perfectly… then we never had to create waste? As in like… we never had to poop?”