by BC Powell
“I will,” I answer. “It’ll be soon.”
He bows to us before sprinting away. When he reaches the end of the ravine, Sash steps in front of me and gazes into my eyes.
“I’m sorry I was angry with you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “But thank you for saying so.”
“It’s not fair to you. I know you wanted to help, and I should have explained myself.”
“It’s okay, Sash. Larn told me what you need to do after Darkness. Let’s go get some rest.”
“You can be angry with me if you want to be,” she says, smiling sympathetically. “I promise I won’t attack you.”
“I know,” I chuckle, “but I’m not mad at you. I enjoyed talking with Larn.”
“You’ll be spending a lot of time with him soon, so you should try to feel comfortable around him.”
“I hope I can live up to his expectations,” I say.
She shakes her head, never taking her eyes off mine. “You only need to live up to your expectations for yourself.”
“Thanks, Sash,” I reply. “I’ll try to set them high.”
“I know you will,” she says before turning to the door.
As we walk through the tunnel to our habitat, I call out, “Awaken.” The Swirls instantly respond with their warm golden light.
We quickly put our things away, drink two cups of sap each, and clean in the waterfall. I remember to refill my flasks before hanging my belt on the hooks, receiving a nod of approval from Sash. After we slip into our sleep clothes, I walk to the new table that Sash added to the habitat for me. Taking a sheet of fabric in my hand, I turn to her.
“I know you’re tired, but will it bother you if I draw for a while before I go to sleep?”
“Not at all,” she replies. “May I watch?”
“Sure,” I say.
I’m a little surprised by my own reaction. On Earth, I never liked the feeling of someone looking over my shoulder while I drew, possibly judging my work before I felt it was finished. But it’s different with Sash. It feels natural and comfortable to share my process with her.
Sash stands at my side while I sit at the stool and spread the canvas out on the tabletop in front of me.
“I had the bowl made for you,” Sash says. “I noticed that you shaved some of the dried sap into a pile and used it when you drew the picture of me.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the bowl, a knife, and a marker down from the shelves. “It’s great to have. What can I use to clean up my mess when I’m done?”
Sash walks to the other side of the table we use for “dining” and returns with a bucket. Inside the pail is a small hand broom and dustpan. After she hands the bucket to me, I take the broom out and run my fingers across the soft bristles.
“What are these made of?” I ask.
“Hair,” Sash replies.
I immediately decide I could have paintbrushes made in the same manner. I’ve already been giving thought to items I’ve seen in Krymzyn that could be used as pigments. During my final week on Earth, I read everything I could find about how to make paint.
Over the bowl, I use the razor-sharp knife to shave the long, straight twig into a point. Sash brings a stool from the other table, sets it beside me, and sits with her hands folded in her lap. As I start to outline a face on the canvas, she quietly watches me.
“What should I do with the stuff in the bucket?” I ask. “Like the shavings from the marker.”
“Pour them into the stream,” she replies, motioning her head to the waterfall cavern. “Everything in Krymzyn comes from the land, so everything can be returned to it.”
The same thought strikes me that I had during our trip to the Mount. Every substance in Krymzyn works in unison with the world around it. Nothing is artificial, everything natural and a balanced part of the environment we live in. I have to smile at the thought that this is my home now.
As I sketch on the thick canvas, the lines are cleaner and more precise than they were on the soft white tank top I’d drawn Sash’s picture on. While I continue to work for about half an hour, a woman’s face gradually takes shape on the canvas. After drawing shoulder-length hair, big, kind eyes, and full, round cheeks, I finish by adding warmly smiling lips. Sash never moves or makes a sound while I draw, instead staring silently at the canvas.
Once the sketch is completed, I initial the lower right corner and study the portrait.
“Who is she?” Sash asks.
“My mother,” I say. “I want to draw all of my family while their faces are still fresh in my mind.”
“Her smile looks like yours,” Sash replies.
“Everyone on Earth always said I look just like my dad, but they also said I smile like my mom. It’s strange to me that you can see that because . . . I know people don’t look the same to you as they do to me.”
“A smile looks the same,” Sash says. “It’s a beautiful drawing, Chase, of a beautiful woman.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
The longer I look at my drawing, the more watery my eyes feel. My family certainly knows that I’m dead by now. They’ve also probably discovered my plan to kill myself. I try to take comfort in the fact that they’ll be reading my journals, and I hope with everything inside me that they believe the words I wrote.
Sash stands and kisses the top of my head. As she walks to the bed, I know she’s letting me have a moment alone with the drawing and my thoughts.
I close my eyes and whisper, “I love you, Mom.”
After opening them again, I stand from the table and turn to the bed. Sash is already lying on her back, partially propped up by two pillows, with her eyes focused on the ceiling.
“Sash,” I say, “we never really talked about this. It just kind of happened, but . . . Larn told me Hunters need solitude. Are you sure you don’t mind me living here?”
Sash turns her face to me. “Would you prefer your own habitat once you feel settled?”
“No,” I answer. “It feels right being here with you. But I don’t want to impose on you too much or make you feel like you’re obligated to take care of me.”
“Come to bed and let’s talk,” she replies.
I cross the cavern to the mattress and lie down on my side facing her.
Sash looks into my eyes. “I feel peace with you here, Chase. A kind of peace I only feel with you. When you’re beside me, I feel complete. When we sleep together, I feel safe. I want you here, and you should never doubt that. But if you need your own space, tell me and I’ll understand.”
“No, Sash. I feel the same way you do. I can’t imagine not living with you. I just want to make sure you feel the same way I do.”
She leans her face to mine and gently kisses my lips. “I’ll always want you with me.”
“Then we don’t ever need to have this conversation again,” I reply.
After we kiss once more, I roll onto my back and slip an arm around her shoulder. Sash nuzzles my neck while resting her hand on my chest.
“Thank you again for all your help today . . . this morrow,” I say.
“You did very well, Chase. I’m proud of you. But I feel sad for you that you’re missing your family so much.”
“I am right now,” I reply, staring up at the Swirls, “but I really do feel good about being here. I believe with everything inside me that I belong here.”
She slides her hand from my chest to the side of my head and gently combs her fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry if I seemed angry with you earlier.”
“You don’t need to apologize. This whole relationship thing is new to you . . . and to me. We both have a lot to learn.”
“I know how hard it must be for you right now. I don’t want to add to that.”
“That means everything to me, Sash.” When I pull her closer to my body, she lays her cheek on my chest. “I don’t want to step on your toes either.”
“Step on my toes?” she asks. “Why would you do that
?”
“It’s an expression. It means to get in the way of what someone normally does.”
“Your world is full of expressions that don’t mean what the words say.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” I reply.
“I’ll have to get used to them, but you’re never in my way.”
I kiss the top of Sash’s head, the softness of her hair tickling my lips. As her breathing slows, I look down at her face. Even with her eyes closed, the beauty from within shines as brightly as ever.
“Peace,” I say, and the golden glow around us fades to dark.
* * *
If I listen carefully, I can hear the ever-present Los Angeles traffic humming through the darkness outside. A single floor lamp dimly lights the living room of my apartment, and a cool night breeze occasionally gusts through an open window. I finished the conversation with my best friend, Connor, about an hour ago. My phone has been off ever since.
Sitting alone at my desk, I stare at my own reflection in the computer screen in front of me. My arms are crossed over my chest with my hands clamped to my sides. The internal battle raging inside me is obvious in the frown on my lips, the rigid lines of my jaw, and the despair in my eyes.
My life belongs with Sash, and my Vision of the Future was absolute confirmation of that fact. After the sight of her with our children, I could never turn my back on Krymzyn. But can I really do this to my family? I don’t know how I’ll survive with the guilt that will undoubtedly haunt me for the rest of my life.
No matter what I do, I tell myself for the thousandth time, my family will suffer. Every path before me leads to grief for the people I care about. Twice in the past, I’ve seen the toll my brain surgery takes on my family. This time, it’s not a benign tumor. They’ll have to watch my life slowly decay as cancer eats away at my brain.
But I also don’t want them to think I ran away from life. They’ve always stood by me, supported me, and given me their love without condition. Is this how I repay them? Once more, I try to make a decision I’ve already made, remade, and then remade again during each of the last ten days.
My head throbs . . . and throbs . . . and throbs. It’s not the familiar pain that shoots up from my neck and spreads through my skull—my body’s usual signal for the beginning of a seizure. This pain is in the back of my eyes and my temples, emanating from a cluster in the center of my head.
When I hear a sharp whack on the floor, I turn my head to the side. The envelope containing the flash drive fell to the ground. It was taped to the top of the wooden frame around the painting of Sash, me, and our future children. I don’t think the seizure’s coming yet, so I stand up from my chair.
Slapping my hands to my head, I wail from the sudden eruption in my brain. As my mind spins out of control, I fall to the floor. Before I hit the wooden planks, I’m blinded by a flash of amber light.
I’m flat on my back. When my vision returns, the pain is gone and blurry white surrounds me. I’m resting on a firm pad with what appears to be a sheet draped over my body from head to toe. Shadows creep across the fabric, cast by three human silhouettes hovering over my body.
I struggle to inhale a breath, but my lungs are too tight. No matter how hard I try, I can’t move a single muscle in my body. I can’t even blink. But I hear a woman crying.
“He went almost immediately,” a man’s voice says. “The rupture of the aneurysm was severe.”
“He’d already suffered enough,” my mother’s voice sobs. “He deserved to go quickly.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” my father says in a hoarse voice.
I know where I am. I’m in the hospital or morgue or wherever they conduct an autopsy. And I know what killed me. It all makes sense now. Aneurysms are often accompanied by seizures. I’ve probably read as much about brain afflictions over the years as most doctors have. If the seizure hit me at the same time my veins ruptured, my body or brain or spectrum or whatever the part of me that’s taken to Krymzyn is could have been in transit—inside the amber flash. The same amber light I saw in the video recordings I’d made of my seizures.
A tear slithers from the corner of my eye. My chest convulses, but I still can’t breathe in. I desperately strain to suck in one breath. I want to shout at the top of my lungs and tell my parents that I love them and they’re the best parents a kid ever had, but I can’t get air into my lungs.
“Chase!”
I gasp for breath as Sash shakes me awake. Lifting me from the mattress and pulling my head to her body, she holds me in the safety of her embrace.
“A bad dream?” she asks.
“About my death,” I whisper.
She runs her fingers down the back of my head. “You were struggling to breathe in your sleep.”
“My parents were standing over my dead body,” I reply, my face still pressed to her chest. “I don’t need to go to the Reflecting Pool. I know how I died in my world.”
“What happened?” she asks.
I sit up and turn my face to hers. “It’s something called an aneurysm. Blood veins in my head ruptured, probably because of the tumor. The damage must have been done while I was partially in both worlds.”
“Are you sure that’s what happened?”
“I’m sure,” I answer. “What you saw in your dream before I came here is exactly what my body would have done. Then my parents were standing over my corpse and crying.”
Sash takes one of my hands in hers. “At least you know now. I’m so sorry, Chase.”
“The tough part is that they’ll figure out I was planning to kill myself.”
Squeezing my hand, she whispers, “They’ll forgive you.”
“I hope so,” I say. “In my dream, I heard my mother say that I deserved to go quickly because of everything I’d already been through.”
“You were shown that dream for a reason. Maybe to put your mind at ease. You have to believe that.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
After we lie back down on the pillows, I stare at the dark while Sash caresses my head. I know that what I saw in the dream is what actually happened. From deep inside me, I can feel that it’s the truth. More than ever, I wish I could call my family, somehow get a message to them—anything to let them know I’m alive.
Chapter 8
Soon after waking the next morrow, Sash and I walk to the Traveling Hill. I can’t shake the uneasy feeling that lingers inside me from the dream about my death. Sash seems to notice my despondent mood—she probably knows the reason why—and tries to distract me by telling me about the children of Krymzyn currently in Home.
She starts by describing the oldest child, a boy named Kale. I remember him from the game of Red Rover that Sash and I watched the children play. Momentary wisps of light leaked from his skin each time he ran across the meadow. Sash discloses that, in one of her glimpses of the future, she’s already seen that Kale will be a Traveler. Never wanting to unveil future events to others, Sash reminds me not to tell anyone about her vision.
During a lengthy description of a girl named Maya, I conclude that she’s Sash’s favorite child, although there really isn’t any kind of favoritism shown in Krymzyn as far as I can tell. But the warmth in her voice while talking about the girl and her concern at how timid and shy Maya acts are obvious signs of how much she cares about the child. I try to recall each of the children’s faces from memory as Sash tells me about them, and I gradually feel better during the long walk.
Located about five miles to the northeast of our habitat and a mile south of the gate to the Barrens, the Traveling Hill provides a view just as spectacular as the one from the Tall Hill. When we reach the crest, I spend a few minutes hypnotized by the thunderous rapids leaping from the river, the desolate Barrens spreading out in tones of black and gray, and the effervescent green haze surrounding the ebony Mount of Krymzyn in the distance. My sight-seeing is soon interrupted because Sash is adamant about perfecting my skills with a sp
ear as soon as possible.
On the grassy hilltop, Sash and I spend several hours sparring. She pushes me harder and harder into freestyle skirmishes, always offering suggestions for improvement when I make a mistake or complimenting me when I do something well. The spear gradually feels like a fifth limb to me, and my motions become substantially more fluid and rapid.
When we see the magenta glow from our palms signaling Communal, we lie down in the grass. Looking up at the scarlet light gleaming through the gray billows, I explain to Sash the revolution of planets in the Earth’s solar system around the sun and how the moon revolves around the Earth. She’s fascinated by my descriptions of brilliant sunrises from behind the mountains of Southern California, tranquil sunsets over the sea, and the sparkling stars at night.
My verbal depiction of the Pacific Ocean—the immense body of deep blue water with white crested waves breaking on sandy beaches—is almost beyond her comprehension. But as I describe the warmth of sunlight basking on a person’s skin and the heat radiating from the sand, I’m surprised by her response.
“The feel of warm sand is one of the most unique feelings I’ve ever known,” Sash says.
“You have warmth here?” I ask.
“In the sand of the Dunes to the east, along the edge of the Infinite Expanse. When we travel to the eastern Gateway, the Guardians let us bathe in the sand. It’s an incredible feeling.”
“But that’s the only time you feel temperature . . . warmth here?”
“Only in the sand of the Dunes.”
“What about cold . . . the opposite of warm.”
“There is no opposite of warm here,” she replies.
“I still have a lot to learn about Krymzyn,” I comment, having the same thought that I had during my conversation with Larn.
“You’ll hear the story of The Beginning at Storytelling soon and learn much from that.”
“When does that happen?”
“Storytelling occurs after every seventh Darkness,” she answers. “It’s really for the children, but most people in Krymzyn attend. The Disciples often tell fascinating stories of other worlds, many passed on from long ago. Because you’re here now, I’m sure that at the next Storytelling, they’ll share the story of The Beginning.”