The inside of the cottage is in even worse shape. The house has suffered the consequences of being open to the elements. The windows are covered gray by years of accumulated dirt. There are random holes in the roof. Aris treads carefully, feeling the bounciness of the worn wood floors. With each step, the roof quivers as if it might collapse under its own weight. Dust stirs as they make their way to the back of the one-room house.
“The Crone lives here?” Aris asks. “It doesn’t look like anyone can live here.”
In the back of the house, she sees a ladder leading up toward the ceiling.
“We have to go up the stairs,” he says and climbs.
She thinks calling the structure stairs is generous. The rickety ladder is precariously attached to the loft above them.
“Are you coming?” he says from the loft. His head looks as if it is floating in midair.
It’s harder than she thought to lift herself up with only the strength of her two arms. A layer of dust coats her hands like frosting on a cake.
She reaches the loft and wipes her dirty hands on her pants. She scans around the room. The tiny space is lined on all sides with shelves filled with books. They smell of mildew and memories.
“The first time I was here I felt like Jack climbing the beanstalk. But instead of the goose and the golden eggs, I found this,” Metis says.
In his hand is an old book with a cover so tattered she can barely see the words. Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez.
He opens the book and reads a passage. Suddenly, bright light shines up from the book, bathing the room white, like the inside of a hospital. She staggers backward. Her hip hits the corner of a bookshelf, tilting her off balance.
“Don’t be afraid. The Crone will show up soon.”
Aris walks to him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he whispers in her ear. “It’s a hologram.”
She’s reminded of the same technology at the Natural History Museum and relaxes.
An ancient woman materializes before them. Her conjured image appears as if veiled by fog. She is a vision in white. Skin as pale as the moon. Hair the color of chalk. Her silvery gown blows behind her as if she is standing in a breeze.
“Hello, Metis,” the ethereal voice says. “How many days?”
The Crone sounds to Aris like someone talking in a dream.
“It’s February twentieth. Twenty-eight days before Tabula Rasa,” Metis says.
She looks at Aris. “Hello.”
“This is Aris. My wife,” Metis says.
Aris’s hand goes to the ring on her finger. The Crone’s face softens.
“Metis has been waiting for you a long time.”
“Hello,” Aris says.
“We’re being hunted by the Interpreter Center. They stole Absinthe and hypnos from my house. They know my connection to it,” Metis says.
The room brightens. Aris can feel the old lady’s anger burning the air, sucking out oxygen. The Crone’s aura slowly dims.
“So here we are again,” the Crone says.
“You’ve been in this situation before?” Aris asks.
“The Interpreter Center has been trying to destroy Absinthe since its genesis. It has come close many times. And for as long as it exists, they will continue to search with the intent to get rid of it, just as they do dreams they find harmful to the Four Cities.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Aris says.
“No, child, we can’t. But that’s what they do. They erase everything they think would threaten the Four Cities. They’ll want to erase your memories next. Now that you know of my existence.”
Aris shudders at her words. “Can we hide here with you?”
“No more than a day or so. We’re still in the middle of a city. Soon, we’ll be found. We can’t attract attention to this cottage,” Metis says.
“There’s a place. A cave on the edge of the desert. It’s a sanctuary for the Sandmen,” the Crone says.
Aris’s heart leaps. There, she and Metis can wait out Tabula Rasa.
“You’ve never told me this before,” Metis says. His voice sounds hurt.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you,” the old woman says.
She looks at Aris. “Stay here for the day. Traveling at night will be safer.
The Crone walks to the window. “Rest, and I’ll keep watch.”
Metis places his backpack on the floor and sits down. Aris lowers herself next to him. The silence is palpable. The danger they face weighs heavily on him. She knows he feels responsible.
Aris looks at the Crone and wonders what life for Metis would have been like had he not found her and Absinthe. Would he have eventually remembered her on his own? Would he have moved on to another lover?
Metis looks exhausted. They have not slept for many hours. She reaches over and touches his haggard face.
“Sleep, love,” she says.
“I miss you calling me that.”
He leans over and kisses her. He takes his jacket off and makes a ball for a pillow. He lays down and closes his eyes. She is glad. He has been through so much. His slow breathing tells her he has fallen asleep at once.
The Crone gazes at him with gentleness. The affection the old woman has for her Sandman is evident. Aris has so many questions for her. She picks one from the pile in her mind.
“Have there been many Sandmen before Metis?” Aris asks.
“Yes. Not every cycle. But many.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ve been around since the beginning of the Four Cities.”
“How old are the Four Cities?”
The old woman smiles but does not answer.
Aris picks another question. “What are you?”
“I was once alive like you. I’m what you can call ‘consciousness.’ I am what I was. Just without a body in the traditional sense. What you see as me is my last memory of my physical self. What I am, what I say, is still me.”
“What happened to your body?”
“Gone with the wind. Just like all who have died.”
Aris thinks of Benja and the Ceremony of the
