Peculiar Soul

Chapter 13: Jamais Vu

Chapter 13: Jamais Vu

Dr. Josef LeMegne

Administrative Hall #84

Braun Island.

Sir -

By receipt of this letter you stand informed that the Assembly as convened on Waning 35, 673 has revoked your right of travel to the mainland until further notice. While this body recognizes that your efforts in service of Ardalt have been exemplary, your unaccompanied presence in Calmharbor has been determined as a risk to the autonomy and authority of the Ardan government.

In the event that Chairman Dreschner is once more available to serve as your escort, this body may revaluate your access to the mainland. Until that time, please make any requests for travel via letter addressed to the Office of the Assembly Parliamentarian. Absent this bodys written authorization in response to such a request, you will be restricted from making landfall by means appropriate to the circumstance.

This body recognizes that your confinement will present a hardship, and in recognition of your contributions to the national cause an additional appropriation shall be made available to you at the earliest convenience of the Exchequer. Should any further need for resources or personnel arise, your request will be given serious co

In service,

Ludolf Schlieben, Assembly Parliamentarian

Waning 36, 673.

Michael sat on a stump and looked out over the orchard. Flowers flashed pink and white from every branch, and the air lay thick and rich with their aroma. He inhaled it and smiled, feeling the sun on his face.

You seem happy, Jeorg said, easing himself down to sit beside Michael.

Michael shifted to give the old man some room and smiled. Youve been teaching me to be content where I am, he said. If youre still surprised after all this time, I think I should consider being offended.

A fair reply, Jeorg chuckled, turning his head to survey the clearing. Nice breeze. Not too hot. A good day to practice being content. He took a deep breath of the air and smiled appreciatively, stretching his arms out under the summer sun. A good day to practice being, in general. Fortunate for you.

Something in Jeorgs voice sent a little shiver of apprehension crawling over Michaels skin. Why do you say that? he asked. The air had turned thick and humid around them, and he felt his shirt sticking damply to his skin.

The practice of being is the practice of exercising ones self, Jeorg said. Of knowing it. Every aspect of it, the good and bad, standing inviolate against all circumstances. His smile died, slowly. Can you remember why that would be useful?

A breeze blew, and Michael felt the cloth of his shirt turn cold. Memories intruded into the garden, hard-edged and unpleasant: of the confrontation at Leons, of traveling to Maiburg and boarding the ship there. Of Jeorg dropping bloody to the deck. Of Spark kneeling over his corpse.

You arent Jeorg, Michael said. He - are you some trick of Sparks?

Jeorg looked at him incredulously, then shook his head with an amused grin. Dont overestimate your enemies, he said. More dangerous than underestimating them. Spark has a powerful soul, yes - but so do you. He gestured out over the orchard, the sweep of his hand taking in the branches laden with fruit, the vines hanging heavily from their trellises. Still nascent, perhaps. I dont think the old man knew, even at the end. All he could see was potential, and all he could give was trust. The belief that your path was - what was his phrase? Rare and dangerous? Worthy of a little faith, at least.

Michael stood from the stump and backed up, keeping a wary eye on the thing with Jeorgs face. I wouldnt expect some device of Sparks to admit to it, he said. The wind gusted again, carrying the sweet scent of rotting fruit to his nose. The leaves shimmered around him in golden hues. Tell me who you are. Be plain about it.

The old man chuckled and stood to face him. Ah, I shouldnt laugh, he said. But you know its a bit funny too, or I wouldnt. This is your garden, Michael. He stepped closer. Your mind. Your body. Your soul. There is only one person here.

I dont feel particularly alone, Michael said, stepping back to keep his distance. The air was freezing, the wind blowing through bare branches overhead. He met Jeorgs eyes and found them empty save for a glimmer of mirror-light.

A grin spread across the old mans face. You dont want to be, he said. You want Jeorg to save you, to make everything right again. But that cant happen. Hes dead, Michael. You know what he would tell you about self-delusion.

Shivers wracked Michaels body as snowflakes began to filter down through the bare orchard. Shut up, he muttered. Youre not Jeorg.

If you believed that, I wouldnt be, Jeorg said. He gestured, and a thick growth of roots sprang up from beneath the soil, cracking through the frost to encase Michaels foot. It constricted painfully tight even through the numbing cold. Michael clawed at it for a moment before looking up to find that Jeorgs apparition had vanished. The cold crept inward from his limbs; he had stopped shivering.

A warmth lit in his chest, smooth and seductive against the cold. He sagged downward as he embraced it. It was calming, quiet. It spoke of endings. It spoke of the void.

Panic flared through him as he wrenched his eyes open, sitting up amid sweat-soaked blankets. He was in a small ships cabin, dimly lit with a few utilitarian chests shoved into the corner. There was little else beside a table and a chair, and a man sitting in that chair. Spark. Michael stared at him wide-eyed for a second, watching a smile creep across his thin lips.

Youre back with us, Spark said, scooting his chair around to face Michael more directly. Youve been asleep for hours, I didnt think youd wake before we got back home. How are you feeling?

Michael didnt answer, sitting up from the bed and sweeping the blankets away. He was unbound. For a moment he looked down, then he slowly raised his eyes to the man who had killed Jeorg. He stood.

Oh, dear, Spark said. Angry, and I cant say I blame you. He leaned back in his chair, his brows knitting together. Ive made a mess of this. If I had planned a bit better we could have all come home. I didnt even get to- He broke off, squeezing his hands into fists for a moment before letting his breath out in a rush. He looked up at Michael once more, showing wet, reddened eyes.

Im rambling with you in such a state, Spark said. You should rest, go on and sit. Are you feeling hungry? Weve only got ships rations on board but I always make sure to bring along some marmalade for the biscuits.

Michael stared at him. He didnt know what he had expected from Spark, but it wasnt this. Flighty, distracted, constantly on the verge of tears. It reminded him of Helene after his mother had died, charging down avenues of small talk with no aim except to fill a dreaded silence - except that the comparison was ridiculous, Helene had borne no responsibility for her death. His gaze hardened, and he clenched his fist-

Ive decided that I shall have marmalade and biscuits, and you may have some if you feel so inclined, Spark announced, standing from his chair. Michael frowned; he found that he was once again sitting on the bed. Spark opened the door to the cabin briefly and spoke a few quiet words to someone standing outside. Seconds later, he shut it once more and returned to his chair.

Should be only a moment, Spark said cheerily. Tea, too. Perhaps we can talk while we wait.

I dont have anything to say to you, Michael said, rising to his feet once more. Spark looked thin from this vantage, frail. One good punch would topple him from his chair.

Spark said nothing more. Michael paused for a moment to look uncertainly between Spark and the door, then let his oldest instincts guide his feet fast and away. It took him some time to find his way out of the building - the interior was haphazard at best and his mind was still racing from the assault.

Eventually he emerged back into the jumbled city. It was still daytime, but the high mountains to the west had plunged the streets into a cool shadow. The cold was enough to make him shiver, and his jacket was in - somewhere. Michael scowled. The disheveled state of his mind was not helping his composure. Exposure and fatigue would do worse; he needed to find the building Spark had mentioned before nightfall or risk sleeping rough and hungry.

He began to walk. There were strangely few people in this part of the town, for all that it was built to resemble its administrative center. It was a short walk to the outskirts, though, and there he found a trio of men carrying baskets of grain. They wore loose white clothing with their hair and beards shaved, and were so quiet as they walked that Michael felt momentarily awkward for interrupting.

Ah, hello, he said. Can you tell me where the control barracks are?

Two of the men did not react in any way, but the third pivoted to face him and set down his load. Yes I can! he said, smiling broadly. It was not a flattering expression on him; his teeth were brown with decay. The knife-edged memories lurking within him rustled once more with a different rotten smile and staring, vacant eyes. He saw the mans face and the face from his memories overlaid with his own, all three staring and grinning with the delight of the mad - then it passed, and there was only the man.

Michael cleared his throat. Where are they? he asked. Can you show me?

The man nodded vigorously and picked up his basket. Michael could see him straining against it and stepped forward to offer his help, but the man pivoted protectively and turned his back to Michael.

I have it! he said, a high note in his voice that had not been there before. I have it! Im strong enough to carry. Very strong. I can do all my jobs. I can show you the control barracks. The man adjusted his grip on the basket and set off down the road.

Michael followed bemusedly. His guide was not fast under his burden. It was twilight in truth by the time they reached a long, low building shaped from artificed stone. A hand-lettered sign over the door bore the word CONTROL in red paint.

The man stopped and looked at him. This is the control barracks, he said, breathing heavily. Like you asked. He shifted his grip on the basket once more and began to trudge back the way they had come.

Thank you! Michael called out. The other man showed no reaction. After a few seconds staring after him Michael shook his head and turned towards the barracks. There was no door to the building, just a loose flap of cloth over the entryway. He pushed it aside and walked through.

Another man in white clothing was sweeping the floor inside. He looked up and stared at Michael, but said nothing.

I was told I should sleep here, Michael ventured.

The sweepers face lit up. We have beds, he said, gesturing down the hall. You can stay with Luc, he has a spare.

Any food? Michael asked hopefully.

The other mans face fell. Already had mealtime. No food here - we have beds.

Michael frowned, but he didnt want to risk venturing back out into the odd city after dark and becoming lost. One night hungry wouldnt kill him. He nodded to the man with the broom and went down the hall in the direction he had gestured. None of the rooms had doors or drapes over the entryway - they were just a row of boxes precisely big enough for the two mats laid out on the floor. The mats were occupied by men wearing red clothing in the same style as the others; Michael kept walking until he found the room with only one person sleeping in it.

Fatigue nibbled at him. He had the sense that he was coming off the end of a very long day, even if the details were fuzzy. The constant strain of second-guessing his mind was wearing on him. Some rest would improve his focus, and later perhaps he could find some food. He laid down on the mat and fell asleep.

Michael sat on a stump and looked out over what might have once been an orchard. It was bitterly cold in the clearing, and the few standing trees bore nothing but frost upon their branches. The rest had fallen and splintered. Some lay in a charred heap off to the side. If he looked the right way, he could almost see how they had stood in their rows, orderly and flourishing. Almost.

He stared at the dead trees for a long while, trying to tease some meaning out of their disarray. The wind blew unabated - until, at once, it lessened. The lack of cold felt like a gentle warmth radiating along his side. He turned to look and saw an old man sitting there.

Hello, Michael said. Do you know what happened here?

I do, said the man, taking out his pipe. He lit it, and the flare of warmth flowed from its glowing ember into Michaels core. Someone has made a mess.

I could see that much, Michael retorted - then paused, blinking at the easy familiarity that had come unbidden in his response. Im sorry, I didnt mean to be flippant. Its just sad. Someone put a lot of care into this place, once.

Hmm, the old man replied. True. He took a drag on his pipe, then let his hand fall back down to his side. But nothing lasts forever. Everything comes to an end eventually.

The words resonated unpleasantly in Michaels chest. Youre not wrong, he said. Doesnt mean I have to like it. He looked out over the broken trunks and withered vines, shivering. Its bleak and hopeless. I hate it.

You do, the man chuckled. Oh, yes, you do.

Michael turned to peer at him. Im sorry, do I know you?

The man laughed in earnest, setting his pipe down to look at Michael. Of course you do, he said. I am you.

That seems unlikely, Michael replied.

And yet. The old man rapped his pipe on the stump. Our minds see many things, to make sense of a world that stretches beyond their view. An old man and a ruined garden are just the shadows cast by a far-off light. Their form is what it must be, to let you make sense of them.

Michael scowled. Then that would be one of us making sense, he muttered. Though Ive been poor at that lately.

Youve suffered a loss, the man said. A loss in two parts. It has left a sizable void.

And? Michael asked. It isnt as if I dont feel it. What do you suggest I do?

The old mans mouth curved into a toothy smile. Michael Baumgart, he scoffed. Have you forgotten even that? You stood against a far greater emptiness and felt no fear. I know this. He jabbed a thumb at his chest, then pointed at Michael. Therefore you know this. You must draw the paths between you as you are now and you as you were.

Michael looked up and saw the glint of mirrors in the old mans eyes, the myriad possibilities spiraling away from every moment. And who was I? he asked.

The man tilted his head up. A man who denied the void, he said, and said it would claim nothing that he held dear.