Heartfelt Sounds (5 page)
I know nothing.
I realize.
Yet I'm always pining for “home”. Crying and feeling sorry for myself because the Orthella let me go. Because Althea took everything from me…because Hana saw me out…
And here stands this woman who has lost a loved one to the world outside. To wars I've only been told about—but have never felt nor seen. To wars I could only dream up in nightmares.
I clasp her hand within my own. “Would you mind sitting with me?” I ask, looking into her face. “This'll only take a moment, I promise.”
We lower ourselves to the cold stone floor. I cross my legs and Miss Santo does the same. She gifts me her hands—soft and dark, dimpled with work. With motherly matters and love. Love, most of all.
I close my eyes.
A song—a song for her. For her troubles and her loses. For her faith and her hopes.
For her dreams, so they may not wither.
Because, though a loved one is gone, the one left behind deserves to smile.
They too, deserve happiness.
I open my mouth.
I sing:
As the night deepens, darkness pouring over all;
your shadow silently fades.
The night's somber music quietly softens,
as rain pelts the hearts of the people who are missing someone.
The wind rolls over a thousand mountains,
as the sea deepens over a thousand miles;
and I know I will never forget our oath,
whispered beneath the soft glow of the moonlight.
These are memories filled with silver.
These are memories filled with hope.
If I met you again,
maybe this sky would brighten up,
and the gathering tide would recede,
maybe we would be together…
always.
Silence.
It hangs heavy like the humid whisper of an approaching storm. It stiffens—it hugs. It comforts and it constricts. Miss Santo's wiry hands shiver in my own and she's chanting. She's chanting—
thank you—
as her stormy eyes look into my own.
As she lays her head upon my shoulder and I freeze—unsure of her touch until the sleeve of my gown begins to dampen. I find myself shushing her. I find myself patting her head like Yarne would do for me when I was sad. I find myself sharing in her sorrow.
A contagious thing.
…
When the tears have gone, Akane takes Chima's spot over the weapon. She hovers over the blade while sitting on her knees, the little ball of energy cupped in both hands. I help the older woman to her feet as Chima comes to stand by us. She brings her hands behind her back. Her eyes glow.
“That,” she tells me, “is her husband's soul.”
It gleams white as Akane brings it closer to the blade. Tempered steel glistens in the candlelight. Combined with the shine from the soul, it sparkles—the blade itself mimics falling snow as it winks in the light. Its temper line fades at soft intervals as Akane brings the bobbing soul closer—ever closer.
Akane drops it upon the blade. It falls—like water washing a silver sky.
The steel glistens—I shield my eyes as Chima bravely looks on.
I hear steel clashing. Men roar like animals as—far away—a man cries for his mother, his voice erupting into a wet gurgle as steel slices through sopping flesh. Horse hooves beat through mud and brain—bones
crack
like dead trees toppling over. And there's a hum. My skin crawls at the sound of it—distinct and menacing. Growing, growing—eating something with a
crackle.
I pull my arm from my eyes.
A battlefield, slick with blood and bodies.
Beneath me, the ground is charred. Red veins pump through its blackened skin.
Fire. Rising high on the silver line of the horizon—
the stone wall of Felicity, towering high.
Toppling.
And far—far in the distance—is a man on
fire.
He stands, arms of flame crackling as the orange embers eat at him. But he doesn't cry out like the others—beneath that suit of flame he feels no pain.
And white eyes strike out—they lock with my own like interlocking pieces.
Fire. Fire—all I see is fire—mixing with crimson. Deep scarlet melts into dripping blood.
When I blink the scene rushes into the steel of the tempered blade beneath Akane. When I gasp, I bring my hands to my chest as if I am drowning.
“When a soul is fed to a blade, it gives us its last memory.” Chima murmurs—free of her stutter. “The purpose of a gerant is to fulfill the final wishes of the soul of the decreased.”
“Sendoa—Sendoa saw a man
on fire—
with the citadel's outer wall…
crumbling?”
The old woman beside me trembles.
“The citadel?” I ask—dazed. “That wasn't Felicity's wall?”
Akane's laugh is dark and low. “Felicity's wall is made of wood—not stone. Have you ever been to the city's border?”
“Kokoros!”
Chima hisses, wringing her hands together. “T-the blade. Can we f-focus on business?” She swallows.
Akane's green gaze slides from me to Chima, her red brows furrowed. The hair high atop her head all but sticking to her with sweat. Slowly, she nods. “Of course.”
Akane swore Chima and I to secrecy about what we saw that day.
“It's just the ramblings of a dead man—nothing more.” with her hands to her hips, she bent over. Folding forward with a sigh. She stretched, her palms flat to the cool stones of the dimly lit room. “This'll frighten Nyx and Shanti. It's better if we just keep quiet.” She brought herself up slowly, arms heavy as her spine curled up. Straightened. “Are we clear on this?” Green eyes looked squarely at Chima, who bites her lip.
“Yes.” we agree in unison, nodding.
But in the few days that passed after seeing the man on fire—after seeing that blood stained battlefield and hearing the sickly
squelch
of steel ripping through flesh—I could not forget. That soul's final memory weighed heavy on my mind, staining my memories with scarlet. With fire and angry red flame. Often, work helped to clear my mind. Sorting fabrics, cleaning Shanti's loom room—sweeping dust bunnies away to the tune of the street outside—it calmed me. Brought nothing to my mind and sometimes made me smile, my mind awash in the gentle rhythms of simplicity.
And one night I dreamed the sky was on fire.
My eyes snap open. I press my palms to my mat and sit up. My hair sticks to my forehead, the hairs drenched in sweat and I wipe them away. I look over the low table that separates Shanti and I and see that I am not alone. Shanti sleeps with her back to me, curled up with her knees to her chest. She wheezes in her sleep. Shanti is peaceful—almost soundless—as she stretches one leg towards the end of her mat. Yawns. Inhales deeply before pulling her leg back to her chest.
She hasn't seen what I have.
I stand. I approach our room's wide door and softly slide it open. Slowly, slowly. I sneak a peek towards Shanti to make sure she's still sleeping. Somehow, I smile—but the image of fire flashes in my mind's eye. It's pouring from the window of our room—it's open and the horizon is
burning.
But when I snap my gaze to the window at the back of our room, the flaxen blinds are closed. My heart pounds in my chest. I am sweating when I enter the hallway, sliding the door slightly closed before I breathe. Letting air in, pushing it out. My shoulders fall as I release this tension—this fear.
Is war truly on the horizon? Or are these just fever dreams? Am I to lose my home again?
I notice a crack in the door opposite me. I hear soft sobbing—coughing. I approach the door silently, my feet sliding on the slick wood of the floor. Pushing it open, I see flaxen blinds have been tied up halfway in this room. Moonlight trickles down onto the floorboards, the white light lightly touches a bowing purple Ansai in it's round bowl. To the right of me, I see Chima wiping her scarred face with one hand squarely on her knee.
I come to her side, “Bad dream?” I whisper.
The girl nods, her sobs coming out as high-pitched coughs. “I keep seeing it—I keep
seeing
it!”
I hear a body turn. A light moan comes from the opposite side of the room as someone moves. “Seeing
what?
I just want to sleep!”
Nyx's voice. I frown as I turn my gaze back to Chima.
“I-I can't tell you! I m-made a
promise!”
Nyx
harrumphs.
Throws herself back down onto her mat. “Well, you're taking kitchen duty if I can't
sleep.”
“You
know
Akane d-doesn't t-trust me with food!”
I shush both of them before this argument can continue. Nyx sighs heavily as Chima pinches her nose, the tears still coming.
“What can I do to help?” I ask her, my hand on her shoulder. “Would you like me to stay in here with you?”
Chima looks at me then, her eyes wide. Her shoulders low. “Y-you don't believe it,” she breathes—her voice barely above a whisper. “do you?”
The question sends a shiver up my spine. I think to lie—but I can't. Not to this child-like creature. “I'm not sure what to believe.” I tell her honestly. “But I sincerely hope it's not true.”
And what that soul showed us flashes in my mind's eye.
Flame—flame everywhere.
I quickly blink it away, willing myself to believe my own words. Trying to have hope.
“Hope.” she murmurs, moving her gaze to her lap. “Are you t-telling me to hope?”
I move my eyes to her mat. Clasp my hands in my lap, bite my lip. Finally, I say: “I'm telling you to
believe
there's hope.” and I meet her eyes. Slowly, I smile. “Can you do that, Chima? Even when terrible things give you nightmares?”
“Y-yeah,” she nods, wiping her eyes. “I-I think I can.”
“Good.” I say, giving her a curt nod before I move to stand—but her hand strikes out to catch my wrist. She pulls me down—surprisingly strong for her small size. I look into her reddening face.
“Would you mind singing to me?” she asks, eyes down. Averted. “J-just this once. C-could you sing me to sleep, Naia?”
It is my turn to blush, but the heat recedes quickly. Sitting with my legs curled under me, Chima lies back down to her mat. Her hand still snakes around my wrist, but her fingers have gone limp. Softened. Yet, she keeps her hand there as if she's afraid I'll run away. As if she's afraid I'm just a figment of her imagination that will soon disappear.
Quietly, I sing.
…
The day comes when Shanti does not wake before the dawn. For a time, the fabrics upon her table would disappear only to be replaced with new shades. New colors and patterns. But, during the past couple of weeks, the fabrics have piled. Old pieces have not disappeared as new pieces are made. The streets outside have become slick with black mud as a torrential downpour of gray swallows the city whole. And when the rains stop, the markets aren't packed. The merchants stalls are empty and torn, as the streets themselves curl up and run, leaving a mucky road of mud.
When I wake, I tap Shanti's shoulder.
“Hm?” she fans me away, but turns her body towards me. Sleepy violet eyes squint in the darkness. “Wh-what? Is something the matter? Am I late for something?”
“Possibly.” I tell her, curling my legs under me as I sit. “Are we working today?”
She rolls her eyes. “Have you seen the streets, girl? This city has become a graveyard for the dead, and a prison for the living. Oh—” she brings her fingers to her lips. “—but
you don't listen to rumors.
You're
so
good at blocking the bad things out.”
Her words sting, but I persist. “Bad things?”
Again, she rolls her eyes. Curls her lip. Sighs. “Go outside.” she tells me, turning over. Giving me her back. “Go outside while the city's still safe. For the first time in your life, honey, see danger with your own eyes.
Go outside.”
I clamp my mouth shut. I throw on my lavender overdress and leave the room quicker than I ever have.
Go outside,
she says.
See danger with your own eyes.
But I was frightened.
Danger?
What danger?
What was going on?
I squared my shoulders as I flew down the stairs and out the door. Slamming it behind me.
Bam!
My slippers touch stone. Damp and slimy. The wet biting through the thin fabric, chilling my toes. I take a right, venturing up towards the main road. When I meet it, the wet
squelch
of mud beneath my shoe takes my mind back to what that soul showed us—
steel ripping through flesh.
And, blindly, I make another right. Moving towards the merchant stalls with their dome shaped coverings.
Torn fabric flutters in a stale wind—white. Rain dampening it. Drizzle pouring over me as my breath comes out in white puffs. It's cold. Deafeningly cold and I bring my hands to my forearms. I shiver. I turn towards the broken stall upon our street and notice rotten fruit. Tomatoes gone bad. Made bitter by a lifetime in the cold. I look behind me at the fabrics fanning wistfully. Farther up, a broken carriage lies on its side. A corpse of wood and steel.
I walk towards it. Shivering.
Intricate markings have been carved into wood that's white as bone—shiny in the rain. Drenched in the downpour. Atop its side, a door hangs open. Its window broken. Sharp teeth line it's square frame and I have an idea. A horrible, terrible, idea.
I climb inside.
Light pours from a rectangular window towards the back of the carriage, creeping in from the right side. Leather seats have been drenched with rain. The wooden insides are dilapidated—the inside of the carriage collapsing on itself. I stand opposite the seats, peering around at the quiet carnage. Across from me lies a strongbox that's been pried open—the lock broken. The gold seams of the box are scratched. Dented. I bend to pick it up. Something rests at its bottom.
Outside, the rain starts up again—pouring harder. Thin drops pelt the scroll lightly, blurring words brushed in black ink.
Don't go home.
I read. And directly beneath that—
burn this.
