by Isaac Petrov
“Do sit,” Yog says.
Edda sits in place, on the top platform of the slide, legs stretched down towards the mist and the arena hidden beneath, hands on railings, ready to push. She turns her head expectantly to the right, where a mare is standing exactly between her and Luuk Smook. There is another mare between Luuk’s sister and Aline, and another one between Gotthard and whoever is next, and so on; twelve in total—Rew, her eight walkers, and Yog’s three bodies—around the arena, each between every two humans.
“So shall you be trialed,” Yog says. “At the count of six you shall push yourself into the pit.” The fog glows briefly as Yog speaks the word pit. “You shall propel yourself into descent, at which point your assigned marai shall remove your awareness applying middle intensity—the same applied in your instruction. You shall then regain awareness by your own skill and proceed to the exit, a hole in the ground in the exact center of the pit.” A brief, intense flash of light under the disc of fog pinpoints the location. Pretty far! “The first twelve humans that exit shall be initiated in the last step of the Path of Light. The rest shall return to their short, meaningless lives.”
Ouch! But Edda doesn’t let the words affect her. Good girl, Ximena thinks. It is a surprisingly simple test. As soon as the candidates recover their lucidity—which should happen quickly enough from what Ximena has seen in training—they will all run for the exit like their lives depend on it. Looks more like a race than like a dreamtech-awareness trial. Ximena is about to ask Mark, but a side glance at him convinces her to let it be. He is staring at Edda like he himself is there with her, about to throw his future—his life—into the mist.
“Do brace for the count, human candidates. One… Two… Three… Four…”
Edda’s hand clutches the railing, her dream arm muscles readying for the dive, and her mind embracing every sensation with sharp savagery—the cool, hard texture of metal on her skin; the tasteless humidity as tendrils of fog reach up into the air; the weight of her own body on the slide—Ximena realizes that Edda is grounding herself into the dreamscape in anticipation of the mare’s awareness-removal attack.
“Five… Six. Do proceed.”
Edda pushes forward, and begins a long, dashing slide down the slope, her breath under rigorous control, her eyes trying to pierce the fog into which she is plunging. As the scene camera dives behind her, Ximena catches but a side glimpse of the closest mare stretching an arm towards her, and—
Whoa, Goah! Ximena and many of Miyagi’s students gasp as one as they feel the mental blow as if it were physical. Edda’s mind has been violently pushed into a blizzard of chaotic confusion as she penetrates the fog, her vertigo making Ximena cringe.
Just as Edda reaches the bottom of the slope, the surrounding fog dissipates and a clash of colors hits her eyes like a hammer on a thumb. Her body, still brimming with momentum, thrusts forward through a jungle of flowers as tall as her, and more exuberant in display than anything Ximena has ever seen in her life—or in her dreams. Vegetation eager to impress, to absorb—to mate. The rush of vertigo floods her falling body, and yet her gaze is inexorably drawn to petals with spiraling turquoises, and thick stems in dazzling shades of burgundies. She finally falls on a soft bed of sprinkling dust that explodes in hues of blue and whispers of pain. Warm, titillating pollen immediately covers her skin, overwhelming her senses, as a sudden, sharp fragrance simultaneously smashes up Edda’s nostrils, and transports Ximena in an instant into a land of forgotten memories, a past she cannot remember, and yet feels deeply as her own. A warm wind shakes the canopy of flowers as if bubbling instead of blowing, and sings wailing, wordless songs of the soul—ever changing melodies only meant to be heard once, and be forever forgotten.
Whoa, damn! A few stray tears run down Ximena’s cheeks. She shuts her eyes and counts to three. Goah, it’s impossible to focus!
But, of course, she doesn’t have Edda’s training. Nor her power of will.
Edda has been embracing each of these clashing sensations with wild eagerness, grounding herself into each new feeling before letting go of the previous one, an unbroken chain of awareness as the primary question of the Second Step echoes uninterruptedly in her mind.
Am I dreaming?
Yes!
Edda stands, shakes off the blue dust from her skin and tunic and draws a deep breath. With a shove of her mind, she dispels the soul-ripping melodies from her ears and the pungent smells from her nose.
Ah! Ximena sighs with relief. A glimpse at Mark confirms that she was not the only one overwhelmed by the sensory storm.
Edda draws another breath, and throws a calculating look back at the impossibly high slide, at its fixed position in relation to the wildly dancing vegetation. Ximena sees it now through Edda’s eyes. Of course. It is not just a slide. It is also a compass. Edda takes her bearings and begins to move swiftly towards the center of the arena—towards the exit.
Something catches Edda’s eye. Between the flowers, on her left she sees a glimpse of Valentijn van Kley, gaping around like a madman. Poor bastard… Like a mensa groping in the dark. Her thoughts flow unimpeded through the psych-link, accompanied by a distinct sense of pity. But Edda keeps trotting on regardless, sharply focused on her bearing, and quickly loses sight of him behind the foliage.
“Van Dolah!” She hears the sudden shout from her right.
Before she has time to turn her head, two bodies slam into her with simultaneous violence, and throw her tumbling across the ground.
Ximena feels Edda’s sharp pain in her own body—blissfully muted by the psych-link safety interface. Edda’s right side has been smashed by the impact, and her breasts and shoulders hit the ground hard. She raises her head, gasping for the air squeezed out of her lungs. She groans weakly and blinks up at the two figures staring down at her, as tears of pain well up in her eyes.
The Smook siblings.
Luuk’s pale blue eyes pierce Edda’s like a splinter of ice. His expression is closed, rational, almost blank. Ximena cannot read any anger in them, nor resentment, nor anything that could explain the attack. Only execution. He is looking at Edda like a lion at a hyena. He is just doing what must be done.
His sister is different. Very different. In her early twenties, she must be one or two years older than him. She is tall where he is stocky, has blonde hair—cut short—where his is dirty brown. She is pretty where he is… not. And her eyes shine with hatred, stained teeth showing beneath a wolfish smile.
“Take her out,” Luuk says, voice cool like he was commenting on the weather.
Both begin kicking her. Viciously.
Edda, creeping on the ground, screams and tries to drag herself away. Waves of unreality begin to ripple across the amphitheater, like the surf of the tide gradually engulfing a shipwrecked body. Goah, she’s waking up! Ximena thinks.
“The head,” Luuk says, as he kicks Edda’s face with all his weight. His sister joins him, giggling, and stomps on her ear as Edda instinctively curls up and tries to cover the back of her neck with her hands.
Ximena’s hands tighten into fists as the psych-link allows through a few traces of agony. She feels disgusted. The savage display of violence! “She’s going to wake up,” she mutters, eyes locked on thump after thump.
“No way,” Mark says beside her. He is frowning, head tilted away, but his eyes are as locked as Ximena’s. “Not Edda van Dolah.” His voice is almost reverential. He meets Ximena’s eyes and points at the scene. “Check that out, she’s not letting go. She’s using all that pain to dig herself deeper into the dreamscape. No way in hell is she going to wake. Not Edda van Dolah.”
And indeed, although blows and kicks keep raining ruthlessly on Edda’s head and trunk, the waves of the impending wake begin to slowly wane, and the scene solidifies. But the constant pain—intense under the relentless beating—trickles through her consciousness, into the hidden depths of her mind, where memories—painful memories—lie lurking in the dark.
Luuk stops h
alfway through a kick, and stares at Edda closely. “That’s good enough, Mirjam. We run now.”
“But she’s not dying!” She keeps beating her. “The bitch doesn’t want to die!”
“Look at her,” Luuk points at Edda. “She lost awareness.”
All around the immediate vicinity, the huge trunk flowers and strong singing wind are vanishing. Something completely out of place is taking its place: a flat wooden floor, a bed, a desk.
“If we don’t leave now,” Luuk says, holding his sister by the shoulder, “we might not make it in time.”
“There’s time.” Mirjam stops kicking Edda, but her eyes remain fixed on her. “The others are,” she snorts. “too delicate. We are the best by far.”
“No risks,” he says. “If we’re not underestimating this one,” he points at Edda, “we’re not underestimating anyone! We go. Now.” His voice is not imperative, just as casual as always, but Mirjam nods curtly and both take off, running side by side in controlled tempo.
Only Edda remains on the now fully formed wooden floor, grunting weakly as the pain wears off. It is dream pain after all, thank Goah—it doesn’t linger.
A closet and a door frame rise silently from the floor, and a window frame appears in the air over the desk, curtains unraveling in place. Ximena can see it now, as the place solidifies with astounding realism: it is Edda’s bedroom! Complete in every detail. There are even used gowns carelessly dropped in the corner, and through the window Ximena can see a couple of Lunteren colonists strolling in the morning sun, oblivious to the fact that they are casting in somebody else’s dream. There are no walls, though. Nor ceiling. The door stands by itself, and the window hangs statically in midair. The wild cacophony of the flower storm rages on beyond, undeterred by this small pocket of order.
Two knocks on the door startle Ximena. “Can I come in?” a female voice asks.
“Uh, just a sec, Mom,” Edda says, standing as her wrinkled tunic transforms into a delicate red gown, and her own face turns back in time by two or three years. “Ready, come in.”
The door opens, and a beautiful Anika van Dolah in an elegant white tunic walks in with a plant plot in her hands. She is smiling at Edda, but Ximena sees something else in her eyes…
“I want you to have this, baby,” she says, walking towards the window. She places the plant on the desk.
“Grandma’s cactus,” Edda says.
Anika nods, pressing her lips together.
“What happens?” Edda’s large, innocent eyes avidly scan her mother’s expression. “Are you nervous?”
“A bit.” Anika’s lips curve in an awkward smile.
“But your mum and dad are waiting for you, yeah? You’ll have dinner together tonight!”
“I will miss our dinners, baby.” Anika stretches her hand and caresses Edda’s cheek, her eyes shining with sadness.
“Me too.” Edda embraces her mother. “But you will be so happy. I’m so, so happy for you, Mom.”
“Yes.” Anika places a kiss on Edda’s brow, and takes her gently towards the plant on the desk. “I want you to mix my ashes into the soil,” she says, placing a hesitant finger on the pot. “I will be part of the plant now, and I promise you that when I bloom, you will bloom as well.”
“Bloom?”
“Bloom, baby. To your full potential. I cannot be here to, er, be with you then in person, but Dad will. Do as he says, yeah? He loves you very, very much.”
“Yes.”
“And keep an eye on Bram, yeah? He is still so young…”
“Okay, Mom.” Edda’s voice breaks. Mixed emotions are swirling inside her: the very real happiness for her mother’s reunion with her ancestors, mixed with the sudden realization of her prolonged absence and the wound it will surely leave. “Will you be fine?”
“Is that important?” Anika asks. She sounds vaguely resentful. “Only you and Bram, and Dad, matter. Only…” Her voice breaks, and she presses the back of her hand against her mouth. “Excuse me,” she mutters, and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.
Edda stares at the door in silence, her confused emotions dissipating slowly and leaving behind a lingering, unpleasant sensation: a seed of pain.
And the seed grows, throbbing grotesquely in her guts like a tumorous organ, until pain covers it all; a constant, sharp pain, not unlike that produced by Smooks’ violence.
“Edda!” Gotthard storms into the room across one of the missing walls. He looks exhausted, hair and tunic out of place from the roaring, singing winds of the flower jungle. “What in Goah’s Name are you doing here?”
“Man Kraker,” she says, smiling mildly. “You look old.”
“You look young! Wake up, dowry sister. You lost awareness!”
“I lost…” she turns her head at the door.
“Come on, Edda. There’s no time. Everyone and their mother have probably reached the exit by now, but we have to try.”
“Man Kraker… Gotthard…” She stares at him with sudden intensity. “Dowry brother?”
“You are dreaming, Goah’s fucking Mercy!” He grabs her shoulders and shakes her. “Return to me!”
“Dreaming…” Edda’s eyes seem to regain focus, and her skin tightens in a sudden reversal of her rejuvenation. She blinks, her old sixteen-year self once again. “What—?!”
“How did you… create all this?” Gotthard waves a hand around the room. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter. We have to go to the exit right now!”
“Yeah.” Edda shakes her head, and then clenches her fists as a sudden spurt of rage bursts inside her. “Smooks!”
“What?”
Edda draws a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter,” she finally says, and pushes him out of the bedroom. “Lead the way.”
“Uh, I’m lost.”
“What?”
“Yes, sorry. I regained awareness, er, too late, I suppose. I was already in the middle of this mess. That’s how I found you. Pure luck.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll thank Goah later for that.” She turns her head, like a hound sniffing the wind. “This way!” She pulls his sleeve and they both run off.
They dash below and around trunk-sized flower stems of flashing colors, sprinting towards an imaginary point clearly painted in Edda’s memory—the bearing, the exit. Ximena can feel Edda’s certainty. She is most definitely not lost.
Just delayed.
It feels like a minute or two before they finally reach what Edda believes to be the geographical center of the arena. Spot on, Ximena thinks, as they stop on the edge of a small hole, size of a man, leading somewhere too dark to see.
A side movement catches Edda’s attention. Somebody is running towards them from their flank. She turns abruptly, fearing another attack, but it’s not the Smooks this time. It’s just Janson. He is alone, and his panicked eyes look like those of a hunted man, running for his life.
“Me first.” Gotthard pushes Edda aside. “My mission is more important than yours,” he says, and jumps into the hole before Edda can react.
“Son of a…!”
Janson is closing with the speed of a madman, eyes fixed on the black hole. He doesn’t even seem to realize Edda is standing there. He takes three last bounds and leaps forward…
“Oooh, shit!” Edda jumps, a mere fraction of a second before Janson plunges in headfirst.
Eighteen
Abracadabra
Aline is the first human to appear in the empty flatness of the staging permascape. She looks around, and all there is to see are twelve mares loosely scattered in stoic stillness, except for four of them that, clustered together, seem to be engaged in communication.
“Where’s everybody?” she asks Qoh, who is standing next to her.
“Patience, Woman Speese. You are alone because you are ranked human number one of twelve. I shall thread the other eleven qualified humans in short notice to begin your instruction in the Third Step of the Path of Light.”
“Number one… You mean I was the winner o
f the trial?”
“Indeed, you were. By a significant margin—your performance would have been very impressive even for a marai, Woman Speese.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes widen with pride. “Number one!” She claps with childish enthusiasm.
“Indeed. Now, do be patient. I shall traverse and thread back human number two.”
Before Aline can reply, Qoh disappears, and a few seconds later, reappears in the exact same spot, next to a baffled Pieter.
“Piet!” She throws her arms around his neck. “You made number two in the trial; can you believe it?”
“Whoa!” He chuckles. “Did I really beat Edda?”
“Uh, it seems so,” Aline says, the hint of a frown appearing on her brow.
As they keep exchanging words, Qoh disappears and reappears anew with not one, but two humans this time.
The Smook siblings.
Almost a dozen humans have already been threaded into the permascape, and Ximena—and all other students for that matter—watch with increasing agitation the space where Qoh always reappears with a new candidate.
Edda is still missing.
In the last minutes, the scene’s camera has been gradually moving away from the candidates and closer to the four mares clustered together, to the point where Ximena can already make out the voices of Rew and Yog as if they really were made of vibrations in the air instead of reverberations in the mind.
“I find it curious,” Rew is saying, “that many remaining human candidates do reside in the same physical settlement.”
“Why would you find it curious?” Yog asks. “You did state that humans in Diamar have a notable propensity to enhanced Second Wake halos.”
“And that is correct. There is much talent scattered in the broader region. And yet, most humans that have made it to this stage are dreaming from the one settlement closest to Deviss.” Rew stretches an arm towards Aline. “Woman Speese, the strongest halo I have ever perceived in a human.”
