Relic

XXVIII: Aprilus 23 Year 242, A.H.

The Chronicle starts off slowly. But then it courses through me, aided by the forbidden Faerie tales told by my Nurse Aga, and the secret myths shared by Lukas, and the stories I made up myself to entertain Eamon. The Chronicle flows from my fingers as if Elizabet’s hand holds my quill and writes the words herself. I become Elizabet.

During the bells of writing, Elizabet and her world grow so real to me that when dawn breaks and I must stop, I blink at my white world of snow and ice as if it has become the dream. And the cacophonic world in the days just before the Healing has become the reality.

But then my dogs begin barking, desperate to be fed. The camp starts to rustle with the sounds of the Boundary servers preparing breakfast, the Testors readying. I am drawn away from the pre-Healing world and back into New North and the Testing.

Before I lose my nerve, I roll my Chronicle as small as I can. I march over to the Bird-Master and hand over the first pages of Elizabet’s story. He is not permitted to review what I’ve written, only to send. As he slides the Chronicle into the container at the carrier pigeon’s neck, I hold my breath. I watch the bird soar into the sky—due south—taking a part of me along with him.

Within a bell, I’m back down in the crevasse chipping away at the ice wall as if nothing ever happened. As if I’ve never stepped back into Elizabet’s world. Back into time.

Yet I’m changed. I am altered by this brush-up with a real person who lived and breathed and danced and trembled and loved in the days before the Earth’s waters rose up and submerged wickedness in a watery grave. No longer is the Healing just something my parents and Teachers and Basilikons lectured me about, a time and place so long ago that it defies comprehension. It is very real, and it is inhabited by someone I know well.

In some ways, this wisdom makes me reluctant to return to Elizabet’s Chronicle. I know what comes next. I don’t want to experience those last days of terror. And I think it will be hard for the people of New North to experience them along with me. But I can’t help myself; as my body balances in a crevasse of ice, my mind journeys back. When I return to my igloo tonight, I will write.

The Chronicle of Elizabet Laine, Part II

The pirouettes propel me across the stage of the Mariinsky Theater. With the remedies in me, I feel so free of pain that I spin faster than ever before. The audience cheers my performance, awarding me with bouquet after bouquet of flowers and a shower of MasterCards. The remedies have worked their magic.

The remedies take away the shame of so many strangers’ staring eyes. The remedies allow me to smile—instead of flinch—while being fawned over at the Patron Gallant party after the ballet. The remedies permit me to tolerate their leers and proprietary caresses.

The Keeper is pleased with my newfound compliance in the days that follow. The better I perform—on stage and at the parties—the more Euros that ballet makes and the more patronage bestowed upon the Kirov. This means more Euros for me, too. Euros that I send to my family in Finland, who desperately need the currency. Their MasterCards have been made worthless. The Rulers can do that to a family and a farm.

I should be happy. I tell myself that I am doing the right thing by dancing. The necessary thing. The very thing that Apple wants from me.

But in the solitude of my room—stacked high with other such rooms in a tower of dizzying heights—the disgrace is hard to bear. If my parents truly understood what I’m doing for those Euros, surely they’d beg me to return home. Surely they wouldn’t want the tainted currency, I tell myself.

Or would they? Isn’t my father the one who encouraged me toward this calling? Isn’t he the one who said Apple wants me to succeed at this career? Didn’t my mother nod along as he urged me toward this path? Sending me forth with her silence?

The very thought that my family might take the Euros no matter the cost to my Spirit makes me feel more alone. I turn on the Panasonic for distraction. But I am greeted with far worse than any pain.

Image after image of rising ocean waters appear on the device. The Media reports that—all over the world—the coasts are flooding. Ice is melting. The Media urges people to take heed and seek higher ground.

“No, it can’t be true,” I whisper to myself.

I feel woozy from the news and the barrage of horrible images. Kneeling before my Apple diptych, I begin to pray, “O Apple, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name …”

Despite my supplications, the blank diptych offers no answers. No solace. I feel darkness descend upon my Spirit, and as if in a dream, I’m drawn to my jars of remedies. I’ve been reserving them for performance days only, but would it really hurt to take one more tonight? Just this once? I place a Prozac on my tongue, and within a few ticks, I feel a relief that Apple alone used to provide.