by BC Powell
“I know you’ve been through this before,” Dr. Baskin said after the anesthesiologist turned a few knobs, “but I want you to count backwards from ten for us.”
Dull circles of light began to pulse on the floor. They seemed to rise off the surface until they filled my vision.
“Ten, nine,” I said, desperately trying to fight the effects of the anesthesia. Before I reached eight, every muscle in my body convulsed.
* * *
I immediately glance up to the sky. Shafts of bright light dissect the edges of the motionless clouds. I let out a sigh of relief that I didn’t arrive during Darkness. No, the relief is because I’m standing on the Empty Hill in Krymzyn.
Red spreads out before my eyes, and nothing has changed except the position of the branches reaching outward from the dormant tree in the meadow. Everything is still, absent of any movement.
When I look down, I see that I’m barefoot and dressed in “the manner of Krymzyn.” My muscles are relaxed, and my mind is alert. I don’t feel any effects from the drugs invading my consciousness back in my world.
Before I have a chance to figure out what to do, the same tall man I spoke to when I was twelve races over a hill in the distance. Orange and black hair trails behind his head and a metal flask swings by his side. The long steel spear in his hand reminds me of how terrified I felt during my first encounter with him.
Long ago, Sash told me that no one in Krymzyn would harm me, and I believed her. More specifically, “No one in the grace of Krymzyn,” which I’m guessing didn’t include that Murkovin thing and definitely not the tree. So as I wait for him, I don’t feel the need to run or defend myself.
The man sprints across a meadow and up the hill, stopping a few feet in front of me. He’s not even breathing hard after running faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, except maybe Sash when we were younger. There’s not a drop of sweat on his face.
“I welcome you on your return to Krymzyn, Teller Chase,” he says, nodding his head to me.
Despite how much I’ve grown, he’s still at least five inches taller than I am. There’s neither happiness nor sadness in his expression. Not anger, not calm—just a blank stare. I decide that, despite the sharp angles in his face, nose, cheekbones, and chin, the simmering amber in his black-lined eyes, and the vibrant orange highlights in his black hair, he’s a strangely good-looking man. He’s a little on the freaky side to be sure, but he’s handsome, kind of like a mid-forties European model in a luxury sports car commercial.
“I remember you,” I say calmly. “What’s your name?”
He drops to one knee, seeming to ignore me, and sinks the fingertips of one hand into the ground. He whispers something inaudible before standing again.
“I’m called Tork,” he replies, studying me carefully. “I’ve been told you were here during Darkness.”
“That tree over there”—I point to the meadow—“would have killed me if Sash hadn’t saved me.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he replies with true concern in his voice. “I must tell you, we Disciples are quite confused by your arrival during Darkness. No Teller other than you has ever been in Krymzyn when Darkness has descended.”
“How do you know no other Teller has been here during Darkness?” I ask. “A Teller may have been killed before you even knew about it.”
“As I told you when you were smaller,” Tork replies firmly, “the atmosphere announces the arrival of Tellers to us. With the exception of you, Tellers always arrive on the Telling Hill in Sanctuary. We’d be quite aware of a strange corpse anywhere else in Krymzyn.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“If words are spoken in Krymzyn,” he chastises me with the same irritated look I remember from when I was younger, “they are the truth.”
“So will Sash know I’m here? I’d like to thank her for saving me.”
“Only the Disciples are told of a Teller’s arrival, but I’ve summoned her to meet us.”
“Thank you. It means a lot to me.”
“Let’s proceed to Sanctuary,” he says, pointing one hand in the direction from which he came.
As I walk beside him, I glance over my shoulder at the valley behind us. I see that we’re heading in the opposite direction from Sash’s cavern—or habitat, as she called it.
“I apologize again if you were at risk during your previous visit,” Tork says to me as we walk. “I trust you don’t feel any threat upon your return.”
“No, I feel fine. I’m actually happy—satisfied—I got to come back before . . .” I correct the word that doesn’t translate but stop talking before I finish my sentence. I don’t want to mention that, on my plane, I’m in the middle of having my head cut open.
“Before what?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t know why I said that.”
He scrutinizes my face, and I know that he knows I’m lying. In a strange way, I feel guilty. It’s the same type of guilt I felt while staring at Sash when she took her clothes off. There’s a sense of purity, honesty, to everyone I’ve seen here, excluding the Murkovin. It just seems to emanate from their being.
“What direction are we walking?” I ask, wanting to quickly change the subject. After years of cross-country running, it’s a habit of mine, always wanting to have my bearings.
“We walk south,” he replies. The word hangs a little while in the air but eventually translates.
“So, you have north, south, east, and west?”
“Of course,” he says as though I’ve asked the dumbest question ever.
“How do you know which is which?”
“The light always points north in Krymzyn. Always to the north.”
I look up to the sky and, for the first time, notice that all the rays of light are basically pointing in the same direction.
“Do these clouds ever go away?” I ask.
“Never,” he says. “The light from behind would be blinding if not for the clouds.”
“What makes the light?”
“Energy,” Tork answers, but the word takes a long time to translate.
We silently walk side by side at a brisk pace, up and down a hill and carefully around another weathered, red-leaved tree in the center of a meadow. Tork steers me on a path to avoid stepping on any of the branches on the ground, always keeping a buffer of a few feet between us, like a border collie guiding sheep while maintaining a safe distance.
“You must always be careful not to damage a sustaining tree while it sleeps,” he warns, noticing that I’m staring at the tips of the branches sunk into the ground. “You don’t want the tree to be angry when it awakens.”
“That may make more sense to me than anything else I’ve heard here,” I reply.
He doesn’t smile, laugh, or respond to my statement in any way. From talking to Sash, I learned that slang doesn’t fly in Krymzyn. I guess I can add sarcasm to that list.
As we climb a slightly larger hill, six tall, lean figures appear on the crest, all dressed in black pants and sleeveless black shirts. They all stand with their bare feet immersed in the red blades of grass. Black hair intertwined with bright orange strands tops their heads, metallic spears are clutched in their hands, and they examine me with intense amber eyes.
When we reach the top of the hill, Tork steps to the end of the row of what I assume are the Disciples, and to my shock, all seven figures bow to me. The tallest of the seven, oldest from what Sash had told me about how they measure age here, is a woman in the center of the row. She’s at least six foot six, taller than any kid, teacher, or coach at my school. She looks a little older than my parents, maybe fifty, but her sharp features can only be described as beautiful. With a spear clutched in one hand and a lean but muscular body, she’s an imposing figure.
“Finally, we meet the Teller Chase,” the tall woman declares, a commanding tone in her voice. “Although I’m beginning to wonder if your purpose here is actually something more than just Telling.”
>
Chapter 9
“I present Eval,” Tork says to me, “tallest of the Disciples currently in Krymzyn.”
I quickly remember every name I’ve heard in Krymzyn—Sash, Tork, Balt, Yoni, and now, Eval.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, my eyes glued to the tall woman. “Does everyone here have four letters in their name?”
“Quite astute of you to notice,” Eval replies. “Our naming convention is one letter for each of the four primary directions in Krymzyn.”
As she examines me, her eyes remind me of Sash. They look like Sash’s eyes, although it’s hard to tell since everyone here has catlike amber eyes lined in black. But their focus, the way I feel them as much as see them, all remind me of Sash.
“Can you explain why I’m here?” I ask.
“The only beings to visit Krymzyn from other worlds are Tellers,” she replies, “although the anomalies related to your visits raise many questions regarding your actual purpose here.”
“So what exactly is a Teller supposed to do?”
“Tellers arrive in Krymzyn from every other plane of existence at various points during the life cycles of those worlds. They tell us, the Disciples, details of life on their plane so that we’re confident balance properly exists there. If balance in one of those worlds is disturbed, Krymzyn may attempt to resolve the situation on that plane. In some situations, a plane may be allowed to self-destruct. Without this process, other planes couldn’t exist.”
“I’ve got news for you,” I say. “My plane exists with or without you and me.”
“Although you may believe all things everywhere to be as they are in your world,” she says firmly, “that belief is simply not a truth of existence.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re like God or something?”
“We’re Disciples of Krymzyn. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I scan the row of seven people, not really wanting to spend my entire visit in a religious or philosophical discussion. Neither of those topics is something I’m really interested in, whether I’m here or on Earth.
The two Disciples sandwiched between Tork and Eval—a man and a woman—are both a bit shorter than Tork. They seem like they’re in their late thirties or early forties, and they’re just as strangely attractive as everyone else I’ve seen in this world. Well, Sash isn’t really all that strange—other than the amber eyes and glowing scarlet in her hair. But “attractive” can’t begin to describe anything about Sash.
The woman and two men on the other side of Eval don’t look more than a few years older than I am. They range in height from five foot eleven to six foot three. Also good-looking in an unusual way, they look like they could have stepped off a billboard for the latest fashion fad—if that fad happened to be black leathery pants, a sleeveless black V-neck, and stoic faces topped by Halloween wigs.
“So what are all the anomalies with my visits?” I ask.
“Are you fully aware when you depart your plane?” Eval asks me, seeming to ignore my question. They sure do that a lot to me here.
“I guess you could say that.” I don’t want to get into the seizure, tumor scenario.
“Strange,” she replies. “When Tellers arrive from other planes, they’re typically asleep or in a meditative state while in their own world.”
“What are the other anomalies?” I ask, returning to my initial question.
“On your first visit, you appeared to be much younger than any Teller to arrive before you. Tellers always arrive on this hill, called the Telling Hill, yet you arrive in another location. Darkness has never fallen while a Teller was in Krymzyn, yet it’s happened twice with you here. And no Teller has ever witnessed a sustaining tree awake or has been exposed to those who dwell in the Barrens.”
“You mean the Murkovin?”
“Yes,” Eval answers. “The Murkovin.”
“What exactly are they?”
“Murkovin are creatures who belong to the Barrens outside the Delta. They live on sap from trees in the Barrens. That sap is contaminated. It results in irrational, extreme emotions in those who drink it. The more they drink, the more they need the sap. Those of us living in the grace of Krymzyn take only what we need for existence from the supply our Hunters provide.”
“So they’re, like, addicted . . . just live to drink sap?” I ask, explaining the word that doesn’t translate.
“Exactly,” Eval replies. “So much so that they destroy the limbs of trees in the Barrens during light so they may more freely drink the sap during Darkness. Many of the trees in the Barrens die at their hands. The Murkovin then attempt to enter the Delta during Darkness, seeking the sap from our trees or even to drink it from the blood of those who dwell here.”
“Why don’t you just hunt them all down and kill them?”
“They serve a valuable purpose,” she says thoughtfully. “The Murkovin are a constant reminder to us of how important balance with our world is in order to sustain life.”
“Everyone talks about balance here, but it seems like a pretty dangerous place from what I’ve seen.”
“Balance doesn’t imply an absence of danger. In fact, danger may allow balance to properly exist. But I do apologize if you felt threatened.”
“It’s okay,” I reply. “The Watchers took care of the Murkovin, and Sash saved me from the tree.”
“Following the Murkovin intrusion, we were busy with the Watchers at the wall. Otherwise, one of us would have found you. When we learned you were injured and with Sash, we knew you would be safe and well cared for.”
“I was both,” I comment.
“The strangest anomaly to me,” Eval says, “is that we’ve yet to have an opportunity to hear of your plane from you, although there’s really no need. A Teller from the planet Earth has visited Krymzyn in the recent past. We learned what we needed to know of your plane from that Teller.”
“How do you know I’m from Earth?”
“You told me on your first visit,” Tork interjects.
I think back to my conversation with him when I was twelve, remembering that I did tell him.
“How long ago was this other Teller here?” I ask.
“When Tork and I were early in our service as Disciples,” Eval answers, “but before any of the others standing here had been called to fulfill their purpose.”
Based on Eval’s answer, I conclude that Eval and Tork are the two senior Disciples.
They all shift their eyes to my side before I say anything else. I turn my head to see Sash walking to the top of the hill. She glances at me and nods, the usual somber look on her face. When she stops in front of the row of Disciples, they all drop to one knee and bow their heads.
“Hunter Sash,” Eval declares, “you’ve honored Krymzyn by your actions to protect and heal the Teller Chase. In his presence, we humbly thank you for your service to our guest.”
I look from the Disciples to Sash. Her expression doesn’t change, but she sinks to one knee then speaks with a soft sincerity that melts my insides.
“If I’ve served Krymzyn, it’s I who feels honor,” Sash replies.
Sash and the Disciples all stand.
“Communal is near,” Eval says, “although this is another event that shouldn’t occur while a Teller is visiting.”
“What goes on during Communal?” I ask.
“We’re alone with our thoughts,” Eval answers, “but as one with Krymzyn.”
“I’m just curious—how do you know it’s time for Communal?”
“Krymzyn shows us,” Eval replies. She holds a hand out to me and turns her palm up. Magenta rays rise from her skin—light that wasn’t there moments ago.
All of the Disciples, arms dangling by their sides, now have magenta light illuminating their hands. When I look at Sash, she extends a palm in my direction, showing me the same light pulsating from her skin.
“I would suggest,” Eval says, her eyes moving to Sash, “that, while it may break with our custom of spending Comm
unal alone, Chase spend this time with you, if neither of you has an objection.”
“It will be my honor,” Sash says.
Eval and Sash silently gaze at one another, and I glance back and forth between them. A look of knowing is exchanged, like some deep secret is being shared. Eval suddenly turns her head to me.
“Is this acceptable to you, Chase?” Eval asks.
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Perhaps,” Eval says to Sash, “since Chase appears to be the curious type, you’ll take him to the Tall Hill, where he can see the Delta, the Barrens, and the beauty of Krymzyn.”
Chapter 10
Based on the direction of light overhead, Sash and I walk northwest, towards what’s obviously the tallest hill on the Krymzyn Delta. Her pace is brisk, leaning forward into an incredibly long, graceful stride. Even with my longer legs and walking as fast as I can, I have to almost trot to keep up with her.
“Thanks again for helping me,” I say. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“It was my honor to help you,” she replies.
“Honor’s a big thing around here, isn’t it?”
“Honor provides balance, and balance is the purpose of our existence,” she says. “What’s your purpose on your plane?”
“I’m a student,” I answer, somewhat surprised that the word translates.
“What do you learn?”
“Lots of things. I’m not sure what I want to do yet. Maybe be a graphic artist.”
“I don’t know of that task,” she says.
“I draw things, pictures,” I reply.
“Pictures?” she asks.
I realize that I’ve never seen a pen, pencil, or piece of paper in Krymzyn. Not a book or work of art anywhere.
“A picture is a drawing . . . or a painting—an image a person creates of something else, like a mountain or a river or another person.”
“For what purpose?”
