Posting for feedback. (Frame of reference for returning readers: this used to be Chapter 6.) Thanks for reading!
After a night full of dreams of my own room and my own house with my own mom in it, waking up in that strange bed covered in its billowing golden canopy feels a little like stepping into another dream rather than out of one.
Dylan’s gone when I wake up, but I’ve barely had a chance to bathe and clothe myself before he’s knocking at the door again. He comes in all brisk and purposeful and just a little bit apologetic. He says it’s time to get rid of all the stuff I brought with me from Flemingsburg, but he hands me some clothes to put on first. Clothes that I am not at all sure I’m ready to go around wearing in public.
There’s a leathery black bodysuit that fits as comfortable as my own skin and this real thin, asymmetrically-hemmed T-shirt to go over the top of it, with dark red combat boots that look a lot heavier than they actually are. The outfit’s accented with a little black lacey jacket, and it all looks much more effortless and cool than I’ll probably ever feel.
When I come out of the bathroom in the thing it must be real obvious that I’m kind of skeptical about it because Dylan gets this amused little look on his face and says, “Don’t worry, it suits you. And we’ll take you to get some more clothes after breakfast.”
He grabs my backpack off the floor by the bed and carries it past me and into the bathroom. I watch from the doorway as he sets it in the tub and crouches down to rest his hands on top of it. He glances up at me for a second like maybe he’s checking to make sure I’m okay with whatever he’s about to do, but then before I can say anything he just starts liquifying my bag to smithereens. Diffusing it and all of its contents down into this rainbow-colored sludge that goes oozing like melted crayons along the bottom of the tub.
It’s kind of a shock to see almost everything that ties me back to my old life just disappear down the drain like that, a visible reminder that I’m probably never going back to Flemingsburg again. Never going back to that world I’m already learning to call “Particle-Blind,” as if it’s something foreign.
I kind of can’t handle it, and I’ve got to turn away before Dylan’s even halfway done. I slip back into my bedroom and wait all quiet for him by the outer door, trying to pretend like I don’t feel suddenly and overwhelmingly lonely.
When Dylan comes out of the bathroom he doesn’t say anything. Just gives me a sympathetic almost-smile and steps out into the hallway, pausing there until he’s sure I’m going to follow.
The house seems brighter today, even though there aren’t any windows in the hall. There’s a fresh, alive sort of smell to the air too, as if it’s been pumped in straight from the garden outside or something.
Dylan leads me down the corridor to a wide set of marble stairs, all bright white and curving slowly downward. It’s not exactly the sort of thing I’d expect to see inside someone’s home, even a house like this one. It’s more like what a king would use, with whole throngs of servants straggling behind him and trumpeters at the bottom announcing his descent. All we’ve got to accompany us is the heavy echoes of our shoes against the stone.
At the bottom, the staircase opens up onto a room that is literally the size of a small amphitheater. The blue stone floor is marbled with veins that look like enormous waves spreading out from our feet. All over the place massive pillars the same white stone as the stairs rise up and up to the ceiling, which has got to be at least three stories high. It’s made of white marble too, with these big, oddly-shaped sheets of stain glass all over it, showing unfamiliar scenes made of eye-popping colors and filtering light through in these little shafts of softly diffused rainbow.
At this point I’ve just got to stop and stare because, I mean, this is just a little too much.
Dylan’s several strides into the room before he notices I’m not following. Turning to see what’s wrong, he takes in the stunned look on my face and is immediately and kind of annoyingly entertained by it.
“This is the great hall,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“Who lives in a house like this?”
“As of last night, you do. Come on. Breakfast has probably already been served.”
The dining room, which Dylan calls the family dining room as if there’s maybe another, is in the furthest corner from the stairway. It’s lined with huge, arching windows and so many hanging potted plants you’d almost forget you were indoors. Most of the room’s taken up by a dining table that could fit probably upwards of twenty people, but in a far corner there’s a smaller, round table set up with just five plates and a spread of food that’d give most of mine and Mom’s Thanksgiving dinners a run for their money. The smell of it—all savory and sweet and inviting—seems to fill the entire room.
There are three people sitting there—a man and a woman and a girl a couple years younger than me—and when Dylan and I step through the door, the three of them look around toward us all wide-eyed and curious like they’re expecting to see a five-armed monkey or something.
The woman, who I’m guessing is Dylan’s aunt Mrs. Jacoby, makes this excited little noise and pops up out of her seat to scurry over to us in a way that could only be described as dainty.
“Oh, it’s so good to have you here,” she says, wrapping me up in her arms as tight as if she actually knows me. Her hair is all in my face and she smells like flowers, and her hug is so full of exactly the kind of warmth and welcome I need this morning that for a second I’m afraid I’m going to cry.
Then she’s pulling away and smiling at me like I’m just the sort of person she likes the most, and she grips my shoulders and says, “Dylan’s mum’s told me all about you. Well, I suppose, about your mother, but I’m sure the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Do come and eat, my dear.”
She takes one of my hands and starts pulling me toward the table.
“I’m sure you haven’t had a proper meal for days. No slight meant to our Dylan, of course, but he’s not known for his culinary skills.”
She’s a short woman, and sinewy and as sun-wrinkled as if she’d never spent a whole day indoors in her life. She smiles easy and almost constantly, but somehow it still feels like something real special every time she flashes that smile at me. She tells me to call her Aunt Nia just like Dylan and Eilian do because, according to her, I’m officially part of the family now.
Her husband—who she introduces as Uncle Wyn—is a stocky man with a bald head and a long face and a little bit of a pooch to his belly. He’s gotten out of his seat to greet me, standing there and waiting with his hands behind his back and his feet slightly apart, looking somehow real solid and a little imposing.
I feel pretty out of my element about now, but I hold my palm out kind of tentative for pono, like Agni taught me. The man’s lips just sort of twitch at that, though. Then he takes a quick step forward and pulls me into a hug. His arms are real substantial and strong, in the way you’d expect from someone who works with his hands on a regular basis. He and Aunt Nia, with their weathered skin and that air of hard work about them, seem like they shouldn’t belong in this grand, opulent old house, but somehow they just really do.
The girl—the one I’m thinking must be Dylan’s sister Eilian—stays in her seat through all of this. Lounging there like she just can’t be bothered, eyeing me real critical with her head cocked to one side and her arms draped across her chair, all casual and kind of dignified.
She’s dressed in orange harem pants with a green silky tank top and a fedora, her mess of gold curls tumbling out around the bottom of the hat and framing her face like a halo. She’s pretty and petite like a pixie, but there’s something kind of intimidating about her too, and the way she’s staring me down right now is more than just a little bit disconcerting.
When she’s sure she’s got my attention she sort of leans toward me as if she’s trying to get a better look. Real blunt, she says, “You don’t look like a farmer,” and I’m pretty sure Dylan and Aunt Nia just about die.
“Eilian!” they both say as if scolding her is a pretty regular necessity, but I catch Uncle Wyn’s hint of a smile and I remember the way Dylan described Eilian last night.
So I get this real exaggerated sort of apology on my face and I say to her, “I left my overalls upstairs, and the straw hat blew off while we were traveling.”
She just looks at me for a few seconds, and then she says, “Well, that was pretty careless of you,” as if she’s real unimpressed, but there’s a smile peeping out at one corner of her mouth and, just like that, I know we’re going to be friends.
“Leave off, Eilian,” Dylan says, kind of affectionate, pulling out a chair for me next to her. “We’re starving.”
He takes the seat on my other side while Uncle Wyn dishes mounds of food onto our plates with a sort of pride that makes me think he’s probably the one who cooked it.
Aunt Nia asks about our journey, and I let Dylan tell her that it was fine, that we took it slow and leisurely and that the only difficult thing we encountered was a little too much snow. He’s a real good liar. It probably shouldn’t impress me, but turns out it does.
The food is delicious—like to the point of maybe actually blowing my mind—so I’m pretty content to sit there eating real slow, letting the flavors develop on my tongue in ways that I didn’t know food could do even, and I just listen to the others talk. The conversation’s mostly about their close friends and family—cousins living halfway around the world sort of thing—and it’s interesting to watch how they all interact with each other.
Uncle Wyn mostly just sits and listens as quiet as me, but Aunt Nia talks in a sort of stream of consciousness that’s accentuated by these exclamations of “Oh! Did you know that…?” and “Ah! Have I told you…?” in varying levels of excitement, all while Dylan grins at her and does his best to respond appropriately.
Every few minutes Eilian leans forward to deliver some imperious commentary on whatever Aunt Nia or Dylan’s just said. Then she punctuates her statements by thrusting herself back into her chair again, her arms folded all smug against her chest and her whole demeanor radiating this sort of playful self-satisfaction.
They’re all energized by each other, having fun. It’s the most noise I’ve heard in days and I’m loving it, but then the conversation lulls for a second and Dylan just totally ruins the mood.
“Where’s Gwilim?” he asks, real soft and unexpected, and you can tell his question makes everyone pause.
At least, everyone except maybe Eilian. She gives the nearest table leg a good, sharp little kick.
“Who knows? He’s been gone since before you left and he’s not been home once. At least not that I’ve noticed.”
“No. Nor have we seen him,” Aunt Nia agrees, kind of subdued.
“Franny Demirci said she heard he’s been staying at young Tom Cloutier’s,” Uncle Wyn speaks up, his eyes on Dylan’s face and his voice sounding like he knows this is definitely not good news.
Dylan stares back at him for a second, all stony-faced and stoic. Then he looks down at his plate again and starts picking at his food with his fork, suddenly real done with a topic that he brought up himself.
Aunt Nia kindly changes the subject, asking Eilian if she was aware that her friend Tua Moeaki would be starting at Mawihl Academy with the two of us on Monday, which just makes Eilian roll her eyes and let out this real exaggerated groan.
“Yes. Ever since he learned he got in, he talks of nothing else. Nefsakes, I wish he’d just gone to Central.”
After breakfast Dylan says he’s going to take me downtown to do some shopping and Eilian insists on coming along. I follow her and Dylan out to this huge garage that they call “the hangar,” where there are three car-sized vehicles that are just hovering there a foot or so off the ground, as if they were little mini spaceships or something. They’re shaped like raindrops that’ve been caught in a heavy wind and Dylan tells me they don’t run off of actual fuel.
“They’re called ‘emvees,’ or electomagnetic vehicles,” he says with a smile in his voice as he watches me crouch down and look under one of them to make sure the thing really is floating in mid-air. “They’re powered by the push and pull of electromagnetic forces. Not, like it appears you’re thinking, by magic.”
His emvee is a soft, silvery seafoam color and it’s a whole lot roomier than you’d expect from it’s flat-ish outer profile. Inside, the thing is all sleek and comfortable, with two captain’s chairs in the front and a bunch of holographic screens and buttons spread across the dashboard like some alien control panel.
Eilian climbs into the back so I can take the passenger seat next to Dylan. When I sit down, the cushioning of the chair actually sucks in to conform to the back of my body, and it’s such a shock to me that I let out this squawk of surprise that makes Eilian burst out laughing.
In fact, she seems real tickled with the way I’m responding to just about everything right now, and as the emvee skims all silent and gently swaying out onto their long driveway, I notice that she’s leaning real far forward in her seat, trying to get a look at my face. Which I know means something’s up.
There are loads of tall, dense evergreen trees lining the drive so I can’t see much of the garden beyond them, but I start scanning what I can see, trying to figure out whatever it might be that she’s so sure is going to get a reaction out of me. Other than the sheer size of their yard, though, I don’t notice anything too out of the ordinary.
Then, as the line of trees drops away, I get a clear view of the outside of their house for the first time, and at this point, I’m pretty sure my jaw drops.
“You live in a tree.”
It comes out all monotone and disbelieving, and Eilian pretty much loses it.
“It’s a great big, hulking tree,” I say again and look around at them as if maybe this time they’ll appreciate how weird that is, but Dylan just sort of smiles and Eilian laughs even harder.
I crane my neck around to try and get a better angle. Most of the side and top of the emvee is really just a huge window so even though their house—some sort of a willow, from the looks of it—is as tall as a large office building and probably as wide, I can still see most of it. It’s dotted by all these arched, paned windows with little balconies here and there and flowering vines growing all over the trunk of it. It should look like something straight out of a Keebler Elves commercial, but it doesn’t. It’s charming and pretty and even kind of dignified.
“Back in the early days of the Republic people took a lot of pride in shaping houses of out of living things,” Dylan says. “Or at least, out of things that already existed in nature. This house has been in our family for generations.”
I stare at him for a second and then jab my thumb back toward the tree. “Did you just say that thing is still alive?”
Eilian goes off in another peal of laughter like she just cannot get enough of this, but even though Dylan grins, he answers me without any hint of teasing.
“Aunt Nia mostly cares for it. We call her the plant whisperer.”
We’ve pulled out onto the street now, and as we drive down the road I see a lot of these kinds of strange houses. Huge trees of all varieties, towers made out of what looks like stacks of giant stones, hill houses like humongous hobbit mansions.
They’re interspersed with buildings that are more recognizably man-made, built out of bricks and stone and cement and wood, though there’s always something that’s a little strange about them. Turrets jutting out at unexpected angles, walls bulging into the air where you’d never think a building should bulge. As if, even though they are manmade, these houses were still built to look like the things you’d find in nature, made to loosely resemble mountains and plants and animals and things.
There are a lot more people out on the streets than I’d expect to see in an area that seems so residential. They’re dressed in all colors and all fashions as if they’ve just stepped off a runway show where the theme was everything, everywhere or something. Their clothes throw together styles from all over the world—from probably every time period since humans started dressing themselves—and it’s hard not to stare at them as we pass by.
Downtown Daxa is even more eye-boggling. I mean, I’ve seen some pretty amazing skyscrapers in movies and things, but these buildings are out of this world. There’s a fifty-story, shimmering orca rising out of the ground as if out of water, a jumbo-sized water bird poised as if it’s just landed gracefully on feet that seem way too delicate to support an entire building.
Most the other structures aren’t inspired so directly by real-life things, but they’re still much less buildings than they are works of art. As if they were sculpted on the spot by some giant, loving hand. Every surface is smooth as still water and wears the light of the sun like a cloak, shimmering all soft as if the city itself is glowing, and I understand now what Dylan meant when he called Daxa a light in the mountains.
I just stare out the windows at it all for a little while, stunned that a place like this can even exist. When I glance kind of wide-eyed around at Eilian she gives me a big, appreciative smile but she doesn’t laugh. Probably she thinks it’s pretty amazing too. Probably no matter how long you live here you never stop thinking that.
As we hit the streets between the skyscrapers, the crowds outside triple in size. People are bustling along the sidewalks that line the road, spilling into the intersections every time the lights change. The traffic lights themselves are the usual red, yellow and green, but they’re cased in decorative copper and they hang without support above each intersection, apparently just floating in the air. There are huge wooden totems at the corners of every intersection too. A reminder, Dylan says, that even though this is the capital of the Painter Republic, it’s really the home of the Kwakwaka’wakw people.
“We are their guests here,” he says. “This city only exists because they allowed it.”
Winding around the buildings a few stories above us, I notice huge transparent tubes with these blurring colors inside as if something’s moving through them at impossible speeds, going too fast for the naked eye to see.
“Those are for particle sailing,” Dylan says, noticing where I’m looking. “The only place, other than private residences, where it’s legal to do it in city limits. Allows you to get around town quickly if you want a good sail.”
He’s about to say something else, but he never gets the words out because, just then, this huge figure looms up right beside us, and after one glance at it I start to scream. The thing is like something straight out of a nightmare, all long and lanky, with half a dozen tentacle-like arms and a face of shining metal. It’s bent down toward my window, and it’s staring at me with these stone cold, pupil-less eyes.
Previous: Chapter 9
Next: Chapter 11
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