Serial
10: Homewards
October
29th, 32 S.D. 10:40 Palostrol, Upper Vestel
I have never known a world without death. I am no stranger to the sense of emptiness and loss that fills a heart when a loved one passes. Dying was simply a fact of our lives in the Central Plains. Clan rivalries, tribal disputes, and outright warfare claimed so many of our souls year by year. It had always been that way, for centuries past, a culture of combat and supremacy. As one of the larger and more dominant Asten clans, we were as much the subjects of aggression as we were instigators and perpetrators ourselves. Not a month endured before one of us was killed by members of another clan. It was only ever a ceaseless cycle on the eternal basis of retaliation.
The first funeral I remember was that of my eldest half brother. He was much older than I, a grown man. I scarcely recall his face, the manner in which he acted, or even his voice. What I still see clearly, even all these years afterwards, is the blood dripping from the stretcher that carried him away on the night he died. A sheet covered most of his body, but his hand slid out, and with it a trail of slick crimson. They tried to usher me away quickly to prevent me from seeing too much, but all it took was the one glimpse I had already stolen. That night’s memory was immortalized in a single image.
He was only the first of many such people I was to lose. By the time I was six, I had seen no less than 27 of my kin put to rest in earthen beds. Some of them were close to me; others I had never met before. Our clan had a seemingly uncountable number of members, yet I could not know them all. The burials only highlighted how random our world was. Any one of us, well known or not, was little spared the violence of the Central Plains. Whomever was next was nothing more than chance and circumstance.
Around the time I turned seven though, mother and father agreed to send me away to Palostrol after meeting with Master Eltin. He came to the Central Plains, describing a new school he had founded and that he was looking for prospective students. I do not know what he did or showed them to convince both to let a rather unknown man have charge of their daughter, but they agreed. They said I would be safe, that I could grow up as no one else in our clan had ever done. Though at first I was offended by the whole design, I was not raised to object my parents in even the slightest degree. I had no idea what sort of school Master Eltin was running - even after he carefully explained it to me - nor any understanding of my parents’ motives. I only saw it as my being torn away from all that I had known. Even if half of my familiarity consisted of the graves we dug, I was still fearful of leaving home. Yet now, I cannot have been more grateful for their insights.
In Palostrol, for the first time in my life, there was no news of death. For the first time ever, I spent a year in full without having to watch our people buried. It were as if I had been removed from a broken instance of the world and suddenly placed into one that was free of ill. Realistically, however, things were not quite so perfect.
At least twice a year, I would exchange lengthy letters with mother. She would update me on the affairs of the clan; there was always at the end a list of those who had perished since the last missive between us. As time passed and peace became more and more real, I began to feel guilty that I could only grieve so far away, over a piece of paper rather than a casket. But that was what mother and father had wanted after all, for me to live such a life. For 13 years I had not had to attend a funeral, let alone open yet another hole in both my heart and the ground. This was a blessing and luxury few other Astens can have, and I did not take it for granted. All the same, would that it could have lasted. Even after so many deaths in my lifetime, the next was never any easier than the first.
The normally vibrant and bustling grounds of the school were uncannily quiet, just as they had been for days. Where students once talked amongst themselves, only the distant twitter of birds could be heard. The halls were empty, the rooms left abandoned, and every inch around them seemed stale, frozen. It was only the three of them left out of hundreds who had once called this place their home.
On that morning, a dull fog descended from Mount Anhel, reducing visibility to the gates on either side of Palostrol. It were as if today were some sort of dreamscape, as if they stood in a realm divorced from the outside world and its reality. However, what Losha, Denze, and Mesel did then was certainly no dream, even though they wished it could have been otherwise.
A rectangular hole roughly two meters deep sat before them. Next to that, a mound of upturned earth piled evenly to the side, followed by a stern, wooden box. Its contents had since been shut with a thick lid, nailed and enclosed tightly. They were at the far edge of the training field, a tranquil spot that was more appropriate and less haunting than the eerie likes of the rest of Palostrol. What without anyone else around, the scale of the school itself seemed too ghostly as a final place to lay their master. Here they were afforded some amount of peace and some distance from memories.
Most of what needed to be done, Losha had already seen to and taken care of. Though it were a grim task, she’d gone to Oskarya to have a casket readied. She’d wasted no time, as she went down there as soon as the next day had dawned, after that night. She’d also been the one to prepare the body, arrange the burial site, and by her work the hole had been dug. That only left one more thing for them to do: the ceremony. However, what they ended up having was a far cry from a formal event. On the contrary, it was a most pitiful scene.
Losha, Denze, and Mesel stood before the open grave. Denze leaned against Losha for support, but his need was physical not emotional. His ribs had yet to fully healed from his fight with Einer. He still wheezed a bit and had to take short, shallow breaths to avoid pain. His face, arms, and torso were marked with various, sullied bandages. Mesel still seemed to reside in some state of shock. He observed everything with absent eyes, gazing at all vacantly, remotely. Since the incident, he’d barely spoken a single word to either of them. He’d not asked for an explanation of things as they’d occurred, even though both Losha and Denze described the ordeal as best as they could anyway. He merely accepted what had transpired. Even now, the boy stared at their master’s awaiting tomb with no emotion portrayed. Losha had not cried since that night, but neither had she smiled. Though she had always appeared to all as a pensive student, her mind was obviously churning over a matter of some kind during the whole while. Her focus just never remained on what she was actually doing, as if the motions were but mechanical to her.
The funeral carried with it a sort of perfunctory air. It wasn’t hurried or anything, but it felt as if it had to be done since Losha had moved it along herself. Now with the former students assembled here, they each found themselves at a loss for words. There were many things indeed to say, but the timing of everything was entirely off. How they would have spent the day in somber remembrance, speaking and sobbing over their slain teacher. But at that moment, they could bring themselves to mention nothing. Perhaps it simply were too soon. For some minutes, they stood there idly, biding these moments in utter silence. After a time, however, Denze dryly, scratchily began to talk.
“Well,” he said hoarsely, then waited another instant. “Well! Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” he asked, his voice rattling in agitation. Yet an additional minute passed in perfect stillness.
“Shrieks!” he exclaimed.
“Denze,” Losha said, but he persisted.
“What’s wrong with you two?! This is Master Eltin; the least we can do is say a few parting words!” He coughed abruptly as he grabbed his side tightly after the fit. “Ow, ow, ow...” he gasped.
Losha looked down at him but said nothing.
“Shrieks...” Denze said again as he suppressed yet more coughs trying to escape his throat.
An early breeze blew as a bit of sunlight filtered through the waning fog. With it though, the cold air of a new season rode in. Using her free hand, Losha made a sweeping gesture, at the end of which the blue glow of her seras enveloped Eltin’s coffin. It raised up some 15 centimeters off of the grass and hovered over to the hole without so much as a sound. She used this levitation series to move it and rotate it precisely over the pit. Once in place, it gently sunk down, slowly collapsing below and out of sight. After a brief pause, Losha then performed a similar kinetic series to push the dirt into the grave. Bit by bit, an avalanche of fresh soil fell upon the coffin’s lid, at first lightly thumping against the surface, but then hushing softly as the space began to fill. As the ground sealed up around Eltin’s grave, Losha made sure to even out and pack it.
She was no stone mason, nor had she any experience crafting any sort of object like it, however she had managed to fashion a headstone of a sort for this occasion. She’d seen enough to know what it roughly took to make one. This was nothing more than a large rock she’d found along the slopes of Mount Anhel, some 30 centimeters tall and wide by some 20 centimeters long. It was of a pale, whitish, yellowish hue. Though it was originally unevenly shaped, Losha had the ingenuity to create a new series that used precise coats of pulsating kinetic energy to sand and chisel it down. Now it looked almost square and somewhat smooth. She’d also found a blank steel sheet about the size of both her hands put side by side. Yet another series had allowed her to engrave it, and a final one soldered it permanently to the stone.
They brought the headstone with them, but unlike the other labors of the funeral, its placement was a task observed without the use of serialization. Losha gave Denze a crutch she’d found in a storehouse. She didn’t mind letting him lean against her, but she couldn’t lay the last piece of this rite while he did so. She turned around and picked up the stone, then she walked around the grave and affixed the monument in its proper place. She walked back in front of the site, but she didn’t return to her friends right away. Instead she stood before it all, staring at the work she’d done. A single sigh escaped her as she read the headstone’s words.
“Master Sambur Eltin. - 32 S.D. A loving teacher who gave us the wonders of the world.”
She remained there, almost immobilized for at least a full minute. However, with a sudden, silent breath, as if awakening, she straightened up. She reached for her golden sash that was imprinted with her insignia, the mark of her scholarship. Undoing the wraps, she took it off slowly.
“Losha,” Denze said, his speech still coming out gruffly. “What are you doing? Losha!”
But she did not answer him. Holding the long, loose clothing in one hand, she gazed at the symbol spread across her open grasp. Without a word, she went back over to the headstone and tied it around the base, making certain to expose the stylized icon in front. She then returned, but now Mesel did the same, detaching his red sash around his arm. Denze mumbled something low and dropped his head, yet he too followed their lead. He had much trouble trying to get his off of his head since he had to undo the knot one-handed while supporting his other side. Losha however, stepped behind him and undid the sash. She came around, offering the blue cloth to him.
Neither Losha nor Mesel had ever seen Denze without his left eye covered up, if not with the sash, then by something else. Even after all of these years together, the two had never probed him as to why. Whatever his reasons for doing so, they had left the matter up to him if and when he should decide to tell. There were no visible scars or markings over his eye, and by all outward appearances it looked fine enough. Nevertheless, he kept it shut. Losha and Mesel looked at him only for a moment but said nothing. Even if they wanted to, now was not the time.
With some effort, Denze tied his sash around the headstone, leaning and kneeling carefully so as not to upset his many aches, especially his ribs. His slightly overlapped Losha’s and Mesel’s and was cocked up at an angle. He came over to them both and again they all stood together in front of the grave. The somber silence persisted, but only for a time. Losha bowed deeply at the waist; it was a sign of respect that Eltin had never been shown in life, chiefly because he never required it of his students. Now, however, it seemed rather fitting.
“Thank you Master Eltin, for everything.”
On cue, Mesel and Denze followed suite; Denze bent forward less so, naturally. Upon raising their heads, the trio turned slowly and took leave of their master’s presence one last time.
Their entire routines, their ways of life, all of that had been shattered on that forsaken night. There were no more classes, no more lessons and assignments, and no more company from other fellow students and friends. Everything that had been habitually ingrained in them was now ripped asunder and cast away. The order of their lives was nullified. They ate at odd times, slept late, stayed up too long, and spent listless days unfulfilled as they itched to do something, anything, yet realized nothing. Unscheduled and unorganized, a sense of gloom pervaded. With the glue of their daily actions suddenly gone, they could scarcely hold themselves together. Other than Losha’s role with the funeral and Denze’s recovery, there was little else of focus for them. Such as their conditions were, they remained effectively adrift and alone. The following night after their little service to Eltin, a looming question presided over their thoughts.
“What next?” Denze said, vocalizing what they all collectively had on their minds. It was past ten ‘o’ clock. They occupied a small lounge in the recreation building. Two gas lamps burned about the room as an amber glow fought the likes of darkness. Mesel sat in a chair at a table, his body facing the wrong way, his legs straddling the seat’s back. He had his hands atop one another on the back as he laid his chin on them; he looked at his companions with passive eyes. Denze too sat in a chair, but out of necessity. He’d taken to wearing a black cloth similarly as he had his old sash. Losha leaned against the window sill, her face turned to the night’s lightless domain. No one reacted to Denze’s question, not at first.
“It’ll be winter soon,” he said. “It’s not like we don’t have supplies enough to last us until next year but... I guess that’s not really the point...” He paused for a bit. “I guess what I mean to say is, what do we do with ourselves now? Do we stay here? Do we try to start over? Forget everything? What’s next for us?”
For a while, Losha kept looking outside. Although she had explained the key events of that night to Mesel and the rest for Denze, she’d told neither about the “right” that King had bestowed upon her. At first, she truly had no want to mention it, but now, days later, it felt almost impossible to bring up, as if the opportunity had erased itself. In fact, it were as if the matter necessarily had to remain a secret. She never before had hidden such important information away from her friends, but she also had never before handled anything like their current situation.
Losha pushed off the window sill and glanced at Denze and Mesel. Although Mesel sat there staring blankly forward while swaying his legs back and forth, Denze perched on the edge of his seat, looking up at her. She was no longer a student of their beloved school, that was true enough, but she was still the oldest and wisest of the three of them. Though no more vested with the master’s authority as a mentor, the nature of their predicament left her responsible for their fates, one and all. Even if she rejected King’s invitation to decide the course of serialization, she still had to choose what they would do. She hadn’t ignored Denze’s question, nor was it a question she herself had not devoted time to study. Rather, it had been the only thing that had truly grabbed her thoughts these past few days. Despite how thoroughly she had considered it, she remained uncertain of how well it would be received.
“I...” she began. “I am going back home, to the Central Plains.”
Mesel but shifted his gaze slightly. Denze blinked hard.
“You, what?” he asked.
“I am going back to my home in Aste. Back to my family. I do not demand that you follow me, but we are companions, and I insist that you do.”
“Losha,” Denze said exhaling, standing up. “You really expect us to go?”
“And by that you mean?”
The corner of his mouth curled down in a frown. “Come now, you know as well as I do how that land is. It boils down to which clan you’re affiliated with or which tribe you were born into. Stepping into the ‘wrong’ territory or fraternizing with the ‘wrong’ folks gets you killed.”
“And what point are you making?”
At her words, Denze merely frowned deeper, trying not to resort to anger.
“Don’t be daft about this,” he said. “The only reason you and I aren’t at each other’s throats is because we don’t know each other’s surname.”
“Is that so?” she asked, slightly glaring at him. “I should hope the true reason was that here in Palostrol we were above petty feuds and pointless retributions. I would have liked to believe that our lineage mattered not because we were indeed honest friends.” She folded her arms. Denze held up his hand though.
“Hey, wait, it was just a broad figure of speech, but you know how Astens are.”
“And what does it matter how Astens are? What does it matter how others are? What matters is how we are. Tell me, would you think any less of me after all these years if you knew whom I came from?”
“No... no of course not, Losha,” he stammered uneasily.
“And do you think I should care about your family name if I knew? I could not care less! What clan are you from then? The Kalon? The Prevati? Besnol? Vekla? Mulshana? Zelhat?”
Denze looked at her as she pressed him, but with a sigh, closing his eye, he sat back down.
“Not everyone is like us. Not everyone can so simply forget about history and the ties of blood. It’s not us that I’m worried about, Losha, it’s them. And there are a lot of them unwilling to understand. Will your family think as freely as you do, especially if I am an ‘enemy?’ That says nothing of those we may meet along the way either.”
Losha walked a short distance, her back turned to them as she spoke.
“I know well of your reservations, which is why I will not force you along. What I do ask is that you believe in me, that I can make the correct choices, not only as your friend, but as a fellow serialist. If you should trust me, I will guide us. I trust you enough to tell you my full name, even if you decide not to accompany me.”
She turned around and looked squarely at him.
“I am Losha Holvate Sventa,” she said coolly, evenly. “From this day forward, I shall also assume the title of master.”
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