CHAPTER 30
A heavy, laden sleep overtook Emmett as their plane’s ascent breeched the dawn’s stretch of clouds to cross the morning horizon. It was the first time that he fell asleep without any effort. No visions or cryptic dreams came to him in his first true sleep since being healed of the Rot the day before.
He continued to sleep and think of the spiraling world around him as their plane descended and the cabin lights turned on with the usual warning spiels. Keiran roused him with a nudge and a plastic cup of ice water. It was almost stinging in its temperature, forcing his eyes open with a suddenness that was actually refreshing. He was awake fully, perhaps for the first time in weeks. For the first time, indeed, in his life.
It was this new life that his mind immediately focused on. Shaken though they all were, Amala had found a measure of comfort in the Archivist’s instructions. Keiran, of course, accepted her confidence as his own, bounding about with the same jovial charm that Emmett had experienced when waking in Silvan Dea in Portland.
Emmett found that even now, on occasion his hand would absently trail the renewed flesh along his neck and chest where the Rot had once been, feeling the odd twitch or spasm as a shadow of the pain that had sorely snaked along his torso. Healed though he was and returned to some form of obscurity from those who had once pursued him, Emmett seemed nevertheless accepting of the Archivist’s plain issuance: that his journey was only just beginning, and it was their journey, too. He was important in ways he did not fully understand and yet somehow understood.
For what final purpose he could not say, and yet without knowing the finality of it all, he nonetheless felt a stirring pride, a desire to live a life whose purpose was greater than his abilities. It was a longing that challenged him, the voice of a kindly old man present in his thoughts: I try my best. I don’t know if it’s good enough, but it’s all I can do. Someday soon, I’ll be going home to be with my wife and daughter, and if I can measure up halfway to the lives they led, I’ll feel okay about standing in their shadow.
Purpose swelled in his heart, fed by passion that burned in his soul. It was a thirst that could only be sated by living, truly living. It wasn’t in movies or work or the everyday life. True living was inconvenient. It necessitated effort. It was found in the moments when breathing required deliberate focus. It derived from purpose when lives were robbed of joy, and yet somehow, quite inexplicably and beyond what anyone believed was possible, it persevered and survived with meaning and intention.
Life finally felt as if it had to be earned before it could be truly experienced … where life, for all its hidden mysteries and wonders, was intrinsically alien.
“All right?” Keiran nudged Emmett just as Amala was leaning across the aisle and appearing to check to see if their seatbelts were both fastened.
“Yeah,” Emmett said as he rubbed his eyes again. Lost in introspection, Emmett had not been listening to Keiran talking to him about their first plans once they landed. The pilot was wishing them a Happy Holidays just as the flight crew began to inspect the cabin in preparation for landing.
“So we’re in agreement, then? Take care of the particularities and then a spot of shopping before we fly out, aye?” He was leaning toward Emmett in a hushed whisper, and he knew that this meant that Keiran wanted Emmett’s agreement before telling Amala, for it was likely that she would not approve otherwise.
Keiran loved Amala; that much was obvious. Emmett evoked in Keiran a childlike playfulness like a brother conspiring with his younger sibling to play some practical joke. That Amala seemed to regard their interaction with passivity rather than irritation encouraged Keiran all the more. Only Emmett would see that when Keiran had his back to Amala, she would look down with the briefest smirk to herself that Emmett was uncertain if she intended for him to see or not.
“If we’re flying to Brazil, I daresay a basic trundle of goods would be in order, don’t you? I’m not suggesting a full wardrobe, mind you, but a proper selection at the very least, mate. You agree with me that a few hours for shopping would be beneficial, yes? Because I think Amala would appreciate hearing you agree with me on this point. You’ll tell her, Em, yes?”
Emmett never ceased to be amazed at Keiran’s own boundless enthusiasm. He had overhead Nancy calling him “Em” over the phone and had adopted it himself ever since. It was a testament of who Keiran had become to Emmett that the nickname no longer bothered him.
He had called Nancy from the local airport the three had caught a ride to. Amala purchased a disposable cell phone for him, and Emmett had blocked the call so Nancy would not see he was not calling from Ormond Beach. He told her how he was settled quite comfortably with a job and an apartment and the promise of schooling in the spring and all other manner of things that Nancy found both reassuring and placating.
The call was the first step in what Amala referred to as the Sundering, the process of separating oneself from the world and truly embracing the Song. The Sundering meant that a new Druid or Bard would say good-bye to their former life and experience a rebirth, with new awareness and openness to unknown possibilities. Amala was firm that Emmett would undergo the Sundering, Annie not having fully done so, which led to her death. Amala wouldn’t have that happen again. Not to Emmett.
That the Archivist had not explicitly stated that Emmett was to be made a Bard but rather that his journey was now one with Amala and Keiran’s satisfied Amala that he would be made a member of Silvan Dea, a Grove that, if all others were dead, would still exist and survive in them. That Amala said this to Emmett with the same pride and conviction as Keiran’s proclamation to the Hag made Emmett swell with even greater conviction.
She began to explain the process almost immediately as they waited for Keiran to flag down a passing truck out on that highway in the Appalachian Mountains. Amala had looked at him with an expression of warmth and pride as they stood together in the silent dawning hours of a crisp December morning.
“You will need to say good-bye to everything that composed your life, Emmett: family, friends, places. Everything that defined who you once were must be removed. Your presence puts them in danger now.”
“So where do we begin?” Emmett had asked as he saw Keiran waving at them, for a motorist had pulled onto the shoulder.
“You tell me,” she said with a smile.
He heard Derrick in his mind. I do miss that beautiful smile of hers.
Emmett answered without having to pause for thought. He knew where he had to go to begin his journey, their journey. Had he been alone in the world, nothing could have caused him to return. With Keiran and Amala now, Emmett knew there was nothing that he could not face. For he was never truly alone, after all.
“Detroit,” he answered just as Keiran called out for them to hurry and get in the waiting vehicle. “There’s one person I need to say good-bye to.”
As their plane taxied into the terminal, a gray, overcast morning welcomed Emmett back to Detroit. As they deplaned, Keiran insisted to Amala that he considered it to be utterly barbaric and cruel—“quite uncivilized,” he repeated three times—to force Emmett to begin the Sundering without proper attire before their journey. Only when she finally agreed did Keiran stop insisting that the outing was quite appropriate and reasonable for Emmett’s sake.
None took notice of the trio that seemed to glide with ease down the concourse; alert and vigilant the amber-eyed beauty, confident and jovial the angular-faced young man, and bemused and windswept the seemingly fragile boy who had faced death more than once and bested it each time.
The harsh, fluorescent lights and monotonous announcements of the airport terminal washed the throngs of travelers in a sea of noise. The noise and light caused Keiran to flinch and Amala to don sunglasses. Perhaps he had always been sensitive to it, or perhaps something else had changed in him already, but Emmett found himself flinching, too.
They took a taxi from the airport out onto the twisting, clogged arteries. When they arrived at the Renais
sance Center on Keiran’s insistence, an amused Emmett and Amala tagged behind as Keiran abandoned all pretense that they were there for Emmett and hurried between designer shops with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. The air was filled with the haunting chorus of “What Child Is This,” and all around Emmett was the flurry of last-minute shoppers hurrying for gifts for Christmas Eve parties later that evening.
“An entirely new wardrobe for a Brazilian New Year, yes? Oh, nothing flashy, I promise. Something appropriate for the climate,” Keiran said. “The fact is that we have no idea what grand adventures we have before us now that our pair has become a trio. I think at least two dozen or so different outfits with some seasonably appropriate accessories would be required.”
“Emmett and I will leave you here if you insist on bringing that much, Keiran,” Amala said, her dark features able to convey an appropriate degree of seriousness despite the minor smile that she tried to hide on her face.
“Oh, honestly, I’m only thinking of Emmett. The boy would spend his life in denim if permitted. I think not, Amala. We could be down in Brazil for months. We could even be there for Carnaval. Oh, we must take him if we are still down there, Amala! He would positively love it!”
“I’m picturing Keiran shirtless on a float in silver glitter paint,” Emmett said.
“Perhaps gold, thank you,” Keiran deadpanned.
“I think you’re forgetting that ever since that last little episode—”
“I knew you’d bring that up again, Amala. Every time you mention it. How many times must I apologize for that?” Keiran interrupted.
“—you are banned from ever stepping foot in Rio again. If you do, you can find yourself a new Companion,” Amala laughed as Keiran waved dismissively at her.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter because everyone knows that the true fun is in Bahia, anyway. You can be as stodgy and insufferable as you wish so long as you stay at home. I can take Emmett with me and we’ll have a grand time.”
“Don’t think you won’t regret that,” Amala warned Emmett with a smile. “If you value your sleep at all.”
“The insomniac worried about sleep? Really?” Emmett snarked, to which Amala laughed.
“Ignore her. Remind me, Em, to take you to this gorgeous little eatery that overlooks the Bay of All Saints down in Salvador. This wonderful woman I know makes the most incredible vatapá you will ever have in your life. Marvelous blend of shrimp, coconut milk, and African palm oil. It’s quite immense, really. Otherworldly. Pure heaven, mate.”
Keiran bounded into another clothing store and set the staff into motion with his presence. Emmett was already thinking of Emaline Carmichael as Amala leaned toward him with a whisper. “He has little old women in practically every city on every continent,” she said seriously with a raised eyebrow that made Emmett laugh.
They joined him in the store, and Emmett listened as Keiran continued to promise to show him all the best of wherever they traveled: the sorts of hidden, tucked-away gems that only people who valued the local culture could truly experience or appreciate. Amala spent most of her time teasing him as he alternated between acting emotionally wounded or completely unaffected.
Emmett enjoyed the casualness that they shared now that the pressing need of curing Emmett of the Rot or alerting Silvan Dea of an impending attack was passed.
After Amala stopped for morning drinks for the three of them, Keiran continued to lead them to different boutique stores throughout the morning. Always it was the same experience. Emmett and Amala would sit quietly on a bench and watch as he bounded through the store, reminding them often that he was there for them, of course, sorting through various outfits arranged and brought to him by the attentive store clerks. That he was the center of attention of every store’s employees was enough to make both Amala and Emmett chuckle as he turned heads wherever they went.
“Honestly, I don’t know how you do it,” Emmett had said as they sat together watching him admire the cut of a new pair of slacks in a full-length mirror.
“You know that he doesn’t even see it, right?” Amala asked as she sipped from her chai tea. “How affected they all are by him?” Keiran was joining in a conversation with a mother and teenage daughter who were shopping for some special event, offering his much-desired sensibility to their decision-making process. That Keiran seemed able to convince the young daughter that she would be quite a bit more attractive in a more conservative ensemble, to the mother’s delight, made Emmett laugh out loud.
Emmett sipped his own hot chocolate with mint as he watched how Keiran smiled and laughed so freely with the strangers around him, so completely comfortable and confident in his own skin. So unlike Emmett. Before now, at least.
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“You mean do I get jealous?” Amala looked at him. She was wearing her brown hair down this morning, and its full length draped elegantly around her neck and framed her petal-shaped face so perfectly with her wide amber eyes that glittered from the surrounding light though hidden from curious onlookers by a pair of sunglasses.
“What you two have as Companions goes well beyond special. It wouldn’t be unreasonable if you were protective of it, you know?”
“It’s not quite like that, Emmett,” she smiled, sipping again from her tea. “Words are so awfully imprecise, and that one is perhaps the most imprecise of them all.”
“‘A word means what you choose it to mean,’” Emmett said, bringing his hot chocolate up to his face and enjoying its sweet steam as it tickled his nose.
“Companions are chosen by our Elders. Often it is a bonding borne of practicality. If there is a new Druid or Bard in a Grove, the Elder selects someone of a similar temperament, and perhaps only due to availability. Siblings are usually joined as Companions. It is far more a relationship of sensibility and sometimes expediency.”
“Keiran spoke of it with so much more—”
“Passion? Intensity?”
“Yeah.”
“Love in all its various forms isn’t forbidden by ikkibu. We celebrate it. Some believe that Companions cannot experience the truest strength of bonding unless they are in love. Others think differently.”
“And you?”
Amala closed her lips and swallowed slowly. “I love him, Emmett. How could I not? He would give his life for me a thousand times and never once ask for anything from me in return. He would devote himself to filling my life with laughter and joy and that boyish grin of his. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
Emmett nodded immediately. “I do.”
She looked wistfully at him as he walked between racks of clothes and gestured excitedly at new outfits brought to him by the store’s clerks. “I would absolutely do the same for him. Without question. But could I love him in that way? Could I let him love me in that way? No. There will always be a part of me that I could never give him.”
Emmett saw the flash of something conflicted in her eyes, and he instinctively looked away to respect whatever struggle was there. That she could experience it for that briefest moment in Emmett’s presence told of vulnerability and trust that he knew was not easily granted.
Emmett looked down and cleared his throat. He wanted to say it ever since they had left the Appalachian Mountains. Perhaps ever since she had come for him on Prince Edward Island. There had never been a moment to tell her, though, before now.
“Amala, I want to thank you,” he said simply, unable to make eye contact. “For saving my life. For everything.”
Placing her hand on his, she smiled and raised her tea. “You can make it up to me by keeping Keiran entertained when he gets all excited about going out. I could use the rest.”
The panging feeling of jealousy was gone. Sitting beside the woman who had held him at birth and populated his life’s dreams felt comfortable and familiar now. Neither had discussed what Emmett had learned from the Archivist’s vision of Amala and how that might relate to Keiran being her Companion. No
r had Emmett asked how Amala had dreamed of him, too, as he had dreamed of her.
Emmett knew that eventually they must deal with it. But not today.
“Deal,” Emmett smiled, watching Keiran waving at them as he purchased his latest selections.
Several hours later and with new luggage for all three of them to hold their new wardrobes, they took another taxi away from the urban center and toward the inner city. Amala and Keiran sat with respectful silence, their postures of reverence like mourners at a wake. When they arrived at the abandoned hotel, Amala paid for the driver to wait while they went inside.
Emmett said nothing as he stepped over broken glass and syringes. He sighed when he turned the corner and entered the boiler room of his birth. It looked the same as it did in the memory of his birth the Archivist had shown him.
He stood in silence for several minutes, wondering to himself what he needed to do to say good-bye.
As if to guide him, or simply to support him as he found his own path, he felt Keiran’s firm grasp on his shoulder and Amala’s reassuring hand along the small of his back. Silently, they stood with him, and their presence in that moment of grief released a burden weighing on him ever since he had finally seen what his mother had suffered for him.
I guess I should say good-bye. He had never known his mother, of course; only now did he know something of her from the dreams of his youth. He spent his childhood avoiding an orphan’s isolation with the magic promised in film—distant shores where islands hid the secrets of mythical beasts and ancient peoples; stars and planets and galaxies that teemed with life undiscovered; places traveled to in the remote past and the far-off future. And somewhere amid this great fascination, his mother had once lived.
But she had not. She had become pregnant with the Waking Dreamer, the last Mara to bear the visions of the Chief of the Old Ones. The Rugged Mountain. The Unremarkable Man. The unborn infant whispered in his dreams for nine months, driving his mother mad with visions she could not endure and the same words repeated over and over until finally she scrawled them across a reproduction of her favorite painting hanging in her apartment.
The Waking Dreamer Page 30
