by Posey, Jay
Cautiously, compassionately, Haiku led Wren through the journey, recording it all in his leatherbound book. Occasionally they stopped for breaks, sometimes at jCharles’s or Mol’s prompting, sometimes because hunger or thirst or weeping demanded it. Wren hated crying. He fought it off as much as he could. But at times the tears were irresistible. The memory of leaving Mama, knowing she was dying. The shock of the guards’ attack when they first reached Morningside, when their journey was so nearly done. Mr Carter’s death, and Dagon’s. The utter helplessness of being pulled from Three’s arms by the surging crowd. Asher’s cruelties. His mother’s return as a Weir. Mol sat with him as he relived those terrible moments, her arm tight around his shoulders, her cheek pressed to the top of his head, her tears falling freely with his.
Whether it took an hour, or two, or four, Wren didn’t know. He completely lost track of time in the telling. But it didn’t seem to matter. Once the barriers had been brought down, Wren found the courage and the determination to tell it all. And tell it all he did, right down to the final seconds of Three’s life, his death, and the giving of his remains to the fire and the setting sun.
Only once did Wren notice Haiku stop writing. It was when Wren told of how he brought Mama back from being a Weir.
“I don’t understand,” Haiku said, lifting his pen. “What do you mean she ‘came back’?”
“She was a Weir, and then she wasn’t.” Wren took a drink of water, wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers. “I mean, she’s still kind of one. Her eyes and... stuff. But she was herself again,” he said with a shrug. “Like she woke up.”
“How is that possible?” Haiku asked, and then looked to jCharles. “That can’t be possible.”
“I assure you it is so,” a voice said from near the door. Everyone jumped, and turned to find Chapel there, leaning against the wall. Wren had no idea how long the man had been standing there.
“Spatz, old man!” jCharles said, which earned him a reproving look from Mol. “I swear I’m gonna have to tie a bell around your neck. I thought you went out!”
“I did,” said Chapel.
“And?” jCharles asked.
“I am returned.”
There entered a side conversation which ran for a long while. Wren did his best to explain what he could about awakening the Weir, which wasn’t much. Chapel identified himself as formerly of the Weir, and answered Haiku’s questions in his typical enigmatic way. Wren noticed Haiku didn’t record anything in his book throughout that discussion. After a time, Haiku returned to the final moments of Wren’s tale and resumed writing, though he didn’t seem quite satisfied with what they’d told him. Nevertheless, his full attention was once again on Wren, and Wren did his best to finish a full and good account of his time with Three.
By the end, Wren was exhausted emotionally and physically. But as he slouched back on the couch and let his head rest on its cushioned back, he noticed he felt lighter somehow. Not happy, certainly. But healthier. Relieved. Content, maybe. Like some great burden had been taken from his shoulders, or some deep sickness drawn from his body. The flickering flame of memory he’d fought to quench blazed brighter than ever now. Three’s face was as clear and bright in his mind as ever before, and while there was still sorrow, it dimmed in comparison to the love and gratitude Wren felt. Three had died for him. More than that. Far more than that. Three had truly given his life for Wren; not just in that final moment and act, but in every day, in every hour of sacrifice leading up to it. From the moment Three had given his word, he too had given his life. And having told all that Three had done for him, that gift became powerfully real to Wren in that instant, and utterly precious. The weight of it rested upon him, not as a burden, but as a blessing that commanded his affection and his awe.
“How did you know to prepare his body that way?” Haiku asked. Wren noticed the man’s eyes were shining like he might cry, but his face also almost looked glad.
“From him. We just did it the same way he showed me. After Mr Carter. And Dagon.”
“But you say you waited until the sun was setting,” Haiku said.
“Oh,” Wren said. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seemed like the right thing to do.”
Haiku smiled and nodded. “It was, more than you know. And now you have done him a double honor. You upheld the tradition of his House, whether you knew it or not, and gave his remains the due tribute he likely would have been denied elsewhere. And the record you have kept, which you have relayed to me,” here Haiku held up the book from his lap, “will be preserved. His memory will live on, not just in you, but in those who otherwise would have never known him.”
Haiku closed his book and set it aside. He stood and came to kneel in front of Wren, and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Three could not have been more properly and fully honored had he passed on while our House still stood in its former glory,” he said, and then bowed his head. “I am deeply grateful.”
“I’m glad I did the right thing,” Wren answered.
Haiku looked up at him and smiled, and then rose to his feet.
“Thank you all,” he said, looking to jCharles and Mol. “For your hospitality, and your forbearance. I know this was not an easy time for any of you.”
“It was well worth it, friend,” jCharles responded. “I loved Three like he was my blood. You showing up is like having a piece of him back, in a way. Of course, you know, I don’t know how you ever tracked him to us, and normally I wouldn’t care too much for that.”
Haiku smiled his easy smile. “I assure you it was not easy, nor would it be easily repeatable.”
“Yeah, well,” jCharles said. “You being Three’s kin makes it a little easier to swallow. If you’d given me any other explanation, I’d have blown you right back out that front door. But Three used to pull some of that same business. Spooked me then, still spooks me a little now.”
“Serendipity, Coincidence, Destiny, Providence,” said Haiku, his eyes twinkling. “The convergence of random events leading to seemingly meaningful moments has many names. Sometimes we just get lucky.”
“Yeah,” jCharles said with a smirk. “I’ve heard a few folks cheatin’ at cards say things about like that.” Haiku just smiled in response.
The mood of the room had altered with the ending of the tale. It had been a solemn time, almost sacred. Now there was an almost casual air, as if everyone were glad to return their focus to the mundane tasks of everyday life. Like after a funeral, when one of the bereaved laughs at some quiet joke, and gives everyone else permission to breathe again. For Wren, however, the sanctity of the story lingered dreamlike. The images and emotions had been refreshed and would not quickly fade. The others seemed like they were speaking too loudly, too quickly.
“So you got your story,” jCharles continued. “What now?”
“An excellent question,” Haiku said. “I’ve been on this journey for so long, I’d not given much thought to what might come after.”
“Well,” jCharles said, “you’re more than welcome to stick around here until you get it figured out.”
“Thank you, but no,” answered Haiku, “I’ve disrupted your lives far too much as it is.”
jCharles casually pointed at Haiku and glanced over at Mol. “Now who’s that remind you of?”
Mol smiled and nodded. “Brothers for sure.”
“So that’s settled then,” jCharles said. “You’re stayin’ for dinner.”
“Thank you, but it’s really all right,” Haiku said in mild protest.
“It’s not a request, Haiku,” Mol said, rising to her feet. She bent and kissed Wren on the head without hesitation, as if he were her own, and he accepted it as readily. “You made demands on our time, now we’re returning the favor.”
Haiku smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. Mol turned back to look at Wren, and ran her fingers through his hair. “Wren darling, would you like to help me in the kitchen?”
Wren k
new the offer for what it was. She didn’t need the help, but had over the past days found ways to involve him in her daily affairs, keeping him occupied and giving him reason to keep close. Normally he would accept the invitation. At that moment, though, his whole body felt completely spent. A great weariness settled on him.
“Actually, I think I’d like to lie down for a while,” he answered. “If that’s all right with you, Miss Mol.” Her smile trembled at that; Three had always called her “Miss Mol”, and Wren realized she too must be feeling the weight of sorrow anew.
“Of course, you must be exhausted,” she said. “Just be quiet as you can, Gracie’s sleeping back there.”
Wren nodded and started towards the back room, where jCharles and Mol had made a pallet for him in an alcove off their bedroom.
“Wren,” Haiku called. Wren turned back. “Thank you again.” Wren nodded, but he had no more words to give. He silently slipped into the back room and crept to his alcove. It was his intent just to lie there, to get away from everyone else, to let his mind swirl and hopefully settle. Instead, sleep came, swift and heavy.
* * *
In the dream, and he knew it was a dream while he dreamed, Wren saw Mama, alone, crouched in a strange place. It was Morningside, or rather, was supposed to be Morningside, though the look of it was wrong and was no part of the city he recognized; no part of the city he once ostensibly ruled over. The sky above was dark with clouds. Or smoke, perhaps, oily and thick, swirling with strange currents and lit from within by a sickly pale light. She seemed to be searching for something amongst the tall and twisted buildings. Her movements were hurried; not frantic, but urgent, and always her head turned this way and that, as if she feared discovery as much as she sought to discover.
Wren tried to call her name, but try as he might, he could not force open his mouth, and as he grunted through clenched jaw, he knew that his voice was sounding in the real world and threatened to chase the dream away. He ceased his struggle, willing himself to stay asleep, to continue the dream, to see his mother for a few seconds more. She saw him, then; her face showed it plainly, joy radiant. She left her place and rushed towards him, and in the final moments, as the dream slipped from him and consciousness arose, the sky shifted with sickening speed. A great black hand of ash and shadow writhed into being from above and swept towards her, and Wren’s eyes flashed open, his heart pounding so hard he could feel its beat against the floor beneath him. He didn’t stir when he awoke. Mama had long ago taught him to wake in stillness as a safety measure, and he had never lost the ability.
He lay with his eyes open in the darkling room, letting the dream slide away into memory. Seeing his Mama in that dreamscape left him hollow in the middle, reminded him afresh of his loss. And the hand descending from the sky. Asher’s reach was long; not even in sleep could Wren escape it. He shivered, though not from cold.
It was a warning, perhaps. His subconscious reminding him of the great risk posed if he tried contacting his mother, or she him. Asher was out there, somehow, with thousands of eyes and ears now, always watching, always listening. If Mama was still alive, and Wren could not yet believe otherwise, pinging her through the digital could expose her and ultimately be her doom. As desperate as Wren was for her voice, to know for certain that she was alive, she had trained him well to suppress those impulses when danger was at hand. Surely she would reach out to him as soon as it was safe.
Outside the sun had sunk below the horizon. The last traces of natural light were bleeding from the room to be replaced by the gaudy artificial light of the neighboring buildings. For a time, Wren just laid there, giving his heart time to settle and his nerves time to remember the real world. With some irritation, he realized his hand was asleep. He lifted it and waved it around, feeling the electric prickling as the dead fingers flopped about. Had today been the day that he’d told Haiku his story? It seemed like a different time to him now.
Muffled voices in the other room told him everyone else was still up, though to his ears it sounded like they were trying to keep the noise down. He considered trying to go back to sleep, but the image of the hand still lingered strong in his mind. And he was actually pretty hungry. With a deep breath, he rolled himself up on his pallet, shook his hand out some more, and then went into the main room.
jCharles and Haiku were standing near the dining table, while Mol was in the kitchen. jCharles was in the middle of some story, which he had to tell with frequent pauses since he was holding Grace and she kept trying to grab his teeth as he talked. Haiku was setting silverware out for everyone, and listened intently, offering the occasional quiet comment that Wren couldn’t quite make out from across the room. Chapel was sitting in a chair in a darkened corner, fully removed from the proceedings despite his proximity to them. Surely Chapel knew Wren was there, even though he made no sign that revealed it.
jCharles had to stop for a moment to pull Grace’s hand out of his mouth again, and in doing so he noticed Wren.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice raised to a normal tone. “Did you sleep?”
Wren nodded.
“Did we wake you?”
Wren shook his head. Mol appeared at the open entrance to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Do you feel up to eating something?” she asked.
“I could eat,” Wren answered.
“Then you’re just in time. Come on in here and help me carry the food to the table, would you?”
“Sure.”
Wren followed Mol back into the kitchen where dishes sat filled with steaming vegetables, rice, and some kind of meat with an amber-colored glaze. They weren’t real vegetables, Wren knew. They were the manufactured kind, not like the ones he’d seen growing straight up out of the ground at Chapel’s compound so long ago. The compound that lay in ruins, now. The hand from his dream had laid waste to it, as it had Morningside.
“Hey,” Mol said, crouching in front of him. “You OK?”
The dream lingered at the edges of his wakefulness, tinted everything like a thin veil of fog. Wren blinked a few times, and then nodded.
“Still waking up?”
Wren shrugged. Mol made a face like she wanted to say something but didn’t know what it was.
“I’m OK, Miss Mol,” Wren said. “Just had a weird dream is all.” He gave her a smile, though he could tell by the way it felt that it probably looked weak and fake. He picked up the bowl of meat and carried it into the other room. He’d seen Mol carry as many as five dishes before, all at once, so he knew she didn’t really need the help, but he was glad to do it anyway. He set it in the middle of the table. Mol followed after him and arranged the rest of the bowls and serving spoons. She said grace over the meal as was her way, and then they all sat down to eat.
“Chapel,” Mol called. “Care to join us?”
“Thank you,” Chapel answered. “But no.”
Mol nodded and started serving out portions. It wasn’t a surprise that Chapel remained where he was. With each day that had passed, he’d seemed more withdrawn. He’d gone out several times, for increasingly longer stretches of time. Wren wondered what that all might mean, but he was too worn out to think about it just then, and it didn’t really seem like a good time to bring it up.
Over the meal conversation was light and carefully balanced; Wren could sense it in the words and the glances. Haiku asked about Greenstone and jCharles’s livelihood. In turn, jCharles prompted Haiku for some history of his travels. No one wanted to venture too far into potentially painful topics after the earlier emotional work of the day. And it seemed like maybe neither jCharles nor Haiku wanted to reveal too much about either of their histories. Wren ate quietly, and though Mol kept glancing over at him to check on him, mostly the adults carried on, content to let him participate when and how he chose.
Try as they might, however, the gravitational pull of their strangely connected history was too great to escape for long, and gradually, inevitably, conversation worked its
way towards the unavoidable. There was a pause in the talk that grew longer than the usual break, almost to the point of awkward silence. Finally, jCharles wiped his mouth with his hand and dropped his napkin on the table, and leaned back shaking his head and smiling sadly.
“You know it’s weird, though,” jCharles said. He looked hard at Haiku then. “I knew Three a long time, and I don’t recall him ever mentioning he had a brother. And you really don’t look all that much alike, either. But I’m jiggered if you don’t feel like his own twin.”
“I should clarify,” Haiku said. “He is not... was not... my brother in the traditional sense. We share no parent, at least that we know. We are not related by blood, but rather by a bond much deeper. He is my brother nonetheless. We were raised in the same House.”
He put a curious emphasis on the word house when he said it, like it was more than a building.
“Three used to mention it sometimes,” Mol said, her voice quiet and still tinged with sorrow. “His House. Only ever in passing, though. What was it?”
Haiku’s expression changed then, a slight shift. A cloud passing briefly across the sun.
“Once a place of honor,” Haiku said. Then he inclined his head towards his book, lying on a side table nearby. “Now, little more than words on a page.”
“Sounds pretty,” jCharles said. “For a non-answer.” Mol gave him a mildly scolding look, which he shrugged off.
Haiku smiled and offered his own shrug. “It’s difficult to explain. The world was so different when House mattered. Much was lost in the falling.” The smile faded, his expression darkened; a hardness came into his eyes as he looked off somewhere into his own past. “And much given.”
After a moment, Mol offered, “It’s OK if you don’t want to talk about it.”