The car purrs to life. I back out of the parking spot and the radio kicks in.
“…with their newest single. Up now, your quick-bit news bites, the quickest news so you can get back to listening to the music you love! The big local buzz is volcanic activity on Mt. Linnigan, just outside Wallerton, B.C. Hikers reported steam coming out of the mountain’s peak. Seismologists say that this is unusual activity from a dormant volcano, but insist there is nothing to worry about. I say, time to get the popcorn! We could have an awesome lava show in the near future!”
I grunt and hit the “off” button. Typical. The announcer seems to know very little about his topic. It’s doubtful we’d get much lava in this region. It’s possible, but not common, given the geology of the tectonic plates here. When plate tectonic theory emerged a few decades ago, I read everything I could about it. I like to keep up to date, especially where the Earth is concerned.
After a short and blissfully quiet drive home, I pull into the underground parking of my apartment block. Perhaps it’s an odd choice for someone who could live anywhere he chose. I could say that it’s to keep my inconspicuous cover—what would a sessional instructor be doing with a house in this expensive realty market?—but, in truth, it’s comforting living among so many people. I can hear their lives occurring through the remarkably thin walls, and I can chat to them when we pass in the hallways. Their lauvan also occasionally float through the walls into my apartment. Did I not mention? It’s mostly peopled by the elderly. I’m pretty sure I’m the “youngest” person living in the complex by a wide margin. Older people often have a greater number of loose lauvan. I expect that it’s a function of a slow release of life, letting go of the spirit from the body. They often also have more connections outside of themselves, more of their lauvan stretching away in connection with distant friends and relatives. It’s comforting to touch the lives of others, however tenuous the association, however minor. It makes me feel connected, part of something.
Not just a spectator living on the fringes, a part of the world but not of it.
My own lauvan are much looser than anyone I’ve ever met. Years of living and loving and losing have ripped the lauvan away from my body. After every loss, they have a harder time tightening up against my physical form. Now, after so many centuries, they tend to wave around me in a wispy cloud of chocolate brown threads rather than the coils I see surrounding most people. I’m still here, though—my lauvan haven’t left me yet.
The elevator takes me to the fifth floor where I step out to walk directly into a particularly strong lauvan floating by. I smile. Mrs. Watson is telling off her husband again. Annoyance vibrates through the lauvan when it hits my own, but an underlying affection hums below it. It’s their ritual, one I can sense they’ve been doing for decades. Gary Watson usually turns his good ear toward me when we play chess together, but I gather that his deaf ear gets a lot of use too.
Key sliding into lock, bolt clicking open, hand twisting on knob. How many doors have I come home to? This door opens up to a fairly decent view, as far as my past homes are concerned. I’ve had much warmer and welcoming homes to enter in my time but also some far worse ones, so I suppose I can’t complain. It’s simple and clean, a one bedroom with a view of snow-capped mountains, providing a uniquely restful view in the city. A lone bookshelf hugs the living room wall. It’s full of my eclectic collection of keepsakes—a group of holy objects from different religions that hum with lauvan, such as a folded bundle of Tibetan prayer flags, a shrunken head from the Shuar tribe of Ecuador, and a splinter of wood reputably from the Christian cross, among others. Although these items are neither moving nor living, they still have lauvan. Any inanimate object that is valued or worshipped for long enough will collect the lauvan of its worshipers. All the relics I own, whether or not they have any intrinsic value or truth, are imbued with enough lauvan to have worth in their own right. There’s also my sketchbook, a few of my favorite weapons that I’ve held onto, as well as some musical instruments. One is a small fifteenth-century harp I was given by the blind harpist Turlough O’Carolan when we played together one winter in the hills of western Ireland, and I transcribed some of his original melodies for him. The décor in the rest of my apartment is minimal. After living for so long on the move, I’ve learned not to keep many possessions. Even my keepsakes are disposable, except for my sketchbook. That has too many memories to leave behind.
I flop on the couch, too tired to stay upright. My mind flits back to the memories my therapy session dredged up. Josephine’s laughing blue eyes torment me behind my eyelids. It’s been thirty years since she died, and still she haunts me. My mind travels back through time, flipping through friends and lovers and wives on the pages of the book that is my life, further and further back. I fall asleep, my thoughts filled with some of my first memories, from so long ago.
CHAPTER II
Dreaming
I lie stomach-down on a large flat rock on the banks of a sluggish river. The water is clear and the dark shapes of river trout move in the depths beyond my reach.
My mouth waters at the thought of fresh fish roasted over a crackling fire. It’s been two days since I’ve had a proper meal—game is scarce with winter fast approaching. I curse my wanderlust. What madness compelled me to leave the south?
“Here we go,” I say out loud, and slide my hands carefully into the water. The lauvan of the fish are barely visible in the clear water and I can’t see any breaking the surface.
My hands tingle and bite with the cold almost immediately. I grit my teeth and feel for the lauvan.
“What are you doing?” A voice breaks my concentration. I drop my head in frustration and look up at my interrogator.
A boy of about ten stares at me with curiosity in his brown eyes. His dark curls are a tousled mess around a plain but pleasant face. He has an open, hopeful expression, as if he expects me to say something exciting that he can tell all his little friends about. His lauvan match his face, lively and a fresh spring-green at odds with the falling brown leaves of autumn surrounding him.
I’m too tired and hungry to pander to a child. I settle for the truth, and hope it will be boring enough to make him go away.
“Fishing.” I turn away from him and plunge my hands into the frigid water again. I close my eyes to concentrate.
A few moments go by, and then close to my ear, “With your hands?” My eyes pop open. The boy is on his stomach beside me, peering into the water.
“No, with my toes. Now shush while I concentrate.” I close my eyes resolutely and find the lauvan of a particularly large trout swimming a few arm-spans out of reach.
The boy is perfectly still beside me, surprisingly. With the lauvan firmly between my fingers, I risk a peek at him to make sure he isn’t jeopardizing my dinner. He watches my fingers intently with a curious frown wrinkling his brow. He senses my gaze and smiles hopefully.
Little squirt. I’ll give him something to tell his friends. I find myself answering his smile with one of my own, suddenly eager to show off my skills. I don’t let many people see—it’s far too dangerous when the fearful can easily blame me for all their woes—but this is just a boy. Who would he tell, and if he did, who would believe him?
“Are you watching?” I ask. He nods vigorously. I turn back to the water and wind the lauvan around my fingers, slowly, so slowly. The fish moves imperceptibly our way, as if it were meaning to do so all along. I know better. My hold on the fish is tenuous, and if the fish startled I would lose it. But my pulls are more of a suggestion than a command, and as the fish comes closer I snag more of its smooth and slippery lauvan. I twine them together into a coarse rope.
The fish is almost within my reach. I keep my eyes on the fish, but say, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” the boy whispers.
I grip the fish’s lauvan tightly and say quietly, “One, two, three!” On the third count I heave the lauvan up with a jerk.
The fish leaps into the air. Scales
glint in the dull afternoon light. The fish writhes in fear and lauvan spasm around its body. I roll onto my back, away from the boy, and lift my arms.
Just as I’d planned, the fish lands exactly in my outstretched hands. Feeling very pleased with myself, I roll over again and bash the creature’s head against the rock until it stills.
I find myself breathing heavily from excitement and grinning broadly. I look to the boy, one eyebrow raised, looking for his reaction. His eyes are wide with shock and his mouth hangs open. He stares at me for a moment, before his face expands with a delighted smile.
“Wow, that was amazing! How did you do that?”
It feels good to be admired, even if it’s just by a ten year-old boy. But I’m only twenty-three myself and appreciate an ego boost in whatever form it comes. I push myself up to my feet and hang the fish by its gills from my fingers.
“So, little squirt, are you joining me for dinner? Know that I make visitors collect firewood to earn their meal.”
The boy considers this. His face brightens.
“You could bring your fish home with me, and eat with us tonight. Father loves having visitors, and cook made honey cakes today.”
The boy’s family is rich enough to hire a cook? Suddenly a solitary fish in the woods is much less appealing. I pretend to consider for a moment.
“I’d be happy to accept your offer, little squirt.” The boy beams and starts down a nearby path. I sling my bag over one shoulder and grab my harp case in my fish-less hand. “Wait. What is it that they call you?”
The boy runs back and relieves me of my harp. His eyes are bright and eager and his lauvan dance around him.
“My name is Arthur.”
***
I awake. My eyes are full, and drip out onto the pillow when I squeeze them shut.
CHAPTER III
Jen sips on her coffee and smiles in satisfaction.
“Mmm, it’s perfect.”
Of course it is. I made sure that the temperature was just right before I handed her the drink. It was a simple matter of twitching the lauvan of the hot coffee to release a little heat, enough to avoid a scalding.
“Well, I do have excellent coffee-ordering skills. It must be that.”
“No, it was definitely you flirting with the barista. She put in an extra effort for you.”
I laugh.
“So, my master plan is working. World domination via seduction.”
Jen bumps my shoulder with hers playfully, and her long braid thumps against my back.
“Don’t forget about me when you’re king of the world.”
We walk for a bit along the boardwalk at Steveston, a neighbourhood south of Vancouver with a history of fishing. Seagulls swoop and cry in a frenzy at the scent of fish sold straight off the boats. Families out for the first real summer warmth swarm the docks, ice creams in hand. We stroll up a set of wooden stairs to emerge onto a dusty side street, neglected by the happy family traffic. Jen slows down to look in a window and I match her pace.
“Check it out, Merry. There’re all sorts of weird crystals. Ooh, that one’s bright blue.”
I peer through the glass in the direction of Jen’s pointed finger. On a midnight-blue velvet cloth is a collection of jagged quartz crystals of varying sizes and shapes, some with veins of milky-white bisecting their structure, some with brilliant colors embedded in their surfaces. All the crystals are writhing with lauvan, a sure sign that they are valued to have power. The crystals sit next to a small fan of books with titles like The Modern Tarot and Spiritual Mysticism and You. Sheer fabrics of many brilliant hues are artfully draped above the display. They provide color as well as prevent a peek into the rest of the shop.
“Hey, look, they have free palm readings today.” Jen grabs my elbow and tugs me toward the door. Her golden lauvan dance, framing her eager face with color and energy. I love Jen for her vibrancy—around her, the burden of my years lightens. I hang back for a minute, resisting.
“Really? You want to go to a psychic? I can tell you your future.” I grab her hand and flip it up so her palm faces the sky. I trace the lines and say in a deep portentous voice, “Your life line is long and your head line is short. But beware a dark-haired man who provides delicious coffee, for he will surely buy you an ice cream later.”
Jen giggles and swats my hand away.
“It’ll be fun. And then we can laugh about it later over that ice cream. Come on, I bet you’ve never had your palm read before.”
In truth, I had my first palm reading courtesy of an old Gypsy woman in the side streets of Florence during the Italian Renaissance. She told me I had a very long life line. I said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I allow Jen to drag me across the threshold. We pass through an old wooden doorway painted a vibrant aqua, out of place alongside the metal and glass of the surrounding shops. It looks like a retrofit, and a DIY job, judging by the gouges in the doorframe where the hinges were misplaced. I glance around the small shop after the door tinkles closed with the sound of wind chimes. They make a jarring jangle when I have to shove the ill-fitting door closed with my foot, ruining the ethereal mood they were clearly placed there to create.
The shop is tidy with minimalistic displays on round tables of varying heights. Directed spotlights on the ceiling highlight the contents of each table, while the rest of the shop is kept in cool dimness from the partially covered window. The displays contain more of the same from the window, plus some other offerings—stylistically illustrated tarot cards, candles, statues. The perfume of incense lingers mildly in the air. A murmured greeting floats to us from the corner, and when my eyes adjust I see a woman standing behind the counter dressed in a long, flowing shirt of undyed linen. Her graying hair is held back in a loose braid and her manner is friendly but not effusive, confirmed by muted silver lauvan that swirl calmly around her torso. She isn’t trying for the hard sell, in any event.
Jen wanders around the shop to glance at a number of the displays. I follow her, amused by her show of browsing for politeness’ sake. I wonder if it’s as obvious to the shopkeeper, but conclude that we aren’t the first skeptics to enter her shop on a whim. I haven’t been in one of these new-age spirituality-type shops before, and my fingers hover over the lauvan of the nearest crystals with real interest.
After a minute, Jen must feel that she’s done her time and approaches the shopkeeper.
“Hi. I saw you offered free palm readings?” She holds out her hand tentatively.
The shopkeeper smiles.
“Of course. On the house. It’s always nice to have a little forewarning, isn’t it? Think of this as an insight into the weather forecast of your life. Of course, nothing as detailed as rain on next Tuesday, but the signs will all be there. The interpretation is up to you.” She grasps Jen’s wrist gently and stretches out the fingers with her other hand to search the palm intently. Jen glances at me and we exchange raised eyebrows. The shopkeeper stays intent on her task until we turn our attention back to her. I wonder how much of our reaction she saw or guessed.
“It seems that you are waiting for someone. Waiting for your true love to arrive.” The woman frowns and glances up at Jen, whose wrist is still clasped in her hand. She smiles at Jen’s confused expression. “Don’t worry. It will take time, but you will recognize him when he finally arrives and your eyes are opened.”
Jen smiles uncertainly when the woman releases her.
“Thank you?” It’s almost a question. She turns to me. “Okay, Merry, your turn.”
“No, seriously, it’s fine. I like my future a little foggy.” I don’t think I can handle the future as well as carry around all this past.
“Oh, come on, Merry.” Jen grabs my hand and slaps it down on the counter. “Let’s see what’s in store for you.”
I acquiesce—it seems easier. The woman cups my knuckles in her own palm. Her fingers are cool and dry, and I let my hand relax while she pulls each finger away from the palm.
She takes a long time to examine my hand. I stare at the top of her head, and wonder what she thinks she sees. I’ve never yet met anyone who I felt was actually practicing real magical ability, except myself. Perhaps they are all really good at hiding. I certainly am, after all. My eyes travel down to her neck and I’m startled to see orange lauvan, quite different from the woman’s own, swirling around a gold chain. Lower, pulses of orange lauvan emerge from under the woman’s collar. I’m intrigued. Does she have a lauvan-embedded amulet on her? Does it somehow help her see the future? I’ve heard of such things, but they are rarer than hen’s teeth, and I’m dubious that they actually work.
Jen kicks me and I jump slightly. The shopkeeper takes her free hand and carefully closes my fingers in a strange, somber gesture. It’s as if she puts something precious in my hand, or rather, gently closes it around something she cannot bear to see.
She takes a while to raise her eyes. When they meet mine, they are filled with confusion and a little pity. I’m curious now. What does she think she saw? Or, with the help of the lauvan-infused necklace, did she actually see something?
The woman clears her throat.
“I saw a few things. First, you have a tremendously long life line.” I try my level best not to roll my eyes at this, but it takes all the effort I can muster. She continues. “Second, you are also waiting for someone, but it is not your lover. You have been waiting a very long time. Know that your patience will be rewarded.”
This startles me. It’s not exactly a cookie-cutter response for a palm reader, and it’s a little too close to the truth. I glance again at the chain and see the orange lauvan twining around her neck.
“Third and last, I see signs that are somewhat unclear.” And the previous ones were crystal? I try to keep a serious expression on my face. “All I see is that you must be aware of the portents of doom that are presenting themselves to you. They must be heeded.” She shakes her head briefly and swiftly, like a dog shaking water out of its fur. She takes both her hands and passes me back my own fist across the counter in a ceremonial gesture.
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