He turns his attention back to the young woman and says solemnly. “Ask yourself if you really want this. Before it’s too late.”
She shakes her head. “I’m staying.”
He puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “Would you like to share your story?”
She smiles tentatively.
“We’re united by the same desire. You’re safe here,” Metis says.
“Well, I’ve been getting this dream since the beginning of the cycle. It’s always the same dream. In it is a man. I can see his face, but it’s blurry, like looking through water. From the way I felt in the dreams, I know he was my lover. He must have been,” she says.
“Thank you—uh.”
“Seraphina. My name is Seraphina.”
“Thank you, Seraphina, for sharing your story.”
He leaves her and walks toward the person he has been curious about since he laid eyes on him. He stops in front of the man with tousled hair. The man is more handsome in close range, Metis thinks begrudgingly. He feels the razor-edged whip of jealousy opening a wound in his chest. He desires to punch the beautiful face and wreck it. Instead, he swallows down the thick, bitter taste of resentment.
“Welcome. What’s your name?”
“Benja.”
“Tell us why you’re here.”
“My story is like Seraphina’s. I’m plagued by a dream. It plays like a loop. Sometimes after I wake, I think I can recall it. But when I try, it vanishes. Just out of reach. The feelings are what stay.”
“Why do you want to remember your past?” Metis asks.
Benja shrugs. “I suppose for the same reason as everyone here. I need to know there’s more to this life than the four years allotted.”
“You will accept the consequences of remembering?” Metis asks, “It is true what they say about bliss in ignorance.”
Benja nods.
“You may disagree later,” says Metis.
“I’m certain. I need to know. I must know. It’s all I want.”
“All?”
Benja’s eyes show the determination of a rock wall. Metis is conflicted about him being here. Benja possesses the woman he loves. Aris should be the reason for him to want the present. Instead, he is choosing the past. Yet the knowledge gives Metis hope.
Metis has an intense desire to both kick Benja to the floor and ask him everything about Aris. He wants to find out if she is happy or whether she also walks around with a hole in her heart. Is she getting odd dreams?
He must have been quiet too long, because Benja begins to look at him strangely. Metis clears his throat. He walks back to the middle of the room.
“I’m going to repeat what I said. Being here means you choose the past. The past and the present do not mix. The moment you choose the present, you will not be allowed back.”
Metis opens the book in his palms like wings. The Dreamers, those who have been here before, walk closer. One takes the hands of those next to her. They in turn take the hands of the people next to them. The newcomers look at each other and hesitantly follow. A circle forms around Metis. Everyone’s eyes are on him.
He looks down at the pages of Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. The text is so faded he can barely make out the words. But he has memorized the passage he needs. He speaks it. The room becomes hazy, like a white fog has descended upon it. Then it brightens, as if bathed in starlight.
The wispy figure of the Crone stands before them. Her translucent face is a landscape of ancient wisdom. Metis looks around the room. The difference between those who have been to a meeting and those who have not is obvious. The expressions on the newcomers’ faces range between awe and fear, while the rest look on with calmness.
“Hello,” the Crone says.
“Hello,” everyone says.
She looks at Metis. “How many days?”
“It’s October twenty-third. One hundred and forty-eight days left before the cycle ends,” he says.
She turns to the crowd. “You’re all here because you want to remember the past Tabula Rasa had taken from you.” Her ethereal voice flows around the room like the whooshing of wind.
“I don’t deny that Tabula Rasa was created out of a desire for peace. But anything that takes away choice eats away at our soul. Without our memories, we are but empty vessels waiting to be filled and drained at each cycle. Love, the most vital of human needs, cannot exist fully outside the garden of memories. And Absinthe is its nourishment.”
She glides around the room, casting lights and shadows on the faces of the Dreamers.
“Absinthe will open your mind, forging connections to the hidden memories inside dreams. Dreams are essential to remembering. Without them, Absinthe would be ineffective. There are those who will seek to destroy Absinthe and your dreams. Remember that.”
Metis brings out a flask from his jacket and pours a small amount of the green liquid into each waiting glass on the table. Once they are filled, he walks the tray to each Dreamer until everyone has Absinthe in their hands. Metis studies Benja’s face. He looks as if he is in ecstasy.
“To beautiful dreams,” the Crone says.
“To beautiful dreams,” everyone repeats. Each flicks the glass up, draining it.
“May I speak with you?” Seraphina asks.
The room is empty except for Benja and two others chatting in one corner. It looks smaller now.
“Sure,” Metis says.
He guides her to the other side of the room, where they will not be overheard. A lock of hair escapes the loose pile on top of her head and covers one eye. She sweeps it behind her ear.
“I was hoping you could help me understand the reason we may not contact someone from our dreams,” she asks in a small voice, her eyes earnest.
“Because that person doesn’t exist anymore,” he says, feeling his stomach hollowing with those words. “That person belongs to the past.”
“You don’t believe we stay who we are?”
“Our core stays the same, yes. But everything else changes. They now have a new
