She looks down, surveying them to give him an answer. Just seeing them sends a fresh ripple of pain through. “Better,” she lies, gritting her teeth past the discomfort.
He squints his eyes, seeing right through her fib. “Stronger than you look, indeed.”
Nim lets out an exaggerated yawn, flashing her teeth at Sloane in the dim light. There are no coincidences when it comes to her actions and their timing. Erim rolls his eyes and turns to his creatura. “Yes, fine, princess, let’s get you to bed.” As if bed isn’t anywhere for a fox. Nim springs to her feet excitedly and begins leading the way on the path. “Goodnight, Sloane,” he says, stepping aside from the door. “I’ll be watching out for any fires tomorrow.”
She nods in reply and watches as he walks into the thicket. Sloane turns back to her room, a little less certain why she wanted in there in the first place.
QUATTUORDECIM
Throughout the next couple of weeks, Somboon collects Sloane from her room and whisks her off to a new terrarum to further her lessons.
Ifede’s terrarum, Nivis, is one of the first stops. It’s a world of snow that floats down perpetually, blanketing everything with a mystical, sparkling white. Sloane morphs into a coat, though it’s only a little cooler than Aquae’s temperate climate. The little log chalet dorms are snuggled in a valley encircled by white-capped mountains. Clusters of evergreen trees give the scene more depth, and the warm purple sky reflects off the snow, making the valley glow a faint pink.
Ifede welcomes them just outside the cor. The snowflakes caught in her hair look as deliberately placed as stars in the sky.
Crunching through the ankle-deep snow, Sloane watches Padapaw’s wide, flat feet snowshoe him atop the snow’s surface. His coloring blends into the snow and blue rock of the mountains behind. His silent gliding and blended coloring make him a ghost in the snow.
Ifede guides them through the middle of the terrarum, past all the glowing cabin windows and a group of skaters who are carving up a frozen pond.
She shows them into her cabin, a cozy space with a tall stone hearth hosting a crackling fire. Thick woven textiles popping with color and pattern are scattered on the floor and seating. A few intricate baskets are hung on the wall.
Ifede introduces the man who was waiting for them. His blonde hair is swiped with gray, combed back perfectly. His eyes are sagged and soft, but his shoulders look strong. “Sloane, this is Leo. He approached me to contact his husband.” Sloane greets Leo as Ifede lowers herself gently into a chair at the end of the table, wrapping her sweater tighter over her shoulders. “Today, we’re going to show you how a communication is done.” They fill the seats around Ifede, with Leo sitting directly across from her. “We Arcs have enough power to conduct ourselves to Earth or to donate that energy to another soul. It’s not enough to conduct them, but it can project their image so they can communicate with their loved ones. They can convey a personal message and show that they’re at peace.” She ties up her hair, leaving just a few coils that dangle over her eyes.
“For some, it’s their sole purpose in The Midst,” Somboon adds. “Contacting Earth gives them the closure they need to travel Onward.”
“Communications are best received through dreams. The mind is most receptive in sleep,” Ifede says.
Leo smiles. “My Trev’s always having some sort of crazy dream.”
“Here we go.” Ifede offers Leo her palms, and they close their eyes. The next few minutes are quiet until Ifede’s head droops a little, and Leo’s gasp startles the silence.
“Trevor?” His chin trembles. “Yeah, it’s me, honey, it’s me.” He chuckles.
Somboon taps Sloane’s shoulder, and she joins him in the plush green chairs in front of the fire, allowing Leo some privacy. Preeda emerges from Somboon’s robe to warm herself. Sloane watches Ifede’s bowed head from across the room.
“She’s in a state like sleep,” Somboon says. “Evictions require a strong surge of power, but communications need meditation, time to clear the mind, and parcel energy.” Somboon tilts his arms, allowing Preeda to scamper from elbow to elbow. “It feels less like an explosion and more like applying a steady, gentle push.” Sloane can see the proof of that in Ifede’s perfect stillness. Sloane’s evictions were so turbulent they made her bones rattle.
She allows Leo’s faint conversation to float through one ear and out the other, something about their favorite camping trip. When it’s over and Ifede wakes, Leo is reduced to a puddle of bittersweet tears. “Trevor’s going to be okay.” He nods, reassuring himself over and over. Ifede holds him until he’s collected himself, and Somboon volunteers to escort him back to his dormitory.
Ifede joins Sloane at the fire to recollect her strength, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. Sloane watches small piles of snow collect on the windowpanes as the fire hisses and pops. Ifede runs a hand over the mound of her belly absentmindedly, watching the sparks dance. Sloane steals a quick glance at it, but not fast enough; Ifede catches her.
“It’s everyone’s first question.” She smiles, unoffended. Sloane tilts her head a little, feigning ignorance. “My baby lived,” Ifede assures her. She moves her hand from her middle to stroke Padapaw’s head. His eyes open at the contact, gazing up with round blue eyes at his hominum. “The birth was complicated.” Ifede furrows her brow. “His journey was very difficult, but he was so strong he made it. When he finally arrived, my husband declared his name Kayin, ‘long-awaited child.’”
Her eyes are distant, pride layering her voice. “I got to hold Kayin in my arms.” A faint joy paints her lips like she can see him there. “The midwife did what she could for me, but I was beyond saving.” The end of her words drops off, lost in swirling thought. Padapaw rubs his head against her leg, shaking her out of the past. She looks at Sloane and shifts her expression away from sorrow. “That was many years ago now. My husband raised him well, and my boy is married and has two boys of his own, even grandchildren.” Her smile widens. “I’m a great-grandmother.” She shrugs through a laugh. She looks down at her round stomach and strokes it lovingly. “People think this is a burden. But every time I see my reflection or look down, I am reminded that my boy made it. He is not in here.” She taps her belly with one finger. “He is out there.” She waves to the window. “He is living his life.”
That night, as Sloane lies in bed, Ifede’s haunted eyes and beaming smile ward off sleep.
A few days later, Somboon takes Sloane to an adaequatio ceremony performed by Kostya in Stellarum. The terrarum is defined completely by its sky, filled with stars of all colors; bright and faded, new and old. Even in the daylight, everything is perfectly visible. Planets, large and small, hide just behind the horizon. There are some with aquatic coloring, deep blues and greens. Others are clearly worlds of dust, just pale yellow and orange. Some have rings like Saturn, and others are so close they look like they could swallow three Earths. In the distance, entire galaxies swirl like pinwheels. Sloane’s heart aches for her mom, certain this would be her home in The Midst.
Sloane and Somboon walk across the flat grassland to join the waiting guests. An arch of flowers is assembled on a gentle slope that hosts the most fantastic panorama view of the skies. Kostya is in his best shirt and bowtie, making small talk with a few guests. His bear cub entertains a small group of children. Stellarum’s Soul Keeper, Ruusa, stops by to introduce herself. She wears her black hair short, probably to allow her curious monkey Abner the freedom of her shoulders. He hangs off her narrow frame expertly, at one point reaching out to feel a strand of Sloane’s hair, screeching with excitement.
As they wait, Somboon explains that an Arc can perform the entire adaequatio ceremony, or a Soul Keeper and Arc can officiate together. Some ceremonies incorporate Earth wedding traditions, and others are unique, depending on what the couple wants. Most make vows, some exchange tokens or perform other cultural traditions.
As the ceremony begins, one partner enters from the left and the other f
rom the right to meet in the middle. When Kostya speaks, Sloane needs to strain her ears to understand what he’s saying through his Eastern European inflection. Throughout the ceremony, she often doesn’t have time to decipher his words before he explodes with a laugh at one of his own jokes. He has the most remarkable laugh, which begins as a deep gurgle and breaks into a bark that makes his mustache tremble.
For the finale of the ceremony, Kostya rests a hand on each of the partner’s heads. Somboon narrates the process quietly. With some concentration, Kostya retracts some energy from each soul, leaving them hazy and translucent. The next step elicits gasps of awe from the spectators as the two souls walk through each other. Both partners absorb a little piece of the other, filling their energy void. After piecing themselves together again like a puzzle, both are made whole again as aequali. Sloane joins the standing ovation of cheers as the couple is showered in congratulations.
That night, as Sloane lies in bed, she ponders the oaths they made to one another. It’s counterintuitive to her, the gratitude woven into their vows, gratitude for death. But it’s the only way two people perfectly right for each other, separated by time and distance, can be together. Sloane wonders if this is another way The Midst corrects errors to maintain the truest path.
The day after, Sloane’s lesson is in Somboon’s terrarum, Herbas. Grass is the lay of the land, with rolling hills carpeted in a patchwork of green. The dormitories are nestled in and amongst mounds of turf. Some are dugouts in the hills, and others are above-ground dwellings that seem sewn into the vegetation.
Somboon takes Sloane far out into the middle of a wide field and sits in the grass. He crosses his legs, closes his eyes, and begins to meditate. When Sloane asks what they’re waiting for, Somboon keeps his eyes shut and answers, “One of the hardest tests is patience, waiting for the right moment.” As they wait, Sloane conjures up a peanut and plays with Preeda, making the shrew scamper over her shoulders and down the length of her arm to claim her prize.
Hours pass; the sky is dark when Somboon finally opens his eyes. “I’ll be here again tomorrow,” he says, scooping up Preeda and walking back towards the dorms. Sloane groans. Looks like it’s going to be one of those cryptic patience lessons.
Two more days crawl by, sitting in the grass, staring at the sky, waiting for something. Sloane stops asking what and why because Somboon only answers with preachy words of patience. He’s perfectly content to meditate whole days away, but Sloane isn’t built for it. She’s resigned herself to coming up with better games for Preeda and conjuring up loud meals that make a point while she’s eating.
On the fourth day, as Sloane picks out shapes in the clouds and cultivates irritation at Somboon, his eyes open, head snapping to the side. “There.”
Sloane looks around. “What?” Without a word, Somboon rises and runs, shocking Sloane upright. She’s never seen him run before. His urgency gets her to her feet, and then she’s running after him towards the tall grass. She calls his name just as he vanishes into the green thicket. Seconds later, she plows in after him, but he’s gone. The grass towers over her head. She cuts through the dense fingers as they grab at her hair, her clothes. She runs until she realizes how hopeless she is without something to guide her.
“Somboon!” she yells, waiting for the ensuing silence to reveal his position. There’s nothing but the rasp of wind in the grass. She calls him again, no answer. There’s a movement across her foot. She jerks her leg up, revealing Preeda, crouched on the ground. Preeda sniffs up and darts back into the green blades. Sloane leaps after her, following the little brown tail as best she can. She tears through the grass until she hears the faint ring of Somboon’s voice—and another. She peels farther toward the voices until she catches Somboon’s flash of orange. There’s a woman too. She surprises Sloane, wide-eyed and stumbling around.
“Yiesha, my name is Somboon. I am here to help.” He puts out his arms, trying to calm her.
“Wha—what’s going on?” Yiesha stutters, swinging her head back and forth. “Where’s Muhammad?”
“I can get you back to your husband, but you must calm yourself,” Somboon pleads.
“Muhammad!” Yiesha screams, slapping away the grass. In a quick movement, Somboon reaches up, pressing his index finger to the middle of her forehead. The screams are cut silent; Yiesha is knocked out cold. She sways and begins to fall back. Sloane gasps, leaping forward to slow her fall. But Yiesha is gone before she hits the ground. The grass floats undisturbed where she should have dropped. Sloane looks up at Somboon as he lowers his arms that were stretched over her body. His breathing is a little heavier than usual, but he’s standing steady, completely unfatigued by the eviction.
“That is what we were waiting for.” He exhales.
As they walk out of the egress, Somboon explains the call an Arc receives when an astray soul arrives in their terrarum. He describes it as a compulsion, an inherent pull to right the wrong. The Arc gets small flashes of information about the soul like receivers do with new arrivals. Sloane will only begin receiving calls after she is officially inaugurated. She and Somboon leave the field behind. Sloane is grateful the lesson only took four days; with the unpredictability of astray souls, it could have been much longer.
The following day, on her way to meet Somboon, Sloane passes Erim in the glade, talking to a tall man.
“Sloane,” Erim calls, jogging over. “There’s someone you should meet.” He ushers her towards the man, who keeps his back to her. His posture is militant, shoulders back, chest out, chin high. His arms are covered in dark sleeves down to his hands, which are clasped behind his back. He is much larger than Erim; his back, shoulders, and arms are bulked with muscle. “This is Rhuso, Head Soul Keeper Sisiro’s son.”
The man turns to her. The first thing Sloane sees is his flame of bright white hair. It looks odd on him though, he only looks a few years older than Sofia. His square jaw is stiff and angular, his gray eyes narrow, hinging on dark eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. He barely surveys Sloane, seeming unimpressed. But his posture remains professional; his shoulders seem stuck that way. Sloane suspects he doesn’t smile often, but his eyes are faintly soft.
“Didn’t know Soul Keepers had children,” Sloane says. She realizes she probably should’ve mustered a more polite greeting, but he doesn’t seem the type to care either way.
“Adoptive, of course,” Erim clarifies, straightening to match Rhuso’s flat back. “Uh, but no less significant.”
“Hello,” Sloane says. Rhuso responds with a curt nod, though she’s not even sure it’s directed at her; his eyes sweep over her like she’s not even there. So, not a hugger, or even a hand-shaker.
“Rhuso is The Midst’s Ledger Keeper,” Erim adds. It still doesn’t engage him. He remains utterly disinterested in interaction. Awkward silence ensues. Erim’s smile crumples painfully. He obviously hoped that this introduction would go better than Ben’s.
“Well, it was really nice to meet you.” Sloane allows the sarcastic bite to leak through. “But I have training with Somboon.” She shoots Erim a look that tells him this will have to suffice.
“Mmm,” Rhuso replies, still not looking at her. Sloane walks away, looking back just when his creatura returns to him. The golden falcon lands on Rhuso’s shoulder lightly, studying Sloane with beady black eyes.
Sloane meets Somboon at the cor. “Where to today, Somboon?”
“Here,” he says, pulling back the leaves to the cor’s inner sanctum. “There’s one more thing we must prepare you for.” He pats the trunk of the tree. “As part of your official inauguration ceremony, you must seek The Midst’s blessing.”
“Blessing?” Sloane looks the tree up and down.
“If you receive The Midst’s blessing, you may begin your official duties as an Arc.”
“And if The Midst doesn’t approve?” Sloane asks.
Somboon straightens his shoulder fabric. “Then you will be dispatched Onward.”
QUIND
ECIM
Sloane looks at the tan wicker bar stools where she and Adrian always sat to tally their Halloween loot. One has been slowly fraying since the beginning of high school, despite Elena’s multiple attempts to superglue it back together.
On the loneliest of recent nights, Sloane’s darker impulses have wanted to forget the people she left behind on Earth. Accepting her new reality would be tranquil and effortless like it is for the Soul Keepers. But Sloane isn’t so lucky. Her living ghosts are always there in the back of her mind. She can’t shake them any more than she can free herself from one of her limbs. With the bulk of her Arc training over, she can’t justify putting them off any longer.
Adrian’s living room is unchanged. Its welcoming familiarity is conflicted by an unsettling feeling that it’s not as much hers as it used to be. And it did feel like hers, always. Elena lounges on the brown sofa, wrapped in Michael’s arms. Their wine glasses are on the walnut coffee table with the live edge, deemed by Sloane as “the destroyer of shins.”
Ches is sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a large poster board. Not even a near-death experience will prevent him from turning a project in on time. Sloane’s name is squeezed on the top of the poster, outlined in big red bubble letters. The first two letters are much larger than the others, like Ches had to dial back his ambition to accommodate them all. Under Sloane’s name is a picture of her flashing a silly grin at the camera. Adrian took the photo during their last summer at camp before they aged out.
Ches finishes what he’s writing and sits back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, looking over the commemoration of Sloane’s life. A timeline starts with a baby photo of her, with her birth details, which he could have only gotten from her mom. There’s an award she won in fifth grade for helping others and a picture of her with a trophy at one of her violin recitals. There are little hearts drawn everywhere, and the center of the poster reads, “Sloane is an influential person because she saved my life.” She feels a brief flutter in her chest at dethroning Blackbeard. Certainty solidifies within her, steady as the floor beneath her feet. She knows Ches will thrive, free from the burden of her death or knowledge of The Midst. He isn’t just alive. He is truly free.
Interitum Page 14
