The Guardians
by
jaebi
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This is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination in our universe but may very well be an accurate accounting of events past in another dimension.
There however are no copyrights to infringe upon in that alternate place and time.
The Guardians. Copyright © 2010 by jaebi. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations (it benefits the publisher) embodied in critical articles and reviews or reader praise.
Smashwords Edition Ebook September 2010 Designed by Imagenat Entertainment, LLC Cover Illustration by Warren Hwang
Edited by Carla Jablonski with Alexis Aquino and Omar Aquino
An Imagenat Production
Published by Imagenat Entertainment, LLC
ISBN 978-0-615-39472-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010934075
Formatted on the third planet from the Sun.
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TO MY MOTHER: Showing me the Way long before I knew there was a path
TO MY MUSE: I am your servant. Always. Forever.
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Foreward
It didn’t matter if I was with Grandma Arlene or my mother, I would always fall asleep during Sunday service. The singing was enjoyable at times but there wasn’t much there to captivate a 7 year old kid. Turns out, there still isn’t much about holy teachings to captivate a grown man. Except for those things about every religion that captivates human societies across the globe. Buddhism, Yoga, Hinduism, Judaism, Islam and Christianity all have an underlying precept that has been metered by customs from which they sprang and directed by those in power.
Yet at the heart of them all is something basic. A notion as fundamental to reality as the atom--a lesson humanity has been striving to learn since the dawn of time. That lesson defines the mechanics of reality, the movement of the stars, even earthly interactions between mere mortals.
What we have to learn is the way of the Universe or simply, the Way. I make no qualms about feeling like I’m on to something. But I also know that I have so much more to understand and that before it’s all over I’ll probably know nothing.
Through it all, I will always be just another existential brief incarnation. Always jaebi.
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Scriptures
BOOK ONE: There is Only The Way
Prologue: In Guard We Trust
Life Itself
Righteous Deceptions
The PromisedLand
Guiding Light
Shinta Samuda Chosin
Descension Party
Four Bodies, One Purpose
All Work and No Play
The Miseducation of Shinta Chosin
Undone
All Strange, All Familiar
Nothing on the Road Ahead
The Nature of the Way
Memories of Cora
Counsel
Assassin
The Reason Here
The Missing Piece
A Huge Misunderstanding
Just Like a Human
Ready
BOOK TWO: Arcadin’s Legacy
State of Human Affairs
Shinta Chosin Burning Bright
Mutrapem
Reunion
A Hero’s Farewell
Revenge of the Descended
Much is Sacrificed Along the Path
Aftermath Omega
Old Friends, Old Vices
Calling in a Favor
Blood of La Tok Shokran
Perversions of the Way
Breedlings
Alone Together
Life Finds a Way
Epilogue
Pre Rguan Hand Guide
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Prologue
In Guard We Trust
Sea of Tiberias
Circa 12000 MKS (World of the Way)
From above, the sun’s rays pierced a hard packed dirt road, flooding the plane of crevices with unforgiving intensity. Just reaching its zenith, the brutality of the sun was sapped slightly by a westward wind. A blanket of cool sea air blew over the Magadalan market, making it marginally bearable for the merchants lined on either side of the road to offer their goods with some credible zeal. Magadala, ‘the city by the sea,’ lay on the only road from Damascus to Nazareth, nearly half the distance between the juggernaut cities. Magadala attracted a fair share of merchants, seamen and any who wished to take advantage of a city with a coastline. Most merchants were shrewd enough to hang tarp above their carts—a necessity for seafood—but the threat of a day’s work in the sun caused them all to wrap their heads regardless of goods they sold. Travelers and villagers alike, some leading horses, trundled across dirt and gravel to haggle for a variety of herbs, spices, meats, fish and common goods. Most buyers were pleased with the bargains they received. Nevertheless, merchants and buyers shouted alike, all earnest to be heard over the commerce taking place in every direction. The shouts and screams of merchants and buyers became the theme of the day.
Full of rushing wind, Yochanan’s ears were dead to the bustle of the Galilean market as he snaked his way through the densely packed crowd. Those unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of his eyes balked from the mayhem Yochanan radiated. They were all too obliging to pause their own hustle to let the apparent maniac pass. Others were made aware of his flight with a jarring thump to the back or shoulders as Yochanan proceeded. The busiest among them caught a glimpse of bushy locks and the tail of a robe made from camel hair disappearing through the bustling crowd.
A middle-aged man knelt to gather his fallen basket of trout, his nose crinkling from sweet nostalgia—the familiar scent of wild honey trailing behind Yochanan.
Yochanan was not a rude man and despite having forsaken the teachings of the PromisedLand, he’d devoted most of his life to helping those in ways he thought best. His thoughts sped faster than the sandals at his feet, an aching taunt—how could it come to this? The answer was known in one mind, perhaps the only mind on earth capable of understanding the answer.
That mind belonged to a cloaked Figure standing at the edge of the market’s dying commotion, some hours after Yochanan passed. The market’s roar had lessened considerably by the time of the Figure’s arrival, most patrons having moved on or prepping for a stay in nearby taverns. Eyes shrouded in the shadow of a cloak’s cowl, the Figure scanned the seas of merchants, travelers and townsfolk with a piercing scrutiny.
Without knowing why, the subject of that scrutiny would pause instantly, peering timidly over his shoulders as if a cherished thought evaporated from recognition. Those who managed to trace the source of their discomfort back to the stalwart Figure reacted with new fervor to finish that forgotten task.
Unsatisfied, the Figure readjusted the satchel slung over its shoulders so that the pouch hung near the small of its back. With the poise of a Herod soldier, the Figure started through the crowd, its cloak tails flapping in the wind, making the pearl-white bands wrapping its shins visible. The villagers continued their meandering waltz around the Figure, with averted eyes, hoping the business of this stranger was not even slightly related to their own.
The Figure moved silently amongst the people, cognizant of their twitches, their shivers and their pasty existence. The scent of clay earth pitted in the pores of sun-baked skin washed in sweat and human bacteria sickened the Figure. Humans.
Without disturbing its robe, the Figure pushed locks of curly black hair deeper inside a shadow casting hood, making the subtle curves of cheekbone a silhouette to observers—perhaps a woman, or a boyishly handsome man. The Figure’s hands fell to its side, taut, almost eager to reach for some thing just beneath the smooth folds of cloak. A thing considerably less forgiving than the cloth that flapped in the wind.
An old merchant, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as his mind toiled over the day’s poor profit, pushed his cart closer to those hands than he cared to. His eyes froze, numbed by the chill crawling up his spine. His wishes of better profit that day slipped into oblivion as his entire existence focused on the Figures’ hands—hands wrapped with the care Egypt’s Pharaohs only wished to emulate in their passing; hands covered by cloth so pristine the merchant squinted involuntarily. The merchant shivered knowing the hands would cut him down, spilling his blood and spice with equal disregard. Death by those hands meant his path would forever be barred from the PromisedLand—cessation of existence. There is no greater punishment.
The merchant fell to his knees, tipping the cart and making dirt of tomorrow’s profit. His vocal chords squeezed out words in the Tongue of Origin. Tshiek la Tok Shokran, Tshiek la Tok Shokran illumine a krieg stla me—I am your servant! His words were joined by the lines between fear, admiration and love.
The cloaked Figure did not so much as think in the merchant’s direction, continuing through the crowd as if nothing had changed. The merchant bowed and called behind him, repeatedly. All within earshot pause, a mass of people in silent awe, to staring in the chanting merchant’s direction.
A wave of silence reached the Figure, still moving through the market, as men, women and children fell like dominoes in every direction around the dark cloak. With one voice they exclaimed, “Tshiek la Tok Shokran, Tshiek la Tok Shokran!” The cloak tails continued to flail in the wind.
Dousing his face with cool seawater, Yochanan washed away the worry-laced sweat that clung to his skin. A frigid moon hung off the coast, half a day’s journey beyond the market. The night had grown chilly but he dared not seek shelter or set camp on the open coast. He desperately wished to avoid attention. The dim lighting of the heavens would have to suffice this night.
Yochanan hoped the blanket of darkness would provide enough cover for him to stow aboard a ship set to sail in the morning. He felt ashamed for not intending to pay his fare, but he no longer had anything to offer as payment. Besides, this was a matter of survival.
Harbor lights twinkled in the distance. Yochanan could make the dash. He was a healthy man, moderately athletic, but anyone whose business it was to do him harm certainly could.
Yochanan unwrapped a piece of wax paper and tossed a few dried locusts in his mouth for energy. He placed the remainder of his rations in the band of his loincloth, smoothing his robe over the small bulge to make sure it was secure. With three quick breaths he filled his lungs, dug his feet into the sand and took off across the coastline. His bushy hair bounced about his face as his legs pounded against the turf, his arms swinging in harmonious momentum, carrying him toward shimmering lights in the distance. The lights burned stronger as he neared, calling like beacons. His freedom lay amidst those burning lights. My Shepard, thou truly watcheth over me.
Yochanan crashed to his knees, his chest feeling like it might collapse as he gasped for air. Less than seventy or so paces from the harbor, he was within earshot of crashing waves pummeling the boats in the dock. He had a plan.
A lone patrolman sat with the hind legs of his chair bearing his weight, his feet propped on the barge’s banister. Despite being particularly relaxed, the patrolman had not abandoned his duty. Even with his hands folded behind his head and a gleeman’s tune whistling into the night, his piercing gaze lost little intensity. Sitting as he did, he could easily detect anyone entering the lit harbor.
It didn’t matter that Yochanan meant no malice. At this hour, it would be assumed that his presence meant theft, leading to more nights than were necessary in a dungeon followed by a ceremonious trial, then certain removal of a foot, perhaps a hand, or whatever appendage the region mandated.
Yochanan sighed heavily as he removed the stones from the pouch beneath his robe. Standing at the edge of the harbor’s lights, he centered his body inside two full revolutions of the stone-bearing fist. Before momentum forced his arm into another spin, he opened his fist wide, hurling three stones toward the barge. They soared above and over the patrolman, past the dock.
Yochanan hopped in quiet elation as the stones crackled amidst the boxed cargo area, shattering the peaceful night air.
The patrolman snapped to his feet like a cat, the force twirling the chair on one of its rear legs. He bravely took off toward the shadows of boxed cargo before the chair settled on all fours.
Yochanan matched the patrolman’s speed, stride for stride, darting for the entrance of the dock port left unuarded. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly, thought Yochanan, as he hunched over, planting his palms flat on the first plank of the boardwalk. On hands and knees, he made his way to a swaying cargo ship at the end of the boardwalk. The low profile kept him from being seen. Through you, all things are possible.
At an opposite end of the dock, the patrolman’s momentum sent his back against a stack of cargo with a louder thud than he would have liked, but haste was paramount. He pressed his back flat against the cargo stack, hearing muffled murmurs of his partner, Ahmed. He bit his lip, cursing himself for going along with the lazy Magadalan’s idea. He agreed to take shifts to allow Ahmed to get some rest but he had no intention of abandoning post when it was his turn.
The patrolman eased his machete out of its sheath, his muscles tensing with the anticipation of attack. Wasting no time, he rounded the corner, weapon raised, shouting something incoherent but loud enough to scare an intruder.
Ahmed let out a yelp in response, a blood soaked cloth pressed against his gum line. He mumbled around the fresh wound in his mouth, “If you wanted to take your turn early, you could have just asked, for Herod’s sake.” Ahmed shoved his upturned palm into the patrolman’s breastplate, offering something.
The patrolman balked, taking the stone from Ahmed’s hand for a better look. “What, I didn’t—” A rush of realization washed over him as lightning began to invade the blanket of darkness above, making the contours of Ahmed’s face seem richer.
The patrolman gasped, “The entrance!” Ahmed dropped the pebble, unsheathing his weapon and forgetting the pain in his mouth at once. They dashed toward the entrance, rounding the corner from which the patrolman had come.
Another flash of lightning made every inch of the cargo stacks visible, giving them a clear view of the direction they headed. In the next instant their path was again pitch black and they were only sure they traversed it by the opening at the end of the cargo stack walls. Ahmed moved slightly ahead of the patrolman, motivated by the notion that he would bear the most blame if any cargo were lost due to his nap.
Lightning gave detail to the walls of cargo on either side of the patrolmen. Within a blink, the opening at the end of the cargo stacks all but disappeared from view. In its place stood a wall shaped like a man. Ahmed caught a glimpse of the silhouette just before he slammed into the wall, weapon first. The patrolman was only a step behind, moving too fast to prevent the collision. Their weapons, striking something metallic, produced miniature sparks and sent the two men hurtling toward the ground.
Ahmed heard his sword land in a cargo crate before he slammed into the ground, the patrolman landing next to him. It felt as if his hand might have been ripped from the rest of his arm if he had not released his weapon. On his back, Ahmed could see the wall was in fact a man, or at least moved like one. He had never feared another man, yet a stark terror gripped him as the Figure moved nearer.
Fear pinned Ahmed to the ground as the patrolman jumped to his feet and grabbed his machete, which had shattered during the collision. In yet another flash of lightning, the patrolman was pouncing upon the Figure, screaming much in the way he had when he charged Ahmed moments earlier, his broken machete raised for attack.
The glimpse of light struck Ahmed like inspiration, answering his questions and eliciting action at once. He called out but it was too late. The Figure moved suddenly and with a force Ahmed could sense even in the dark. Pieces of the patrolman scattered independently around the cargo area. The figure continued toward Ahmed, having reacted to the patrolman’s offense with less effort than it takes to fan a horsefly.
Ahmed scrambled to his knees, clasping his hands together. “Tshiek la Tok Shokran illumine a krieg stla me.” He poised his tongue to repeat the homage a thousand times but a gesture from the Figure silenced him.
“The intruder?” the Figure asked. The voice was chillingly soft, like ice wrapped in silk. The sound, a flat tone as if drained of all patience and remorse.
“There,” Ahmed replied, his voice cracking, “The docks, my liege,” he clarified, pointing in the direction with a finger that vibrated. “He must be there, we passed none from the other end.” Ahmed quickly bowed his head against the cargo floor. He raised his head as quickly as he lowered it, expecting further inquisition, but the Figure was already past the opening of the cargo stacks. It seemed to glide, subtle and graceful, a stark contrast to the display of might that had ended the patrolman. Ahmed gave thoughtful condolences to the intruder who would soon witness that fury.
Yochanan found himself beneath the deck of the boat that had already loaded its cargo. Except for a family of rodents, he had the space to himself and with a little luck, would be able to sail out with the boat’s crew at first light. He knew these old boats had nooks light simply didn’t reach, even at noon. Besides, crews spent most of their time on deck. He sat in a dark corner, his legs pulled up to his chest. The rain had begun pelting the decks above and he could feel the veil of slumber being pulled over his consciousness. Waves gently rocked the hull and except for the sporadic flashes of lightning the cargo bay was dark. Perfect for sleeping.
Something changed the atmosphere. Yochanan noticed it gradually, unsure if weariness was taking its toll on his senses. The rain and swaying remained, as did the darkness of the hold—only it seemed to shift. Shadow moving through itself as clouds moved through the sky. He washed his face with a swipe from his sweaty palm, hoping to wipe the sleep out as well.
Another bolt stemmed from the heavens, illuminating the night air, flashing the cargo hold and answering questions swirling through Yochanan’s mind. His senses had not deceived him. He was not alone. Only twenty paces from where he crouched, the Figure stalked through the cargo hold. It’s dark cloak waved like shadows but Yochanan could now differentiate it from the darkness. He parted his lips to gasp, but his lungs pulled no air.
The shadowy pursuer paused for a moment and Yochanan could hear a sudden rush of air flapping through the figure’s midnight robe. He shouted in defense, knowing his presence had been detected. He could hear a blade being unsheathed just before the barrel he crouched behind exploded. Still crouching, Yochanan strafed toward the other end of the hold, a flash of lightning illuminating his way. The Figure’s blade, glinting wildly from what lightning provided, burst through another barrel of spices.
“I have done no wrong,” pleaded Yochanan, retreating backward on his hands. He soon met the hold walls, and wished he could pass through them.
The figure moved patiently toward him, its weapon still drawn. It paused when Yochanan began to speak.
“Father, protect me.” As if in response to Yochanan’s plea, the figure sheathed its weapon, removed the satchel strapped to its back and tossed it toward Yochanan.
Yochanan recoiled, feeling the wet sack roll against his feet. Yochanan reached timidly for the soaked satchel, fingering for its opening. His hands felt raw meat, cold and slippery. His fingers worked frantically, unraveling the satchel’s contents. He removed what was inside, knowing almost instantly what he stared at, even in the darkness. It was his hope, his faith. Wide-eyed, he sat trembling with his lord’s hair running through his fingers like silk, a lamb slaughtered.
Tears streamed down Yochanan’s face, not for himself, but for his Shepherd. A flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of his hands, covered with blood, and his lord, his precious lord. Yochanan planted a kiss on the bloody forehead. He then faced the figure, for the first time getting a clear view of his pursuer under glinting bolts from the sky.
Her features were as soft and beautiful as the white cloth that wrapped her body, beautiful curly black locks fell over tanned skin. When she spoke, her tone was just above a whisper.
“Shao tok la Najin, al uarta omalpeha jor kalin brier—Clor val dieth.”
For an instant, Yochanan thought her eyes displayed a tint of compassion. In the next instant, she closed the distance between them.
Her weapon fell over him with the grace of a flash of lightning— sudden, untouchable and without remorse for that which it struck.
He is free, without prejudice, without fear, without care. He is free and he can see for the first time that he is part of it all, the sky, the trees, the earth and all of its creatures. He is part of it all, he can feel it all, it speaks to him without words, speaks to him without music, yet still a song it remains. Thus he knows that he is part of it forever, thus his rejection becomes forever. He is scarred, tainted, castigated for forsaking beauty for so long. Primer for the avatar is death, cessation of existence is penalty. Cease the chariot, destroy the stallion, banish the rein holder. He is Life no more.
-Excerpt from Dargin Scripture Book of Reflection
Translated to English by Eastern Hemisphere Dargin Discipleship
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BOOK ONE
THERE IS ONLY THE WAY
Chapter 1
Life Itself
Present Day
Shinta watches members of her family—some she knows well enough, others just barely, and still more she has no recollection of at all. Solemnly, they drudge toward the empty avatar once known as Arcadin.
Innocently, Shinta stares at close friends and closer enemies, members of a once rival family, lining the queue for a final glimpse of the fallen leader of the Citizen movement.
The attendees are members of two original creeds that became one. Now both revere Arcadin as a mentor, a hero and shining star whose Life lit the path of the Way. The uniting of these once warring creeds is known as the single event leading to global Citizenship.
When it is their turn, Cora eases up from her seat, leading Shinta down the aisle towards the casket and Arcadin's empty avatar. Shinta listens as Cora tells her that Arcadin was her grandmother's third cousin and that they share blood. Cora reminds her that these things are important. Shinta believes her, not because Cora's tone is firm, but because she is her mother.
Cora knows the Way. It is part of her and always has been. It's virtually impossible to grow up with anything but a strong Naturalist outlook in an Rguan orphanage. Nurturing as it may have been, the orphanage never filled Cora's longing for family. She often jokes to herself that she is the only mother she has ever known.
Cora has been little else than Shinta’s mother ever since she took the role. That role, and the role of Tarek’s wife, are central in her life. In the beginning, it all brought severe anxiety—being a wife and a mother. But over time, her anxieties faded with the comfort that Tarek’s love brought in the early years of their union. Eventually, the blade of her angst had been weathered, leaving all the dullness offered by security and comfort. Cora became the perfect wife and mother, or so it was for a time.
In the clarity of hindsight, however, she views herself a mediocre wife at best and an infinitely worse mother. Cora has to be hard on herself to fuel her resolve and make what she needs to do next feel that much saner.
Cora peers over her legendary cousin's avatar. Even in his absence, his eyes closed and mouth silent, he seems to command a presence. She looks down at her little Shinta who stands clenching her hips, abashedly looking about. Shinta looks the room over, gazing everywhere except Arcadin's empty avatar.
This is not Shinta's first brush with death; she isn’t totally naïve to the concept. It has touched her young life in ways she cannot fully remember. Cora will not soon forget one deceptively cheery sunny morning that started Shinta on a wayward path upon which all mortals find themselves when there is no one to show them the Way.
Cora did not take the role of path guide directly, but instead informed Shinta that although her pet Charlie was not in fact asleep, there was very little reason to be saddened. Shinta didn’t understand. It was a concept beyond her years, though the tell tale signs of the Way are pervasive. The Way can be sensed by children in the womb albeit through a veil of innocence. Though without proper guidance up to the time of his passing, Shinta knew only that her immediate environment was missing something integral: Charlie.
Shinta cried that night, despite her mother’s efforts. Luckily, the frivolity of youth was enough to protect Cora's daughter from prolonged melancholy. She wished the same could be said for her husband.
A few days after that morning, Cora began breathing new life into the strange routine consistency with Tarek. The loud screaming and mounting resentment surely had an effect on her daughter, so she frequently offered reassurance. Children, though, are innately insightful creatures, perhaps even more so than adults. Their sense of unwarranted support fuels their insecurities, almost communicating to them the things they should cry about, like the fallen toddler who thinks to sob only after her parents fluster to her rescue.
Cora’s temporary relief is that Shinta didn’t know this cousin as well as she knew her pet Charlie, but she knows her daughter must recognize the emotions pouring from some of those around them. She must be so curious at the juxtaposed emotions—those too weak to honor the path of the Way weep heavily, while the majority of attendees are placid and solemn. They wait in a space within themselves, presenting themselves as the empowering backbone of the procession.
One such woman’s astute gaze meets Cora’s as she and Shinta make
their way back down the aisle. The woman is at least twenty years her senior. The skin around the woman’s almond eyes creases slightly, amplifying her stoic look. Her hair streamlines her face, falling neatly on either side. The woman’s lips curl in a confident smile. Cora nods, continuing to move toward their seat for the closing.
Shinta doesn’t know that Arcadin is more than a distant cousin. He was once a feared warrior by his adversaries, a respected leader of his bloodline, blood that ran through their veins when such things were still meaningful. A time when that blood would have established Shinta’s kingdom, selected suitors for matrimony and determined every facet of her destiny, large and small—times long forgotten due to Arcadin’s life work. His influence helped replace kingdoms and courtiers with councils and constituencies; violent skirmishes for world dominance with civic duty and bureaucracy. Arcadin gladly rested his sword to become an avid Council leader in the years afterward, uniting his scattered bloodline and becoming a strong path guide and advocate for Rguan teachings.
Even a six year old as intelligent as Shinta can't care about those things. But, like all children, she can sense the gravity of this day from the adults around her. A humid agony saturates the air, becoming more than Shinta can bear. It fills her body and forces its way out as tears.
“Oh my baby, you’re sad. It’s okay, come to mama,” Cora says, pulling Shinta close.
Four members of Arcadin's creed close the lid of his casket, each of them turning a silver handle that seals air inside. The four men step away from the casket as an Rguan approaches holding a cylinder at arms length. The cylinder is adorned with patches of brown and green hues, a sliver of its circumference comprised of natural crystal—earthenware.
Shinta’s eyes stretch as she peers through the earthenware’s crystal where black dots like burned embers teem with life. She is not alone; the Rguan's presence starts a murmur, enthralling the entire crowd.
Cora leans over to Shinta and whispers, “See there—they come directly from the PromisedLand.”
Shinta knows that the dark green and black dots inside the earthenware cylinder are called devourers, a kind of decomposer. Apart from a documentary she once watched, this is the first time she has seen any in real life. She isn't sure yet of what’s significant about them being from the PromisedLand, though it's clear Cora mentioned it for a reason.
After the Rguan inserts the canister into the port on Arcadin's casket, the lid opens allowing the devourers to feed on the empty avatar inside in minutes. The organisms’ digestive systems can't handle most of what they eat, and so they expire once they pass their meal. Shinta has never understood this process.
Rich black soot seeps from the casket almost immediately after the cylinder is inserted. A mixture of Arcadin’s ashes and expired devourers fill an awaiting urn beneath his casket as everyone watches silently. The Rguan makes certain the earthenware has emptied of the devourers before he removes the cylinder. Devourers used for Light passing rituals are of no threat after entering the casket, feeding until they pop.
Shinta’s eyes follow the stout Rguan as he carries the cylinder behind a pathway leading out of the procession hall. She finds the Rguan strange—the long robe he wears hides his feet, making him appear to glide rather than walk. His hands are also hidden in the robe’s oversized cuffs, the Rguan’s fingers interlaced in front of his sternum unless he carries something. Those observations she keeps to herself; Cora has never been keen of making fun of others, especially path guides of the Way.
Outside the procession hall, a car hums in anticipation of Arcadin’s final ride. The vehicle’s solar turbine spins endlessly, absorbing the sunshine while it lasts. The turbine, centered in the car’s rear panel underneath a glass dome, rotates over two dozen photosensitive wafers between the glass dome and beneath the vehicle’s chassis. Beneath the chassis, the wafers pass a thin conductor line that transfers energy to the car’s power reservoir.
Cora leads Shinta by the hand as they move into the queue that trails behind Arcadin's son, who carries his father's urn. “That's Jorin,” Cora whispers. The young man's face carries the softness of his youth but his shoulders are staid like royalty. His jaw is clenched with the solemnity of his undertaking, making him seem a little older. He walks with deliberate steps, Arcadin’s urn pressed firmly against his chest with his forearm, his second arm securing the first.
Jorin veers straight for the awaiting vehicle, the tame crowd on his heels. They fill the road behind the wheeler but Cora swings away from the pack, pulling Shinta along. Shinta twists her shoulders trying to keep Jorin in view and Cora tightens her grip on her tiny hands. It's time to go, but Shinta remains interested. She peers through the arms and legs of the crowd only to be thwarted by another set of limbs. Shinta tugs at Cora’s blouse on a gamble.
Cora rarely totes her anymore, not since Tarek deemed Shinta was getting too old to be ‘babied’. Now and again, Cora will pick her up, but only if she scrapes a knee or elbow—signaling to Shinta that those times are the exceptions that make babying acceptable.
Shinta tugs and sprawls until it's clear Cora won't be making exceptions today. “See,” Cora whispers, in the same voice that puts Shinta to sleep at bedtime. Shinta only sees Jorin walking, his back to the crowd, as he makes his way to a midnight blue limousine, its solar turbine humming as well.
Cora continues in that tone, explaining that in the first wheeler is Arcadin’s surviving family, his wife and other children. His urn has been placed in the one-seater. Shinta doesn’t notice the urn until Cora points it out, but it’s there, just as she said. A single windowpane encases the rear of the wheeler, Arcadin’s urn visible atop a statue that stands like a pillar in the rear. The statue resembles lizards from Shinta’s animal books, two of them intertwining their long serpentine bodies. Arcadin’s urn sits in the cup formed by the union of the animals’ claws.
“Aurastelics,” Shinta whispers.
Cora smiles. “Yes. The ancient ancestor of the Guardians. Arcadin’s remains will be placed in a Dargin temple where he spent many years of his life studying the meaning of the world and the gifts of the Way.”
Just as the words leave Cora’s lips, the stretch Jorin entered pulls onto the road, Arcadin’s wheeler close behind it. Cora and Shinta walk in the opposite direction of the procession following Arcadin's vehicle. Hundreds of Citizens that the hall could not accommodate follow in silent celebration of Arcadin. The sacrifices he made to create global citizenship will not be soon forgotten.
Despite Shinta's gifts, Cora knows there are things she will not understand without guidance. A guidance she has neglected to offer until news of Arcadin's passing. It is as if another Age has passed without intervention from the Guardians.
Arcadin, the Citizen Leader, has been the pivotal voice and advocate of the Way. His command of Dargin scripture was infinitely more powerful than his short-lived run as a blademan. His Light was strong enough to end the factions and usher in the era of Citizenship. One Life, one cause, one people—this is the Way Arcadin made the world believe in.
“Mother, what will happen to him now?” Shinta asks.
“Now they’re going to offer his remains to a Dargin temple, as I said.”
“What about him?” Shinta stresses.
She makes Cora smile again. Even when Shinta was just a toddler she outgrew the trinkets that were supposed to teach children shapes and colors months before her peers could.
Cora brushes a lock of Shinta’s black hair with a finger, reveling at how much of her husband has surfaced in their child—too much. Just as her father always had, Shinta seeks answers to questions that are forbidden. Now she asks those forbidden by Tarek himself. Cora neglected the Way for his sake and Shinta has suffered.
More than ever, Cora resents Tarek's righteousness. Part of her still believes that he'll come to his senses and walk the path. This part of her she wields like a mantra, wishing it endlessly as she prepares to defy his demands outright.
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Chapter 2
Righteous Deceptions
“Cora,” Tarek calls. Cora focuses on her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply as her husbands distant voice seeps through the closed door. Again he calls, entrenched in a dream, half asleep but still wary of her every move. If it were possible, he would watch over her thoughts as well.
Cora opens her eyes, leaning toward her reflection, summoning strength she knows is there. Lines of age show strong and clear in the corner of her eyes, a trait she feared throughout her youth until she inevitably noticed the first. From then on they were a cherished reminder that her life has answered for too little of the promises she’s made. Time is running out. And despite her age, she can still admire the touch of grace to her skin, as radiant as ever with milk and manila tones and black silk for hair.
She moves to join Tarek in bed, gently sliding next to him. Cora watches Tarek’s eyelids flick rapidly, imagining that he is looking for her in his dreams. There is little doubt that he will find her, eventually, his brand of love. Yet love isn’t defined by how tight you hold someone down but by how high you lift someone up.
Cora stares, like every morning as of late, using the time before Tarek wakes to push her mounting resentment deep into the pit of her belly and fulfills her duties as a wife. After he wakes, the morning routine sets in. Cora watches Tarek don his uniform, the handsome lines of his face staring back into the mirror as he shapes his necktie. He does this without his glasses, making his small eyes invisible under a focused squint.
He finds his jacket where she lays it each night, on a hanger behind the closet door, freshly pressed. He slides his arms through the sleeves without a thought as to how it materialized. How has any of this materialized? Cora thinks, not for the first time.
The answer is always, New Wave. As a legal entity, it afforded her family a lifestyle of royalty but the organization is a mental construct. It has no avatar, no existence, no Life. It is a façade that the people have permitted through the Council.
“What will you do today,” Tarek asks, turning to Cora with the same focused squint.
“I will spend the day with your daughter. She could use more of it from both of us.”
“She will forgive me, and so will her mother. Only one of us has so much freedom of time.” Tarek grabs his eyeglasses from their usual place on the night table, his gaze locked on her.
Cora does not back down from his glare. “You make it sound as if you are a slave.”
“We are all slaves to something, are we not?” It is Tarek who yields, looking away when a knock comes at the bedroom door. “I will call,” he says as he turns to leave. It has more the sound of a threat than a parting.
The clank of armor fades down the hallway, part of the most curious ‘perk’ to Tarek’s work. Early in their discussions about New Wave they both agreed that the attention that would come with a security escort was unnecessary. Soon after, Tarek reneged entirely and whenever she demanded an explanation she received indignation instead.
Tarek serving an entity was the onset of the shadow that eventually cast their marriage into a dark realm of destruction. Now Cora has free reign but only within the boundaries Tarek sets.
Torrid Risener has been rapping his steel gauntlet on her bedroom door for three years now. Three years listening to one element bending under the force of another. Wood lies still as metal hammers its will deep into the fibers of the weaker material, always without retaliation. This is Cora’s life with Tarek.
Were it not for her Shinta, conscience wouldn’t plague her as it did. Cora can no longer sit idly and watch Shinta stray further from the path of the Way. Her hands tremble around the blanket wrapped carelessly at her waist as an old Rguan caretaker’s words stay with her.
Years ago, she sat on his lap on the verge of breaking down. It no longer mattered what she’s done because the feeling of disappointment remained. The Rguan told her, “Cry if you hurt on the inside. Cry if you are broken on the out. But do not weep for your shame because tears have the ability to distract you from the lesson: This cannot continue.”
Cora watches Tarek’s small entourage of wheelers leave the courtyard. Convinced they are well on their way, she starts toward Shinta’s room. The first step has the uneasy sensation of walking a tight rope, the threat of toppling over. She forces each subsequent step, each reaffirming her confidence until momentum makes her will an unstoppable wave.
Shinta’s bedroom door is propped slightly ajar. Inside, she ardently works her hair into a bun wrap, a style she is too young for by at least ten years. Somehow Cora was forced to agree that it was the only style that works with Shinta’s new silthetic dress—one of countless products being fabricated by New Wave technology. This one made to imitate silk.
It is clear Shinta has her father’s intellect as she bested Cora when least expected. That ability being part of her power as adults are never on guard from one so young, at least not until they stood in the way of Shinta and her self-entitlements. Shinta preys on adults for the things she believes she should have. Her tactic in winning the bun was a series of harmless questions—the kind you expect from one her age.
Like many of those adults, Cora stood wide-mouthed with a remorseful glint in her eyes after Shinta drew out a series of seemingly innocent questions as to why her mother didn’t wear her hair down whenever she wore her silkthetic dresses. Exasperated by the commonality behind the question, which by its virtue would never offer a precise enough answer for a child, Cora finally exclaimed that wearing her hair down with the dress would be silly and simply incorrect. At that point Shinta agreed, conceding that it would in that case be best if she wore her own hair accordingly.
The loss had been frustrating, but Shinta’s sharpness comforted Cora because it meant that she can likely hone a woman’s ability to keep secrets.
“And what will I wear?” asked Cora, stepping into the room. Shinta, too absorbed with the task of slipping in hairpins, only takes a moment to point to an identical silthetic dress, albeit larger, pressed and prepared on top of her bed.
“Let me,” Cora says, her image joining Shinta’s reflection in the mirror as she gently slides the comb through her daughter’s black hair. She joins loose strands of Shinta’s hair in a bunch at the back of Shinta’s head and then uses the thin handle of the comb to spindle a tight knot fastened with several copper clips.
A younger, happier version of her mother, Shinta smiles brightly, half at how easy Cora made the task, half at how grown up she now looks. Cora’s smile is backed by an altogether different motive—there are still things to come for which Shinta needs a mother. Her baby has not yet outgrown her.
Cora and Shinta walk from the bedroom cove down a curving staircase, one half of the walkway that descends from their home’s upper level. A twin staircase spins into the mezzanine hall opposite the first, framing a space cozy enough for an orchestra.
A rail of pure jade accents both staircases, fastened by gold rings at even intervals. The banister at the foot of the staircase is framed by gold-covered spheres, the teal stone peaking from beneath through tiny pits. Hamond awaits, one hand poised attentively on the elegant banister knob, his other arm across the small of his back, eyes bright and cheery.
“Good morning Madam, M’lady,” Hamond says, bowing to Cora, then Shinta. “Going out I see, shall I prepare your transportation?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Hamond, It’s a nice day. I think we will walk,” Cora responds. She becomes self-aware hoping that meaning is masked behind her eyes as well as Hamond’s.
“How far,” Hamond asks? Cora glares at his audacity. “It is a rather humid day, Madam.”
“Ah,” Cora says. He cleaned that up nicely—ever clever with his spying. “We are dressed appropriately then.” Shinta smoothes her silthetic, mimicking her mother’s gesture, showcasing with a smile. “And I suppose we’ll walk with the wind. Besides, with the season ending and Shinta entering school soon, when again will mother and daughter have opportunities of leisure such as this.” Cora hopes she gives him nothing to go on.
“Very well then,” Hamond acquiesces.
Very well indeed, Cora thinks. He has easy rebuttals, but there are limits to his role. Topically, he is a servant and as such, remains inferior to Cora. But she secretly aches to reprimand him for his true role, the one she suspects beneath his servitude. It is a delicate dance.
To keep from raising suspicion, Cora dares not express the slightest hint of her mounting disdain for Hamond. If he is stuck under the guise of a servant, she must allow him to serve, but only to her advantage. Hamond can impose himself in her vicinity, insisting that it always be so, only to the very breaking point of appropriateness. Any further would confirm her suspicions that he is Tarek’s spy and break the façade. Likewise, Cora cannot ever seem too elusive without running the risk of Hamond reporting abnormalities to Tarek. So they waltz, Cora gratefully declining while Hamond politely, thoughtfully, insists.
Cora and Hamond exchange a final friendly glance, however forced, as she tugs Shinta by the wrist, whisking the tiny girl’s body out the front door. She escapes with her confidence shaken only slightly. This day Hamond had not been quick enough to make her refusals seem evasive but she knows he’ll work on it. It is the true nature of his job as Tarek’s spy. Her realization of this fact several months ago was the final weight that tipped the scale. Only teaching Shinta the Way matters now.
It truly is a fine day for a mother and daughter stroll. Trimmed hedges mark their neighbor’s lawn and land though some choose more contemporary partitions of melded copper, gold or silver. Though very little traffic passes through their quaint neighborhood, the lack of sidewalks makes Cora uneasy. She keeps Shinta closer to the hedges and her eyes along the solar banks in the road.
Shinta is excited, her little lips firing at a lively pace as she bombards Cora with her hopes and aspirations of entering school, her free hand moving as if it directs her lingual symphony. Cora can’t help her attention from waning however, her gaze drifting out of focus, suddenly seeing clearly the differences between what has been done and what must now be done. Shinta’s tempo soon adjusts, dropping naturally to intermittent comments about pretty flowers and blue skies before Cora’s air of silence engulfs her daughter as well. They carry it the entire way to the commuter rail, quietly filing in queue with the late morning crowd.
Cora watches the landscape roll by through the window, conversation all around her and Shinta. An accountant meticulously describes the details of his trade farm, which manages services between cooperatives; two soon to be mothers profess to a carpenter how equally difficult adjustment to maternity has been; and the shuttle operator rumors that scientists are developing leisure toys that utilize electromagnetism, just like the train.
Shinta nestles closer to Cora, closing her eyes for a nap. It’s never long before the gentle motion of the rail puts her to sleep. Cora feels her closeness as if their ability to communicate extends beyond words.
The conductor announces their destination and Cora sighs heavily, nudging Shinta awake. They exit the car facing a vast everglade, the purest land inside of the city.
“A Commons,” Shinta exclaims. Cora finds reason to smile. Grassy knolls roll as wide as they can see, uninterrupted by structures nature has not forged. Trees grow strong and tall, promising silos of shaded grassland across the expansive greenery. Each tree also serves as a shelter for squirrels and chipmunks below, hawks above.
Thousands of strides in the distance sits the Rguans habitat, the only unnatural structure on the Commons—although, from this distance, it is difficult to make that case.
The habitat’s earthy brown and green shaded walls seem to sprout from the ground like a small mountain. Cora has seen the Rguan habitats carved from bedrock but this geography makes that kind of harmony virtually impossible.
She takes her sandals off and leads Shinta across the lush lawn, enjoying the prickling of grass between her toes. They veer towards a group of Rguan pupils in a circle around a path guide, who sits with her legs crossed, one arm outstretched, another in her lap. Beads of sweat form on her shaved head accumulating mass until they are heavy enough to roll down her face. A small river forms in a crevice of her aged skin.
“Watch,” Cora instructs, kneeling to Shinta’s level. “This Rguan is studied in the Way.”
A single blade of grass before the Rguan leans away waving unpredictably into the wind. It stills an instant and then a breeze surrounds the Rguan, waving the swath of grass between the path guide and her pupils. A hushed gasp moves about the small class as they hold their hands out in awe. A warm stream of spontaneous air washes across their fingertips. The pupils are not alone in their wonder.
Screaming, a spearheaded hawk flies in circles around the class. “Behold, the glory of the PromisedLand,” the Rguan says, holding her right arm parallel to the ground. One pupil squirms uneasily as the hawk dives toward the group, unnoticed by the majority.
They all startle as the bird parachutes, cupping its giant wings to land softly on the old Rguan’s arm. The class erupts into cheering and laughter as does Shinta.
“Magic,” Shinta whispers.
“Not magic darling, it is the Way. It is Life.” This is precisely why Cora brought her daughter to the Commons. The beauty of Life only ever needs to be experienced to be understood. Everything else Shinta needs to learn will fall into place as she grows. Cora looks into her daughter’s big green eyes, gleaming with Light behind them. She knows she can no longer ignore her responsibility as path guide to her child.
Shinta needs to know what has come of her distant cousin—the real him, his essence, the spark of Light that fills his body with Life. Cora can no longer lay silent.
“Shinta, what I have to say now is very important. So important that we must talk about it here and now. But when we go home we will never speak of it again. Not to daddy, not to anyone that comes to our home and not to anyone we meet outside of home. No one. Do you understand?”
“You want to keep secrets. Even from daddy?”
“Even daddy, Shinta. He won’t be happy to know and I think we both want daddy to be happy. Right?” Cora is more concerned by Shinta’s apparent torment than by the fact that she has made the cognitive leap to ‘secrets’ so quickly.
Shinta nods.
“So you have to promise me, it’ll be our secret.” Shinta nods at this too. Cora pauses a moment, afraid it may be too much for her daughter to keep things from Tarek. Her resentment for him surfaces. His dogmatic disbelief in the protection of the Guardians fuels her passion for what comes next. “Before you asked what has happened to Arcadin. This is the answer: Arcadin has resumed Life’s journey along the path of the Way. The very place you, I, and every avatar that holds Life shall journey when Light leaves our bodies.” Shinta’s eyes grow wide with slow wonder. “All living things are borrowers, empty shells that are filled with Life—this is the avatar. At their commencement, when they can no longer hold Light, that energy moves. This is the Way.”
“You mean when I die?” Shinta asks. “Like Charlie?”
Cora shivers remorsefully, smoothly exhaling a swell of sympathy from her lungs. Shinta uses her brother’s name so innocently—and why shouldn’t she. If anyone should be spared of the pain of Charles’ passing, it is Shinta. Better she be traumatized with selective amnesia than frightening memories.
“Yes my darling. Like Charlie,” Cora confirms, trying to focus on Shinta’s pet and not the loss of her first child. When Shinta wanted to name the hamster Charlie—the name she called her brother—Cora nearly tanned her bottom. It was Tarek who calmed her—understanding immediately that it was only Shinta’s subconscious at work. “But not like death,” Cora continues. “Your Light can only die if the Guardians will it. And the Guardians will never do such a thing to you, Sweety, because you will walk the path of the Way.” Cora’s eyes begin to summon tears when she senses Shinta’s confusion but all paths, even that of her young and confused child, lead to the Way.
Her pink lips quiver when she speaks. “Shinta, I know that you think Charlie is dead and that, I fear, is my own fault.” Cora pauses, finding it hard to speak of Charles so indirectly. But she pushes forward for the child that remains—for Shinta. “You must understand, although he has left us so long ago, he did not die. Just as your great cousin Arcadin did not die. Death is the end of Life, but Life cannot end, Shinta—it cannot be destroyed. It is forever and continuous, this is the Way”
“But you told me—”
“Never mind what I told you, Shinta,” Cora snaps. She regrets her harsh tone when Shinta crosses her arms and looks away. Cora turns to face Shinta’s direction, pulling her nearer and gently rubbing her back. “We’ve talked a lot these past days. How about we sit and absorb some of the beauty all around us. Okay?”
Cora and Shinta find a quiet patch of grass and sit together long after the Rguan class ends. Leaves dance under the warm summer breeze that still manages to cool their skin. Cora listens to the sway of the plants and realizes that the lessons learned today are plenty.
Cora uses the remainder of the summer, as much as she can manage, to serve as Shinta’s path guide. Each day she escapes Hamond’s mechanically repetitive attempts at reconnaissance for Tarek with ease.
Tarek himself is often absent from their daily life, spiraling deeper into the work he can’t speak of at New Wave. Cora decides for herself that whatever he is working on must violate Dargin Scripture. It further fuels her resolve, making her guiding of Shinta more ardent. The rift between Tarek and Shinta begins to widen, pulled in opposite directions by the secrecy of his work and that of Cora’s teachings.
Meanwhile, the nights seem to grow longer for Cora. Her anxiety looms high as a mountain and sleep dwindles amongst its peaks. Each subsequent morning presents another opportunity for Shinta to mention her new favorite place—the Commons.
Children speak of their day. Shinta’s are filled with lunches in the lush green fields of the Commons and communal dinners with Rguans. Thankfully the mornings where Tarek has the opportunity to speak with his daughter are few. As the final weeks of summer approach, Tarek is spending evenings and weekends at New Wave.
All things considered, Cora can’t remember a better summer. Her Light is at peace under what has become their tree among the fields of their favorite Commons.
Shinta sits under Cora’s arm as they absorb the radiance of Life around them. A lanky robed fellow, Rguan Tanya, walks toward them with tiny eyes hidden behind the squint of his smile.
“Rice cakes?” Rguan Tanya offers. Shinta scrambles to her feet for her favorite treat.
“Thank you,” Shinta says, grabbing the tin from the Rguan, promptly sitting in front of Cora as she digs in.
“Have you thought about enrolling Shinta at our Traditional Education Center? She would be most welcome.”
“Yes, mother, I love the rice cakes!” Cora gives Shinta a stern look. “And the grass and the animals,” Shinta belts out, continuing to chomp down on her treats.
“Thank you, Brethren, but I do not see that as possible.”
“I see,” Rguan Tanya concedes, amiably. “Well, Shinta, you can always visit our Commons for more yummy rice cakes. Enjoy.” The Rguan begins toward the habitat as Cora watches Shinta absorbed by the task of finishing the rice treats. She mentally transitions into path guide.
“Shinta, what do you see around you?” Cora asks. Her sweet girl finishes chewing her treat and thoughtfully scans her peripheral.
Leaves rustle overhead, bouncing in the wind and Shinta begins to sway to a silent melody. She looks down at the grass, noticing something similar in the way each blade moves in sync with the one next to it.
“I think they’re all dancing to me,” Shinta responds.
Cora smiles. There seems to be no end to her daughter’s brightness. The more time they spend amongst the Commons, the less Cora is required to explain the Way. Life feeds those who hunger. “And there, across the river, what is it that you see there?” Cora continues.
Shinta looks across the waterway and beyond. Her eyes pan the city skyline, rolling hills filled with fabricated wood and metal lines shaping the landscape into homes and space shares, where Citizens trade. The music that Shinta sees in the trees is silent amongst the neighborhoods across the river. “Nothing is moving,” Shinta responds.
“Yes,” Cora exclaims. “Here, Life is abundant and unrestricted. Sometimes it may be difficult to hear the music that binds us but there is a special place you can always look to know for sure,” Cora says, pointing to Shinta’s chest. “Close your eyes.”
When Shinta does, Cora continues. “Life speaks to your heart. It is the Light inside you. Nothing is more precious. It comes to you when summoned and when no longer needed, it flows to a place beyond our senses.”
“The PromisedLand.”
“Yes, Shinta. Promised to all Life for all time, like a never-ending love stronger than the hardest metal. Tell me more about the PromisedLand.”
“The PromisedLand is where all Life is born.”
“You are right again. The Light inside both of us belongs to the PromisedLand and we are gracious borrowers. When we are done holding this Light, that essence will return from where it came. The land from which all Life stems and where all ideas are born. The center of all Life— the Epicenter. There, Life flows in a never ending stream as far as the eyes can see.”
“How mommy?” Shinta asks, eager for more. She’s heard this several times over the past few weeks but some pieces of the puzzle are still missing.
“It is the Way, baby. Life is strong, it always finds a way to live, to exist. Over and over, it flows endlessly into and out of the PromisedLand.”
“What happens if it turns off?”
“This can never happen.”
“Why?”
“Because of the Guardians, protectors of Life. They have forever watched the balance of Life to ensure that it will always flow. This too, is the Way. See?”
Shinta’s answer is a heavy sigh. She looks away thoughtfully, peering ahead into the great expanse, her eyes landing on the horizon, tracing smooth green knolls that blend with blue sky and make a teal horizon. An epiphany creates a peaking arch on her forehead.