Krymzyn (The Journals of Krymzyn Book 1)

by BC Powell

  “I don’t want you to suffer in your world,” she whispers.

  “There’s not a lot I can do about it,” I reply. “Don’t you have disease or sickness here?”

  Sash shakes her head in a way that lets me know that the words didn’t translate.

  “I guess not,” I say. “What makes you die here?”

  “One could meet death from a Murkovin. On rare occasions, someone will be killed by the branches of a sustaining tree or the Tree of Vision. For most, the height of death is reached.”

  “What do you mean by the height of death?”

  “The height at which you’ve fulfilled your purpose to Krymzyn,” Sash says. “It’s different for each who dwells here.”

  “And then you just die?”

  “Green light appears in our palms, giving us the sign. We travel to the Mount, ascend the peak, and lie on the Bed of Light. Krymzyn takes us.”

  “What if you don’t feel like dying?” I ask.

  “It’s peaceful,” she says. “We know our purpose has ended.”

  “I guess that beats fighting illness, or, I don’t know, being old and worn out.”

  Her eyes dive inside me again as the corners of her lips curl up into a smile. “I don’t want to talk about death. I feel too good being with you. Happy—is that the word?”

  “That’s the word,” I answer. “I’m happy you’re smiling. You have no idea how beautiful you look when you do.”

  “My smile only shows itself for you,” she replies.

  Sash pulls her arms away from me, picks up her spear from the ground, and takes my hand in hers. She leads me into a grove of trees, a type I haven’t seen before in Krymzyn. Huge, arching branches spread outward like the limbs of giant willows. The leaves of the trees are a scintillating orange and the bark a deep chocolate brown. Countless threads, some black, some white, dangle from the branches like delicate moss hanging in a swamp.

  As we walk through the orchard, silky strands brush against our faces, soft and fine. With Sash by my side, I feel like I’m floating through a serene, peaceful dream. The only strange part to me is the silence—no birds chirping, no insects buzzing, and no leaves rustling in the air.

  “Do these trees come to life?” I ask.

  “No,” Sash replies. “Only sustaining trees on the Delta awaken during Darkness.”

  We stroll deeper into the willows and I see an older man, possibly in his sixties, sitting on the ground. His skin is free of wrinkles, as is the skin of everyone I’ve seen here for that matter, but there’s an indefinable sense of age to his face. Splendid magenta decorates his black hair.

  Leaning against the trunk of one of the trees, he looks lost in meditation. The man turns his head to us and nods as we pass. When he looks at Sash, I see a reverence in his eyes, an appreciation that’s as close to a smile as any face ever gets in Krymzyn. Sash returns the same look of respect when she tips her head to the man.

  “Who are the people with magenta hair?” I ask.

  “Weavers,” Sash replies. “They take thread from the trees, blend it into fabric or rope, and create the clothes we wear.”

  “How do they get the clothing so smooth and strong?”

  “The black fabric is rubbed with pulp from vines that grow on the Mount. It makes the clothing tougher and allows the particles to be separated when we travel.”

  I try to digest the traveling comment. It’s still a mystery of twisted physics to me even though I’ve seen and experienced it firsthand.

  We walk past a metallic device in the center of a clearing. I notice threads stretched between several poles of the apparatus, and realize that it’s a loom made of steel.

  “Who made that loom?” I ask.

  “Constructs,” she says. “They build our habitats, maintain the walls around the Delta and the Mount, and make all our items of steel.”

  “They must be the people with cyan hair,” I say, determining the color by process of elimination.

  “They are,” Sash answers, nodding to me. “Now you know the colors of purpose.”

  Hand in hand, we gradually arc around the northern point of the grove and meander down the other side. Sash asks me questions about my life since the last time we saw each other, about my purpose in my world. As I explain computers, video games, and the design work I do on Earth, I’m both surprised and impressed by her ability to grasp the concepts so seemingly foreign to anything in Krymzyn.

  When we reach the edge of the grove, I notice plants about my height growing in a field around the outside of the trees. It’s the first time I’ve seen plant life of any kind in Krymzyn other than grass and trees. Large tufts of fluffy white, like softball-sized cotton balls, dangle from the ends of long yellow stalks.

  “Fluffing plants, for our pillows, beds, and padding on the end of training spears for the children,” Sash says when she sees me looking at the plants.

  “I might have had that one figured out,” I say, smiling at her.

  She impishly jumps in front of me, blocking my path with the shaft of her spear across my chest. “Are you saying you don’t need me with you.”

  “I would never say that,” I reply, still smiling.

  “Are you sure? I can take you back to the Disciples.”

  I quickly kiss her lips. “I’d rather stay with you if that’s okay.”

  Lowering her spear, she returns my smile. “It’s strange, Chase. Even though so much time has passed, now that we’re together, I feel like you never left.”

  “I know,” I reply. “Like part of us is always together.”

  “Do you remember when you asked me if I felt that we were connected?”

  “On the Tall Hill,” I say, nodding.

  “Do you still feel that way?”

  Since the first time we spoke, I’ve felt that I can say anything to her. I can expose myself, share my deepest secrets or fears, and know they’re safe with her. “It’s never stopped for me, Sash. I missed you so much over the years, but I always felt like you were inside me.”

  “For me as well,” she replies. “I don’t know why or how, but you’re always there.”

  “Well, I hope we can figure it out because I really don’t want to stop seeing you again.”

  “We’ll understand when we’re meant to,” she says.

  After another kiss, we walk to the south, our arms around each other’s waists. We cross a long, flat meadow to an enormous black canopy held up by gigantic steel poles. Sash leads me inside the open-air tent, roughly the size of a football field.

  Numerous long brushed-metal tables stand in rows with neatly arranged items on their tops. Folded pants are on one and sleeveless V-neck shirts are on another. Cylindrical backpacks like the one Sash uses during Darkness, knives, and scissors each rest on their own table. One is home to metal pitchers, screw tops in place, while another has pitchers with the tops by their sides. There’s a separate table for virtually every item I’ve seen in Krymzyn—spears included.

  “This is Market,” Sash says. “Everything we need can be found here. After hunting, I bring the stakes here and fill the empty pitchers. When I need an item, I take it from here.”

  “So you don’t have to buy anything? You don’t use money?” None of the words I’m trying to use seem to translate. “You just take what you want?”

  “We each take what we need,” she replies. “No more, no less. Weavers, Constructs, and Hunters supply the items. When I need clothes, I find them here, take them to the Weavers, and they fit the clothing to my body. If I need something built in my habitat, then I notify a Construct.”

  “How do my clothes get fitted to me?” I ask.

  “A Weaver will be told through a dream of a Teller coming and the specifications for that clothing. The Weaver then creates what the Teller needs. The clothes are left here in Market and Krymzyn dresses you when you arrive.” She points to a small table with nothing on top of it. “When you depart, your clothing will appear on that table.”

 
I walk down another row of tables looking at cups, rope, pillows—the variety of items available—trying to think of all that’s “needed” based on my comprehension of the people’s existence. Everything that I can imagine they might use is here.

  I stop in front of a small pile of branches on a tabletop. They’re really just twigs no larger than a pencil. I pick one up and hold it out for Sash to see.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “It’s called a marker. If you sharpen the end to a point, the dried sap inside leaves a mark on fabric. Hunters leave the twigs here when they’re needed, ones that fall from sustaining trees during Darkness. The Weavers use them to mark fabric when they cut it to size.”

  “Can I use one?” I ask after thinking for a moment.

  “If you need it, it’s here to be used.”

  I look around at the tables until I find the white tank tops like the one Sash slept in. A twig in hand, I cross to that table. When I run my fingers over the fabric, it feels just like smooth cotton.

  “Can I have one of these?” I ask, holding the shirt up.

  “Is there a reason you need it?” she asks.

  “There is. A really good reason.”

  “Then it’s yours to use,” she replies.

  I keep the tank top in my hand and walk to the sheathed knives. Taking one with me, I find one of the bare, square tables like the one Sash has in her habitat. I lay the marker, knife, and fabric on top of it. From a neat row of stools, I take two, set one by the table where I left the fabric, and stand the other one about ten feet in front of the table.

  “Sash, will you sit on this stool please?” I ask.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Because I need you to,” I reply. “Just sit for a while, but don’t change your face at all. I’d really like it if you would smile while you’re sitting there.”

  When she walks to the stool and sits, she looks up at me with a curious but smiling face. “Why do you need me to do this?”

  I crouch in front of her, kiss her lips, then walk to the table and sit behind it.

  “I want to show you how I Commune,” I say.

  Chapter 18

  Using the knife, I sharpen one end of the twig to a point. Wanting a pile of fine grains to dab my fingertips into for shadowing on the fabric, I shave dried sap from the other end of the marker. I neatly spread out the tank top on the table in front of me. When I draw a test stroke on one of the straps, the dried sap leaves a solid line, almost black with a hint of red.

  I examine Sash for a few minutes, just to make sure I see the changes in her face compared to the hundreds of pictures I’ve drawn of her from memory. This sketch will have a distinct difference from every other picture I’ve created of her. In this one, she’ll have a smile on her face.

  As I begin, I quickly discover that while I can draw on the fabric, it’s not as smooth as using canvas or paper. The end result won’t be as refined as I’d like, but I’m pretty happy with the progress I see when I finish the outline of her face, the angles of her nose, and the curves of her cheeks and chin. It definitely looks like Sash.

  I spend a lot time on her big eyes, the dark lines around them that remind me of a wild cat, and I really focus to get the detail in her lips correct. The shadowing on her face is a little heavier than I’d usually use as I try to capture the sense of lurking danger that’s just part of her look.

  Thirty minutes pass and I decide the head-and-shoulders portrait is as good as I can make it. I’m actually quite pleased given the circumstances. After a few final touches—a little more detail in her hair, long eyelashes, and bold eyebrows—I initial the bottom-right corner. I know it’s not my best work, but it’s not my worst either.

  I stand and walk around to the front of the table. After carefully lifting the tank top, I gently shake the excess sap dust to the ground. I turn to Sash, holding the drawing up for her to see. Her head tilts to the side, her eyes squint, and she stares expressionless at the sketch for several seconds. As she stands and slowly walks to me, never taking her eyes off the drawing, she has an almost befuddled look on her face

  “Is this . . . how I look to you?” she asks, sounding confused.

  “You’re beautiful to me,” I say, disappointed by her reaction. “I’m sorry. I don’t really have the things I need to—”

  “This is how you see me?” she interrupts.

  “That’s how you look to me,” I answer quietly. “I mean, it’s obviously just in black and gray, and I can’t really—”

  “Chase,” she says, interrupting again and looking into my eyes. “Your drawing is beautiful. I’m amazed you created this.”

  “You’re more beautiful to me than anything.”

  “May I keep the drawing?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I say. “I made it for you.”

  She takes the tank top from my hands and lays it on the table behind us. When she turns to me, she wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me to her body. I instantly return her embrace, feeling a little better about my sketch.

  “Thank you for sharing what’s inside you,” she says. “I can see exactly what I feel in your drawing.”

  “That’s really the point of a picture,” I reply. “It should convey emotion.”

  She leans back from me and smiles. “Now I want to show you something.”

  We quickly kiss, clean up the mess I made, and return all the items to their proper places inside the neatly arranged tent. She carefully folds the tank top I drew the picture on and carries it in the hand with her spear, holding my hand in her other. We walk to the south when we leave Market.

  As we cross over a hill and through a meadow with a lone sustaining tree in the center, I tell her about my parents, sister, and how families are structured. In response to her questions, I explain how two people meet, fall in love, and get married or live together. I also explain divorce, since it’s pretty common.

  The longer we’re together, the more natural it feels to be with her. I know she feels the same way I do by how relaxed she seems, the almost constant smile on her face, and her displaying the same need I have to touch one another. She leans against me as we walk or playfully brushes her shoulder against mine. We hold hands and occasionally stop to hug and kiss.

  We reach the top of another hill and look down at a broad meadow below. The seven Keepers and seven children, including Cavu with his newly green hair, lie on their backs in a giant circle. Their hands rest flat on the crimson grass as they stare up at the clouds. Sash sits on top of the hill and pulls me down beside her.

  “I often spend Communal watching the children,” Sash says warmly. “Do you see the doorways in the base of the hills?”

  I study the creases in the hills and spot several black granite doors similar to the entrance to Sash’s habitat.

  “I see them,” I say.

  “Many caverns are connected together under these hills with a series of waterfalls inside. We call this area Home, where the children dwell. They sleep in small caverns, each one opening to the next. The Keepers sleep here as well to ensure that the children are safe and receive their sap when needed.

  “After sleep, each child spends the ensuing period of light with a different Keeper. They’re shown all of Krymzyn. They observe Weavers, Constructs, Hunters, and Watchers to learn of their purposes. Travelers take them to the Mount, where they stand in the Reflecting Pool. The Disciples come here to share the history of Krymzyn with them, as well as stories of other planes.”

  “So the Disciples are kind of like teachers?” I ask.

  “They’re teachers, historians, and students of other worlds,” Sash replies. “When Darkness falls, the Disciples protect the Tree of Vision with their lives. Only one Disciple, usually the second tallest, will ever leave Sanctuary during Darkness.

  “Travelers,” she continues, “take the children through the Barrens so they may witness the destruction of trees there by the Murkovin. The children see how a life without balance lea
ds to the devastation of that which sustains us. They’re also taken into the Infinite Expanse so they can see and understand.”

  “What’s in the Infinite Expanse?” I ask.

  “It can’t be described,” she says, turning to me. “It has to be experienced to be understood.” She looks back at the children in the meadow. “Each child learns to understand every purpose in Krymzyn, every substance, everything that grows. When a child has their purpose revealed, they know the importance of their own purpose as well as the equal importance of every other. No one purpose has a greater value than another. All are needed equally.

  “They learn to take only what they need for existence and give everything they have to provide what others need. We’re all responsible for the well-being of the children as they grow and all live as one.”

  I study Sash’s face while she’s talking, and the sublime passion in her eyes grips my heart. Looking at the children in the field, her eyes fill with pride and caring. More than anything else, I sense her incredible desire to protect them. I know that Sash would sacrifice her own life before letting harm ever come to another in Krymzyn.

  The Keepers and children suddenly all stand. Four Keepers walk to one side of the meadow with three children, while the other three Keepers cross to the other side with four children. They all grasp hands, the first time I’ve seen anyone in Krymzyn touch another person, apart from Sash touching me, in two rows of Keeper, child, Keeper, child.

  One of the children runs across the field and tries to break through a pair of locked hands. When she fails, she steps to the end of the row, taking the last person’s hand in hers. The game of Red Rover brings a smile to my face.

  While we watch the game, I occasionally see a momentary flash in one of the taller boys as he runs across the field. It’s like a split-second glitch in a monitor, probably an attempt to blend his light. The only thing missing from the scene is laughter. The faces of the children are serious and fierce. As I observed on the Empty Hill, they approach what looks like a game to me as a learning experience of some kind.