by BC Powell
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I’ve reached the height of purpose, completed my Apprenticeship, and now fulfill my purpose.”
“No, I just mean in years,” I say, but “years” never translates.
“I don’t understand,” she says.
“How do you measure time here? Like a person’s age?”
“A person’s age is measured by their height, so one who is young is shorter, one who is old is taller. The greater passage of time is measured by the tenure of the same seven Disciples in service together, called an Era.”
“What happens when someone stops growing?”
“Our growth in height begins at birth and ends at death,” she says. “It slows as we grow older, but we always gain height.”
I guess that explains why everyone I’ve seen here who’s more than a few years older than I am looks so tall. I hold a hand up and snap my finger.
“The time that snap took is called a second in my world. We have exact measurements of time, so sixty seconds makes a minute, sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours are in a day, and three hundred sixty-five days make a year. We track it all with things called clocks and calendars, time-measurement devices. I’m seventeen years old.”
She holds her hand up and snaps her finger. “You’ve lived five hundred thirty-six million, one hundred twelve thousand snaps,” she says, “or seconds, as you call them.”
I stare at her, astonished, and start to do the math in my head, but I get lost and start over. I quickly realize that I can’t do it without a calculator and accept that the number she gave me is accurate.
“Do you have days and nights?” I ask but quickly correct myself using words she’ll understand. “What do you call light and dark?”
“We call them light and Darkness,” she replies. “Most of the time, it’s light. We never know when Darkness will fall, nor do we know how long it will last.”
“How do you know when it’s time to do something?”
“We sleep when we tire, consume sap when we hunger, and perform our purpose as needed. We know what needs to be done and when to do it. Krymzyn lets us know when it’s time for Communal or a Ritual.”
It’s strange to me the way she refers to Krymzyn as though it’s a living entity, not just a place.
Sash walks to a simple four-legged table made of brushed metal. It stands against the wall opposite the bed. Shelves are carved into the glossy stone above the table, home to several pitchers and cups, a pair of scissors, and a sheathed knife, all made of the same brushed steel. She points to a three-legged metallic stool by her side.
“Please sit,” Sash says. “I know that now is the time to heal your wounds, although your measurement of time appears not to have alerted you.”
I have to smile at what on Earth would have been a joke, even though her face is deadly serious.
Chapter 7
I walk to the stool and sit in front of the table. Sash takes an etched-steel pitcher and two cups from the shelves, setting the cups in front of me. She pours thick liquid from the pitcher into each cup. The fluid looks like it should be scalding hot, but no steam rises from the mixture of red, orange, and yellow. I look inside to see undulating colors, like slowly morphing molten globs inside a lava lamp.
“Take off your shirt,” she says.
I pull the sleeveless black V-neck over my head, pausing to involuntarily flex at dull stabs of pain. She takes the shirt from me, crosses the room to the head of the mattress, and hangs it on one of several shiny hooks in the wall.
Sash returns to me, carefully slips her hand under one of my scabbed, bloodstained arms, and lifts it to the table. She does the same with my other arm before she pours liquid from the cup into one hand.
She slides her smooth, soft palm from the back of my wrist to my elbow, over my biceps, and up to my shoulder. I don’t even feel the liquid on my skin. No slime or stick as I thought there would be—just pleasing tingles.
I blink firmly several times to make sure I see what I think I see. The scabs disappear, the scrapes in my arm heal before my eyes, and new skin spreads over the wounds. She pours more of the liquid into her hands, gently rubbing them up my arms, across my shoulders, and down my back. Every pain is instantly swept away, leaving my muscles alert and fresh.
“Drink,” she says, tipping her head to the cup in front of me. She lifts her own cup and sips from it.
“What is this?” I ask, looking inside my cup.
“Sap of the sustaining trees,” she replies.
I slowly raise the cup to my lips, staring at the swirling colors, and take a sip. No taste, no smell, not hot nor cold. It’s the texture of honey but not at all sticky, and the fluid flows down my throat when I swallow.
Instantly, an absolute, pure feeling of energy surges through my muscles. Hunger feels satisfied and thirst quenched. With the strength I feel, I know that if I were crouched at the starting line of a three-mile cross-country course, I’d shatter the world record.
The swell of vitality gradually subsides into a serene and peaceful comfort with each sip I take. As the sap pulses through my veins, I feel content in every way.
“It’s weird,” I say to Sash. “I feel, like, really strong but also relaxed.”
“The sap knows what you need and when you need it,” she replies. “It strengthens your body but also calms your mind if you need rest.”
When we finish drinking, we both set our cups on the table and I look up at Sash. She walks to the head of her bed, unbuckles the black rope from around her waist, and loops it over one of the hooks in the wall. Her steel flask dangles from the end of the belt, making a few dull clangs against the quartz.
Lifting her shirt, she reveals small but beautifully curved breasts with tiny red nipples encased in a thin circle of pink. The muscles in her taut, flat stomach gently ripple as she pulls the shirt over her head and hangs it beside the rope.
Oblivious to my stare, she unfastens the three metal buttons at the front of her pants, slips her thumbs into the waist, and bends over as she pushes them to the ground. I’ve seen amazing girls’ rears and legs at cross-country and track meets, but nothing I’ve ever seen can compare to the perfect tight curve of her behind flowing into long toned legs. Her calves flex into thin but sculpted muscle when she steps out of the pants and hangs them beside her shirt.
She turns to face me, and my eyes linger for a moment on the thin triangle of short, silky jet-black hair above the crease between her legs. The rest of the skin on her body is smooth and clean, not a single hair on her legs or under her arms. Even her forearms are perfectly bare.
It occurs to me that no one I’ve seen here seems to have any hair except for their eyebrows, eyelashes, and what grows from the tops of their heads. The men don’t have facial hair. Neither the men nor the women have arm or leg hair from what I’ve seen. The only hair I see on Sash, other than her eyebrows, eyelashes, and what hangs from her head, is the narrow V located above her groin.
My eyes wander over the sensuous curves of her hips, across her narrow waist, then shoot up to her face. I feel ashamed for staring so long. Her face is expressionless, maybe even melancholy, and she doesn’t seem to be aware of the way I was gawking at her. She shows no shame, no embarrassment, and definitely no sexual intent at standing naked in front of me.
“Remove your pants and hang them on the wall,” she says as though issuing an order to a stubborn child. “We must cleanse.”
I’m embarrassed to stand up. The most gorgeous, incredible girl I’ve ever seen just took her clothes off in front of me. To be honest, it’s the only time I’ve seen a completely naked girl in person. I know by her demeanor combined with what she’s told me about Krymzyn that it has absolutely no meaning to her. But I’m a seventeen-year-old heterosexual male, and even if I was almost killed by a tree less than hour ago, my body’s going to do what my body’s going to do in this situation. There’s nothing I can do about it.
The sap also seems
to be having quite an effect on me. It’s calming me mentally, but my nerves seem to be overly alert. So I kind of fumble my hands in front of me as I stand, trying to hide my physical reaction. Thankfully, Sash turns away and walks through the opening at the far end of the cavern, never once paying attention to me.
After crossing to the head of her bed, I unbutton my leathery pants, slide them off my legs, and hang them on a hook. With my hands folded over my groin, I enter the opening to the second cavern. I’m spellbound by beauty when I enter.
At one end of the cave, a gentle fall of silvery blue water spills from a ledge ten feet over the ground. The floor of the cavern, a pumice-like stone, only black, like scoria, is covered by a shallow stream of water from the fall. Translucent as it flows down a slight angle to the other side of the cave, the water disappears with a rushing sound through a narrow crevasse. The golden light from the crystal overhead glistens on the wet ground.
I walk to the waterfall, hands still strategically crossed in front of me, and my feet feel the flow of water with each step. I’m surprised that, once again, it doesn’t feel warm or cold, no temperature at all, but still soothing to my skin. The pumice stone isn’t hard, doesn’t scratch my feet, and feels like firm sponge where it’s wet.
Sash stands with her back to me, head down, letting the water splash on the back of her neck. When I step into the fall, caressing beads wash over me and send invigorating electric sensations through my nerves.
I glance at Sash. Eyes closed, she raises her face to the falling water with her long black hair, scarlet aglow, cascading down her back almost to her waist. The water beads when it runs down her waves but doesn’t seem to soak into her hair. I reach up and run my hands over my own scalp. My hair feels clean and healthy, but not wet or damp against my head.
She steps out of the fall and walks towards the other room. Her hair bounces, flowing behind her, exactly as if she’d never been in the water. I’m struck by the realization that when we were outside, my clothes never felt wet, despite the pouring rain. They were dry when I took them off moments ago.
“When you finish cleansing,” she says to me from the opening between caverns, “you need rest for the sap to finish healing you, and I need sleep after Darkness.”
Her expression, sad and distant, never changes. She seems tired, her eyes lacking the acute alertness I saw earlier. I’m not surprised after the mind-boggling physical display she put on whisking me to safety and then fighting the tree.
I wait until she turns away before I step out of the waterfall. My skin is so refreshed and revitalized that I feel like I just spent the entire day at a Beverly Hills spa—not that I’d know what that feels like. But in my mind, I imagine that this is how I’d feel.
When I enter the other room, a blush of embarrassment on my face, I turn my body slightly away from Sash. She’s already put on a pair of simple white shorts, like gym shorts with a drawstring, and a plain white tank top.
The shorts and top are just sheer enough that I don’t really have to use my imagination to see her body underneath. But I’m starting to feel guilty about how I’ve been looking at her because she’s so much more than just a cute girl. I mean, she’s amazing in so many ways I’ve already witnessed. She literally saved my life. It just feels wrong to look at her that way, especially with her not knowing.
“I apologize, but I have no sleep clothes for you,” she says.
“It’s okay. I’ll put my clothes on,” I reply, keeping my focus directly on her eyes.
“Why do you keep saying ‘okay’?” she asks.
“It’s something we say in my world, the same as ‘all right’ or ‘fine,’ an affirmative.”
She nods her understanding. I reach for the hooks on the wall, take my clothes in hand, and quickly slip back into them. Glancing at the bed, I see Sash now lying on her back with her head resting on a pillow.
“You may sleep on my bed,” she says quietly. “After we rest, I’ll take you to the Disciples.”
I lie down beside her on my back, my eyes staring straight up at the slowly moving points of light overhead.
“Sash, thank you again for saving me and everything you’re doing for me. I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I was just a little scared.”
Her hand rests beside mine on the bed, so I take it into my grasp and gently squeeze it. It’s an innocent gesture of caring and thanks, nothing more. She yanks her hand away and clenches it into a fist on her chest.
“Why do you touch me?” she asks. There’s no anger in her voice. It’s still soft and monotone, but there’s a hint of curiosity.
“In my world, when we like someone or care about them or they’ve done something to help us, we touch. We shake or squeeze hands or put our arms around each other and hug.”
“It seems strange,” Sash replies.
“You don’t touch other people here?”
“There’s no need other than in the Ritual of Balance or when providing assistance to someone who’s injured.”
“When you rested your face and hands against the tree earlier . . . why did you do that?”
She turns her head to face to me, her amber eyes directly in front of mine.
“To nurture the tree because it provides sustenance for us,” she says with warm devotion in her voice. “So the tree knows I honor it although I’ve taken from it.”
“Where I come from,” I say, “sometimes people need nurturing too.”
She looks up to the crystal ceiling, and I do the same.
“We must sleep now,” she says. “Peace.”
Her word triggers the golden Swirls to slowly fade into blackness. I stare up through the dark with my eyes open, my arms limp by my sides. Sash’s breathing slows into a steady, smooth pattern.
I try to analyze all I feel at finding myself in Krymzyn again. The catalyst for my being here, I know, has to be a new tumor. But that doesn’t seem to bother me at all while I’m here. I finally admit to myself—I like being here. In a strange way, deep from inside me, I feel like I belong here. Maybe the sense of euphoria I experience is somehow related to the sap.
I start to feel tired and my eyelids begin to droop, but every nerve in my body suddenly ignites when Sash gently rests her hand on mine.
Chapter 8
I opened my eyes and looked at the hand on top of mine. My fingers were tightly clamped to the steering wheel with Ally’s hand wrapped around them. Her other hand rested on my shoulder. My entire body was shaking, pain throbbed through my head, and my chin was covered with drool.
“Are you okay?” Ally asked frantically.
“Yeah,” I said, turning to her. “Did I hit anything?”
“No. The car behind us ran into us.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she sighed.
“Shit, Ally. I’m really sorry. I blacked out.”
“I was yelling at you to stop.” Her face tightened, tears filled her eyes, and her voice cracked when she spoke. “Then I realized you were having a seizure.”
“It was just like before,” I said quietly.
“Oh God, Chase,” she said, shaking her head and starting to cry. “Not again. It’s not fair.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
She pulled her hands away from me, sat back in her seat, and stared at the dashboard. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “I’m fine. The car barely bumped us.”
“How long have we been sitting here?”
“Not long,” she sobbed. “Less than a minute.”
How can that be? I wondered. I’d been in Krymzyn for at least an hour, maybe two.
I released my seat belt and looked in the rearview mirror. With a scowl on his face, the driver of the car behind us was already standing by his hood. I felt a wave of relief that no one had been splattered all over a windshield.
When I stepped out of the car, everything started spinning. My knees buckled, and like a marionette having all its strings sliced at once, I collapsed lim
ply to the ground. The pavement got closer and closer until my face slammed into it.
An ambulance drove me to the hospital. The x-rays clearly showed a new mass of growth on my brain stem—as if the seizure weren’t evidence enough. The next day, blue fluid was back in my veins and a CT scan was run on my brain. The scan revealed a new tumor—in the exact same area as five years earlier. Surgery was scheduled for the following week.
The only good news from the entire situation was that neither the driver of the other car nor my sister had any injuries. I felt horrible that Ally had been in the car with me when it had happened. Needless to say, I couldn’t drive anymore, and I didn’t want to after the wreck.
I didn’t tell anyone about what I knew would be called a hallucination. I didn’t tell anyone that while I’d been in Krymzyn, despite the initial fear, I’d felt like the void in my mind had finally been filled. For the first time since I was twelve, the sense of waiting for something had left me. It was a combination of feelings only I could understand—the amazement, the fascination, and the belief that there was a reason I’d gone there beyond just a random occurrence. And more than anything else, I knew Krymzyn was real.
Just like when I was twelve, I was immediately put on anti-seizure medication. Desperately wanting to return to Krymzyn before the tumor was taken out of me, I debated not taking the pills. I had to see Sash again, learn more about her, about Krymzyn, and try to understand the connection I felt to her and to that world.
Even with the medication, I had several mild seizures over the next week, but they only brought flashes of light and distant sounds. Two days before my surgery, I quit taking the anti-seizure meds. I needed to go back before it was too late. There was no argument in my mind.
The day of my surgery quickly came. I dressed in a hospital gown and lay facedown on a surgical table before a nurse secured my head into padded braces. Tubes were needled into my arms, and electronic sensors were adhered to my temples. As I was wheeled into the operating room, bright lights from overhead cast reflections on the spotless shiny floor. My head started throbbing despite the drugs flowing into me, and I felt pressure building in the back of my neck.
