Years of practice hold Erim’s expression steady, unfazed. Kalith always said, “Only upon one’s blank countenance can others paint their thoughts.” The phrase was always too theatrical for Erim, but the method has always served him well with his citizens. Until Sloane. Her defiant posture, dusting of freckles, and wide, piercing gaze never keep a smile from cracking his stone face. He hopes it doesn’t look patronizing; it feels uncontrollable.
“How did you sleep?” he asks, moving away from the door she’s still eyeing.
“How did you sleep?” she returns. Erim’s brow folds, his head quirking when she flips the question. Then he notices it; her eyes focused on him instead of the door, tracing his movements. She’s raking his tone and expression for clues. It’s the same look Ben wears when claiming she knew the answer to a question all along.
Sloane sighs, wringing her hands. “I don’t remember everything that happened last night.” She says it fast, like ripping off an offensive Band-Aid.
“Oh.” He leans against his desk. Sloane grimaces, clearly embarrassed. “Probably the fault of your head wound,” Erim says, his mind overflowing with what Sloane imagines happened.
“I remember this.” She holds up her violin as if to soften the blow. It does, a little. “I just don’t quite remember what happened after.” Sloane laughs cautiously, and it takes Erim a moment to realize that she’s waiting for him to fill in the blanks.
As he runs through the night in his mind, it becomes apparent that there isn’t much more to add. Erim was reading through Kalith’s notes, a handwritten stack of advice and thoughts he left for Erim before going Onward. Erim didn’t really expect there would be anything useful in them, but Kalith’s words always put him at ease.
Sloane’s knock had been so faint at first, Erim thought he imagined it until Nim stirred, studying the door. He didn’t know who he was expecting, but he was surprised when it was Sloane. She looked a little wilted standing in the hallway. The wound in her side had her bent in a funny way to avoid pain. The guilt boiled in his stomach. He berated himself for not staying with her in Harenarum. Esht got too close, again.
Sloane’s arms were crossed over a fresh shirt, eyes droopy. Her head was no longer wrapped, not because the wound was healed, but probably because the bandage was bothering her. When she sat in his green armchair, it dwarfed her. Hubble covered her lap like a blanket, but Erim still gave her something to cover her shoulders because she looked cold in the night air.
He sat across from her, not expecting any words. She was too worn, and he could practically see the corpses reflected across her glazed eyes. They haunt him too.
After a long time of chilled silence, she glanced up at him. Her mouth was twisted to keep her chin from quivering. “I—I don’t know how to keep anyone safe,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with tears.
There grew a heaviness in Erim’s throat. He knew exactly how she felt. The fear was paralyzing, the rage excruciating, and the helplessness terrifying. But the guilt was worst of all, wrenching and visceral.
He sat there across from Sloane with no words to make her better. The cool breeze moved through him like he was hollow, like nothing was weighing him to his chair. He couldn’t meet her gaze, as useless as he felt.
“Me neither,” he confessed quietly. After a few moments of silence, his hand was blanketed with tingly warmth. Sloane’s hand clutched his tightly, knowingly. Her eyes were fierce, telling him it was okay that he didn’t have the answers. His heart slowed, entirely calmed by her wordless absolution.
“Erim?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me something good.” She pled gently.
Erim slipped back into feelings of inadequacy. Words didn’t seem like they could be enough, just like when he first met her. Even if they were, he simply wouldn’t know what to say.
In a haze, he felt himself lower onto the smooth bench of the piano. He rested his hands over the keys, just barely allowing the tips of his fingers to skim the slick flats. The delicate muscles in his hands ached to begin, but he hesitated. No one had ever heard him play. Not even Ben, who always swore the piano was just a ruse to appear cultured. It wasn’t that he was afraid of an audience; it was just that the music was something that belonged only to him. So much of his existence was at others’ disposal, except this.
But now, his compulsion to give Sloane what she needed melted away the selfish desire to keep this part of him a secret. When the hammer hit the first string, he thought he might feel a twinge of pain at the loss of it, like his chest cracking open. But when that note rang out, it was pure elation coursing through him, like fire in his veins. Each finger itched to get to the next note, encouraging him to continue. He flowed over the keys like a river over fallen trees. Each note lifted towards the next, his hands frenzied but precise and gentle. He closed his eyes and let the music take him, guiding his movements by memory. It was the piece he wrote after Kalith went Onward. Nothing else could pacify him so completely.
Before he knew it, too soon, he was gliding upon the final few chords. When the last note rang out, he did feel a sting of discomfort. He retracted his hands from the keyboard and sat there, a little glazed. Playing always left him a little vacant, the melody taking a piece of his soul with it each time.
Cautiously, he turned to face Sloane’s judgment. Her eyebrows were drawn together, face overcast by shadows; he couldn’t read her. Her lips were separated, but she said nothing. Alarm crept up on Erim. He had made the wrong choice. Just as he opened his mouth to apologize, she vanished. He cursed at himself for making the wrong choice. He should have just said something, found the right words, anything comforting. Erim never felt nauseous before, but at that moment, he did.
Suddenly, Sloane appeared right next to him, made him jump like nothing ever had. “Play it again,” she said, soft but insistent. She perched the violin against her clavicle and held the bow ready, waiting.
He just gawked at her, the terrible panic in his chest not subsiding. His heart was pounding so loudly that even if he played, he didn’t think she could hear the piano.
Nevertheless, beyond all his comprehension, she was asking this of him. So, he laid his fingers upon the keyboard again and began to play. A couple of bars in, a truly singular sound mingled with his music. It was a type of singing he had never heard before, emanating from where string met bow. A faint smile curved her lips up as she correlated each of her notes to harmonize with his melody. The two of them played to the night air with only the sand to hear.
And when the song was over, she thanked him, and the two sat together on the moonlit beach. Perhaps it was Sloane’s injury or the exhaustion, but she seemed drunk from the music. Her eyes were glassy, Erim glimpsed in her what appeared to be the first moment of peace he’d ever seen.
“Rain,” Sloane murmured, her fingers dug into the sand.
“Hmm?”
Her eyes widened a little like she didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud. “Well, you’ve got sand, trees, oceans, stars, even the sun and moon. This place was made to be like Earth, but the grand architect missed a very key element.”
“Rain?” Erim rolled the idea over in his mind. He never considered it before, but it made sense that it wasn’t included in The Midst’s design. It was simply a means to an end, an ingredient required for the growth of vegetation. No one would have thought it brought joy to people, quite the opposite. Erim thought it was a great inconvenience to most people. But, as he watched the moonlight catch in Sloane’s eyelashes, he needed no reminding that she was not like most people.
“Rain.” Sloane nodded. She closed her eyes and laid back, tilting her chin towards the sky. Erim imagined with her, the tiny drops coming down, refracting the stars, little wet explosions on his skin. “God, I loved the rain.” Sloane’s speech is slow and heavy. “Mom could never keep me inside during a storm, called me her little tadpole.” Her smile stretched wider, perhaps, as her mother’s laugh rang through her mind.
“I’ve never felt the rain,” Erim said simply. For him, it was just another part of life he hadn’t known to miss.
When he looked down, Sloane was asleep. Her shoulders rose and fell so gently, her smile had relaxed into indifferent lips. The first sliver of morning was due to creep over the horizon soon. Erim decided that the few hours of sleep Sloane could get should be comfortable, at least.
Careful to avoid her wound, he picked her up, evoking the image of Dmitri hauling her in from the water. Erim found her unbelievably light. She didn’t stir in his arms. He thought her soul would be heavier; it seemed so sturdy. As soon as he tucked her in, Hubble leaped up next to her, barring him from his bed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s the couch for me,” Erim assured her. Nim was frustrated with their new sleeping arrangements at first, but a tummy scratch made her more amenable. Erim was able to drift off quickly, his thoughts of music and rain.
Sloane groans now, visibly mortified. “I kicked you out of your bed and got sand in it?” Nim glares at her.
“I offered it,” Erim shrugs. “My bed is open to you anytime.” Sloane chuckles. Erim’s breath freezes as he realizes, and humiliation rolls through him. His face scrunches up. “You know what I mean.” He shakes his head. A full laugh escapes Sloane from her gut, breaking Erim into a cautious smile. “Would you like to have breakfast?” Erim blurts. “We still have a couple of hours until the convocation, and Ben might eventually return with the ledger if you want to see it.”
Sloane looks down at her violin. “Sure,” she says. “I’d like to see the ledger.” She sets down her instrument, and Erim pulls out a chair for her at his small table.
“What are you going to tell the convocation?” Erim asks.
“I’m going to tell them the truth,” Sloane replies, taking a seat. “If someone is hunting the High Arc, they should know. Besides, the truth about me will get out eventually if it hasn’t already.” Erim remains silent. He didn’t expect such a quick answer; she’s clearly been thinking about it. He doesn’t like her exposing herself like that.
Sloane reads his silence. “I’m done keeping this a secret, Erim. It’s time to face whatever, whoever is coming for me.” Erim nods. The fallout makes him apprehensive, but he trusts her choice.
“C’mon, let’s eat.” Sloane pats his arm, trying to coax him away from his thoughts. She conjures up a plate of eggs and long meat chips, displaying them proudly. Erim has a plate of pancakes. “So, what did you mean about having a sister?” Sloane asks curiously.
“I had an older sister, Carolien,” Erim says. “She was about nine when I died.”
Sloane beams. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“It means ‘free.’” Pride warms Erim’s cheeks. “My parents fell in love at a time when people of different colors weren’t allowed to. Freedom was something they struggled with their whole lives, so I think they wanted to make sure their daughter had it forever.” No one ever asks him about the remnants of his nonexistent life. Erim wishes he had more to share, but his knowledge is woefully limited. He’s only observed his family a few times, many years after he left that life. But from what he saw, he is proud to have been theirs, even if it was for a short while.
“My mentor Kalith was like a father to me.” He always finds himself tacking that fact onto the end of any inventory of his family. Maybe to compensate for the small list, maybe to assure himself that his existence hasn’t been lonely. Sloane doesn’t seem to need the substantiation. She looks warmed at his description, not disguising any condolences.
“What about you?” Erim asks. She sighs and picks at her meat chips, warning him playfully that her story is not interesting. But he doesn’t let her off the hook.
“I was born in Wisconsin,” Sloane says with a grin. “Mom and dad were pretty young. He took off before I was born. When I was old enough, she told me he died.” Sloane’s cheeks are tight, her eyes hard.
“I’m sorry,” Erim says.
She looks up at him and shakes off the melancholy. “Don’t be. You only had a dad, like I only had a mom. We’re in the same boat.”
“Well,” he says, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, “there are worse places to be.” A brief silence settles between them.
“Anyway, we lived in Madison until I was about five, and then we moved to Hawaii with Sofia and my uncle. And, well, you know how that turned out.” They just sit and eat for a moment as another inelegant quietness grows. Erim watches her pull apart her meat chips.
“You don’t like bacon?” Sloane asks, dangling a piece tauntingly.
“Is that what it’s called?” Erim likes his name better.
“What?” Sloane’s eyes bug out at him. “How could you have existed this long and not tried bacon?” He shrugs, amused by her shock. She takes a piece off her plate and holds the curled crisp out enticingly. He plucks it out of her hand. The meat chip is smoky and crispy; an exquisite greasy treat.
Sloane offers the other half to Nim, correctly assuming that she hasn’t tried it either. Nim sniffs at it but turns her nose up. If it had been Erim’s hand, he’s sure she would have swallowed it in one bite, but she doesn’t take food from anyone else. Sloane rolls her eyes and drops the meat strip on the floor in front of Nim. “Oh, so she’s a vegetarian now?”
“No, she just doesn’t like you.” Erim reaches down to scratch Nim under the chin.
When he looks up, Sloane’s studying him. “What was it like growing up here?” She asks.
Erim’s leg bobs restlessly under the table as he considers the briefest explanation. “Neophytes arrive in the Minor House. We spend our first ten years there studying Latin and humanity; empathy, equality, ethics, stuff like that. The next ten years are at the Prime House, where we study world religion and human relations. After that, we go to the Elder House until we’re eligible. It’s mostly counseling training, conflict resolution, and a lot of intake volunteering. Some study directly under Soul Keepers. We move to the Claimant House after a century. It’s the most relaxed there. We’re not Neos anymore, but it’s kind of the end of the line. The only way out of that House is to be advanced to Soul Keeper or cut your losses and your hair to become a Caretaker.” Sloane chuckles softly, running a finger across her lip.
“What?” Erim asks, wary that she’s laughing at him.
“I didn’t ask for the curriculum.” Her emerald-gray eyes shine with mirth. “I asked what it was like.”
Erim feels his jaw lock, but he tries to swallow it and mold on a smile. “It’s the same as growing up anywhere else.” He sips his coffee slowly, trying to stall the looming agitation. “And then it isn’t.”
“How could it be that similar, with your whole cosmic duty and everything?”
“Well, everything’s simpler when you’re little; that’s the same as anywhere else. We didn’t know life or death. There was no before or after. We never wondered about any wider reality because we didn’t know to.”
A noise of surprise from Sloane derails his train of thought; he’s grateful. “I kind of just assumed you guys were all-knowing from day one.” Her tone is curious.
“On a Neophyte’s tenth deathday, they undergo the maturescence, a comprehensive reception of knowledge from The Midst. It’s a complete understanding of their short existence on Earth, The Midst, and what it means to be an extension of it, all in a single moment. It’s difficult to understand if you haven’t been through it yourself.”
“A full download of the Soul Keeper starter package,” Sloane muses. “Sounds like it could be a lot for a ten-year-old.”
“It’s meant to be an incredible experience,” Erim says. “A newfound sense of purpose and belonging; excitement I’ve heard. It can bring true peace, the kind that’s supposed to settle a soul.”
Sloane holds his gaze inquisitively. “But you weren’t settled?”
“Let’s just say that it didn’t quite go that way for me.” Erim chuckles dryly. He isn’t really inclined to say more, it migh
t expose parts of him that still feel raw.
Sloane narrows her eyes at him, and a grin parts her lips. “Okay. When I was thirteen, I was blessed with the first joys of womanhood fifteen minutes before a huge swim competition.” It takes Erim a moment to understand what “joy” she’s referring to, but it’s immediately apparent that the topic is one humans are taught to be uncomfortable with. Such biological differences between males and females never had the same impact on Soul Keepers. Of course, there were obvious anatomical differences, but they were purely exterior. Erim’s Soul Keeper sisters had no more means of creating life than his brothers. They were never so very different.
Sloane’s eyes remain dropped, shunning Erim’s. He doesn’t understand how that would make the conversation easier, but it seems to, like he’s not even there and she’s just talking to herself. “Mom calmed me down, but there was no way I was getting in the water. So, I parked myself on the bleachers, hiding in my hoodie so the other girls on the team wouldn’t see me. Adrian guessed what happened after I wouldn’t answer any of his questions, and he left me alone. Then just before the race began, a swimmer walks onto the deck wearing my number. Adrian had somehow squeezed himself into a swimsuit, put on my cap and goggles, and took my starting position. At that age, we were the same height and… chest circumference.” Sloane laughs nervously.
“So, he wasn’t caught until after he’d already done a few laps. One of the other girls finally pointed me out in front of everyone. They revealed a boy in my place and disqualified my team.” Sloane leans back, finally acknowledging Erim again. “Come on, your coming-of-age story can’t be worse than that.”
Erim crosses his arms, gnawing on the inside of his lip to consider it for a moment. He could just tell her something simple, something vague. He doesn’t need to get into any of the nasty details. The Minor House seems like a good place to start.
“I loved where I grew up.” That is honest; things were truly happy then. “It was a place where the sun always shone. You have siblings to play with and a warm bed, good food. Every day feels exciting and full of adventure.” Sloane remains silent, her face expectant. “Then a day comes when you discover that life was just an illusion painted onto four flimsy walls, and at the pull of a rope, they all fall down around you. You’re exposed to the real world that’s been behind the walls all along, and it’s dark and unfamiliar and so much bigger than you ever thought. You see for the first time all the things you missed out on, things other people get that you’ll never experience.” His mind isn’t coherent, but the words just come tumbling out of him, quick and of their own accord. “You want so desperately for the walls to be raised up again just so you can live one more day in the fantasy, in the ignorance. But they’re down, and you aren’t allowed to be innocent anymore.”
Interitum Page 25
