I awake the next morning, my memories thick with what the dragon had said and about the dream of Immortality that Minerva wished her son to have. The name Ferris rings in my mind.
Jules and I studiously prepare the sum of 10,300 Denaros in our briefcase, the other 200 scrounged from various places like our socks and forgotten coat pockets added onto Ms. Minerva’s amount. The aftershock of the Eisen I took two nights before has almost faded away. I feel clear now. Alert. The clock reads 7:59am.
And as the hand strikes 8:00am, the door bursts open, and in comes three men dressed in deep burgundy suits.
The leading man puts his hand forward, the sigil of the Blood Syndicate engraved in the Quan on his forearm. Flakes of dry blood and Eisen flutter from it.
“Ten-thousand, three hundred. Florist.”
I hand the suitcase to him, keeping my expression blank. Jules sighs.
He takes the suitcase, his underlings taking it immediately from his hands in sycophantic deference. They lay it out on the counter, and studiously arrange each denomination of coin into their appropriate values.
The two men give a nod to the man. The man takes the signet ring of his finger and dips it in dark red ink, pressing it upon an envelope.
“Your record.” He says, not waiting for me to take the letter before turning away and striding out the door. The two men follow behind him to the next shop, the next victim.
I wait for them to exit fully, and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
“Another month’s dues. Paid.”
“Yeah,” says Jules, collapsing to the floor. “I almost thought we wouldn’t make it.”
“Me too,” I say, getting up and re-doing my hair in my usual style that looked a bit more presentable. My violet eyes stare back at me in the mirror. They are minutely bloodshot.
A rollercoaster of events transpired the days before.
“Some coffee?” I ask first, feeling of tinge of guilt at not being able to give Jules his share. I’d have money to pay his wages four, five days or so.
“Much appreciated,” says Jules, shuffling outside to pluck the morning’s newspaper from the basket stand. He comes in as I pour two long cups of dark coffee out onto an Einspanner cup.
“Wow, Amelie, would you look at this?” he says, pointing to the front cover of the newspaper.
My eyes grow wide at the first word.
“REYNAULD ARTAFEX and ALEXANDER HERIZ make LANDMARK DEAL to build a new AQUAJET PORT in SERIEN.”
I read further.
“Surayasna 18th, 1844.
Reynauld Artafex of Artafex Shipping Co. and Alexander Heriz of Illium’s Heriz Steel & Ironworks Co. has struck a landmark deal yesterday, the Serien Herald reports. Involving over 38 million Denaros, the trans-republic cooperation between Serien’s Artafex Shipping Company and Illium’s Heriz Steel & Ironworks will usher in a new era of integrated shipping and transport across the two republics. Among the plans announced yesterday are the opening of a new AQUAJET port and undersea rail in Serien, the first of its kind, allowing for a twenty-fold increase in cargo and goods traveling in and out of the city. A new sub-marine industry estate will also be constructed by the AQUAJET port, allowing for Serien’s maritime industries to readily ship valuable minerals mined undersea. The projected contribution of this deal to the economy in the Republic of Serien is estimated to range from 480 million to 1.1. billion Denaros over the next 30 years. The Serien republic council is considering awarding the title of Archon of Industry to Reynauld Artafex for his deal in contributing to Serien’s continued prosperity and growth. Apart from...”
I put the newspaper down, mirth returning to my heart. Suddenly, my eyes do not feel dry anymore.
It is not the first time one of my clients have gone on to make a good name for themselves in the world. But it’s the first time that a client who I took without too much promise turned out to revolutionize the future of my entire republic. That night when I took Eisen was worth it. Completely.
Every time the newspaper reads a name of my client, it is an affirmation that my work – despite all its questionable aspects – can help people. Many times at night, I stay awake at what had become of my clients who asked for various things. Husbands who wish to love in secret another woman of their dreams. Wives who wish to love in secret another man, infinitely more generous and romantic. Burly men haunted by nightmares of loss, wanting to feel youthful again and go on adventures across various worlds imaginary. Young, affluent women wanting to have confidence in how they look and are perceived by others, wishing to live a reincarnated life in their dreams where they are empresses. I merchant dreams because I want to help them, I do. But there are some whose requests escape my ability – or rather, escape the logic of the world. Though I can craft and sell these dreams, I cannot change an aspect of reality that is immutable. I can only help them along to make them realize it themselves. I can only show them the door.
Minerva’s request drifts into my mind.
She was suffering a lot. And yet, I do not think that the dream of immortality is something I can take on a whim. As a challenge without a deadline, yes. But the life of a child is involved. And what was it about the dragon saying that she will suffer more? Is oblivion of memory the best for her? Why may that be? Perhaps her son would recognize the name and feel worse for something he cannot have? Maybe that was it… but if the dragon was her unconscious, then...
* * *
The wheel of time hands its reins to spring. It’s been a full month in the calendar of the Republics – a full 45 days – and Jules and I’ve been busy at work trying to scrounge enough sum again to pay off the Bloods. A full month from that fateful Sunday, on the date of our payment, the door opens once again.
But instead of the three men who usually come to collect our dues, it’s instead the –
The bearded gentleman from the poque table.
He sights me in a mixture of surprise and curiosity, and so do I. Jules next to me recognizes him too, but he turns his gaze away, pretending to work on something else.
He takes an envelope from his suit pockets, handing it to me. I spy the signet ring of the Blood Syndicate on his finger. There is a Quan concealed underneath his suit.
“Open it,” he says. I chant softly to let a swish of air cut it open.
Out drops a letter.
“To Amelie Marceau, Florist
Corner of 37th and West Canal Ave
This is an acknowledgement that all your outstanding loans to us have been paid as of Serayasna 15th. This relieves you of the duty to make payments every month to us. We thank you for engaging in our service and wish to partake again in ventures of business.
With great pleasure,
Montserrat”
I cannot believe my eyes. The entire loan sum – worth 22,000 Denaros – have been paid off? The loan sum whose compound interest had made us gasp for breath?
“I did not expect you to scour enough to pay,” the impeccable gentleman says, dipping his signet ring in dark red ink and impressing it upon the bottom of the letter. “A shame, really. Your performance at the poque table was mesmerizing indeed.”
There is a gleam of disappointment in his eyes.
“May your paths cross us again,” he says, turning to leave.
May our paths NEVER cross again, is what I want to say, but I hold my speech as he saunters out the front door, hopefully for the first and the very last time.
Jules and I make no word for a while. Then we break into cheers and hugs.
“Holy crap, I can finally get paid on time! Yes!” Jules exclaims, pumping his fist, going downstairs to pick up a bottle of champagne we bought a year ago.
We pour one out for each of us on a glass and smash our glasses together when a rattling bang shakes the front door.
There is a mailman in blue outside, even though it’s a weekend.
What gives?
“Come in,” I gesture wildly, and he enters.
“Ms. Amelie Marceau?”
“That’s me.”
“Thank the MAHA. Here’s your package,” he says.
“Wait, we are not expecting any –”
“Sorry, gotta go. Can’t get paid tonight if I don’t deliver all of them on time. Private delivery!” he shouts, racing out the front door and taking off with his cart of packages with a jet of fire behind him.
“What the...” Jules says, chuckling.
I gently slice the package open. Out comes a letter and what looks like four train tickets. Written in an elegant cursive handwriting, the addresser begins:
“Dear Maestro Amelie,
It has been a long time I’ve had the chance to feel happy. And my son too. With the name for the stuffed Celendir you recalled – Ferris – we were able to get a stuffed animal that looks exactly like it and name it in its honor. I haven’t seen my son this happy in years.
Thank you for taking on my request that night of a month ago. I have paid off all of your outstanding loans to the Syndicate; you are free from your debts. May the FOUNDERS grace you protection from their schemes going forward.
Speaking of which, may I trouble you to visit us at our cottage by the sea? It’s in Argent, an hour’s ride by surface rail from Serien proper by the breezy coast. I’ve included a ticket here for you and your assistant Jules as well – including their returns. My son would very much like to meet you.
Please follow this address:
7 Roundway, Hill-by-the-sea, Spellsong District, Argent.
I would be most pleased to meet you again.
Warm regards,
Minerva Cartier”
I look to the ceiling, breaking into an involuntary smile.
“Jules, shutter the shop for the weekend. We’re going to Argent.”
* * *
All around us the flowers bloom. The Festival of Flowers have been held just a few days ago across the entire country, and it’s easy to see the reason why. The vibrant reds and violets of tulips flutter and dance in the spring wind as the train rushes past with us inside. Their fragrance drifts through the open windows on our little compartment, with just Jules and I, admiring the sights with a cup of tea. I brush my fingers on the fluffy, verdant grass as tendrils of foxtails and reeds bow and waltz past my nails. It feels as if all the world is alive.
I haven’t been on a trip in years, cooped up in an endless cycle of creating and visiting other worlds as an author of dreams in my shop. No matter what, it seemed there was a fixture to the real that you could not beat. The train glides over the landscape of meadowy terrain, shallow lakes reflecting fluffy clouds overhead, and rivers of pristine blue.
“Do you think she will ask you about immortality for her son again?”
“I haven’t a clue,” I reply. “But no matter what, we’ve still got to thank her.”
“A cottage by the sea, how scenic! Perhaps to get more Sun?”
“With hope,” I remark, closing my eyes to breathe in the scent of spring. There’s another half-hour ahead to Argent.
We alight at a cozy little station flanked by olive trees beginning to shed their winter fur into something befitting the greenery of spring. Their own flowers haven’t bloomed yet – it’s too early for that for olive trees – but their green is welcome nonetheless.
There are only half a dozen on the platform who alighted with us. We wave soft goodbyes as we stroll past the smoothed stone platform down to the cobbled street. We sight a hill in the distance from afar, and a small white cottage on it overlooking the sea.
It’s a twenty-minute walk, but every step feels buoyant to us. Our coats flutter about in the cool spring breeze, with the morning Sun tickling our hair. It’s not long until we arrive at the foothold of the cottage grounds – the cottage hill – surrounded by peach trees in the perimeter.
A spectacled butler emerges from behind one of the peach trees to greet me. I recognize him from Marnie’s shack when he doubled as a guard.
“Maestro Amelie Marceau!” He says, gingerly taking my hand for a gentle shake. “It is a pleasure to meet you again. The cottage is some way up the hill, just a three-minute walk. Ms. Minerva very much welcomes you.”
He accompanies Jules and I as we stroll our way up, taking our briefcases. As we approach the cottage, we see it’s two-storied – composed of scenic wood planks painted white and peach; the slanting roof tiled gray and blue is adorned by a single spire-like cone of light brick. The architecture is very much in a romantic style, from back when form and function did not clamor over beauty and sense. I see two terraces that open out in view of the great inland sea below to the west, wind-bells chiming in the sea breeze.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
The wooden planks of the cottage landing creaks as we step forth. The butler gently pushes the door open.
Minerva’s face lights up. She is dressed in an elegant white silk dress, her hair in a loose bun by her head.
“By the MAHA! Maestro Amelie, you’ve made it –” she exclaims, pulling me into a soft and brief embrace. “I hope the travel here hasn’t been too difficult?” she asks, parting reluctantly.
“Not at all unpleasant. It’s great to see you again, Ms. –” I catch myself in my formality, “Minerva.”
“Do come in,” she gestures, taking us into the spacious living room with open windows and balconies. She dismisses the butler at the doors and personally pulls out two reventerie style chairs with meshed backs, adorned with patterns of flowers and fruit. She waits for us to be seated at the tea table, already decorated by scones and cucumber sandwiches.
“Any tea grasps your fancy?”
“Oh my...!” I gasp. It is evident that hours of effort have likely been invested into the presentation. “I am honored,” I reply. “Shall we try the Serien gray?”
“May I suggest the Empyrean Harmony?”
Each cup of Empyrean Harmony – a royal tea from the Empire of Jin – was worth eighty Denaros or more. To refuse such an exquisite gift would be tantamount to blasphemy.
“I’m in no position to refuse,” I answer, my face contorting minutely into an expression of awe and mild discomfort at the scale of her invitation.
It takes several minutes until all of us get seated over some tea. Jules is seated quietly near the southern edge of the table, having introduced himself as assistant once again, taking care not to take my limelight away. I am seated by the west, facing east, and Minerva, just opposite myself.
“You’ve prepared all for us in advance! How did you know we were coming?”
“To be frank, I did not know. But I did hope. I’ve prepared each afternoon for your expected arrival.”
“I apologize for arriving this late, and not on the Festival of Flowers...”
“Not at all, Maestro Amelie. The package must have arrived later than expected,” she says, taking a long sip from her tea. There is still an air of awkwardness that hangs between us two. Three counting Jules.
“How is René?” I gently inquire.
“Your recollection of Ferris lifted his spirits. Quite substantially so! The sun and the breezes have been doing him good favors as well. Though he’s not yet on a path to recovery, I feel we’ve stopped his sickness from advancing further for now. Thank you. Thank you so, so much.”
“It is my pleasure,” I say, hand over my heart. I didn’t expect the recollection a single name to hold this much weight. What a power it held for Minerva and René! Warmth bubbles up in my chest.
“René’s currently asleep, but I will check on him in a few moments to see if he’s ready to see you.”
* * *
“René?” Minerva whispers, softly creaking open his bedroom door on the second floor atop the staircase landing.
“Mum?” flows a boy’s gentle, melodious voice.
She opens the door to let us in. I make a little wave, followed by Jules.
The little boy’s sight catches my next words in my throat. He is thin and emaciated, and pale that I can see the minute webs of his veins come through in purple. His hair – which must have looked a rich navy-blue mixed with gray, are patchworked in many places on his scalp. His legs, observing from the outlines they make under the bedsheets, are too thin for a boy his age, close to bone. He’d probably lost the ability to walk a long time ago. But contrary to his physical state are his gentle, glimmering eyes of gray-blue, big and round on his slim face and thin frame. A stuffed Celendir toy – the same I saw in Minerva’s memories – are tucked under his bedsheets just next to him.
René’s visage breaks my heart.
He sees me enter; his eyes grow and crinkle in a warm smile.
“René, this is Maestro Amelie.”
“Maestro Amelie...?”
“Nice to meet you, René,” I say, taking his hand gently. Though bony, a genial warmth emanates from his palm.
“Oh... I didn’t want to make you come all the way here...” he croaks, a little shy.
“Not at all. I was happy to make the travel and see you. How are you feeling?”
“Mmm... not as bad when there was snow. Thanks for getting Ferris back,” he says, hugging the Celendir deeply. He flops and pets its rabbit-like ears. Memories of the little hopping Ferris in Minerva’s dream call out to me.
“René’s had a measure of warmth restored to him,” Minerva bubbles.
“How did you find Ferris?” René asks, trying to steady himself sitting-up on the bed. His bony legs fail to cross.
“Well, it’s a bit of a long story... may I?” I ask Minerva.
She makes an affirmed nod. The wrinkles on her face seem to fade momentarily as she settles down to hear my story.
* * *
“...So I told the dragon, ‘love’. Love was the answer to its riddle. And to my great delight, it released Ferris. It came to me and whispered its name!”
“That’s awesome!” René exclaims, pumping his fist, but his next words are punctuated by deep, whooping coughs that make his chest recoil. He grips his chest hard underneath his pajamas, and hack into the tissue that his mother gives him.
“Oh dear, oh dear, Jules –” I whisper, “fetch some water downstairs for us.”
“Right away.”
There seems to be no end to his cough, but to my utmost relief, it subsides after a minute. Though René makes an effort to scrunch it up and give it back to his mother, I can all too clearly see the smattering of blood on it.
“I’m sorry...”
“No, no, don’t be!” I answer. “It’s not your fault at all, not anyone’s...”
René sighs and sluggishly grips his sheets. He makes a feeble effort to smile.
Though his mood has lightened as of late, his physical condition is just as dire. I shake my head without knowing, glancing down at my feet, my eyes moistening without notice.
“Maestro Amelie...”
“Hmm? Oh, just... just Miss Amelie is okay,” I say, trying not to show my tears lest he feel sorry for something which he has no control over.
“Miss Amelie... I really love your story. Your stories. Are you coming back?”
Minerva glances at me, expectantly. “Well, she’s here for a visit today, but Maestro- Miss Amelie is really busy most of the time, but...” she pauses, catching her breath, “mum will talk to her, okay?”
“...Okay,” nods René, drifting into his pillow.
A knock on the door. "Come in, Dr. Louis," says Minerva, as a middle-aged doctor with a bushy beard and round spectacles enters with a stethoscope and a medicinal satchel.
He looks taken aback. "New guests! Pleasure to meet you," he says, giving a little bow.
"Dr. Louis, this is Maestro Amelie. She helped René recall Ferris."
"My gratitude to you," Dr. Louis remarks, shaking my hand. "It's been quite the help."
He lays his hat to the side and begins his work, his expression transforming into a mixture of pity and dejection as he turns to face René.
The wind bell chimes. We close the bedroom door behind us.
“I’m sorry about René, Minerva.”
Minerva doesn’t articulate any words other than an occasional nod.
“It’s okay. Thank you for coming all the way out here. I appreciate it. And thank you for telling him about how you found Ferris. I think it will help your spell last a little longer.” She enunciates, her voice tremulous in a mixture of worry that will never end.
I can’t tell whether I should inquire further or just let the silence be. My heart’s torn between returning and hearing further. But hearing Minerva and René’s stories – I’m not sure whether I would have the strength to not take on this request.
René’s little smile comes into the forefront of my consciousness.
“About René...” I trail off. Minerva looks up briefly, expectant. “I am still not sure whether I can take on your previous request. A request for a Dream of Immortality. Does it still stand?”
“Of course, Maestro Amelie, I understand... but yes, it still stands. Has your mind been swayed at all?”
Notwithstanding that Minerva has paid off all my debts to the Blood Syndicate – a substantial sum of twenty-two thousand Denaros and some more that I am indebted to her by default – I cannot keep René’s feeble smile and bony legs out of my mind. All of my clients who I’ve helped thus far have been those privileged enough to walk and want ambition; to dream of things which could be very well considered offshoots of vanity. But René’s dream – or at least what Minerva is requesting – is to have the privilege to walk in the first place. The blessing to be normal, which everyone takes for granted. I realize that my contribution to the world as a Dream Merchant has catered to those at the pinnacle of most things, but never those dispossessed whose cries went unsung.
Perhaps it was time for me to make my title as Maestro – as a Dream Merchant – mean something more than just enriching the already rich. Perhaps it would be right for me to take on the challenge in creating this dream of Immortality for a little boy who doesn’t remember the taste of strawberries nor the freedom that everyone else enjoys.
In order to do that, I need to understand first where René’s grief comes from. Minerva did mention that her husband – René’s father – passed away when René was young. How much impact did this have on René’s psyche? How significantly was he affected, immediately after? Knowing those things would allow me to probe a little deeper into the cause of René’s sickness, a sickness of the mind, and help him overcome it. One step away from death was one step closer to immortality, after all.
I open my mouth.
“Minerva, if you don’t mind me asking – may I meld with you again? I would like to revisit your memories. See René if I can. Try to search for the source of his ailments.”
Minerva’s eyes light up in relief and mirth. “You mean you will accept my request?”
“I cannot give my word to you yet as a Maestro. But I will see what I can fathom, and even if I do not accept in the end, I will be able to provide you something helpful to make René feel better. Would this be alright for you?” I inquire to confirm. “It’s the least I can do for my gratitude.”
Minerva nods profusely. “Yes, yes, of course. I would appreciate your dive.”
We lay back on our chairs, the warm wind caressing our arms and necks. The distant fragrance of the sea, mixed with blossoms of peach, drift from some way below us. The surf washes the rocks in rhythm from afar, humming the rhythm of a lullaby.
The wind bell chimes and our fingers entwine.
The mourning dove appears in my vision; and as I listen to it, I find the world materializing again in the sphere of dreams, the city-mountain of sandstone and many tiers falling into blocks below my feet.
I lightly land atop the topmost layer again. It’s the same as I remember from a month ago. The skies are still hazy; a sickly yellow sun shines a putrid light onto the yellowed landscape. The only difference I see is that the columns of ash and smoke that used to rise from the tiers of the city below are absent. The fires have subsided.
My hair is loosened from its bun into a flowing priestess’s locks out back, my bangs fluttering minutely in the wind. I envision myself in a simple but practical armor of bronze, and it flickers into existence on my torso and chest, covering my shoulder.
Not bad.
I conjure a simple spear and grip its wooden shaft. Unlike the first time I was here, it doesn’t flicker out of existence immediately.
Minerva is unconsciously giving me more control of her dream. I welcome it. The effect of finding the name Ferris has had this much a change, and I breathe a sigh of cautious ease. My work did have meaning.
I stroll into the recesses of the giant gate at the topmost level, bringing me into the mountain. Once again, it opens to a dark hall the hue of deep teal, shadows draped in many places. But this time, the air that wafts from below is not of a pungent quality – rather, it’s fresh, reminiscent of citrine perfume. Perhaps the negative emotions that haunt her have subsided for the time being, or at least suppressed.
I spy the wide and colossal spiraled staircases leading me down into the morass of memory. At each layer before, I had fought a demon. Hopefully, not this time. I step onto the first stair, expecting it to crumble, but find a surprising sturdiness and solidity to its support.
I descend the steps, one by one, looking through the memories once again. Multicolored frescoes of Minerva’s younger days come alive in a kaleidoscope of images at first, arranging themselves into coherent reels which I can comprehend.
Minerva’s youngest memories as a toddler. Fragmented in many places, but from her perspective, shows her father some distance away in a brightly lit garden, holding his arms wide open as if to welcome her embrace. Minerva – with a careful wobble – waddles her way, one brave step at a time, towards her father, almost falling, almost stumbling – but bravely marching on all the same. Her father reaches out to her and hoists her up, laughing and chuckling along with Minerva’s own little giggles. From her perspective, I witness her hoisted up atop her father’s neck and shoulder, looking far into the distance painted with mountains of blue and their frosty caps. Daffodils and tulips wave in gold and rouge, letting the wind waltz over and under them. Her mother in the distance with a sun-hat picks them in a bundle, waving to Minerva and her father.
I descend.
The next memory is Minerva at school. She is at the nurse’s office. She had been chasing squirrels around the yard with her friends, and was climbing a tree when the branch she was on snapped and plummeted her to the cobbled footpath. A handsome boy had run to save her – a boy with a hair of charcoal navy – but her arm hit the stone first. Tears run down her cheeks with the throbbing stings of her broken left arm. The nurse puts it in a cast, wrapping the bandages and sliding a thick splint under, admonishing her with words that by now have become unintelligible. The boy asks if she’s okay. She says ‘mmm-hmm’. Would she climb the tree again? Yes.
I descend.
The next memory on the walk is so vivid that I place my fingers on the smoothed, polished wall of the spiral rotunda, and find themselves splashing into the very moment it was taken. Minerva is incensed. She shouts at her mother, while her father tries to come between the both of them, trying to allay their fight. Her mother tells her that she will no longer date the boy named Hugo. Hugo, head drooping, stands outside with flowers splashed with rain, just beyond the front door that is half-open. His hair is of charcoal navy; Hugo’s the same boy who had brought her to the nurse in elementary school. Minerva’s father tries to say a few words to his wife, but before he can finish his words, Minerva throws down her teacup, shattering it on the floor. She rushes outside to run off with Hugo, but he is already gone.
I drift through and descend through the steps of time, appearing amidst that wooden house.
The next memory is that of Minerva in tears, holding a scrunched-up letter in her hand, the ink of its writer smudged by her falling teardrops. The letter reads “I’m sorry.” Hugo has gone away to another republic, far far away. He says his father needs him there for a work with little hope of ever returning. Minerva bunches it up and throws it away, only to pick it up again and unfold it. She tucks it away into her diary, closing the pages, holding it close as she drifts off to sleep with the orange lamp still on.
I descend further, the memory thickening to the point that I can touch and feel the world around.
The next memory is Minerva working as an assistant florist, dressed in a bright yellow sundress with a wide-brimmed hat about to fly off her head. She arranges tulips in little pots by the canal, drawing with a large chalk the prices of her bundles of roses gathered next to her, marking it with a little face that smiles. A boat comes drifting down the canal with a rowman and a plainly-dressed young gentleman in gray. His hair is charcoal blue. Their gazes meet. “Your name is...?” They ask, lips parted in mirthful surprise.
Ocean waves splash across my head as the salt stings my eyes. I’m on a ship. Sailors hurry past my figure. The next memory is that of Minerva and Hugo on a ship towards the Empire of Jin. Hugo mans the helm; Minerva right behind, charting the waves on a lookout. She is a navigator. She still wears the same wide-brimmed hat, her hair now in luscious locks of lucent gray falling to her waist. She gives Hugo a kiss, holding their faces close, lost in the moment between each other’s eyes, Minerva’s cyan, Hugo’s gray, but a long mighty shadow drifts over the helm. The Great Gates of Jin, colossal stone towers stretching miles into the heavens, part the clouds and blots the Sun.
The fragrance of the summer sea and blocks of tea waft up to my nose. “Empyrean Harmony,” the crate reads. Minerva and Hugo, with minute wrinkles on their faces now, proudly sign the import paper on the deck of their ship, La Belle Dame sans Peur, reading a Denaro figure of 24 followed by four zeros. The Port of the Republic of Ascension bids the arrival of their ship with cheers and wows, the first to import the mightiest tea in the world into the republics. A young boy with cream hair and explorer’s cape spots them with a spyglass. His eyes are full of stars.
The next memory unfolds on the shores of a shining sea. Hugo holds up his son René, showing him the vista of a New Year’s sunrise. Minerva gently takes René in her arms, still a baby, drifting off to sleep on her heart. It’s been a long night, with lots of fireworks. Minerva’s gaze meets Hugo’s, and they share in a kiss, the sun rising between their noses.
The next memory uncovers by the gardened daffodils on a small stone cottage in the mountains. Tulips dance and flutter in the wind. Minerva holds out her hands in an embrace, her hair coming to her shoulder now, tied in a braid. A straw-hat rests in an angle atop her head. René takes his shaky first steps, his father Hugo just behind him, ready to catch him should he fall. René stumbles a little, but determined, pushes his fist into the grass, and gets up again. He takes one step with his right. Another with his left. His sight never leaves his mother’s. Minerva pulls René into a hug, cooing a gentle song. Hugo wipes the sweat off his brow, presenting to his son a little stuffed Celendir, bright yellow with floppy ears.
The next memory is that in an elementary school. It’s parents’ day. The nurse, now old, giggles with Minerva as little René strides into the hallways valiantly with his little collar-up shirt and suspenders, wearing a tie. Other children jokingly address him as ‘o, good father, show us your ways’. René laughs. Minerva and Hugo stand at the back of the classroom as René proudly raises his hands and is the first to answer a question. It’s about the sea and ships.
The scene materializes to a sandy arena outside. René and his class are playing tagball, but is losing. The gym teacher pauses the game, and asks for volunteers from the spectating parents to join in and have fun. Hugo steps forward and takes the ball in his hands. “I will be your champion,” he says, giving a wink. Minerva cheers at the top of her lungs.
They win the game by 17 to 3.
The next memory unfolds in the dim light of their dining room in a modest mansion. Minerva holds Hugo close in her arms. Dry trails from tears mark both of their faces. On the table, a bill, a piece of white paper, the sigil of a hospital. Little René peeks out from his bedroom door. Hugo spots him and brings him close. They stroll outside, where the lights of Serien far below greet their eyes. The stars shine brilliantly overhead. Minerva watches over them, stirring a pot of tea. Once their tea, now theirs no longer.
A shattering sound of glass explodes like a cannonshot upon my entrance to the next. As I step in cautiously, an atmosphere of blood-red assault my vision. Hugo shields René behind him, arms outstretched, cornered against a wall. Three men in blood-red burgundy suits raise their Quans. They’re here to collect their debts.
“Not my family,” he says. “Not my son.”
The men cock their head. The leader of them all steps forward, presenting a sigil from his ring.
He presses his ring into a vial of dark red ink, and presses it upon the envelope, handing it to René.
Hugo pleads.
“Not here.”
“Yes here.”
A thunderclap and a bang.
Hugo falls to the ground. Eyes glazed.
A solitary tear descends from his eye.
“Daddy...?”
As I try to wade through to the next memory, a cacophonous rumble pierces my ears. A gargoyle, a raven, and an owl all black perches themselves onto the stone pediments, framing the perimeter of this dream. Hollow sockets greet my gaze where their eyes should be. Their necks turn without sound as I proceed cautiously into the funeral.
All the world turns to shades of ash, the only colors permitted the red of blood and the violence of blue. Clamors. Shouts. Minerva lets out hoarse screams, her face wrinkling overnight. The cyan jewel of her eyes drowning under the waves. René sits still, his face hollow, droplets of hot tears turning into a river, until the Sun goes down and his tears run dry. The desert has come.
A squeezing sensation wrings my heart as the memory dissolves and I wade into the next. Each step feels like fighting against a coursing river; or feeling like under suspended honey, my feet struggle to move forward.
The landscape changes to that of René alone on the porch of their mansion. He puts a strawberry into his mouth. The juices and seeds burst forth in his mouth like gangrified flesh. It tastes like one too. As his legs dissolve, bone and sinew remain.
The landscape changes to that of René with a fever, delirious with imagined monsters. His bedroom in their small mansion hold only a dim lamp by the side of a table. Rain splatters outside. Minerva is seated on a chair, face-down on the tea table with her arms sprawled on the patterned tablecloth, her hair loosened into a featureless carpet of gray with frayed threads of navy.
René cries out for his father, flailing, kicking the bedsheets away.
Up on the ceiling, a wraith with black robes, holding a scythe.
The reaper has come;
The reaper has come;
The reaper has come.
Clouds of black smoke choke my throat and sting my eyes as the memory liquefies into tar and binds me to where I stand. I cannot move further. This is the end of the memory allowed to me.
I dissolve my consciousness within the dream, loosening to tendrils of smoke that shoots upwards.
I break through the cap of the mountain and into the sickly, yellow sun.
* * *
I open my eyes with a throaty gasp. I inhale deeply, savoring the scent of fresh air as if I’ve been holding my breath for eternity. Minerva slides out of her chair, unconscious. I gently grab to steady her.
So this is you, Minerva.
I pull her into a hug as she awakes.
“Yes.” Is my answer.