Empty Vessels

by Meredith Katz

  "Oh," he said weakly. "Really?"

  Another snort, and an eyeroll, as if to say, You found it, didn't you? I hope you don't think it was irrelevant.

  Again, he wondered what would have happened if he hadn't found it. Was this mist poisonous? A drug? Did it symbolize death or dreams or what? If he died in here, what would happen to him in real life? To either of them?

  No need to find out. He shuddered and pulled the mask over his head, tugging the straps to tighten it. The lenses left his vision a bit blurry, and drawing air through the mask was hard, making him struggle against it, but he was able to breathe. He could only hope the filter was working.

  "Okay," he said, his voice coming out muffled and distant, even to his own ears. "Now I should go in there?"

  The stag whirled and took off again, back across the battlefield. It seemed as if it was meant to be an answer.

  It felt like abandonment, though.

  "Okay," he repeated, voice small, and stepped into the trees.

  ***

  Barely more than ten minutes later, he was already lost.

  It was a combination of factors: the blurry lenses of the gas mask making everything look similar, how the mask blocked sounds, the thick fog, the winding trees. Those last were tall and dark, casting deep shadows the candle couldn't quite penetrate, and muffled sounds all the more. There was no marked path. For all that there had seemed to be one from the outside, it had either vanished a short way in, or he'd wandered off it without noticing in the fog and the gloom.

  He tried to keep himself calm by reminding himself that he'd felt much the same in the trench, lost and aimless and completely overwhelmed, but it didn't much help. The stag had been there for him then, but he was alone now. And he had never been alone, not while Lucas had been there.

  Still, he walked on, because there was nothing else he could do.

  It was after what felt like an hour of walking that the trees began to open up a little. He hesitated, worried that he'd gotten turned around and might be about to walk right out of the forest, but it seemed to be some sort of grove instead.

  It was full of flowers. That was the only thing to notice in there; otherwise it was still and calm. He stepped into it carefully, trying not to disturb any of them.

  There were enough of them that he couldn't easily count them, but they didn't come near to blanketing the ground either—maybe somewhere between sixty and seventy. They were spaced out as if deliberately planted, forming a complete grid that filled the entire grove. The positionings were in no way natural. He walked up and down the rows carefully, trying to understand them, trying to spot the differences.

  Each stalk held a single large flower, white and unremarkable, with curved white petals. They were all in the same state, exactly the same-sized bulbs, except for one. On that one, the flower petals had fallen and a seed pod was hanging from the stalk where it had been. He swallowed, anxious about disturbing anything, but it was a pretty clear symbol. He reached out slowly with his free hand and took hold of the pod.

  That was all it took. It didn't require any squeezing or tugging—just a touch, and it came free in his hand.

  Keith exhaled shakily into the mask.

  There weren't any other empty rows or anywhere he could think to plant it here. Given the spacing, he didn’t want to plant it outside of the grid, either. He could uproot the plant that had dropped the seed pod, but the plant itself seemed still alive, just in another stage of growth than the other flowers around. He didn't want to uproot a still-living plant, not if there was another option.

  It might not be here, he decided finally. He'd found the medical kit and gas mask before he'd tracked down the stag, after all. Each part of her mind was connected in complicated ways to other parts. What he was seeing as images wasn't a logical flow of space. It was a symbol that had significance to her in some way, a metaphor to interpret her life, and what came from one part could be used elsewhere.

  It wasn't comforting. He hoped he'd be able to find his way back if it turned out he was supposed to put it there after all.

  He dropped the seed pod into his shirt's breast pocket as he exited the grove and reentered the thick woods, beginning to wander again. It'd be safer there than in his hand, at least, especially with one hand already full with the candle. It sat over his heart, a strange bulge he was too-aware of, unable to tune out.

  Tired, wandering, lost, he almost missed the sound. It came once, brief and sharp, and he nearly dismissed it as just birdsong. He got three steps forward before realizing he hadn't heard any other birds at all since coming in here.

  He caught his breath and turned, walked those three steps back, and it came again: a high-pitched bird whistle from his right.

  Veering immediately, he picked his way around the trees, head tilted, trying to listen carefully through the muffling of the gas mask. Not for the first time, he wished he could take it off, but the stag's clear protest still stuck in his head.

  He'd just about given up when a whistle came again, this time from his new left. He turned toward it at once, heading deeper into the trees. Over and over and over, he followed the birdsong, not letting himself think about anything at all, anything that could distract him.

  Finally, the trees opened up again.

  Immediately in front of him was a single grave with fresh-seeming dirt. Rather than a gravestone, there was a wooden stake with no writing on it. A bird sat on top of the stake. It chirped when it saw him, in the same tone as the whistle he'd followed.

  Keith approached cautiously. "Were you calling me?"

  The bird let out another brief whistle, then flapped its wings, taking off and darting up and out of sight at once.

  He stared upwards after it before looking back at the grave, then swallowed lightly, pressing a finger to the dirt and trying to dig down. The dirt gave under his finger, soft and rich-smelling.

  It seemed likely that this was where the seed should be planted—flowers for the dead—but the idea of having to dig up a grave at all wasn't particularly appealing. He wouldn't go too deep, he decided. Bodies were buried six feet under, but plants didn't have to go more than six inches.

  It'd be nice if it didn't give him chills to think about, though.

  Keith carefully put the candle down on top of the wood stake. It seemed only right to burn a candle in some kind of vigil, and he needed both hands.

  Then he knelt and began to dig, fingers hauling soft dirt out until they were caked with it, keeping going until he was sure it was deep enough, and then stopping immediately. Trembling a little—if he was wrong, if they'd needed to go deeper, he'd have wasted these seeds, and then what?—he took the seed pod out of his pocket, held it out over the hole, and squeezed.

  It popped in Keith's hand, an unnerving feeling, and seeds fell out, three or four of them. He threw the pod away, then began to pour double handfuls of dirt back into the hole.

  As he finished moving all the grave dirt on, he was still trying to decide whether or not to tamp the dirt down to make it match the grave or leave it loose so the flower could grow more easily, but it was rapidly decided for him. As the last handful fell, the ground shook, a quick rumble that nearly threw him off his feet, and the flower blossomed.

  It grew much more quickly than any natural flower should, tore its way through the dirt and kept growing. It dislodged the stake and, horribly, caught fire as the candle came tumbling down. Burning, it kept growing, looming over the grave, tearing the dirt away with its roots.

  When it finally stopped, flower head burning away merrily but not getting consumed, Keith was on his rear some feet away from the grave, but could already tell it had caved in under the force of those exploratory roots. He shuddered, slowly pushing himself up onto his knees, then back onto his hands. He didn't want to stand yet, not if it were about to start shaking again.

  He didn't want to look, but he had to.

  Slowly, Keith crawled forward, dragging himself over to the edge of the ope
n grave, moving carefully, hesitant. He looked in, using the light of the flaming flower to see.

  The bone girl was in there. She looked exactly as he'd seen her last, an unremarkable shape, long skirt, heavy sweater, bone spurs everywhere. Her curly black hair sat heavily around her face.

  He exhaled slowly, starting to relax, and she sat up so abruptly that he jolted backward.

  But not quickly enough. She had him by the upper arm, staring at him. "You found me," she said. "So that's how it ended."

  "I—" His voice sounded weird through the gas mask as he stammered.

  She seemed to think so too, and reached for it. He tried to pull back, fighting her, but her hand was sharp-edged and relentless, fingers curling at the base of the mask near his chin.

  "Go home," she said. "Thank you," and pulled it up.

  He inhaled, couldn't help it, instinctively sucked a breath in at the breath of cold air on his sweaty face, and the fog was sucked into him along with it. The world swam. He struggled to stay awake, to focus on her face, but it was gone.

  He had no choice.

  The world went dark.

  chapter thirteen

  Keith woke, and at first couldn't identify where he was. It was too mundane; reality felt warped by how long he'd spent in that surreal mental landscape. Staring at the ceiling of the small bachelor apartment, inhaling the incongruous smell of wet earth, he tried to find a metaphor and failed.

  And then Hiraeth said, "You're back!"

  Even so, he struggled, afraid that this was a lie or a joke or some kind of trick of the mind, some memory of hers from hanging out with Hiraeth that he'd get halfway through before realizing it wasn't reality.

  "Keith…? Marion?"

  Beside him, Marion made a strange sound, a hitching inhalation, and Keith pushed himself up to his elbows as she scrambled upright, ran her strange clacking run for the four steps it took to get to Hiraeth, and clutched him by the shoulder.

  She whispered something, and Keith was able to see enough of Hiraeth's face to know he'd lit up into a brilliant smile.

  "It is you," he breathed, and embraced her.

  They stood locked together like that, holding each other and rocking slightly, as Keith slowly sat up fully, rubbing his face and finding that he felt kind of like death. His throat felt raw, his mouth tasted terrible. His head was pounding.

  Hiraeth began to sing to Marion—to the bone girl—in a soft, crooning, lilting language. She leaned her head against the front of his shoulder, too short in her doll body to do otherwise, and closed her eyes.

  That felt strange to see, too. It was good—Keith felt that, knew it, was proud she was back to herself, glad that Hiraeth had his old friend, was flustered and touched that he was able to help.

  And he resented it.

  "'Scuse me," he muttered, and stumbled into Hiraeth's bathroom.

  He drank water straight from the tap, sticking his face under, letting the coldness of it shock him awake as he sucked at the stream.

  It worried him, how thirsty he was. He didn't think he could have been under that long—it was just starting to get dark, judging from the window in Hiraeth's main room, and he'd gone longer without drinking in class. He forced himself to slow down mostly due to feeling his stomach fill, then splashed more water over his face, breathing heavily.

  The headache slowly abated, at least. He hoped that meant it was more due to the dehydration than overuse of his powers, and he wouldn't be in a bad state to use them again tomorrow.

  If he'd wasted them all on her when Lucas still needed saving…

  A knock came at the bathroom door, startling him. "Keith?" Hiraeth called. "You all right in there?"

  "Just a minute," he called back, a bit guilty again. He used the facilities, washed his hands, and stared at his sallow face. "Alright," he muttered to himself. "Back to normal."

  It felt like he was trying to convince himself.

  Still, he tried to seem like his usual self as he headed back out of the bathroom. Hiraeth was standing by the desk, and the bone girl had taken a seat at it.

  "Thank you," she said. "I didn't think I'd be safe again. But I am. And I am me."

  "That's what's important," he said, and heard it come out as awkward as hell.

  Hiraeth and she shared a brief look that made him feel a little more embarrassed, somehow, as if they were communicating in some way about him, and she said, "I think I will be able to resume my life soon. I should be able to let other people see me as I was, though shorter. I doubt people will realize it. They won't, right?"

  "Uh. Probably," Keith said. "Your window's broken, by the way."

  "Yes," she said, awkwardly. "I remember."

  They both stared at each other for a long, weird moment, until Hiraeth clasped his hands together. "I don't think it's a good idea to send her back there immediately," he said. "We talked, and I can clear a spot downstairs in the back room for her to camp out in. It won't be the coziest, but…"

  "I prefer to have a little privacy," she said.

  Keith nodded. "Yeah. I remember," he said, and then, even more uncomfortably, added, "Sorry for having to intrude into your… you."

  "It. Yes. —But I appreciate it."

  "So," Hiraeth said. "Come with me, my darling, and I'll get you set up."

  He helped her out of the room—rushed her, really—and Keith took the opportunity to look at where he'd been lying. He remembered being sick on the battlefield, but there was no sign of it on the bed, at least.

  It really all had happened in their minds only.

  Slowly, he sat back down—then gave up on being polite and just flopped out across Hiraeth's bed, pulling his pillow over and resting his head on it. They'd already shared a bed once, and after lying awkwardly on it all afternoon anyway, hopefully it was no big deal to Hiraeth to have Keith lay claim to it.

  He furrowed his brow, trying to remember the details.

  What he'd seen there was surreal, unreal, like a dream. But it wasn't getting lost the way dreams did, was clear the way only his true dreams were. He thought through the scenes he'd seen in there, and felt his head start to hurt again.

  He was still lost in thought when Hiraeth came back again, this time alone. "I gave her a book to occupy herself," he said, as Keith sat up again stiffly. "You hungry?"

  Keith nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. Seems like I'm kind of being a mooch lately."

  "We both need to eat," Hiraeth said, smiling. "And I owe you more than a little food. I'll call something in. Any preferences?"

  "Nah. Surprise me."

  Hiraeth nodded, and cracked open his laptop instead of getting the phone. "You doing okay?"

  "I don't know," Keith admitted, more roughly than he'd like. He rubbed at his face with a hand. "You were in there."

  "Was I…?"

  "I think so. There was a deer. A stag, I mean."

  Hiraeth glanced back just to smile, then tapped at his keyboard. "I'm getting Indian food," he said. Then, "I'm not the only stag in the world. I told you."

  "It… felt like you, though," Keith said awkwardly.

  Coming to sit next to him, Hiraeth put a hand on Keith's knee and leaned over, looking into his eyes. "Tell me about it?"

  Keith sighed heavily, tired. But Hiraeth was more likely to have some insight on it than he would on his own, and maybe it would help to share it with someone else. He stayed where he was, down on the bed, and put his forearm over his eyes.

  Slowly, he began to explain it, putting in as much detail as he was able to recall and trying to keep it as much in order as he could, from the workroom and his theories on it being the surface memories, her-as-doll when she shouldn't have been one, self-destructive and trying hard to identify everything. Then, the bone trench, the injured stag, the forest. He heard his voice start to get a bit wobbly toward the end. Too many graves, too much death, too much stress…

  Hiraeth was quiet during it, listening, his thumb stroking the inside of Keith's knee lightly, a distracting
background sensation. When Keith ran out of words, Hiraeth stayed silent a short while longer, then patted his leg affectionately.

  "It sounds to me like you did a good job," he said. "Well, I don't really want to give away anything that's hers to talk about…"

  "I'm not asking you to explain her past or whatever," Keith mumbled. "I just. I don't know. I don't understand what happened."

  For another few seconds, Hiraeth didn't say anything. And then he flopped down onto his side to join Keith. He pillowed his cheek on Keith's arm, facing him, part of his antlers brushing the back of Keith's arm. Keith flushed uncomfortably but didn't pull away. It felt good, especially right now, to have someone near him. Not to be alone with his thoughts.

  "She and I met during the war—she's going to keep using Marion with you, by the way, at least for now. Probably not with her landlord. But it's a suitable name for her body, and she named herself that way already."

  Hiraeth sounded almost nervous, interrupting himself like that and nearly stammering. Keith slid his forearm away from his eyes, turning to look at him, and nodded. "It's not the same name she used otherwise?"

  He didn't ask which war. He had a pretty good idea from what he'd seen in there.

  "She doesn't talk much to humans about herself. I mean, she picked a name, but it wasn't terribly significant. My name's Henry on the lease here, and 'Hiraeth' is the name I give to my own kind—she doesn't use more than one name for either humans or Others, these days. It's an odd choice—we'll usually come up with some to toss around, more intimate ones for those we let close to us. Most of us do integrate into human society," Hiraeth said. "There are some communities of Others that refuse to, but it's pretty much impossible to keep completely apart, and has been for a long, long time. Most of us started living among you ages ago." "

  "Hence meeting during the war."

  Hiraeth gave a small half-smile. "The war involved a large part of the world. You're a history student, you know that."

  "Yeah. Mostly classical history, but…" You couldn't even escape high school without having studied the great wars at least twice, and couldn't even make it one year into a history degree without covering it twice more.