by BC Powell
Larn and Tela both bow to me before Larn sails away to the north and Tela heads to the west.
“How do you know when mid-morrow is?” I ask, turning to Sash, well aware that no clocks or watches exist in Krymzyn.
“We just know,” Sash replies. “Couldn’t you tell when it was mid-morrow?”
“I guess so,” I answer, hoping that I’ll soon develop the same innate sense of time that the people of Krymzyn seem to have.
“We need some things for our habitat,” Sash says, standing up from the grass. “Let’s go to Market.”
“If we’re going to Market, we’ll be near the grove of thread trees, right?”
“We will.”
“Can we talk to a Weaver about more canvas? I’ll go through what I have pretty fast.”
“Of course,” she says. “I didn’t have much made for you in case it wasn’t what you needed.”
“It really couldn’t be better.”
Sash bends down to pick up her pack of stakes and slings it over her shoulder as she returns to upright. “I’ll introduce you to a Weaver named Nina. She made what you have now.”
“Is it a problem that I’m asking her for extra things?” I ask.
“Not at all,” she replies. “She’ll feel honor because it’s important for your balance.”
“I don’t want to be a nuisance to anybody or create more work for her.”
“She would never think that. I’ll transport you so we get there faster. Leave your spears here and we’ll return for them later.”
Sash slides the pack to her side and turns away from me. Once I’m in place on her back, she begins walking down the hill. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen Sash go anywhere without her spear.
“I don’t want you to think about traveling,” she says. “Try to sense my mind, how I focus, and nothing else. Keep your face close to mine.”
When my cheek is pressed to hers and both my hands are clamped to the center of her chest, she leans into a sprint. After just a few long strides, light blooms from her skin. Even with my grip on the solid part of her chest and the strength of her arms locking my legs in place, I almost fall off from the severity of the jolt. As our motion smooths out, the pleasant sting of her particles tickles my face.
Traveling with Sash is beyond anything I can imagine. She makes ninety-degree cuts with almost no loss of speed, flies over hilltops, and soars across meadows. Our path is never a straight line to the north. Instead, we weave around the bases of hills and zigzag over the countryside. As though she puts the thought in my mind before it happens, I’m aware of her perfect control over every change of direction and speed. I’m not sure if it’s a result of my sense of awareness increasing the longer I’m in Krymzyn, the underlying connection I feel with Sash, or a combination of both.
We finally cross over a hill, slow as we pass the huge black canopy of Market, and recede from traveling speed into a sprint. After running across the large field between Market and the grove, Sash stops at the edge of the trees and releases her hold on my legs.
“Awesome!” I say as soon as I’m standing on the ground. “That was incredible!”
She turns to me and smiles. “Could you feel how I took control of my body?”
“I think so,” I reply. “Like, I was aware of your mental focus when you changed speed or direction. But I was also kind of blown away by how fast we were going.”
“Blown away?” she asks.
“It’s an expression for being amazed by something.”
After she smiles at yet another one of my many uses of slang from my world, she takes my hand in hers. We stroll through the grove of willows under arching branches covered with tangerine-colored leaves. Delicate strands of thread, half of them black and the other half white, dangle from the limbs around us. We soon reach a small clearing where a man and a woman work at a steel loom.
A person’s age is always a bit difficult to assess in Krymzyn. The definitive measurement, according to what Sash once told me, is a person’s height. She said that a person’s growth continues throughout life, but slows as they get older. Although men and women of the same age are roughly equal in height, I’ve always assumed that Sash and I are the same age even though she’s about three inches shorter than I am. I think the difference in our height is because the people here don’t seem to have the same dramatic growth spurt during their teenage years that we have on Earth. Sash and I were the same height when I was twelve, but I was taller when I came back at age seventeen. Their growth cycle seems to be more consistent because it’s spread out over the course of their lives. The thought has crossed my mind that Sash will eventually be taller than I am.
The man standing on one side of the loom is the same Weaver I saw once before. He was resting against a tree when Sash took me to the grove after Cavu’s Ritual of Purpose. I estimate that he’s in his mid-sixties since he’s about six eight or six nine. He doesn’t have wrinkles on his face or gray in his hair, but his cheekbones have a slight sag to them and the skin under his chin isn’t as tight as a younger man’s would be.
I’m guessing the woman is a couple of years older than I am because she’s about my height. Medium in build, she nimbly arranges strands of thread on the loom. They both turn to us as we approach, brilliant streaks of magenta illuminating the man’s short spiky hair and highlighting the long black waves flowing over the woman’s shoulders.
“Greetings, Nina,” Sash says. “Greetings, Milo. I want to introduce the Traveler Chase to you.”
We all bow to one another. Their faces are stoic as they study me, a combination of curiosity and apprehension evident in their eyes. Even with the wariness in Nina’s gaze and the lack of a smile on her lips, she has a naturally cheery-looking face. Her round cheeks, button nose, and the brightness in her large amber eyes seem to give her an ever-present air of happiness.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say.
“Nina and I were in Home together as children,” Sash says. “Milo is our tallest Weaver.”
“Have you had a chance to use the fabric I made for you?” Nina asks.
“I have,” I answer. “It’s great. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m honored to hear that,” she replies. “Sash described it for me as thicker than the fabric for sleep clothing. I asked her the purpose, and when she told me it was to use with a marker, I decided to coat the thread with a small amount of the liquid from vines we use on the black clothing. It blends with the fabric, making it smoother and stronger. I tested samples with a marker until I found the proper amount that best retained the lines I made.”
“I really appreciate all the work you did.”
“Nina’s quite skilled,” Milo says. “She displayed exceptional abilities at a very young age. Her generation appears to be an extraordinary group of individuals.”
“So I’ve heard,” I reply.
I can’t help but wonder if, just as I feel Sash’s energy channel through me when we’re training with spears or traveling together, her presence is the reason the children who were at Home at the same time she was there are all gifted in some way. Even with Sash’s humble demeanor and soft-spoken voice, the immense power she possesses always emanates around her. It was instantly evident to me the first time I met her, and I know I’m not the only one to feel it. I see it in the eyes of everyone who comes near her—a mixture of reverence and awe—and I can understand why she felt different as a child.
“Nina was the shortest,” Sash says to me, “or youngest, you would say, Apprentice Weaver Krymzyn has ever had.”
Nina bows her head slightly in response to the compliment.
“I’m not surprised considering how perfect the canvas is,” I say to Nina. “I don’t want to ask too much of you, but if I were to have rectangular steel frames made, could you stretch fabric over them and secure it behind the frame so I have a tight, flat surface for drawing on?”
“By ‘drawing,’ do you mean using the marker?”
&nb
sp; “Exactly,” I reply.
“Securing it to a frame isn’t a problem at all. I assume you don’t want any irregularities in the actual surface, so I can seam the corners and use straps on the back side.”
“That would be awesome,” I say.
“That’s an odd use of the word awesome,” Nina comments.
“He uses many interesting expressions,” Sash says. “It appears we’ll have to learn some of his phrases, and many of his words will enter our vocabulary.”
Milo scowls at Sash’s statement, reminding me that I’m still an outsider, an anomaly in this world.
“I’ll be honored to make the fabric in the way you need it,” Nina says.
“Thank you,” I reply. “I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me.”
“I know the morrow is close to ending,” Sash says. “We won’t take any more of your time. Thank you for your help.”
After bidding our farewells to Nina and Milo, Sash and I walk out of the grove. As we cross the meadow to Market, I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one else is in earshot.
“People are always polite enough to me,” I say to Sash. “And helpful. But they always look at me like, I don’t know, they don’t trust me or something.”
“Give it time, Chase,” she replies. “People will accept you, but you have to remember that no one from another world has ever permanently dwelled here.”
“I’ll try to do better fitting in. I guess I should stop saying things like ‘awesome.’”
“You don’t need to do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Just be yourself. That’s who you are, and that’s who they should know.”
“Larn and Tela are the only two who really don’t make me feel that way. And Eval, I guess, and maybe Tork sometimes.”
“They’ve all spent time with you and have seen the type of person you are. Larn and Tela heard your warning regarding Balt, which proved to be accurate. All of Krymzyn knows by now that you risked your life for me. As they get to know you better and see you more, they’ll recognize the same balance inside you that I’ve always seen.”
I slip my arm around her waist, feeling a little better from her words. When we reach Market, Sash walks to the table of sap-filled pitchers and takes two.
“I usually fill our pitchers with sap after Darkness then bring the rest here. With so little Darkness recently, we need to take from the reserve.”
“Where’s the reserve supply?” I ask.
Sash points to several of the aerodynamic tubes used to transport sap to the Mount. The containers stand in a row at one end of the open-air tent.
“Our reserve is in those transports. One of the duties of the Constructs is to make sure full pitchers are always on the table.”
“Has Krymzyn ever run out of sap?”
“No,” Sash answers. “When we go through a long period without Darkness, we each try to drink as little as possible. Except for Travelers. As Larn explained, always drink as much as you need. You never want to run out of energy in the Barrens.”
“No, I don’t think I would.”
“Let’s go,” she says. “I’ll carry you back to the Traveling Hill.”
Sash turns away from me, and I climb onto her back. She hooks her arms under my legs, holding the two pitchers in front of her chest. While returning to the top of the Traveling Hill, she steers in a straight line and travels noticeably slower than when we went to the grove. I assume the reduced speed is her being careful with the sap-filled pitchers, also explaining why she didn’t bring her spear.
After gathering our things from the top of the Travelling Hill, we casually walk back to our habitat. Once there, we each have a cup of sap, shower in the fall, and slip into our sleep clothes. With Sash perched on a stool beside me, I draw for an hour. Her eyes stay focused on every stroke I make in my father’s lean face—his long, straight nose, thoughtful eyes, high cheekbones, and the distinct angles in his strong jaw. I complete the image by sketching his short wavy hair and initialing the lower right corner.
“This is my father,” I say, holding up the finished drawing.
“You do look like him,” she replies. “Except your hair is longer. What are the symbols you always draw in the corner?”
“My initials.” I point one finger to the letter C. “The C is the first letter of Chase, and the F is for my last name—Fitzgerald.”
“You have two names?”
“In my world, we have a surname, our family name—so everyone in my family is a Fitzgerald. Then our first name is called our given name.”
“With so many people in your world, it makes sense that more than one name is needed to distinguish between them.”
I take a piece of fabric from the shelf and spread it out on the table. “I’ll show you your name in our alphabet.” Using my finest calligraphy, a leftover skill from art school, I write her name. “S-A-S-H,” I say, pointing to each letter.
“I like the way you draw my name,” she replies.
Underneath it, I spell out K-R-Y-M-Z-Y-N in block letters. “Why is Krymzyn spelled that way?”
“Krymzyn isn’t really a word made of letters,” she answers. “I think the atmosphere must have translated it into something you can understand.”
“If it’s not a word, what is it?”
“It’s difficult to explain,” she says. “Krymzyn is a concept, a feeling from inside that represents the creation of the Delta at The Beginning. It’s a series of shapes that explain how the Delta came to be. When you hear the story of The Beginning, it will make more sense to you.”
“I can’t wait,” I say. “But I don’t understand why the name sounds like the color crimson. I mean, you do have the color crimson, right?”
“The sap from the Tree of Vision is crimson, as is blood, the color of life. The Delta is the heart of Krymzyn, the center of life. But there’s a slightly different sound to the color crimson than there is to Krymzyn.”
When she says the two words, although they sound essentially the same, they feel different as they enter my mind. I’d instantly know which one was being referenced if only one of the words was used in a sentence.
“I can feel the difference inside me,” I reply. “If that makes sense.”
“It does,” she says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get ready for sleep. You look very tired from traveling practice.”
After Sash helps me clean the mess from my drawing, I lay the sketch of my father on top of the table. While studying his portrait, I’m reminded of all the things we used to do together—running through the canyons of Los Angeles, going to the beach, or watching basketball games on TV.
I turn away from the table and glance around the cavern. As wondrous as our habitat is, it lacks many of the creature comforts I’m used to from my world. Partially from that thought, but more from drawing my father, I feel very homesick.
When I watch Sash lie down in bed, the mattress looks bare to me without sheets or blankets. The lack of temperature in this world is probably why they don’t use them, but I’d like a few things to make our habitat feel more like home.
“Do people here ever sleep with sheets on the bed?” I ask Sash. The word “sheets” translates, but I don’t think she understands my context.
“A sheet for what?” she asks, turning her head to me.
“For sleeping under. I like to feel something over me when I’m in bed.”
“You mean like a swaddling cloth for a child?”
“Something like that,” I answer.
“No one I know of uses one, but we could have a Weaver make something for you.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “Also, will it bother you if I don’t sleep with a shirt on? I never really did in my world.”
“Not at all,” she replies. “I like the feel of your containment beside me.”
I slip my tank top over my head, wad it into a ball, and shoot it like a basketball towards the hooks in the wall. From twenty feet away, an absolute fluke, one strap
catches a hook. The shirt dangles straight down as though I’d neatly hung it up.
“Yes!” I shout, launching my hands over my head. “Chase Fitzgerald nails the three-pointer at the buzzer for the win!” With a flurry of high knee lifts, I perform a victory dance around the cavern while also mimicking the roar of a cheering crowd. “The crowd goes wild!” I yell.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sash exclaims.
“Nothing,” I reply, ending my celebration and standing over the bed. “I’m just . . . I’m just being silly.”
“Silly?”
“Funny . . . acting a certain way just for fun or to make someone else laugh.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Watch,” I say. I pull my mouth wide open with my fingers, flick my tongue in and out, and cross my eyes.
“Why are you doing that?” Sash asks, shaking her head.
“That’s being silly,” I answer. “I was trying to make you laugh.”
“I was concerned something was terribly wrong with your face.”
“You’re missing the point,” I say, beginning to feel a little annoyed that she’s taking everything so literally. “Being silly is just doing stupid things to be funny . . . to make someone else smile or laugh.”
She doesn’t answer but stares at me with a blank face. I have to think for a moment before deciding on a different way to demonstrate the concept to her.
“In my world, we have animals . . . creatures called monkeys. They’re about as tall as my waist, covered in hair, and they live in trees. They’re really cute and smart, like almost as smart as people, but they do a lot of funny things . . . things that will make you laugh. Watch this.”
Crouching low to the ground and scratching under my arm with one hand, I jump around the cavern. My other hand wildly swings back and forth by my side while I make “ew, ew, ew” sounds.
“Have you lost control of you mind?” she yells.
“No, Sash,” I answer, standing upright. “I’m being silly by acting like a monkey.”
“Do you need sap to heal your mind?”
“You’re not getting it. Nothing I’m doing is real, and it’s supposed to make you laugh.”