Broken Mirror (16 page)

“I don’t know. To make money?”

Pearl scoffed. “Do you know anything about Little Asia?”

Victor shifted on his feet. He didn’t need a lecture. He needed herbs.

She didn’t wait for an answer. “We have refugees from all over Asia, crammed together in tiny hovels. Forget SeCa’s immigration policy for a moment. Think about why they’re crossing the Pacific. The Buddhist schism”
—
the
m
in her
schism
buzzed like a beehive in Victor’s ears
—
“grew after the assassination of the Empress Dowager. Then we had the Great Asian War and twenty years of shattered lives. The refugees carried those divisions with them when they came here. SeCa helped at first, but then the Asian Refugee Act passed, and then came the riots, and segregation, and the rural allotments.”

She talked on and on. Her dried-up hands flitted, waving at Victor like flags in a breeze. She ran through a litany of difficult-to-pronounce towns dotting Semiautonomous California’s Long Valley foothills: Jian’ou, Huizhou, Gaobeidian.

“The lucky ones avoided SeCa and went to the O.W.S. or the Democratic Republic of Mexico. Plenty of work there.” The Nation of the Organized Western States effectively controlled all land-based trade between SeCa and the rest of the A.U., and jobs building highways, bridges, tunnels, and railroads were plentiful in the O.W.S. no matter where workers immigrated from.

Victor interrupted by saying, “Please, can you help me get to sleep or not?”

“Do I bore you with my stories?”

“No.”

“Ha! You’re a bad liar. Bad liars get into trouble. But not as much as good ones.”

Victor bristled. “You’re different when you tell stories. The way you talk changes.”

She smiled, revealing two rows of teeth that looked so white and perfectly aligned that they had to be fake. “That’s my talent. Tell me, Victor Eastmore. What are you dreaming of?”

Victor’s throat felt dry, and he reached for a tincture in his pocket.

Pearl grabbed his hand. “Come, come,” she said. “I speak to many Broken Mirrors. They don’t appear as haunted as you do. I ask them about their dreams. They claim to sleep like babies. Not you, though. Tell me.”

“They’re horrible. I’m always being chased, or sometimes I die.”

“I thought as much,” she replied. “It’s not so strange. When I speak to people escaping from across the Pacific, I hear many similar things.”

“The dreams are strange in another way,” Victor said. He swallowed with great effort. “I think sometimes I dream about things before they happen.”

Pearl’s eyes lit up. “You poor Eastmores.”

Victor felt his stomach knot. “What do you mean by that?”

“Remind me to tell you the story about the Dowager Empress of China some day.” She smiled though her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I forget, you don’t like my stories. Your dreams come true, you say?”

Victor nodded. “When a refugee boat sank off the coast
—
it was two years ago
—
I’d already seen it happen. And the fires in the camps north of Oakland, I saw that too.”

“So much death,” Pearl said, looking down at her desk.

“What did you mean about the Eastmores?”

“When you look closely at the world, you see that everything is motion. When a boulder slips, the entire mountain is changed. That’s why I help people like you.”

She looked at him carefully. Then she said, “Did you know that refugees lived in Carmichael too?”

A wave of warmth rushed across Victor’s face. Whatever she might think, whatever prejudices she held, he reminded himself that he wasn’t like Samuel Miller and he certainly wasn’t responsible for the man’s actions.

“More refugees died in Carmichael than any other group,” she said. “They had more children, you see.”

Victor turned away. He climbed a stepladder used to reach far-up supplies and counted the number of jars ensconced in cubbyholes in the wall. Pearl stood at the stepladder’s base. He wanted to escape her nattering, but there were no more steps for him to climb.

“Samuel Miller spent lots of time in temples before the attack. People assumed that he was preparing to destroy religious centers in the town, but I wonder why he was so fascinated by Buddhism. We know he questioned the reality of our world.”

Victor turned away. He didn’t want to hear any more about Samuel Miller. He picked up a glass jar, pulled the cork out, and inhaled the smell of dried leaves, spices, fungus, and dirt. He tried to stuff his mind full of the strange scents and leave no room for her. This place wasn’t really a store in any Western sense: no displays to peruse, no adverts to tempt him, nothing to whet his consumer appetite. This was the witch woman’s domain, full of supplies that were certainly not magical but were traded and sold to desperate people who couldn’t care less about the presentation of the wares. He felt a melancholy kinship with these other invisible customers
—
they all had to deal with her chatter to get what they needed.

Her voice changed to a slow, guttural creak. “Is that why you need herbs, to save us from another Carmichael? From you?”

Foreign thoughts invaded Victor’s mind. He imagined braining her with the glass jar. Blood and shattered glass. A store full of medicine, his to peruse. Such fantasies, however fleeting, were too dangerous to let simmer. He visualized sealing the violent urge inside the jar. He resealed it and replaced it in the proper cubbyhole.

Climbing down, he said, “I would never do . . . what Samuel did.”

“My sister’s family lived in Carmichael,” she said as she looked away, examining some far-off corner of the room. The skin of her face drooped toward the floor.

“We’re not all like that,” Victor responded. “We can lose control, but . . . that man was different. He planned it out. He put the firetraps and mines in place over
—
”

“I know what he did!” The herbalist’s face bunched and snarled as she stepped toward him.

Victor retreated. Her eyes glistened. Ruby crystals of rage grew inside the seams of her wrinkles.

She yelled, “What do you know? You come looking for answers? Then you listen close! You’ll never know peace until Samuel Miller is dead. He’s a living ghost, haunting us all, but especially you, Mr. Eastmore. I wonder why he let you live.”

Victor’s heart stammered in his chest as he said, “Stop! Please.” Cringing, he stepped to a cubbyhole in the wall, took a jar of ear-like brown fungi, and opened it. The undersides looked like the air filters he’d stockpiled in his room when he was only four, which had saved him from Samuel Miller’s knockout gas long enough for Mía Barrias to show up and rescue him. He’d been saved. Samuel Miller would surely have killed him.
How had he known what to do?
his parents had asked him. He’d never told them about seeing the filters in his dreams or that sometimes listening to imaginary voices can save your life.

“I was saved,” Victor said, “but not by him.”

She stared up at the ceiling, or maybe past it. A long, wheezing breath deflated her body. “The worst part is that he blamed Buddhism, his twisted version of it. He said he communed with ghosts and helped his victims cross over to a better world, one he saw in his dreams.”

“I’m not like him.”

“We’re all like him.” Pearl lit a small rolled cigarette, full of some unfamiliar plant matter, not tobacco or cannabis
—
the scent was more complex. She waved the joint in his face, urging him to smell the curling smoke, but she didn’t offer it to him, nor did she explain what it was.

“It’s too bad about your grandfather. Very sorry for your loss. Very sorry.”

He picked up an abalone shell and watched the colors of the enamel iridesce. “I’m trying not to think about him until after my reclassification.”

She continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I guess it’s no surprise that a powerful man would be cut down when he challenges powerful interests.”

Victor gripped the abalone shell. It felt as if his heart had stopped beating. “What do you mean ‘cut down’?”

She waved a hand at the ceiling. “Just foolish talk. Nothing he would want me to say.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Enough to know it was a great loss,” she said. “Without Jefferson Eastmore, I fear what will happen to all Broken Mirrors.”

Victor scowled. “He already gave up on us by closing Oak Knoll.”

She wagged a finger at him. “The problem is bigger than a cure. He kept the laws in check. You watch. They’ll stumble over themselves to tighten the net.”

“Are you—Do you mean the Mesh?”

She laughed. “No, but that’s a very good point too. You know what’s going on out there?”

“A special market day?”

She smirked. “It’s a war. And the sides are not equally matched. You people, the broken ones, you either fight or lose. Are you fighter?”

“Do I look like it?”

“Appearance is deceiving. How badly do you want to know the truth?”

Her voice had changed again, becoming softer, clearer.

Victor could tell she was deadly serious. “I’d do anything. I would. If you can help me, I’ll
—
”

She put a finger on his lips. “I may have something for your dreams.”

Finally
. “What is it?” Victor asked.

The old woman tilted her head. “Special herb.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safe enough. Smell that one.” Her finger pointed toward one of two pink silk pouches displayed on a small black lacquered table.

Victor picked up the pouch. It smelled moldy, sweet, and slightly spicy. Familiar. He said, “I recognize it. Fumewort.”

“Now the other one.”

Victor picked up the bundle and inhaled its scent through the silk. “It’s nice,” he said. “Tangy. Almost like jasmine.”

“
Calea ternifolia
, the lucid dreaming herb, bitter grass. God’s help.”

“I don’t believe in gods.”

She chuckled. “Not that kind. I mean the gambler’s God, the one that make things go in your favor, or better, allows you to pull and twist the threads of fate.”

“That’s delusional. Wait, you had this picked out already. How did you know I would need it?”

She sighed as if all the air in her rushed out and left her deflated. “You need God leaf to put you in control, to make you lucid. In dreams, in life. One a reflection of the other. Bitter grass is the bridge.”

“Tell me how I take it.”

“Tea or tincture works. A big pinch before bedtime. Drink. Lie down. Sleep. Then take charge of your dreams. Something bad happens
—
you change it. Some monster tries to eat you? Make him explode, toss him in ocean, disappear, whatever you want. You say, ‘I’m in a dream; I want something different.’ Maybe you want pretty girl
—
zing, she shows up. Blink! Whatever you want appears. Lucid dreaming.”

“Lucid dreaming,” he repeated.

“In dreams, as in life.” She looked at him with her head cocked and her lips pressed together. “In ancient China, maybe not so ancient too, they would say you have a mad ghost inside you.” She waved her hand next to his face as if to dispel angry spirits around him.

“You believe in ghosts?” he asked.

“Not really. But if you asked me what possession looks like, I’d say, ‘Look in the mirror.’”

He thought maybe she was insulting him, but he didn’t care. “How much do I owe you?”

She shook her head. “I said before. Jefferson already paid me. You want to contribute, next time you tell me if the herbs are helping. I have other clients.”

Victor met her gaze. “They’re taking bitter grass too?”

She shrugged. “You think you’re the only Broken Mirror trying to manage?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“I see,
they’re
the crazy ones; you’re just misdiagnosed.” She looked askance, her mouth hanging open, mocking him.

“No!” Victor took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m not normal, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t be too sure.” She winked at him. “Some dreams are better forgotten.”

Victor grumbled. The woman, with her changeling voice,
was
making fun of him. He paced in the small confines of the shop. He’d always avoided other people with MRS, except for one friend at university. But he should have gotten to know as many as possible. They might be able to help each other understand their condition better. If Pearl knew other people like him, then maybe Victor could talk to them and find out how they coped.

He held up the pouches of fumewort and bitter grass, one in each hand. “Do the others take both of these?”

“Some of them. Some need more than herbs. Here.” She unspooled a roll of butcher paper and carefully ripped a small piece the size of two fingers, scribbling something with a charcoal pencil.

Victor took the slip of paper from her and saw a MeshID written in squarish numbers. “Whose is this?”

“Someone who can help you.”

“How?”

She nodded at the paper. “Ask him. He’s a brainhacker.” She winked knowingly.

“That’s illegal.”

“In SeCa, maybe. Talk to him. Then come see me again.”

“This isn’t some sort of trap the Health Board made to
—
”

Her hawk-like screams of laughter cut him off. She shook her head. “I shouldn’t laugh.” Her voice changed again, lowering. “Best to keep suspicions to yourself until you can prove them.” She shook her head. “I should move to Europe. Open up a new-age herbal paradise serving everyone poison tea.” She cackled and shivers crawled up Victor’s back. “Only the sick need medicine. The rest need a reason to believe they’re sick.”

Victor grimaced. Her talk of poison grated on his nerves. He grabbed the sachets, ignored her crooked smile, and turned toward the door.

Her voice called out behind him, “I know you, Victor. You’re the ghosts’ favorite! Come back soon.” Her laugh hooted behind him as he ran for the door.

Outside, he uncorked a vial of fumewort tincture and drank every fiery drop. His gullet bristled. Victor hurried to the train station, making sure not to stumble over people squatting in front of shop fronts cooking their morning meals of soup and dumplings on portable stoves. The scents were intoxicating, pungent; yet strangely, they didn’t induce his synesthesia. Perhaps the fumewort was suppressing it.