Sweet Music

 
Clear Morning
A voice pulls me out of sleep.
“Wake up, Yagrin.”
“It’s almost time for the greeting.”

The world feels thick and dull as I try to rise.
Why am I so tired?

I’m alone a few minutes later when I finally get out of bed.
But I hear Shazira and Tzina on the deck.

I remember holding Tzina, after the attack, as she went to sleep.
But that was late afternoon.

I change into fresh clothes and wash up.
Then I join my family on the deck.
By the railing, facing west, where the sun rises.

The rising sun is hidden behind thick clouds.
But our Jiku eyes are more than human, and can see well enough in the dim light.

I feel a familiar energy in the air and I look out into the distance.
A lightning storm is coming.
But there’s time to complete the greeting before the storm arrives.

Shazira and Tzina are ready to begin the greeting of the sun.
Meditations and prayers, done every day in the midst of beautiful, flowing movements.

The greeting draws energy from the sun and clears the mind, the heart, and the body.

The first time I saw Shazira dance the greeting, I asked if the Jiku worship the sun.
She laughed.

“No, Yagrin,” she said slowly, like she was explaining something to a young child.
“We don’t deny that our sun is a wonderful part of the creation.”
“And the sun’s help is key to sustaining life on our world.”

“But the universe is full of stars.”
“And beyond all creation, there is a creator.”

“We dance the greeting to help us understand the creator.”
“To learn how to create.”

“To celebrate that every day is new.”
“And to commit ourselves to embrace the mystery and possibility that the day brings.”

“We dance early morning, every day, whether the sun is visible or not.”
“Outside, if we can.”

“I remember when I was young,” said Shazira, “my mother told us that the best time to dance is when the sun hides from us.”
“When the sky is filled with clouds and storms.”
“When the light is hidden, and the world is full of mystery!”

For days, I’ve watched Shazira dance the greeting.
But I haven’t danced with her.

The greeting is beautiful, sacred.
And I feel like an outsider.
With no place in the dance.

Yes, I know how to dance the greeting.
A few days ago, Shazira taught me the movements.
And the words, feelings and thoughts that follow the movements.

When I practice, the dance feels unnatural, the words hollow.
And the feelings are a lie.
So, every day I watch.

Tzina looks at me shyly withoput speaking, as she moves her body into the starting shape.
Then she straightens up, and walks over to me.

She takes my hand, and brings me to a place on one side of her.
“Do it with us, ina,” she says.

I sigh.
I can’t do it.
But I can’t say no to her, either.

Sometimes when I need help with this life, I can reach into myself, and touch Yagrin’s memories.
But I have only one memory of him doing the dance.
And he was bored.

“Did I ever enjoy dancing the greeting, Shazira?”

“No,” she answers, smiling.
“You only did it when someone forced you.”

I turn to Tzina.

“I won’t do it right the first time.”
“And I won’t be able to move at your speed.”

“It doesn’t matter, ina.”
“Just do it with us, any way you can.”

Most dance one complete cycle of the greeting in the morning.
But some dance two, seven, or ten cycles of the greeting.

We begin.
I’m clumsy at first, eyes wide open, trying to watch where my body is, and where it’s going.
I dance one cycle this way, feeling disconnected from the dance, the words and the feelings.

Then I close my eyes, and find my energy sight.

Within the gaze of my inner sight, the clouds above us are shining.
And my body glows brightly, especially my hands.

I give myself completely to the movement.
And find the rhythm.

Forgetting about who I am, and where I am.
Forgetting everything but the greeting.

The world glows, brighter and brighter, until I hear a voice calling me from far away.
“Ina!”

I let the dance come to an end, and I open my eyes.

The sky is covered with dark storm clouds.
And I see dozens of lightning strikes over the ocean, a few miles away.
How long have I been dancing?

Near me, I see a soft blue light that rests on the deck like a fog.
Shazira and Tzina are staring at me.

“Your hands, Yagrin,” says Shazira.

My hands are blue and shining, the source of the strange light.
And I feel a sense of urgency in my stomach, circling my navel.
Something important is about to happen.

A blue ring of light, five feet across, rises up from my hands.
Until it touches a cloud.
And opens a path through it.

A brilliant ray of light shines through the opening.
A gift from the sun.
And comes down to touch the three of us.

A glowing, blinding fog forms, and hovers in the air above us.
Then it circles the Watchtower, and comes to rest on the wooden deck.

The deck glows, and I feel a strong, clear tone, moving through my body in waves.
I watch, as the top few inches of the wood transforms.
Leaving the wooden deck covered with a glowing white surface that looks like porcelein, but is harder than steel.

It feels good to my bare feet.
And easy to walk on, even in the hard rain that’s just begun.

“Inside, Yagrin, away from the lightning,” yells Shazira, shouting to be heard above the rain.

We go inside, our clothes completely soaked.

“What happened to me out there, Shazira?”

“You don’t know?”

“No,” I answer.
“I remember closing my eyes, and getting lost in the dance, but that’s all.”

“You danced, cycle after cycle, and then your hands started to glow.

“With each cycle, you danced faster and faster, until your movements became a blur.”
“It was amazing and terrifying.”

“Tzina wondered if you would vanish.”
“And I thought you might die from the effort.”

“Tzina called you, again and again, and eventually you stopped.”
“After you completed dozens of the dance cycles.”

“I’m not tired,” I tell her, “or even out of breath.”
“I felt wonderful when the ring of light came from my hands and opened the clouds.”

“As I did it, I felt the urgency of doing it.”
“The rightness of doing it.”

“But I didn’t plan it or think about it.”
“A distant part of me, both familiar and unknown, something beyond words, knew what to do.”

“Are you going to be ok ina?” asks Tzina, with some fear in her voice.

I take her hand.
“The dance renewed me.”
“I feel strong and calm,” Tzina.
“I know I did the right thing, even though I don’t understand it.”

“Just like yesterday, when I protected you.”

“That was awesome, ina,” she says.

I turn to Shazira.
“I just wonder why I slept so long after I brought Tzina home.”

“I tried to wake you,” she says, “after Tzina fell asleep,”
“But you were exhausted from fighting the Neyuk.”
“I wasn’t sure that you would wake up in time for the greeting.”

I tell Shazira that the Neyuk gave off a sound that blocked access to the energy web.

I speak of the vibration and the feeling of power that is deeper than the energy web.
And how I used all my inner strength to push a thought, through that vibration, into the world to make it real.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”
“I must have pulled it from Yagrin’s memories.”

“Maybe that’s where today’s dance came from.”
“And the ring of blue light.”

“No,” she says.
“Yagrin could never dance like that.”
“I’ve never seen anyone dance the greeting like that.”

“And your actions against the Neyuk are even stranger.”
“All our energy mastery is based on the energy web.”
“You touched something deeper than the web.”

“There are writings that suggest ways to harness that deep energy.”
“But not the way that you did it.”

“And the idea was abandoned long ago.”
“It was considered too dangerous.”

“Working with the energy drained you.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t kill you!”

“It happened so fast, Shazira.
“I was determined to protect my little girl.”
“And ready to tear the creature apart with my hands.”

Tzina comes close and touches my arm.
“I’m not so little, ina,” she says with a smile.
“Even if I acted like a baby yesterday.”

I kiss the top of her head.
“You were scared,” I tell her.
“That’s all.”

“It wasn’t just fear,” she says.
“When the creature approached, I felt like my mind would explode.”
“I couldn’t think of anything but the landscapes, and getting away from them.”

“Landscapes?” asks Shazira.

“I told you about them, oodah,” says Tzina.
“Strange images that haunt me until I make a sculpture for them.”

“I was searching for a stone to absorb the latest landscape.”
“But when the Neyuk approached, my mind started spinning with all the strange images that I’ve ever seen.”

“Do you feel better now?” asks Shazira.

“Yes, oodah, but …”

“We’ll speak later,” interrupts Shazira.
“I need to speak privately now with ina.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, after we enter the Dream Room.

“Have you noticed Tzina’s golden eyes?”

“Yes,” I tell her.

“You both have them.”
“They’re so beautiful.”

“They are called Bizra eyes,” she says.

“It’s a rare trait, and many Jiku with these eyes are mentally unstable.”
“They go mad and die, usually before five years old.”

“And you think that Tzina is losing her mind?”

“I don’t know,” she says, as tears form.
“But the healers can’t help with the Bizra madness.”

Tzina is watching us through the windows, and taps on the outer door.

I let her in.

“You didn’t let me finish, oodah,” she says, hugging her mother.
“The images are all gone, and my mind is clear.”

“What do you mean?” asks Shazira.

“When ina shattered the Neyuk, and the wave of energy passed through me, the images vanished.”

Tzina turns to me, and smiles a big smile.
“They’re all gone, ina, even from the sculptures.”

I focus on the sculptures.

The moving shapes are beautiful, as always.
I wait for the images to appear.

But my mind is quiet.

“They’re completely gone, Tzina,” I tell her.
“I don’t see them either.”

“Why would you see them?” Shazira asks me, in a troubled voice.

“The mindstones didn’t erase the images at first,” I tell her.
“They absorbed the images from Tzina’s mind.”

“But she and I still saw the images when we looked at the sculptures.”

“Why you, Yagrin?” asks Shazira.

“I don’t know.”

“When I first made a sculpture, oodah,” says Tzina, “it would settle my mind.”
“But each time I knew that another image would come.”

“This time I was healed, oodah,” says Tzina, “and the images were erased from the sculptures.”
“And I can tell that there won’t be any more images.”

Shazira sighs, and grabs both of us in a hug.
Then Tzina goes out of the room, and leaves us alone.

“You healed her, Yagrin.”
“How?”

“I protected her, Shazira.”
“The healing was an accident.”

“I don’t believe that,” she says.
“Something in you wanted to heal her, and found a way.”
“Thank you.”

“How can you thank me for helping our little girl, Shazira?”

“Is she your daughter, Yagrin?”

I pause for a moment.
“She is.”

“How do you know?” she asks me.
“What changed your mind?”

“The two mindstones healed me,” I tell her.
“The first one removed the fog that covered my heart.”

“Then, the second, giant stone threatened Tzina.”
“And I saw clearly how I feel about both of you.”

“I would move the world for you.”

We stand there in silence, looking at each other.

“What now, Yagrin?” she asks.

“I remember so little about us,” I answer.
“Tell me about our life together.”

“I will,” she says.
“But not now.”
“Tzina is waiting for us.”

 
Music, Art, and Story
Another morning.
Tzina takes me by the hand and leads me into the art and music room.
“Come, Ina! Come,” she says.
I’m not moving fast enough for her.

I love the way she says Ina, and the way it makes me feel.

This is her favorite room in the house.

She picks up three instruments:
A flute, a stringed instrument, and a drum.

I listen to her play for two hours with a couple of short breaks.

There are other people in this room while she plays for me.
But they stay far away from us.

I see others about to enter the room who stop when they see me.

They’ve heard about me.
A traveler who jumped into their world and took over the body of a powerful energy master.
And the Watchtower’s guardian.

I’ve heard the whispers.
“How can the guild let him stay there?”
“Why don’t they do something!?”

Shazira and Tzina believe that I’m the one who they’ve always loved.
And the Embu traveler of the DreamHunter’s vision.
The ghost who crossed the possibility sea to meet his shadow.

It sounds like a story that would give a child nightmares.
Yet my family believes it, and still loves me.
I don’t understand, but I’m grateful for their trust and love.

 
Together, Alone
This is not a simple room.
It has technology that enables many people to play music at once, without complete chaos.

There’s a large round table in the middle of the room.
The center of the table is two inches lower than the rest of the table.

It’s a holographic projector used for accompaniment, and inspiration.
For playback of music to imitate, for replay of practice sessions, and for display of musical notes and patterns to play.

Images and sound display above the central area of the table.

Light-colored wooden storage areas line the right wall, and hold some of the musical instruments.
Others wait in open wooden stands on the floor.
One of the standing instruments is a four foot flute, meant to be played by two people together.

Each seat along the table is acoustically and visually isolated from the others.
Each person controls whether they see and hear others in the room, and whether they can be seen and heard.

There is one display area, above the center of the table, but the sounds and images that each person sees are only for them.

The control appears as a three dimensional cubic interface hovering three inches above the table, eight inches in diameter.

The cube is a structure of energy, but feels cool, pliable, and smooth to the touch.
The cube rotates, and parts of it unfold to reveal additional interface components.

Several small tables are scattered around the left side of the room.
One with a potter’s wheel on it.

Cabinets cover the walls on one side, filled with materials for crafts and artwork.
In a drawer I find sets of colored feathers, organized in various spaces around the edge of the drawer.
The center of the drawer is filled with small stones in a variety of colors.

Windows are interspersed with the cabinets and storage areas on all sides of the egg.
There are other work areas for storytelling, near the doors that open onto the deck.

Tzina calls me, but I barely hear her voice.
My legs lead me to the storyteller’s circle.

The storyteller is young, almost thirty.
And there are five people who surround him, listening to his tale of ancient wars and destruction.

They are all uncomfortable when I sit in the circle, but the story continues.

The story is hauntingly familiar.
When the storyteller finishes, I take his place before the others can leave.

And continue the story.
I don’t know where the words come from.
But twenty minutes later I’m done.

The Jiku in the circle are staring.
I look at my hands, and they’re pulsing with a gentle blue light.
And all who listen are covered with a light blue fog.

 
Inseparable
Tzina and I leave the room, and she holds on to me for the rest of the day.

She tells me what she likes and doesn’t like.
And tells me the things that we do together, and our private jokes.

But I see that she’s holding something back.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Can I ask you about the other world, and your old family.”
“Will it make you miss them too much?”

“I’d love to share my memories with you.”
“I miss my family, but I don’t want to forget them.”

Tzina asks endless questions about life in the other world.
And what her brothers and sisters on Earth are like.

“It’s so sad,” she says, with tears in her eyes, “that you can never see them again.”
“And that I can never meet them.”