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Chapter 29 - Dining with Dragons
🕑 Added 2024-05-14 00:48:05 +0000 UTCBoth Thal’rin and Bayont tested Vincent’s apparent mastery of their language a few more times. They couldn’t resist. Vincent had no idea he could do such a thing. To him, the entire world was speaking English. When their mouths moved, he could see their lips forming familiar words. He wasn’t sure what to think. It was convenient not having to learn another language, but it made him a little uneasy. He wasn’t sure why.
“We should stop,” Bayont said. She seemed to sense that it was making him uncomfortable.
“Ahh...I was getting very interested,” Thal’rin said.
“Well, you stop. Help me bring in the food.”
“You stopped in the markets on the way back?” Thal’rin sounded surprised.
“Of course.”
“Vincent, I will be right back,” the High Channeler said.
Vincent nodded and waited in silence as they left the room. He paced around and kicked his feet, His fingers fidgeted and his ears twitched. A few minutes later, he heard their voices returning.
“Did you buy out the entire market?” Thal’rin groaned.
He and Bayont reappeared carrying bags and baskets in their arms and wings. Vincent hesitated. Should he offer a hand? Or would he just get in the way? He didn’t know what to do. The situation was way too bizarre.
“You will join us...” Bayont said to him.
“Uh...yeah.” Vincent said.
“Was not question. You will join us.”
Thal’rin waited until she got ahead of them, then he leaned in and whispered, “she says that to everybody. Come on, follow me.”
Vincent was led into a room that served as both kitchen and dining room. It was a spacious place, and, like the rest of the High Channeler’s home, it was flamboyant with color. An ocean made of tile was embedded in the warm stone walls. Waves turned over, their shapes demarcated by white outlines. It was a stylized depiction, of course. Diamond-shaped tiling dotted the dark sky; stars winked in the canopies. Night shifted into day as Vincent followed the wall. Day dissolved into evening, evening dissolved back into night, the transitions separated by tile pixels. Each scene peppered into the next.
Unlike the rest of Thal’rin’s home, there was damage in this room. Some of the tiles were cracked. There were scratches on the walls and on the furniture. The table, made of wood with golden grain, had several burn marks and dents on its surface. But these blemishes did not make it ugly. There was history here. It felt cozy. Paintings and amateur artwork took residence in the alcoves that dotted the curved walls.
An arch at the far end of the chamber separated the dining space from the cooking space. A large chiminea flickered with a fire burning in its belly. Pots, pans, and various cooking utensils Vincent didn’t recognize hung next to it. Bayont opened a pantry and Vincent saw several barrels and vessels lining the shelves.
Thal’rin invited Vincent to have a seat wherever he liked, then put his burden on the ground and rummaged through one of the bags.
“Where’s my toy?” he demanded in a mischievous, childlike tone. “Did you get me a toy?”
“A toy?” Bayont repeated.
“You spent all that time in Aul and you didn’t bring me back a toy?”
“No toy. I brought camelos.”
“Ahhh...” Thal’rin buried his head in the large sack until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a smaller knapsack bulging with round shapes. He opened it and grabbed a furry object. It was round, about the size of a grapefruit, the rind was black, and it was covered in a light pink fuzz. He grabbed a second one and approached the table.
“Here.” He handed one to Vincent. “Try one. They are one of my favorites, but they don’t grow around here, unfortunately.”
Vincent accepted the camelo and turned it over in his palm. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it. The rind was as hard as a coconut’s.
“You have to remove the stem,” Thal’rin explained, “they make utensils for this, but it is tradition to use the horns.”
He removed the guard from his rack, reached the camelo behind his head, and used the tip of a horn to pluck the stem from the rind. It came out as a plug, trailing a little bit of blue pulp with it. He brought the camelo to his mouth, tipped his snout back, and let the juices pour out.
Vincent hesitated. He raised the camelo to his own horn, feeling silly. He tried and failed several times to unplug it, so Thal’rin had to do it for him. When he handed it back, Vincent followed his example: He raised it to his snout and drank the juices that poured out. The taste was exquisite. It was as if somebody had combined the best attributes of lime, strawberry and raspberry into one drink.
“Now you take your claws and pull it apart from the top down,” Thal’rin said.
He pried his apart and it divided into five equal pieces, revealing a vibrant blue flesh with small black seeds. Vincent emulated the procedure. It took some force and finessing to get it started, but soon, he had five wedges lying in front of him. He raised one, gave it a sniff, and took a bite. Or at least, he tried to. His teeth, being carnivorous, weren’t suitable for scraping the flesh from the wind. He didn’t know how Thal’rin was taking chunks out of his. Years of practice, perhaps? Still, the taste was incredible, and something in the fruit caused his mouth to tingle.
“Whoa...” he said, smacking his lips.
“Ah...do you have a mouth full of feathers yet?” Thal’rin asked.
“Mouth full of feathers?” Vincent repeated.
“The seeds cause a tickling sensation. Some people call it a mouth full of feathers because it feels like somebody is tickling the inside of your mouth with a bunch of feathers.”
“Yeah, I feel it. There’s a pepper in our world that does something similar,” Vincent said. He’d experienced a similar sensation from a few Asian dishes. “But the flavor, it's…not bad."
“I want to hear more about your world. But first, I think we need more light. It’s getting dark outside.”
Thal’rin got up, grabbed a tin full of fuel from a shelf in the pantry. He hung it on his wing and grabbed a basket filled with coal. Then he went around to several braziers, poured a small amount of coal on each, primed them with fuel and lit them. After the initial flareup, the flames settled down and cast a warm yellow-orange ambience along the walls. The golden tiling in their alcoves reflected their light around the room. Thal’rin swung open a few windows, put the coal and fuel away, and returned to the table. Meanwhile, Bayont was laying out a plethora of exotic vegetables before her.
“I prefer flames to nytic crystals,” Thal’rin said, “their light is soft, but I find it easier on the eyes. Now...” He cracked his wings a few times and looked at Vincent, his eyes, inquisitive. “I want to hear more about you.”
Vincent didn’t know how to respond. He knew what Thal’rin said, but his mind was blank.
“Is that a rude thing to say?” Thal’rin asked.
“What?”
“You seemed...taken aback. I want to make sure I’m not violating some cultural etiquette. I am ignorant of your traditions.”
“No...you’re fine. I just wouldn’t know where to begin. Do you want to know about our technology? Music?”
“I am brimming with questions about both, and more. But for now, I want to hear about your family and your customs. I would like to start there, if that is well with you.”
“Sure,” Vincent said.
“You have two sisters and a father?”
“Yeah...”
Bayont skinned the vegetables and began to dice them. Batch by batch she swept them into a cauldron with her wing while the hands chopped.
“What are their names?” Thal’rin asked.
“Kris and Sarah,” Vincent said, “my father’s name is Joseph.”
“And your niece?”
“Stephanie.”
“And how old is she?” Thal’rin asked.
“Two years.”
“Ahhh...we call that the shin breaker stage.” Thal’rin noticed Vincent’s confusion at that term, so he explained, “that’s the age most of our children get the urge to ram things with their horns. You will see them in the markets sometimes, parents struggling to stop their little ones from headbutting everything they see. In fact–” Thal’rin looked around until he spotted a series of long scratches in the wall. “–Those scratches over there were left by Rynt, our youngest. He was a terror at that age. We would hear him thumping around the house as he dragged his horns along the wall. We gave him a ramming post to use, we padded his horns, but he was a coiled spring with legs. Without warning, I’d hear the patter of his little claws running across the floor toward me. I learned I had to catch him quick, or else he would crash against my knees.”
“Does your species have a ramming instinct?” Vincent asked.
Bayont gave a brief, puzzled look over her shoulder before returning to her cooking. Vincent suddenly cringed at his use of the word “species”, even if it was an apt term. Thal’rin didn’t seem offended, though.
“We do, yes,” he said, “but we grow out of it as we age.”
It was difficult to remain passive at this little bit of insight into Falian culture. Vincent imagined little dragon children running around screaming while they headbutted everything they saw. It was a comical image, and he wondered if that explained the damage he saw all around Xalix’s home.
“What about you?” Thal’rin asked, “are your youth as destructive as ours?”
Bayont reached into a bag, flinched, and pulled her hand out. With an annoyed look on her snout, she shook her finger as if it’d been hurt. Something inside the bag moved. Vincent, distracted by this, didn’t hear what the High Channeler said.
“W-what?” he asked.
“Are your youth as destructive as ours?” Thal’rin repeated.
“Probably not...”
He watched as Bayont reached into the bag again. This time, she pulled out a terrifying-looking creature. Seven carapace-covered legs radiated from the main body. A single golden eye with an elliptical pupil stared from its back. Though twine held its legs together, it was fixing to break free.
“I mean...I’d throw stuff, draw on the walls...” Vincent’s voice trailed off as Bayont held the creature against the counter, its claws clicking against wood. She grabbed a knife and raised it up. Though the killing blow was hidden from view by one of her wings, Vincent saw it swing down, he heard a “thump”, the creature twitched, then it stopped moving altogether. Thal’rin, noticing he was distracted, turned around.
“Ah,” he said, “she is preparing kleken.” He turned back around, picked up his horn guards and strapped them back onto his rack.
“I noticed a lot of you wear those covers on your horns,” Vincent said, “even in the countryside. Is that for safety?”
“It’s a common practice, yes,” Thal’rin said, “but here, it is actually required. The ordinance in Meldohv Syredel is written in the ineffable language of bureaucrats, but the essence of it states that if you have a rack on your head that is capable of stabbing, then you must keep it shielded when you are on the streets or in public venues. Before then, people found their eyeballs and faces being unwittingly skewered by their inattentive neighbors.”
“It is good practice, regardless,” Bayont called out as she seperated the legs from the kleken’s body.
“Ah yes, where she comes from, leaving your horns unguarded is beyond shameful. It is offensive. She would give our kids fire whenever she caught them without a guard on.”
Vincent suddenly became aware of the horns curling out of his own head. He raised a hand to touch one.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about it,” Thal’rin made a dismissive gesture with his wing, “your horns are curled. Maybe we could get you some padding, but you aren’t going to stab anybody with them.”
Thal’rin continued to ask him more questions about his family. Vincent’s answers were brief, and they were filled with hesitation. The High Channel asked about customs and Vincent’s mind went blank. Not because of the amnesia, but because a dragon was asking him these questions. Every answer was either “I don’t know” or “Yes, sometimes.” or some variation of the two.
Thal’rin, noticing his hesitation, rested his snout on top of his folded knuckles. “How bizarre is this to you?” he asked. There was a glint in his eyes. “A weathered old critter wants to know what your family is like. I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind right now.”
At this, Vincent scoffed a little. He continued to be charmed by Thal’rin’s self-awareness. “I don’t have the words,” he said, “you have no idea how weird this is.”
“Mmm...I am looking for familiarity,” Thal’rin said, “there is a theory called the Gates of Contact. It comprises all the steps that must be taken when two civilizations who have never met, touch each other for the first time. If these steps are ignored, then conflict will arise. There are many steps, many gates to ‘unlock’. But the very first step is to seek familiarity first.”
“Kind of like seeking common ground,” Vincent said.
“Seeking common ground?” Thal’rin repeated.
“It’s one of our sayings. It usually refers to disputes. If two forces are clashing, then they find something they can agree on, or find a mutual interest.”
“Interesting...” Thal’rin scratched his chin, “I like that saying. But I would say what I am referring to is more nuanced. What do you do when the two civilizations don’t speak the others’ language? What if one’s taboos are another’s virtues? What if the two civilizations are so different, they seem alien to one another, as the zerok and groundworkers used to be? Seek familiarity. Seek understanding. Seek something that connects the two civilizations. You are a being from another realm. The differences between us must be expansive. So, I seek familiarity. That’s what I’m doing, that’s why I ask about your family rather than your lore. I want to see how similar or different you are from us, then work from there.”
“And what did you find out?” Vincent asked.
“Well, I am relieved, if I am being honest,” Thal’rin said, “there is no language barrier, though the lore behind that evades my understanding. And you have a mother and father, just as we do. Your people don’t reproduce as the ashent bug does: splitting into two separate creatures. I imagine the culture of such a race would be tricky to navigate.”
A delightful smell wafted in from the kitchen. The air filled with the fragrance of spices both familiar and otherworldly. Earthy aromas mixed with the tang of herbs. Bayont was removing the carapace from the creature’s legs, revealing lobster-colored meat beneath. She took each leg and rolled it in a bowl filled with seasoning.
“Furthermore, the fact that you accepted my offer to dine with us tells me that it must be a tradition in your world too,” Thal’rin said, “some cultures see eating as private and intimate, something to be done in isolation. So that much, I know, is familiar. But...there is something alien about you. Just from your mannerisms alone, the way you move, the way you hold yourself.”
“The way I move?” Vincent repeated.
“For example, when you raised the camelo to your mouth, you moved your head back,” Thal’rin explained, “then you brought the camelo up until you could see where it was before you ate it. It looked very deliberate. I am guessing this is because you are used to having a flatter face, as you mentioned in the garden. Our snouts present a blind spot. We’ve learned to live with it, but for you, it isn’t do easy, is it? When you came into our world, did you have trouble eating?”
He's right, Vincent thought. “Yeah, I did.”
“And when you walk, you are constantly looking down at the ground, I’m guessing in order to compensate for the same blind spot. Your wings drift, so you have to keep pulling them back in. You also seem to want to sit straight up, but your wings throw your balance, so you lean forward to compensate. I see a being who does not have control of his faculties. You move with the expectation that your body is something different than what it actually is.”
Vincent became self-conscious. He hadn’t been aware that he was doing all these things, but Thal’rin was right about them all. He was impressed by the High Channeler’s insight.
“Humans don’t have wings, humans don’t have horns, and your faces are flatter.” Thal’rin said.
“We don’t have tails either.”
“Ahh...and you don’t have tails either. By watching the way you move, what parts of your body you can control, I can almost envision what a human must look like. These physiological differences alone would make you alien enough. But lacking these features means you lack the culture that came with them as well. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“I can take a guess,” Vincent said.
“Well, when you were being raised, did your parents ever teach you that your body can be a danger to those around you?” Thal’rin asked.
“N-no?”
“Well, it is one of the lessons we teach our youths. You asked about the horn guards. They are one such example of culture arising from physiology. Every parent remembers when their child received their first pair. We celebrate it, in fact. Crowning ceremonies, we call them.”
“I still have Zadeek’s first crown,” Bayont said. There was pride and sentimentality in her voice. “Someday, I will give it to his first born.” She grabbed a large, cast iron skillet, dosed it in oil, and lay the kleken legs across it.
Thal’rin turned around. “Do we still have Rynt’s?” he asked, “or did it get destroyed? I can never remember.”
“He broke it,” Bayont said.
“Ah, I thought so. If we ever have to look after his children, I will buy some armor for my legs.” He turned back to Vincent. “As you see, a simple piece of clothing that is integral for our safety, has taken on its own life. It has become an icon. It has worked its way into our stories and our idioms. When one is said to ‘uncap their rack’, it means they’ve become dangerous and violent. When we lay our children down for the night, we have to worry about how close one is to the other. If they don’t have separate beds, then they must wear extra padding. Tossing and turning in one’s sleep could end up with one being injured by the other’s rack.”
“Guards have become a fashion statement,” Thal’rin continued, “there are many different designs. Many, like mine, cover the entire rack. Some only cover the tips. Some have beads hanging from them, others are covered in fur. You could go in our markets right now and you will see vendors with hundreds of them hanging from their booths.”
Thal’rin took another bite from his camelo and wiped his snout. “The point behind my rambling is this: our horns have affected our entire culture. They impact the way we live, the way we express ourselves. That’s just one difference between us and I’m guessing the implications are profound. How different is your culture from ours, simply because your people lack horns?”
“I don’t know,” Vincent said.
“Well, the question was rhetorical, mostly. I imagine it’s a big question to answer,” Thal’rin said, “forgive my tangent. I do like to talk. The point is, I am bound to make a misstep out of ignorance. I don’t know what your virtues and taboos are, what paradigms your people think with. But I would like to.”
Vincent fiddled with a wedge of camelo. For a few moments, Thal’rin’s earnestness left him without words. He found he was enjoying the High Channeler’s presence more than he cared to admit. He was fascinating to listen to, keen and insightful. Some of this diction had to be practiced, of course, maybe even rehearsed. Thal’rin was an experienced diplomat, after all. But he didn’t wear the face of a dignitary. There was warm honesty behind his words.
“I’m...the least qualified person to be some sort of ‘ambassador’ for humanity,” Vincent finally said, “like I said, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
Thal’rin scratched the fleshy whiskers hanging from his chin. “Do you know what I realized during my tenure as Diac?” he asked, “I realized that you get used to not being qualified.”
For a second, Vincent allowed himself to crack an appreciative grin and nodded. “But really though...” he said, “I’m not like you. I’m not a diplomat. I’m a nobody. If I tried to paint a picture of humanity, I’d get it wrong.”
“There’s no reason to start with the big. We can start with the small,” Thal’rin said, “those drawings in your room. You mentioned they had to do with what you were studying before you were brought here. Are you a historian? Researcher?”
“I’m a student. I was studying electrical engineering.”
Thal’rin tested those words. “Elec...elec trikal...mercy on my tongue, that is a tricky word.”
“Do your people know what electricity is?” Vincent asked.
“I have never heard the term, no”
“It’s what we use to power a lot of our machines. I was learning how to design systems that use it.”
Thal’rin kept stroking his whiskers, his mouth partially dropped in curiosity. But before he could ask any more questions, Bayont approached the table carrying a large bowl of stew.
“It can wait,” Thal’rin said, “I do hope you’re hungry.”
He got up and grabbed some bowls. This is going to be a trip, Vincent thought as the High Channeler placed a plate, a bowl, and a three-pronged fork in front of him. The bowl, like many of their cups, had a spout at its edge. Bayont grabbed a platter piled up with seared kleken, Thal’rin went to the pantry and returned with a bronze bucket filled with sloshing water and a towel over his wing. He approached Vincent’s chair and set the bucket on the ground.
“Vincent, your hands?” he said.
“Uhhh...”
“Hold them out like this.” Thal’rin held his hands out, wrists up.
Vincent hesitated, then he held out his hands. Thal’rin grabbed a wet rag from the bucket and began to clean off the fingers and palms.
“I take it from the stunned expression on your snout that this isn’t a tradition where you come from?” he asked.
“No...this is new.”
“And so, we venture beyond the realm of familiarity.”
After Thal’rin was finished washing Vincent’s hands, he grabbed the towel from his wings and dried them off. Then he walked around and cleaned off Bayont’s hands. When he was finished, she washed his hands off and dried them. Thal’rin grabbed the bucket and left the table to put it away. For a few seconds, Vincent was left alone with Bayont, who was still setting up the table, shooting him a few polite smiles. They failed to hide the shock in her eyes.
What was she thinking right now? How did she react when Thal’rin told her about him? Vincent wanted to know how such a conversation went down: “Honey, we have an alien living with us. He looks like one of us, but I swear he’s an alien!” Did she go along with it, or did she think her husband lost it?
“You are intriguing character, Vincent Cordell,” she said, as if in response to his thoughts. “When he told me about you...well, I still do not know what to believe.”
“I wouldn’t know what to believe either, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” she repeated.
“Oh, uh...it’s a title of respect where I come from,” Vincent explained as Thal’rin returned.
“Ahh...”
There was no prayer before the meal, no ritual or ceremony. Thal’rin took Vincent’s bowl and plate. He filled the bowl with soup and laid a kleken leg around it on the plate. Vincent thanked him, picked up the fork and stared at the meal before him. The fragrance made his mouth water, but he felt compelled to wait until he saw what Thal’rin and Bayont did. He didn’t know why.
Thal’rin used his fork to slice off a sizeable portion of kleken. He raised the piece to his maw and devoured it whole. His technique was more refined, more “polite” than the other Falians Vincent had met, but it was still jarring. It was comical, even. It clashed with Thal’rin’s dignified stature. When Bayont did the same thing, Vincent had to quell the sudden urge to grin.
In contrast to his hosts, he sliced off small chunks of kleken. He raised one to his mouth and gave it a taste. The texture was different, but the flavor was nearly indistinguishable from grouper. The seasoning Bayont used filled him with nostalgia, even though he didn’t know what he was nostalgic for. He couldn’t identify the alien spices used to blacken the kleken. Nevertheless, it was delicious.
“Is that custom of yours?” Bayont asked.
“Custom?” Vincent repeated, confused by the question.
“You divide your food into small pieces.”
“Oh, no. No custom. My mouth is smaller than yours. My real mouth, I mean,” Vincent flustered, “the one I had before I came here. It’s what my brain is used to. I’m worried that if I try to eat like you guys do, I’ll gag.”
“I see...” Bayont said, “your mind thinks you will choke.”
“How is the kleken?” Thal’rin asked, “you looked horrified when Bayont was preparing it.”
Vincent felt embarrassed. Had he been that transparent? “I like it,” he said, “it’s very good. It just looked weird. And I’m not used to seeing live food being...um, killed.”
“You aren’t?” Thal’rin sounded surprised.
“I offer my apologies.” Bayont looked mortified. “If I had known, I would have done it out of sight.”
“What? Oh, n-no, you’re fine,” Vincent said, “I have nothing against it. I’m just not used to it. Where I come from, it’s not necessary to keep seafood alive. We have machines that can freeze them.”
“Freeze them?” Bayont repeated.
“Fascinating,” Thal’rin breathed, “only a few times in my life have I ever seen it get cold enough to freeze. But what would be the purpose of creating a machine that does such a thing?”
“It preserves food,” Vincent said, “the colder something gets, the slower it decays.”
“Ah...that makes sense. It has been observed that carrion festers far more quickly in hot weather than cooler weather. But how do your people accomplish such a thing?”
Vincent had to think about it for a bit. “I don’t know if I can explain it,” he said, “you don’t know what electricity is. Do you know what a refrigerant is? Do you have anything that uses phase changes?”
“I have never heard of these terms,” Thal’rin said.
“Well, if you take a gas and compress it until it becomes a liquid, that generates heat. But if you let it cool down, then you pump the high-pressure liquid into a low-pressure chamber, it will vaporize back into a gas. That reaction absorbs heat. That’s what we use to freeze stuff. It’s actually a bit more complicated than that, there are a few more steps, but that’s the main mechanism.”
Vincent took a moment to try the soup. He watched Bayont eat hers and emulated what she did: He raised the bowl to his snout and tried to “drink” from the spout. He didn’t know how she poured the vegetables into her mouth without spilling the soup everywhere. He had to cup the sides of his lips with one hand, his palm acting as a funnel. He felt silly as he lowered the bowl. His mouth was a mess, but the flavor was tangy and wholesome.
Thal’rin waited until Vincent cleaned himself off before he asked more questions. He wanted to know more about this “lore”, and about human technology in general. He found fascination in the tiniest of details. Vincent didn’t know all the answers, but for every answer given, as brief as it may have been, it seemed to spawn five more questions, inquiries Thal’rin must have been sitting on for days, questions Vincent himself had never even thought of.
The High Channeler’s growing enthusiasm became infectious and soon, Vincent found himself wanting to ask questions of his own, inquiries that every nerd who ever lived wanted to ask of an alien race. But he wouldn’t even know where to begin. Though Thal'rin's curiosity was almost child-like at times, he clearly knew what kind of questions to ask, what threads to pursue.
Occasionally, when Vincent mentioned a term or technology that had no Falian counterpart, Thal'rin sometimes guided his answers in order to clarify the term and reduce it to its mere function rather than the details of how it worked. He did this because he wanted to paint himself a brief picture of Vincent's world without being overwhelmed by the technical details. It was a smart technique. Vincent lacked the experience and wisdom to ask these kinds of questions. Everywhere he looked, he just wanted to ask “What is that? How does it work? What did you all evolve from? What causes that crystal to glow?”
The conversation took unexpected turns all the time. The topic shifted to music and Vincent casually mentioned listening to a song on repeat while studying.
“On repeat?” Thal’rin said.
“I mean I...” Vincent stopped. These people didn’t have MP3 players or any portable music devices that he knew of. “We have devices that let us listen to whatever music we want to wherever we go. We can get them to play a song over and over again if we want to. That’s what I meant by ‘on repeat’.”
“How big is this object?” Bayont asked, “it is hard for me to conjure an image of such a thing.”
“I can fit mine in my pocket,” Vincent said.
Thal’rin crossed his arms in amusement. The crackling fire in the braziers nearby reflected at the edges of his eyes.
“You have lore like this,” he said, “and yet you are afraid of being seduced by our world?”
That question gave Vincent pause for thought. To be able to listen to Tool or Guns N’ Roses on a whim was something he took for granted. But these people did not have that technology yet. If they wanted to listen to music, they must have to listen to a live performance. To them, MP3 players would sound like a luxury.
“I think...it is time for ashes,” Bayont said.
Vincent didn’t know what “ashes” was, but he let Thal’rin take his empty dishes. Then he sat back and watched as they cleaned off the table. He was mesmerized by the way they used their wings to sweep bits of stray food into a bin. When they were finished, Thal’rin unhooked a thick stone bowl from the wall, approached one of the braziers and scooped some embers into it. He placed it on the table. Bayont returned holding pieces of blue ohnite in her hands.
“This is a ritual of ours,” Thal’rin explained, “the blue dye represents the blood spilled from the Weaver’s champions: Telo One-Wing, Frellen the Burned, Naikira Herald-Slayer, and many more. On these pieces of ohnite, which have been impregnated with incense, we write down our fears, our wishes, and our hopes. Then we burn them. The smoke that rises is symbolic. It represents how our words ascend until they enter the Weaver’s domain, where he can hear our pleas. You may join us in this if you wish, or you may sit and watch. It is your choice.”
Thal’rin pushed forward a piece of blue ohnite and a stick of charcoal. Vincent hesitated, unsure of whether or not he should risk offending them. But then he turned it down. Thal’rin nodded and took the ohnite back. Vincent sat in silence as both of them started writing. The room filled with the sound of their charcoal scratching. When they were finished, they both placed their ohnite on top of the embers. Smoke rose and an earthy scent filled the air. Rings of fire bloomed across the ohnite as it burst into flame. Both of them folded their wingsa in front of their chests and bowed in reverence. Then Bayont took away the bowl and dumped the embers back into the brazier.
“You were about to explain to me what electricity is before we started our meal,” Thal’rin said, “and then we got sidetracked.”
“Yeah...we did.” Vincent said, “I think I’d need something to draw on in order to explain it.”
“Well, I have plenty of things to draw on in my study. We can go there, if you’re willing to sate an old fool’s curiosity.”
“Sure.”
After awkwardly thanking Bayont for the meal, he followed Thal’rin upstairs to his study, a room whose walls were lined with scrolls, books, and an assortment of odd trinkets. Vincent could tell each object had a story behind it. A circular window in the ceiling allowed Meldohv’s purple glow to pour in. Thal’rin turned a few nytic crystals and their harsh glow filled the room. He covered them in amber-tinted glass, making their light softer and easier on the eyes.
Vincent used a chalkboard to introduce Thal’rin to the concept of atoms. He explained the different elements and how they were identified by their proton count. He explained what electrons are and he explained conductivity. Soon, he had a crude representation of electron flow sketched out.
Unhindered by the haze of schizophrenia, he was able to elaborate on concepts and maths he often struggled to retain. This is what he should have been; this was the mind that was stolen from him. He was lucid, his thoughts were fast and unfettered. At least, that’s what he thought until he saw Thal’rin trace a claw over the electron orbitals. The High Channeler’s presence shattered the illusion of a clear mind. Vincent was talking to a dragon. Suddenly, he doubted the veracity of everything he had just explained. His mind could not be trusted.
“I can only imagine the history that led to your peoples' discovery of this lore...” Thal'rin said, “I look at this, and I see a thousand mountains falling.”
Vincent stepped back as the High Channeler examined his drawings.
“What led you to pursue this path?” Thal’rin asked.
Vincent had to think about that for a bit.
“My grandmother got me a science kit,” he said, “a long time ago, when I was still a kid. It had you build a robot. It had all the parts, you had to put them together.”
“A robot?” Thal’rin repeated.
“It was a toy,” Vincent said, “it had two legs and an arm, and it would walk on its own. I thought it was the most amazing thing in the world, so I bugged my mom to get me more of these kits. I mean, they were difficult, they were challenging. But I got hooked. There’s just something about putting all the components together, learning how a system works. It’s a puzzle, a problem that needs a solution. I learned you could swap parts from one kit with another and build your own stuff. You weren’t supposed to, but I did anyway. I got really good at it too. But then the schizophrenia started kicking into full gear...”
Vincent looked at his hands. The iridescent sheen gleamed on his fingers.
“That’s your name for the Bane, if I recall,” Thal’rin said.
“Yeah, it is. And it just...screwed me over at every turn. It’s like I’m not allowed to be lucid. I’m not allowed to be the genius I was supposed to be. Every time I took a step forward or made progress, it would ruin everything.” He stopped and took a breath. He was getting too heated.
“Living with the Bane is as foreign of a concept to me as these drawings,” Thal’rin said.
“I actually don’t like talking about it,” Vincent said, “but yeah, I think that’s where it started. I like to solve problems. There’s just something about electronics and engineering...about putting together a system, they both require a combination of creativity and logic that hooks me. It forces you to think differently, to think unconventionally. Once you learn the rules of a system, you can exploit them and make it do your bidding. That’s what engineering is. If you’re trying to find out who I am, that’s who. I’m a problem solver at my core.”
Or at least that’s what I want to be, he thought, but I don’t know what to do about my situation.
“I can appreciate that,” Thal’rin said, his sentence turning into a yawn. He stretched his wings and smacked his lips. “I thank you for joining us tonight. I enjoyed your company and Bayont did as well. I wish we could talk more, my questions are never-ending. But it is getting late, and I need to rest my wings for the night. Are you sure I can’t convince you to come with me to the archives tomorrow?”
“I’d...rather not,” Vincent said, “sorry.”
“No need to apologize, I understand.”
They left the study and Vincent headed to his room. He shut the door behind him, walked over to the table containing the circuit schematics and picked one up. He had enjoyed his meal with Thal’rin and his wife. It was surreal and alien, like something out of a childhood fantasy. But the sketch he held in his hand was a reminder: his mind could not be trusted. They couldn’t be real. And the voids in his memory lurked in the back of his mind.
Comments
Abraham Carson
Fixed. Thanks for catching these.
Joseph Sikorski
No toy? Poor, poor Thal’rin! What shall he do now! Mechanical things I noticed: …but for you, it isn’t do easy, is it? … -> …it isn’t TOO easy… … Thal’rin turned a few nytic crystals… -> …turned ON a few…?
