Near The Healer Shop, Detective Liam reclined on a bench, his strong shoulders relaxed, his lips pursed around a cigarette—the latest on the market. Its aroma conjured playful images of a lush forest in the rain. He savored the euphoric delight in his lungs.
Suddenly, the hostile door of The Healer Shop swung open with a clang. Four women pranced out, the last of whom seemed familiar to Detective Liam—someone he had conversed with before, though the memories were not pleasant. The aroma mingled suddenly with the smoke, greedily attempting to choke him. He coughed, set the innocent cigarette aside, and stood up, adjusting his clothes. Abruptly, a man appeared before him, blocking his view—a face so shriveled that even the driest fruit would appear plump.
"My good man, what can I assist you with? You've cut off my view," Detective Liam said in a voice that could send legs running.
"Detective Liam, I presume," replied the man sweetly, "You didn't come out carrying the adorable pigeon. You must be new here. If you want to catch Miss Maila's attention, you'll need a different approach. Her taste is quite unique."
In Finn Smith's mansion, Maila was greeted by whispers and curious glances that focused on her attire. Despite her bun-like hairstyle, she wasn't surprised. "I look older," she thought. Finn Smith, leader of the world's largest hotel chain, couldn't keep Maila away, despite his status. But it was an eye-opener for her to discover that he actually resided in Kudah. Throughout the journey through the buildings and corridors holding secrets most would never experience, Maila's fingers played with the Spirit Deck in her pocket. Its edges gave her a calming sensation she found hard to live without. Finn Smith, with a figure where even a skeleton would look more graceful in a nightgown, lay in a large King's Bed of the finest velour in Redwick. A young male servant fed him a bowl of soup, its aroma alone enough to scare away the most famished stray dog. Maila greeted Finn Smith, but it was as effective as bowing to a stone. Her nose caught a strong sweetness, which her lungs tasted, prompting a subdued cough. She modestly covered her mouth as the servant quietly slipped away.
"As you can see, my father is in a very bad state," said Laila Smith, sitting beside Maila's mother, her face worn as if facing the world's end.
Maila's right hand hovered near Finn Smith's forehead, poised to comfort him, when Laila Smith interjected sharply, "If you mess up, I'll make sure your shop never sees new customers again."
In response, Maila swiftly withdrew her hand, keenly aware that a Smith never joked lightly. "I had hoped not to resort to those," she thought ruefully.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, retrieving a chalk-white cardboard box whose appearance alone was uninviting, prompting another glance from Laila Smith and her mother, though no questions were posed. Gently lifting the lid, Maila revealed a neat stack of playing cards. The top card depicted a magically glowing drawing of a tree, its canopy evoking envy among celestial beings. With a quick scan of all the cards, Maila's fingers deftly located two specific ones: a delicate lily that could command respect from its own kind, and a lush lotus exuding its own majestic aura. Her fingers wrapped gently around the lotus.
Meeting Laila's gaze, Maila spoke firmly, "Tell me only what's essential. If you withhold anything, I can't help. I promise, by the Spirits, I'm not here for your valuables."
Laila Smith disclosed Finn Smith's troubling and increasingly perilous sleepwalking episodes, which had begun exactly thirty sunsets ago. Despite prayers to the Spirits, their efforts had been fruitless, replaced by arrogant doctors.
It sounded like Maila's domain. Midnight was known as the hour when spirits roamed freely—a fact known even to the ignorant. Maila pondered, "If it were malevolent, Finn Smith wouldn't be here now. It must be a benign spirit." Her attention returned to the lotus card, its delicate edges a testament to her novice dedication. After excusing herself to the bathroom, Maila faced the mirror and inserted her hand into the lotus card, encountering a softness akin to a baby's skin. Slowly withdrawing a leaf, she conjured the entire form of a large lotus with lush leaves, releasing a fragrance that could transport one to a serene lotus-filled lake. Selecting a leaf, Maila felt its softness resonate deeply. Placing it in a glass, it filled with a shimmering liquid, appearing as plain water to the naked eye but emanating a faint mercury-like glow. Guiding Finn Smith to drink the liquid, Maila watched as its essence lingered in the air, tantalizing the nostrils of Laila Smith and her mother. With velour enveloping Finn Smith's bed, his eyes finally closed, and Maila tenderly wrapped him in the covers.
"Was it as simple as a glass of water?" asked Laila Smith, her voice tinged with astonishment.
Maila smiled cryptically and replied, "A glass of water can vary greatly depending on its source and who pours it. If he doesn't mutter tonight, he's well. But if he continues like a rabid dog with a butcher's knife, then wrap him in a white cloth that leaves only his eyes visible. Come see me after dawn, and I'll check on him again."
She sincerely hoped not to encounter them again, especially not with Laila Smith's demeanor. With those words, Maila bid farewell to the family, leaving behind an unsettling atmosphere where only two questions lingered in their minds: Rabies? Butcher's knife? Both women exchanged wide-eyed glances, their confusion palpable.
"I'll have them ready handcuffs for Father," declared Laila Smith, rushing out of the room like a river.
Left alone, the mother pondered in her confusion, her gaze resting on the peacefully sleeping form of the frail figure in the nightgown. "Should I prepare a coffin, just in case?"
As the moon bathed Redwick in its gentle rays, illuminating everything, Maila found herself lost in thought within the comfort of her bed. In her lap lay a dark box containing years of her work.
"Spirits are harmless until provoked," her voice echoed distantly. Suddenly, she tasted a strong, invisible lemon.
"The Water Lotus isn't free," she thought ruefully. "Damn. Have I really shot myself in the foot?" With a raised voice, she called out, "Kenta."
Kenta, resting at the foot of the bed, stretched and joined Maila in its softness. She gently gripped his thick fur with her left hand and touched the birthmark on her neck with her right. The surroundings blurred momentarily, swirling around her. Then it stopped. Maila found herself now on the grass in front of a small, primitive house surrounded by wild nature emitting powerful spiritual energy in every direction. The flora seemed from another realm, and a mysterious wind carried a sense of mystique. She was once again in a place that belonged solely to her—her Space. With light steps, she swiftly moved to the other side of the house, where a large hill greeted her, its emerald grass blades swaying in a gentle dance. At the top of the hill stood a simple wooden bench crafted by Maila herself, its plain appearance a testament to her amateur craftsmanship, a skill she proudly honed under the guidance of Blacksmith Kjeld. To the left, a majestic oak tree, its thick trunk and ageless perfection standing proudly. Its canopy, white and lush, reached into the endless blue sky, devoid of any animal life upon its bark. As Maila's fingers caressed the ancient oak, she felt its heartbeat—a mysterious yet familiar sound.
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"Hello again, Spirit Tree. Have you missed me? Last time we met, I was more troublesome than the rats," Maila said wistfully, memories stirring though not all pleasant.
The Spirit Tree remained silent, its lack of response familiar to Maila. Conversing was not its forte, but she had bestowed upon it a name it did not object to. Maila took out the card of the Water Lotus, now missing a leaf, and gently placed it against the glowing trunk, which embraced the card as if they were one. "Now I have one less card," she sighed deeply.
Evening had not yet descended upon them, so Maila wandered through Kudah, searching for any trace of Monk John. With her striking appearance, a hairstyle that could outshine butter, and attire that would make monks welcome her, she had assumed her task would be straightforward. But karma seemed to have other plans. When Maila described Monk John in detail, people thought she joked, and showing them a small picture labeled her as peculiar—or worse, a stalker.
Having endured more than most could fathom, Maila resorted to a method she never imagined using.
"I possess skills that can be of service. If you provide something useful, I offer my help," she proposed to a family living on Kudah's outskirts, their content animals grazing in the background.
The father grunted skeptically, but his children were curious.
"If you can make old Mejla give birth, then we'll assist you," declared the girl, her innocent face contrasting with her bold statement.
Maila pondered the name "old Mejla." It sounded so familiar yet different. "Let the Spirits guide me," she thought, contemplating the mysteries ahead.
Mejla had a complexion like over-bleached chocolate powder, a figure that made even the most starved children suddenly feel hungry, and a face so forbidding that not even death dared approach—a soul that should have found rest long ago. She kept to herself, her stilts seemingly fragile, yet she stood tall with a determined glow in her eyes that couldn't be missed.
"How old is this remarkable Mejla?" asked Maila, feeling a strange sensation just uttering the name.
"She turned 33 today. The Holy Church calls her a miracle because of her longevity—a unique miracle," replied the girl, her words sending shivers down Maila's spine.
"The Holy Church... 33 years old. Why does that sound familiar?" Maila thought, something stirring in her heart. But her immediate concern was elsewhere. "Is she expecting a kid?"
"No, that's why you must give her a young goat, preferably one of each gender," the girl answered, her voice sweet as an angel's but laced with cunning.
Holy Spirits! Such demands for a goat with one hoof in the grave, Maila thought. This family wasn't naive; they knew what they were doing. The weight of expectations pressed heavily upon her now. Everyone knew goats could only give birth if fertilized by a male—miracles were even seen as sinful by the Holy Church. Maila's abilities were not to be underestimated. She turned to the father, smiling with such stiffness that even a statue would bow in reverence, and asked, "Do you have old books you no longer wish to keep? I demand them from you as well."
"Miss, if you can truly bring goat kids to old Mejla, then all the books are yours," replied the father.
Maila looked deeply into Mejla's eyes, sensing her determination. "You truly desire children," she whispered softly. Mejla's legs slowly buckled under her, her belly resting on the grass that seemed to embrace her at last, eyes closing gently.
Maila placed her hand gently on Mejla's belly and felt warmth and a stirring that carried a troubling message. With no time to waste, she channeled energy into her hands, directing it into Mejla's belly. Mejla's eyes shot open wide, a loud cry escaping her lips. Her belly swelled and then abruptly stopped. Mejla grunted loudly, and a wet, slapping sound like dough slipping through water came from her hindquarters.
"Mom, something's happening!" the girl shouted, immediately rushing to Mejla's side.
A circle formed around Maila and Mejla as they witnessed the greatest miracle ever seen in Redwick unfold. One goat kid... two goat kids... three goat kids... four goat kids. It happened so quickly that Maila struggled to grasp the enormity of what was unfolding before her. By the sixth goat kid, Mejla's hindquarters ceased producing more. The small bleats of the newborns tugged at everyone's hearts, even Maila's, momentarily drawing her attention away. She carefully checked each goat kid, their fur softer than the finest silk, their faces so dear that they brought smiles to everyone present. Three of them eagerly nibbled at her fingers as she placed them gently on the grass. Their faint bleats echoed like ancient prophecies. True to their word, Maila was rewarded with a book, its worn edges suggesting it had seen many hands and travels, along with information about Monk John.
"We haven't seen him, but his attire resembles something from Kudah's Cosplay Convention. He might be there now," offered the boy, finally getting a chance to speak.
Maila suddenly felt like she was living in a different era and yet somehow still in her own time. Her gaze shifted to the small goat kids staring up at her with clear azure eyes. Such a grand miracle would surely be talked about for years to come, she thought. "Can you keep this from the Holy Church?" she asked tentatively.
"Miss, we haven't seen or heard anything. Only that God sent an angel to bless us. Perhaps the Spirits had a hand in it too," replied the father proudly.
Maila hoped his words were sincere, knowing only time would tell.
With the book in hand and Monk John's trail leading possibly to Kudah's Cosplay Convention, Maila resumed her quest. The Spirit Temple welcomed her warmly, yet it had the opposite effect on Maila.
"Miss Maila, when will you join us?" inquired a monk with a bald head that gleamed like the moon's finest moment.
"When I see God's Garden," Maila replied firmly. "Have you seen John?"
"Unfortunately, no. If he were here, we would know. Perhaps you should try the Holy Church," the monk suggested.
"You know my history with them," Maila sighed as she departed, returning to her shop where Vivian and Kenta awaited.
Maila had barely settled into her chair when the door slammed open again. Detective Liam entered, his smile radiating stubborn determination. He slammed a colorful picture onto the counter—a woman who appeared as though ravaged by starved hyenas.
"Who brings a woman in such a state? Where is her head? Is this your attempt to impress me, sir?" Maila's voice carried disdain, her brow furrowing.
A slow smile spread across Detective Liam's face as he began to respond, "So, you are interested after all, I..."
"That's enough!" Maila interrupted sharply, summoning her allies: Vivian, Kenta, and her trusty broom. They swiftly chased Detective Liam out before he could utter another word.
"If you show your face here again, I curse you!" Maila shouted, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Later that night, Maila sought solace in her Space. Even nestled in bed under a soft duvet, her thoughts raced on.
Detective Liam's words echoed in her mind, questioning her choice of words, though she saw nothing amiss. Maila spoke the language of the Spirits, hoping karma wouldn’t intervene. Lost in her wanderings, she had forgotten the simple joy of living, consumed instead by the weight of age she ignored behind her youthful appearance. Behind her smile hid a shame she tried to redeem every day, from sunrise to sunset. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a restless sleep, disturbed by whispers from a distant place and a voice promising greatness.
"Anya," she thought, a warm tear escaping.