by Isaac Petrov
Edda blushes. “But I didn’t use…” She wiggles her fingers again.
“By merely using your own self, you did achieve your objective with the consul, Redeemed van Dolah. Thus, what could you achieve now that you also master the manipulation of the dream world?”
“So you think I’m ready for the last trial?”
“You are. But you have not completed your instruction yet.”
“Haven’t I?” She turns her attention to the birch, snaps a finger at it, and the birch turns into a white marble column that would not look out of place in a temple of the classical world. “I think I’m pretty good already.”
“Manipulation you indeed command. Alas, there is also struggle and pain at the end of the Path of Light.”
“Struggle—?”
Rew closes on Edda and thrusts her arm through her chest like a spear. “And pain,” she says.
Ximena feels a spike of astonished agony for the briefest of moments before Edda wakes up gasping in her bedroom.
END OF DREAMWORMS EPISODE II
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Nineteen
The Teacher and the Quaestor
“I am exceedingly sorry for the delay,” the man says, as he paces down the central steps of the amphitheater, moving with an ease that comes naturally to people of privilege. He is over fifty, head shaved clean except for a large eye symbol tattooed on his forehead, and wears a humble brown gown with that same eye symbol threaded in gold on his chest. “But I had an urgent council duty to conclude. Please accept my most sincere apologies, my dear professor.”
“Grand Censor Smith,” Miyagi says from the stage below, and gestures Ank to stop the floating scene, which vanishes in the sudden radiance of a midday sun and a clear blue sky. “So glad you could make it. Please take a seat.” He points at an empty spot next to Ank. “We were about to—”
“Splendid, splendid,” he says, eyeing the elegantly dressed Neanderthal woman, who is smiling openly at him. “Oh.” The corner of his lips twitch almost unnoticeably, and then he scans the colorful rows where the Lundev crowd stares back at him with sassy curiosity, in marked contrast with the deferential respect emanating from the GIA section. His eyes seem to linger longer on Mark. “How charmingly diverse.”
“We were about to dive into the Third Step of the Path of Light.”
“Third step, splendid,” he says as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “So I didn’t miss the climax of the Three Trials of Worth and Soul.” He walks past a mildly perplexed Ank towards the part of the hemicycle filled to the brim with blue and white uniforms. As he approaches, a spot reverentially opens for him on the first row.
From the opposite side of the auditorium, Ximena follows his every move—his every gesture—with awestruck eyes, like she is in the presence of royalty. Professor Jean-Jacques Smith, who by the age of forty had already reached the very top of the ranks of Academia of the Goah’s Imperia of the Americas. Not once, but twice: he is both a Doctor of Economics and of Historical Sciences, and the youngest member ever accepted to the Council of the University of Townsend. Since Ximena began her PhD, she has been hitting his papers time and time again; he really knows his subject. Oh, and to top it all, he is second dowry to the Pontifex herself, which probably helped him pursue a parallel—and successful—career in aws Head. Already a grand censor! And nobody expects him to stop there.
“Eighteenth of December, if memory serves well?” he says, as he sits.
“Spot on,” Miyagi says. “Do I have your permission, Grand Censor Smith, to resume the seminar?”
“Oh please,” he waves a polite hand at him. “Act as if I wasn’t here. And I beg of you, my dear professor, don’t be using my full title now. Grand Censor Smith is so,” he laughs, “bloated.” He puts a playful hand on his prominent belly. “I don’t need to be reminded how grand I’m becoming.” He laughs again.
“Sure, then Censor Smith it is. I was about to show our students the daylight events in Lunteren on that Saturday 18th of December 2399. We’ve been so immersed in the dreamscape side of things—with aliens, trials and what not—that we risk forgetting that, at the end of the day, it is in the real world where we all take a dump. And what is history, but a long account of shit happenings? I hope you can excuse my language, Censor Smith.”
“Very florid metaphor,” he chuckles affably. “But please, curse away. We’re all adults here.”
“Thanks. Ank, please,” he nods at the woman, “bring it up.”
Ank waves a finger at Bob—the wudai machine standing next to her—and a scene appears frozen in midair across the auditorium.
“Oh, this is remarkable,” Censor Smith says, as his admiring eyes study the ultra-realistic projection: a large red-bricked building, two-stories high, wide and with a large open field on its front where cheerful children play soccer. A school. Centrally located, judging from the traffic of strollers on the sidewalk, and bicycles on the street—Ximena can even see the receding back of a horse carriage turning a corner. “Is this the dream sensorial you are seeking official GIA approval for, Professor Miyagi?”
“Well, in a way.” Miyagi puts his hands in his pockets. “These are the raw sections I am producing in collaboration with the Lundev’s History Department. They are for academic purposes, like…” he chuckles, puts a hand out and waves a finger across the rows of students. “But, in essence, you are of course right. For the general public I’m keen to cut and paste the more, er, commercial parts into a nice, tight historical drama. Bring history to the people, right? It will be very educative.”
“And lucrative, I presume?”
“I very much hope so,” Miyagi chuckles again. “Especially if your office permits its publication in the GIA. Such a vast market.”
“Oh, Professor,” his smile widens, “this is no moment to speak business. I come to your,” he gestures at the part of the amphitheater where Ximena sits embedded in Lundev students, “Global Program not as Censor, but as Professor of History, and of course as guardian to the academic wellbeing of the souls entrusted to my university.” He looks back and meets the devoted look of dozens of students in their neat white-and-blues. He turns back to Miyagi and points a finger at the school floating in midair. “So, what are we watching here?”
“Ah, yes. The De Bron School, in Lunteren.” Miyagi slowly begins to pace the stage. “But before we begin today’s seminar, I wanted to hear your opinion, people. Mere curiosity, please indulge me. Ank, could you please move the camera to the man exiting the building?”
Ximena turns her attention to the figure coming out into the midday sun. The scene zooms in until he floats full-body like a distracted giant, carrying papers and notebooks under his arm.
“Ah! Here he is,” Miyagi says. “Elder van Dolah. Or Meester Willem, as he was called by his pupils.”
Willem is of the thin and tall type—one of those annoying people that never gains weight, whatever rubbish they eat. His skin is white, a healthy pinch of red on his cheeks. Long, untidy brown hair, intelligent brown eyes, thin glasses. His long tunic seems warm, comfortable—and a tasteless clash of colors faded by usage beyond reason.
“Look at him. He is your age, give or take. Do you find him physically attractive?”
The students exchange glances, waiting for a reaction. Cody O’Higgin, Ximena’s fellow GIA student, finally speaks up: “Uh, I think he’s okay looking, Professor. A bit dorky.”
“Nah, I think he’s really cute,” Lora says. “Throw on a nice, tight outfit, and he’d
be a sex magnet.”
“Yeah,” Mark says next to Ximena, “he’s got that sexy intellectual thing going for him.”
Murmurs of agreement spread across the benches.
Mark leans towards Ximena, locks his blue eyes into hers, and whispers in mischievous tone, “There’s something about smart people that makes me want to nail them, you know what I mean?”
Ximena blinks and looks away, mildly scandalized; mildly… Goahdamn blush!
“Thank you, people. Just curious,” Miyagi raises his eyes thoughtfully at the floating figure. “He surely attracted attention. Sometimes of the dangerous type.” He laughs, and without further clarification gives Ank a curt nod.
Willem exits the school, distracted, trying to balance the books he is carrying. A woman walks towards him.
Marjolein Mathus.
Ximena tries to repress an involuntary swell of antipathy. This is history, she reminds herself. There are no villains in history; just people and motivations, actions and reactions. Perhaps, she hears Abuelo’s voice in her thoughts, but there are also consequences. We are human, cariño; not machines. It doesn’t come easily to us to detach a consequence from its perpetrator. And should we really?
“Will,” Marjolein calls with a tentative smile.
“Marjo!” He almost drops his load. “Aws Blessings to you.” He gives the woman a shy nod, as his eyes unconsciously check out her small but well-rounded body.
Marjolein seems to notice his reaction and her smile widens. She is wearing a long formal robe, purple with thin golden eye-like symbols on its front and back. “Aws Blessings,” she says. “Are you in a hurry? There is something we need to talk about.”
“I need to pick up Hans from daycare, is it urgent?”
“Well, not urgent, but it is important. Can I walk with you?”
“Uh, of course. Come.”
Willem and Marjolein begin to walk together on the sidewalk in awkward silence.
They join the main street where the center of the colony surrounds them: colonists walking and cycling, alone and in groups, going about their business; some wear expansive hats, others elegant robes, and most plain cloth, working tunics. A horse passes clopping by, pulling a rubber-wheeled cart loaded with wares and passengers. Flocks of children run, liberated from their daily chores. Two dogs bark at each other, restrained by their strolling owners. Just another day in Lunteren.
“I’m surprised you even have time to, uh, be here.” Willem finally breaks the silence. “With the Century Festival preparations around the corner, I mean. It must be a lot of work.”
She sighs, shaking her head lightly. “You have no idea. What a hefty beast to tame. Pure sin. So many arrangements and deals. Everybody wants a piece of it, and everybody wants it their way.”
Willem scoffs. “I’m sure they’re in for a surprise.”
Marjolein laughs. “Oh Will, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“I guess,” he says, eyes on a passing bike as he prepares to cross the street. “I’ve also been…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, as they both quickly cross to the other side before an approaching carriage.
“I know,” she says, and taps his shoulder. “Your family is lucky to have you.”
“You would think,” he sighs. “By the way, I never actually told you. Didn’t have the chance, so…” He stops walking, takes her hands in his, and looks into her blue eyes. “I am proud of you.”
She smiles, opens her lips as if to reply, but then she just presses them tight, and tightens her grip on his hands, her eyes moist.
“I know how hard you’ve worked for this,” Willem says. “Bringing the Century Festival to Lunteren. I am without words, Marjo. This is going to do so much good. So, so proud.” He places a sudden soft kiss on her lips.
Marjolein’s breathing seems to quicken, Ximena thinks, but she just meets Willem’s gaze in silence. Probably too touched by his words—and lips—to reply.
They begin to walk again along the busy sidewalk attracting more than a few eyes. They’re both public figures in a way. And loved by the people, it seems.
“I’m so happy for you,” Willem says, “especially for your career. I know how important it is to you. In a few days, your name will be on the lips of every big shot in aws Head. There’s only one sad side to your success: you will have to leave Lunteren to climb the ladder, but Goah knows it is your destiny.”
“Thank you, Will,” she says, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Anyway, so what is so important that you had to come in person instead of sending for me?”
“Yes, it’s too private,” she shrugs lightly, “and I thought I wanted to see your face. This morning I got aws Womb’s weekly report.” She beams at him. “Bram and Isabella’s fetus is developing fine. And they wrote down the gender!” She takes his hand and presses. “Do you want to know?!”
“No!” Willem says, dropping her hand. “No, please. Bram and Isabella want it to be a surprise.”
“Don’t you want to know if it’s a Van Dolah baby girl, or a Zeger’s baby boy?” Her smile turns mischievous. “I can tell you right now.”
“Marjo, please no. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“No.” Marjolein leans and takes Willem’s arm. “I miss you,” she whispers in his ear.
Willem softly releases himself from Marjolein’s hands.
“Please, Marjo.” He looks uncomfortable. “Is it us you want to talk about?”
“No.” Her smile fades, her eyes flinching with a shade of pain. “I said important.”
Willem says nothing.
“It is about Edda.”
“Edda?” Willem gives her a concerned look. “Is this official Quaestor business?”
Marjolein takes his arm again as they hastily cross another street. This time Willem does not remove her hands.
“We—I mean aws Head—tolerate eccentricities from children,” she says. “It is official Head policy. Children are still learning Goah’s ways, and they need… freedom to explore. But Edda is an adult—and a redeemed. And she holds a prestigious office, as Juf in De Bron.”
“And students adore her,” Willem says, defensively. “Especially the evening adult students. Her teaching style is confrontational, like the philosophers of ancient Greece. I would never admit it to her, but she is a better teacher than I am.”
“Maybe.” She presses herself slightly into his arm. “Who am I to tell? All I know is what I hear. That is unfortunately the nature of my office—that you always get to hear the complaints.”
“Somebody has complained about Edda?” His concerned look has turned more urgent.
“Not just one. She has made some colonists… uncomfortable.”
“I can’t believe it! Who?”
“I can’t tell you, Will, sorry. Confidential. Again, the nature of my office.”
“What are they saying?”
“Edda is apparently spreading heresies and conspiracy theories, Will. And after what happened with the Meermans, we cannot have any more of that. Apparently, she has trouble accepting Goah’s Call for the Joyousday.” Marjolein gives him a pointed look.
Willem sighs. “She’s having a hard time accepting my Joyousday.”
She snorts. “That’s quite the understatement. But it is Goah’s Call, and she must accept it.”
“And she will!” Willem turns to Marjolein. “When I’m gone, she will.” His voice drops to a whisper.
“Listen, Will.” She casually raises a hand to greet a finely dressed passing cyclist. “In my heart, I understand Edda’s feelings all too well. What I would not give for more time together with you, like we used to…” She takes his arm again in an intimate gesture. “And I must ask myself, why not?” She stares at him with a tantalizing smile.
“Why not, what?”
“There is some leeway,” she whispers, “some tolerance in aws Head’s attributions. How can I say this? Hmm, that the Joyousday is celebrated on the twenty
-seventh birthday is more tradition than dictate. Certain circumstances may allow for official postponement. And as you said yourself, my voice will carry considerably more weight in a few days.”
“Postponement? How long?”
“As long as you don’t turn twenty-eight, you ought to remain safe from Dem,” she says, and her smile widens. “An extra year of happiness!” She grabs his arm again. “Oh, I miss you, Will! And Edda will be so happy. She quits that heretic nonsense, and everybody wins.”
“No, Marjolein. I am sorry, but that’s not a solution. I know Edda. She won’t roll over just because I delay my Joyousday, even if for an entire year.”
“All right. Forget about Edda. What about what you want? Don’t you want to live longer? I promise I will make your life very pleasant.”
He gently takes her hands off his arm, shaking his head slowly. “At the end of my life, what I want is not important. Perhaps you would understand if you had a family.”
Marjolein’s lips tighten, her expression turns strict, professional. All business.
“I- I’m sorry, Marjo. I didn’t mean to—”
“I have been officially requested by some concerned colonists to report Edda’s activities to the office of the inquisition as suspect of heresy. Dangerous ideas are not to be tolerated, especially not from a teacher who can use her public pulpit to spread lies among the young.”
“You wouldn’t!” His glare makes Marjolein take a step backward.
“Will,” her voice softens a notch, “there have been no heresies in Lunteren for fifty years, Goah be praised, so maybe you aren’t aware of the inquisition’s rituals; and how they cleanse the demon-ridden before their release into aws Embrace.”