ethan's dream
A few tiny orange fish investigated each of Ethan’s toes as soon as he slipped them, as gently as possible, into the water. They tickled him a little, but he held still, and tried to let the sensation distract him. He could barely see their flighty shapes flicking about beneath the surface, which was opacified by the glow of the Luna blossoms all along the canals. It had gotten late enough that most of the lamps had been extinguished in the buildings all around him. One by one, the golden squares had gone dark, and the glowing puff-balls seemed to have grown brighter.
This was the only indication Ethan had of how long he had been sitting there. He hadn't been home all day. He’d just been wandering from place to place, visiting each of his favorite spots, hardly making conversation with anyone before moving on as though led by some sort of spell. The city, and the world, had gone along as usual without him. The sun had set some time ago, during the hours when he had traced the labyrinth of the canals until he reached the center; here, the water of the canals pooled before rejoining the loop. Three willow trees grew around it, spaced evenly in a triangle. The lawn around and between them was thick with moss that blanketed their roots, seeming to warm them and hold them there. Drooping branches nudged ripples into the pool whenever the air stirred.
It was a clear night, with no moon in sight. The sky was flooded with stars that sparkled and supplemented the glow of the Luna blossoms, bathing the white stone of the city in a soft glow that did not throw shadows, but merely suggested them. The verdant green collage of the foliage was muted into a swatch of blended grays. He felt muted as well, as though he could blend into the landscape and remain all night without being noticed. That was all he wanted.
It had taken him a while to realize that he was angry. It was a feeling he didn't encounter much. He hadn't had much need for it. Growing up in the enclave, he had found himself falling easily into the highest tier of education, moving directly toward leadership, and he couldn't argue. After all, it was the best anyone could hope for. His father had never pushed or bullied him into following in his footsteps. It was natural. And yet for some reason, his insides had twisted themselves into a tangle that firmly gripped his heart, and squeezed every time he thought about walking into that room tomorrow, taking his place in the circle. He would be there every day from now on.
Ethan reached into his jacket and pulled out the book he’d been carrying with him all day. Its binding was strained by the scraps and leaflets tucked between every other page; the margins were filled with his tiny, even handwriting, indecipherable to most. All over the pages, words were circled lightly with pencil and connected with a web of lines that pulled the walls of text into beautiful visual knots. It was how he thought about everything. He remembered how all of his instructors had resisted it at first, and told him how he was unraveling all of the work that these writers had gone into in order to lay everything out so neatly in the first place, but when his marks continued to rise, they couldn't argue. He had absorbed the material entirely, more quickly and completely than any of his peers. These weavings were everything to him, as much as they seemed to frighten others. They were his power.
Only there had always been one problem: decisions. Generally, they had been made for him. And so he should have been comfortable, he thought, as he tried to rationalize it all- comfortable with this decision, too. It wasn't just the will of the vanarchs, either. God had left them with all of the pieces they needed to make this happen. He had walked the path God laid down for him, every step of the way.
So why didn't this feel like the right direction?
He had mistaken this anger for grief. At first, maybe it had been. He had clutched the book particularly tightly since he walked out of his room that morning, as though it would wriggle itself loose and be swept away, even after years of remaining faithfully under his arm. He had dreamed of it. In the dream, he mounted the steps that led to the gaping archways of the Hall. They yawned before him, seeming dark and hollow but for a glow deep within like the coals in the throat of a furnace. In the dream, though he was drawn toward them, and even as the folds of his cloak tugged on his legs and reached for the Hall as though the fiercest of winds were at his back, he was fighting something that pressed into his chest, threatening to send him tumbling backward down those steps. He had reached into his jacket and felt the book there. When he pulled it out, the familiar gold leaf lettering that adorned the cover rearranged itself, forming into a phrase he had never seen before. But as he squinted at it, the thing wrestled with his grip. The tighter he held on to it, the more it held on to him. In an instant, it had whirled him about and he faced the city below, only it was gone- subsumed entirely by a mist, thick and white and rising, climbing over the steps one at a time. The tree-tops were swallowed in it before his eyes. He looked to where his feet should have been, but suddenly it had reached them, and its viscous mass clung to his ankles. The book seized its opportunity. It was wrested from his grasp with a sudden and desperate force, and the draw of the Hall had won him. As he was swept away, he saw its pages come loose and flutter in all directions, wafting for a moment above the milk-white sea before they, too, were swallowed.
The inertia had jerked him awake. He started at the feeling even as he recalled it; the placid surface of the pool was disturbed with a splash, and the little orange fish scattered like so many pages. His skin was misted with a cold sweat, as it had been that morning, and again he tried desperately to recall the phrase that his book had shown him, but to no avail. It had meant something to him there, in that moment, in the world of his dreams, but now he was left only with the feeling that it had been his answer; and now, it was lost.
This was the only indication Ethan had of how long he had been sitting there. He hadn't been home all day. He’d just been wandering from place to place, visiting each of his favorite spots, hardly making conversation with anyone before moving on as though led by some sort of spell. The city, and the world, had gone along as usual without him. The sun had set some time ago, during the hours when he had traced the labyrinth of the canals until he reached the center; here, the water of the canals pooled before rejoining the loop. Three willow trees grew around it, spaced evenly in a triangle. The lawn around and between them was thick with moss that blanketed their roots, seeming to warm them and hold them there. Drooping branches nudged ripples into the pool whenever the air stirred.
It was a clear night, with no moon in sight. The sky was flooded with stars that sparkled and supplemented the glow of the Luna blossoms, bathing the white stone of the city in a soft glow that did not throw shadows, but merely suggested them. The verdant green collage of the foliage was muted into a swatch of blended grays. He felt muted as well, as though he could blend into the landscape and remain all night without being noticed. That was all he wanted.
It had taken him a while to realize that he was angry. It was a feeling he didn't encounter much. He hadn't had much need for it. Growing up in the enclave, he had found himself falling easily into the highest tier of education, moving directly toward leadership, and he couldn't argue. After all, it was the best anyone could hope for. His father had never pushed or bullied him into following in his footsteps. It was natural. And yet for some reason, his insides had twisted themselves into a tangle that firmly gripped his heart, and squeezed every time he thought about walking into that room tomorrow, taking his place in the circle. He would be there every day from now on.
Ethan reached into his jacket and pulled out the book he’d been carrying with him all day. Its binding was strained by the scraps and leaflets tucked between every other page; the margins were filled with his tiny, even handwriting, indecipherable to most. All over the pages, words were circled lightly with pencil and connected with a web of lines that pulled the walls of text into beautiful visual knots. It was how he thought about everything. He remembered how all of his instructors had resisted it at first, and told him how he was unraveling all of the work that these writers had gone into in order to lay everything out so neatly in the first place, but when his marks continued to rise, they couldn't argue. He had absorbed the material entirely, more quickly and completely than any of his peers. These weavings were everything to him, as much as they seemed to frighten others. They were his power.
Only there had always been one problem: decisions. Generally, they had been made for him. And so he should have been comfortable, he thought, as he tried to rationalize it all- comfortable with this decision, too. It wasn't just the will of the vanarchs, either. God had left them with all of the pieces they needed to make this happen. He had walked the path God laid down for him, every step of the way.
So why didn't this feel like the right direction?
He had mistaken this anger for grief. At first, maybe it had been. He had clutched the book particularly tightly since he walked out of his room that morning, as though it would wriggle itself loose and be swept away, even after years of remaining faithfully under his arm. He had dreamed of it. In the dream, he mounted the steps that led to the gaping archways of the Hall. They yawned before him, seeming dark and hollow but for a glow deep within like the coals in the throat of a furnace. In the dream, though he was drawn toward them, and even as the folds of his cloak tugged on his legs and reached for the Hall as though the fiercest of winds were at his back, he was fighting something that pressed into his chest, threatening to send him tumbling backward down those steps. He had reached into his jacket and felt the book there. When he pulled it out, the familiar gold leaf lettering that adorned the cover rearranged itself, forming into a phrase he had never seen before. But as he squinted at it, the thing wrestled with his grip. The tighter he held on to it, the more it held on to him. In an instant, it had whirled him about and he faced the city below, only it was gone- subsumed entirely by a mist, thick and white and rising, climbing over the steps one at a time. The tree-tops were swallowed in it before his eyes. He looked to where his feet should have been, but suddenly it had reached them, and its viscous mass clung to his ankles. The book seized its opportunity. It was wrested from his grasp with a sudden and desperate force, and the draw of the Hall had won him. As he was swept away, he saw its pages come loose and flutter in all directions, wafting for a moment above the milk-white sea before they, too, were swallowed.
The inertia had jerked him awake. He started at the feeling even as he recalled it; the placid surface of the pool was disturbed with a splash, and the little orange fish scattered like so many pages. His skin was misted with a cold sweat, as it had been that morning, and again he tried desperately to recall the phrase that his book had shown him, but to no avail. It had meant something to him there, in that moment, in the world of his dreams, but now he was left only with the feeling that it had been his answer; and now, it was lost.