Maybe that is why the longer you know someone, the more their mind becomes familiar to you. It could explain how sometimes people who have never met come up with the same ideas. Or how some people can predict the future actions of another—like knowing someone would contact you before they do. Or feeling the death of a loved one miles away as it unfolds without knowing.
Shared consciousness. Perhaps people are not so different from each other after all. Perhaps uniqueness is but an illusion masked by perceived subjectivity. Perhaps the thing that inspired Metis to create a song so heartrending and beautiful is the same one that has inspired many others throughout time.
His face comes to her. Up close, it has the stillness and refined quality of a marble statue. It is thin with cheekbones that roll down like hills and a straight nose like the ridge of a mountain. He reminds her of the desert. Alluring and desolate.
His eyes unsettled her. She remembers wanting to and at the same time not wanting to look into the black pools. No. A voice inside warned her of danger. Like the desert, she could get lost in them.
Sadness dribbles down like drifts of snow. She shivers despite the warm bath. The hole in her chest cavity gapes open. The emptiness. Will it trail her for the rest of her life?
The song ends. Aris lets her body become heavy and sink to the bottom of the tub. She watches the bubbles from her nose swim like pearl divers back up to the surface. Strands of her hair wave, sinuous like seaweed, in the water. She forces the thought of the pianist out of her mind, walling it away like the cold rain outside.
Chapter Nine
There is a small room inside the library on the corner of Spring and Flora. In it is a gathering. At first glance, it has the appearance of an innocuous book club meeting. People of all ages stand in a loose circle. Some are engaging in friendly chatting. Some hang alone in the periphery, preferring their own company.
Metis is in the middle, as he always is. Next to him is a table and on it is a tray full of empty shot glasses. Eirene, the one to take over his post, is not yet ready to become the Sandman. It is a big job, but it’s only for a few months, he had told her. And until she’s ready, he’ll do the heavy lifting. He had suggested Eirene to the Crone partly because he knew she would need time. But mainly because she’s loyal.
It’s Thursday morning, a quiet time of the week. He chose it to ensure privacy. Most people use the library for leisure, and wouldn’t come until after work.
In his hand is a book. He wears a wooden mask the color of night. Only one other Dreamer has seen his face. He prefers it that way. His anonymity is pivotal to the duty that rests on his shoulders. Even if it will soon end.
“Welcome,” Metis says, “I see a few new faces. You’re here because one of us chose you. Each of us has different criteria, so consider the match serendipitous.”
He pulls out a blue origami crane from the book. “This is how you were given the message. And this is the only way you will be contacted.”
He walks around, scanning the crowd. A striking face catches his attention.
Why is he here?
“Every one of us is being tracked. The system knows our movements, where we go, what we do, even what we eat,” he says and stops in front of a woman.
She blushes. Her young face looks as if she has not gone more than two cycles. Freckles decorate the bridge of her nose; her brown hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun; her red lips are bright against her pale golden skin. She reminds him a little of his wife.
He offers her his hand. She hesitantly takes it. He raises her hand as if readying for a dance.
“This,” he says and points to the silver bracelet around her wrist, “is their tool. Wearing it gives away your location. Each time you contact someone from this, it is tracked. Every decision you make with this on—what restaurants you eat at, what clothes you wear, what books you read—you feed information to the system. You give it the ability to predict your pattern. Don’t be predictable.”
He lets go of her hand and says in a lower voice. “Please leave it at home.”
The young woman nods.
Metis looks around. “There is only one reason we’re all here. To remember. Tabula Rasa has stolen our pasts from us. But not everything. This we know.”
Sounds of agreement rise from the crowd. Many nod.
Metis walks around the circle. “If this is your first meeting, I warn that you are entering into a dangerous agreement. What we do here is not sanctioned. Some may say it’s forbidden. We break the rules bound by Tabula Rasa.”
The newcomers exchange looks with each other.
“Being here means you’ve decided to choose the past. It cannot collide with the present. That means nothing leaves here. You may not contact one another outside this space unless approved by me. If you do, we will be forced to cease our contact with you,” Metis says.
He continues, “Second, you may not contact someone from your dreams. Doing so will put what we do in danger.” Guilt rises as he speaks this rule.
Metis clears his throat and raises his voice. “There are threats out there against Absinthe and dreams. The police, the Interpreter Center, the entire system exist to keep peace. If you get mixed up with them, you won’t be allowed back. If they know who you are, they will use you to trace back to any one of us. If any of you want to leave, please do so now.”
No one
