“What is this stuff?” Sloane mutters, examining the black goo creeping out of her busted skin.
“Essentia.” Erim returns with a handful of green leaves. “But some people call it plasma; it’s a reference to a popular American film franchise about ghost hunters.”
“Busters, actually,” Sloane says.
“Right.” Erim nods. “Anyway, essentia flows like blood, binding the energy of a soul together.” Sloane dabs at her knuckles gingerly. “Since it’s our very energy being wounded, the pain is much more intense than the kind you were used to when alive.” He puts a bowl of water on the table.
“So… I’m oozing soul from my open wounds?”
He dampens the leaves and pastes them onto her skin. “These remedium leaves will protect your hands while they heal.” The wounds settle a little when they’re covered. “Luckily, energy is easier to regenerate than living flesh, so we also heal much faster. Your hands should be back to normal in a couple days if you don’t attack any more innocent walls.”
“No promises.”
“Well, better them than me.”
“The day is still young,” she warns. Little laughs shake Erim’s chest, and Sloane feels a smile inch across her face.
When he finishes the wrapping on her right hand, she pulls a jujube out of her pocket and tosses it to him. He catches it with a grin. “Risky move there, with the jujubes,” she says.
He shrugs. “I figured you’d either accept the peace offering or want to yell at me about it.” He pops the candy in his mouth. “Either way, you’d end up here, so I could make amends.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Sloane insists. “It was my problem.”
He doesn’t let her spare him that easily, shaking his head. “Everything you feel is valid.” He leans against his desk. “I admit that talk of short lives is not my favorite, but I should have handled myself better.” He smiles, and Sloane notices the darker shade of his cheeks, morning stubble that hasn’t been attended to yet.
“I think I was looking for a fight, and I said a lot of things out of line. Adjustment issues, I guess.” She huffs out a nervous laugh. “You know, they have all these resources on Earth to process death: support groups, grief counselors, there are thousands of books. But there’s nothing to help you grieve your own death, no five stages to help you cope.”
Erim stares at her for a moment, hosting a slight grin. “Group is on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. We have multiple counselors available if you ever want to talk. I have a few books if you want them, and I’m pretty sure that Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief can theoretically be applied the same way, no matter which side of death you’re on.”
Sloane peers at him blankly. “Well, there’s my excuse out the window.”
Erim can’t restrain a laugh. “It’s alright.” He waves his hand. “But, there’s a lot you still don’t know about our world. I think learning could make you more comfortable.”
“That sounds alarmingly sensible.” Sloane sits in one of his armchairs. She suspects the “it’s over” comment she hurled at him last night has something to do with this intervention. “We can start with Soul Keepers,” she says. “What exactly are you?”
“This place, Aquae, is just one of ten terrarums which collectively form The Midst. Each terrarum was created with the energy from an Earth elemental; sand, stone, grass, and so on. Soul Keepers govern the terrarums. Each can manipulate their element.” Erim sweeps his hand down, drawing up a thin tendril of water out of the bowl, allowing it to swirl around his wrist. “As you may have guessed, Aquae is the terrarum of water.” Sloane is a little startled at the sight of the water curling around his fingers. “It’s my job to make sure that everything runs smoothly and to keep order.” Erim releases the water back into the bowl.
“You were born like that?”
“More like unborn. Only stillborn humans are eligible to become Soul Keepers.” Guilt floods Sloane for her words last night. “They are considered the most uncorrupted souls, completely free of Earth’s influence so they can fully embrace The Midst. The few that are sent here are trained and educated to be Soul Keepers. We are the only beings able to mature and age after death. We grow like a live human would for twenty years, then our physical aging stops. We reach maturity at fifty and candidacy at one hundred.”
“How old does that make you?” Sloane asks.
“A very strapping one hundred and six,” he replies, leaning back with a roguish smile. “I may not have been alive for much of my existence, but it has been a lifetime.” He may be older than Dmitri, but his temperament doesn’t seem seasoned by a century. Sloane supposes Erim didn’t have Dmitri’s harrowing experiences to mellow him. The monotony of the years has only reinforced his carefree existence.
Nim flicks Sloane’s ankles with her tail before curling up at Erim’s feet. “What’s with the fluffball?” she asks, nodding at Nim. Sloane reads the disdain on the fox’s face for the undesirable nickname.
“She’s my creatura, and I’m her hominum. Soul Keepers and Arcs can choose to have a creatura for companionship. They’re meant to help ease the pressures of the position.” Erim scratches Nim’s head, and she closes her eyes blissfully. “Though most times, it feels like I’m the one working for her.” He smirks, looking back at Sloane. “Uh, it’s almost breakfast time. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Sloane glances at the books behind him, trying to make out the titles.
“Yes, you’re resistant to eating, I hear.” This pulls Sloane’s attention back to him. Erim’s expression falters, which makes her grin.
“Charlotte and Dmitri are such narcs.” She shakes her head.
“We can’t manufacture our own energy, so eating is still important here.” He looks at her expectantly.
“Coffee then,” Sloane responds. “Black, please.”
He looks remarkably satisfied to hand her a mug. “Try not to break this one,” he adds. Sloane snickers.
Erim conjures himself a coffee, too; it’s lightened to a cowardly color with milk and sugar. Nim takes the opportunity to shoot Sloane a dirty look for daring to return and invade her space. After last night, Sloane’s sure Nim thinks she’s too dangerous to be left alone with Erim.
“Souls draw energy from The Midst. It’s formless and intangible, but souls familiarize it for consumption—they conjure it to look like the food they’re used to.” Sloane takes a sip of her warm black brew, retreating into the familiar bitter taste. Erim continues, “We also need rest, just like living humans. You’re better at sleep, I’m told.”
Sloane narrows her eyes. “Do you do this much reconnaissance on all your new souls?”
“Just the ones who enjoy irking me.” Erim takes a punctual, loud sip of his drink, and Sloane seals her mouth. “Rest recharges the energy within us and helps us regenerate when we’re injured. Many properties of a soul in The Midst simulate the body of a living human. Familiar sensations, such as breathing and a beating heart are synthesized.” Sloane hadn’t even considered how obsolete a pulse and breathing are here. “Even the rotation of the sun and moon is kept consistent to help facilitate a smoother transition.”
“What will make my transition easiest is conducting myself to Earth whenever I want,” Sloane says, imagining nights with her family.
Erim pauses, lowering his eyes down. “Sloane, you should know that what you did for Ches, it’s not… common.”
Sloane feels her thoughts freeze at the sound of Ches’s name. “I kind of suspected.” She traces a finger along the micro-fissures on the glaze of her mug. “The way Charlotte and Dmitri acted, it was like they were forty percent scared to break me, and sixty percent studying me like an exhibit.” She takes a sip of her coffee. It warms her throat for a light chuckle. “Just don’t tell me I’m a witch or a fairy.” Sloane’s tone is joking, but she’s completely serious. “No human, alive or dead, has the right body proportions for those tiny wings.”
Er
im’s face tightens, stunningly somber. “Sloane, I don’t quite know how to tell you this…” Sloane’s humor fades, her breath is bated. Erim’s eyes meet hers directly. “You’re a vampire.”
Sloane blinks at him, speechless. Erim’s deadpan face bursts and he laughs at the look on her face. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.” Erim heaves with laughter. “Apparently, vampires are very trendy these days.”
Sloane needs a moment to jumpstart her synthetic heart, appalled that she even considered it. “Erim, don’t make me reopen these scabs on my hands.” He pulls a laugh from her, the first real one in days.
Erim suggests they take a walk for the next part of his instruction. On the way, Sloane convinces him to try a jujube which sets off a lively exchange of opinions when he finds them thoroughly disgusting. Sloane does think they held more appeal when she was little, but she’ll never tell him. After passing the main glade, they enter a large cavern similar to the dorm area. There are fewer doors, but each pair is larger and more grandiose, like each leads to a castle. Erim swings open one pair of double doors before Sloane can read the plaque beside it.
Sloane steps into the entrance of a grand theater. The ceiling is lower where they enter at the back, under the balcony of second-floor seats. The ceiling stretches up high ahead, presenting a tall stage. It’s almost too much stimulation for the eye to take in. The intricate details are leafed in gold, little carved cherubs hidden in the rich marble walls. Majestic crystal chandeliers reflect light onto the red velvet draping the walls. Without a trace of the stone or water of Aquae, the theater is fit for the most grandiose European palaces. Its queen sits on a stool in the middle of the yellow wooden stage. Sloane’s synthesized breath leaves in her shock.
“Sofia?”
DUODECIM
Ever since she was little, Sofia has been a person of extraordinary memory. But she can hardly recall The Chaos now; it was so long ago. She does remember that it was loud and very crowded. She was small, and The Pleaders, strangers, towered above her, crying out, begging for her help. They would talk over each other, asking her questions she couldn’t answer, demanding things she couldn’t do, and looking for people she didn’t know. They didn’t really scare her, but they were an unruly nuisance, especially since she didn’t know how to help them. No one else could see them, but she just assumed everyone had their own Pleaders in their head. Sometimes they came to her during the day, but mostly she saw them when she slept. She didn’t dream like other children seemed to. In her sleep, nothing came but the darkness and The Pleaders.
Sofia remembers the day of The Realization being the worst day of her life. Her auntie Lyn was taking care of her, as she often did when Sofia’s papa was away for work. They went somewhere that day Sofia had never been. Even though Sofia’s father had never taken her to church, she still recognized that’s what it was. She sat with auntie Lyn, whose belly had been growing like a balloon, on a long wooden bench. There was a long black box up the stairs at the front, surrounded by bright flowers. A man stood behind a tall thin desk and spoke to everyone, boring Sofia with his long words. If her papa had been there, he would’ve bounced her on his lap, whispering things to make her smile.
Sofia told her auntie Lyn that she was going to the bathroom and hopped down from her seat. It wasn’t a question, more of a statement; she was not the type of child to ask permission. Sofia walked around the empty parts of the church, running her hand along all the smooth, carved wooden walls and banisters. She fully intended to return to her auntie Lyn, aware that untrustworthy children weren’t allowed the independence she was.
However, on the way, Sofia found a small room. She loved how the sunlight shot thousands of colors through the stained windows. They made patterns on her black dress. Since she was alone, and it was quiet, the Pleaders reached out, swirling around her, a familiar scene. But this time was different because there was suddenly a familiar face within the confusing mass. Her great uncle Ian appeared. He was always kind to Sofia, giving her little green candies out of his pocket. She had seen his face in many framed pictures over the last couple of days. He belonged to the mean old lady with the wrinkled lips; the one that Sofia saw hit her papa in the head with a thick black book. Sofia did not like her, but she liked Ian, and the two of them chatted until auntie Lyn found her. She looked around the room with a strange face and then led Sofia by hand back to the service.
When they returned, the gathering was standing, chanting words together. Sofia, always wanting to be at the forefront of everything, gently pushed her way forward. She found herself standing next to the wrinkle-lipped lady. But that day, she didn’t look angry. She looked sad, dabbing at her eyes. While Sofia didn’t like her, she didn’t want to see anyone cry, so she asked what was wrong. When the woman said she missed her husband, Sofia found herself perplexed, an unusual feeling for her. She looked up at the front of the church, where her uncle Ian smiled and waved. Sofia told the woman that her husband was there with them. The woman laughed her off at first, saying that he could not be because he was in Heaven. Sofia stood resolute against her condescension, stating that unless this was Heaven, she was wrong.
Her auntie Lyn took Sofia by the arm, trying to pull her away, but couldn’t stop her from trying to point uncle Ian out to everyone. That made the wrinkle-lipped woman so upset. She yelled at Sofia and called her names, like “liar” and “child of sin.” Her reaction scared Sofia more than the Pleaders ever did. Her auntie Lyn scooped her up in her arms, snapping at the lady for her horrid words. Sofia looked at the adults around her, realizing that something terribly wrong. Everyone looked down at her with scowls of anger and fear. None of them knew what it was like to have Pleaders; Sofia realized she was the only one. She was different, a freak. That’s when the Pleaders invaded her mind, feeding on the anxious energy. They swarmed around her in a wave of screams; their faces melded horribly with the surrounding relatives. They became monsters with grimaces full of pointy teeth and dark hollows for eyes. She couldn’t tell who was real and who was a Pleader, but they all pulled at her with desperate hands. She clutched onto her auntie Lyn so tightly.
After that, The Silent Time began. At first, it was because Sofia just wanted quiet. No more Pleaders, no more people. She craved the simplicity of silence. Her auntie Lyn bought her ice cream, braided her hair, and read her favorite stories, but Sofia didn’t talk. Her papa returned the next day and rocked her in his arms; even he couldn’t get a word out of her. That weekend he planned a special outing to the ballet to cheer her. It didn’t make Sofia want to talk, but she fell in love with the shiny yellow wood floors and the soft red curtains. She was fascinated with how the spotlight followed the ballerina even as she twirled and leaped across the wide stage.
The Construction wasn’t something Sofia planned; it was something that just happened. The night of the ballet, as Sofia slept, she dreamed for the first time. She dreamed of being on that stage, alone, the light always following her, so it was never dark. But it was just a dream. She wanted it to be real. To do that, she knew she’d have to work harder than ever before. The labor didn’t deter her, though; anything was better than The Chaos before.
From then on, Sofia’s silence was less about wanting peace and more about conserving energy and brainpower to build her sanctuary. It took Sofia the better part of a month to build the theater in her mind, but she focused mainly on the stage. Every single detail was perfected, down to the scuffs on the stage from dance shoes. The ceiling hung with crystal chandeliers, and the walls were adorned with elegant gold designs that caught the light. The next part was more complicated because she had to corral all the Pleaders and force them into the audience seats. Initially, it took a tremendous amount of energy to restrain them there, but with practice, it became manageable. Over time, the Pleaders became clarified and less obscure, developing into real people. They did not shout anymore and took turns speaking. They treated Sofia with respect, no longer resisting their observer restraints.
&nb
sp; Sofia’s theater hasn’t changed in nineteen years. She remains in the spotlight upon the broad stage, the sole master of this representation of her consciousness. The rules in place since The Construction ensure that she will never again be just a passenger in the black mass. The seats are for the souls she helps, no longer the confusing Pleaders they used to be. They are forbidden from the stage, remaining spectators in the audience unless she wishes otherwise. On a couple of rare occasions, Sofia has allowed a soul to take the spotlight to speak directly through her to living loved ones. But these kinds of communications are invasive, only allowed for exceptional cases. No one has ever tried forcing their way into her spotlight, but Sofia thought it foolish not to be prepared. The power is hers and hers alone.
The day Sloane walks into her theater, Sofia wishes she had such control on Earth. It’s a jarring collision of worlds, Sloane within the place that Sofia’s kept so separate and private. It’s difficult to reconcile them. But once she sees that wave of ginger hair, she can barely keep from running up the aisle to grab Sloane with the same desperation she’s seen in so many other souls.
“Hey, kid.” Sofia beams. Sloane looks between her and Erim, a bewildered grin growing on her face.
Sofia pulls her confused cousin into a hug. “I can feel you!” Sloane gasps, squeezing her harder.
“Which means you can also break me!” Sofia squeaks.
Sloane suddenly releases her. “Wait, you’re not—”
“Dead? Of course not.” Sofia laughs at Sloane’s relieved breath. “I’m determined to give my liver a few more years of workout at least.” Sofia notices the black bruises on Sloane’s knuckles. “What happened?”
Sloane folds them away sheepishly. “Just some growing pains.”
“As long as the other guy looks worse.” Sofia shoots Erim a stern look that he needs to watch Sloane more carefully.
“How are you here?” Sloane asks, her eyes wide with wonder.
Interitum Page 11
