17

“A facet of gods and other beings of aethereal nature is that they are, despite their willingness to be known as and/or beheld as greater or wiser or whatever, irrevocably human. I posit two theories regarding this humanity emanating from all myths composed about the gods of any people.

The first: that through the translation of gods’ will to human understanding, the gods appeared — so that humans could comprehend what was implied or meant — human in mindset and reason, that because humans are so insignificant in the power they maintain, because humans can never hope to fully realise the ineffable nature of the gods, the all-mighty denizens of the cosmos appear reflections of ourselves, much in the way that blue is reflected into our eyes from a cornflower.

The second: that gods are so human in themselves that they ascend to a level of being higher than those of us who experience humanity tangentially and in parts cannot. That is, the goddess of love in whichever culture you bring to mind was once a human but arose to the status of goddess when she experienced and thus became love itself, that the war gods and goddess experienced the truth of and thus became war itself, and so on.

Whether you consider true the first theory, that of mistranslation, or the second theory, that of apotheosis, is up to you, based on your own experiences with the gods, and I will not proclaim you incorrect nor correct, for these are theories, and cannot be proven nor disproven, and thus shall remain as such. I personally believe, however, that both these theories are correct, that one might have galvanised the other, or that they — mutually exclusive of one another — are both accurate. Perhaps you think it weak of me to refuse the negation of either concept, and I could understand your premise. But I am not you, nor you me, for we could never be each other lest I were reading this manuscript, and thus I’d prefer it if you withheld from me your complaints on the matter.”

I chuckled at the reading my tutor offered me, recognising that this was one of his previous pupils. Of students my tutor has shared with me there are five in number; he tells me that when I perish, I shall be the sixth, and if he chose favourites, one of those. But he does not choose favourites, a fact he assured me with a childish grin, as if knowing that what he says is complete and utter malarkey. Of the five pupils, I’ve read the entire story of Kaynen — the alchemist who ended the fear of Death in his world, for he enabled his people to know that immortality was a choice for those who wished it, and that Death was a kiss, not a beheading, and thus all who feared Death should cease immediately and embrace it. Perhaps this concept is odd, but in the manner Kaynen meant it, such a notion was extremely logical. Realising that all the time in the universe was theirs, his people slowed down and started appreciating things for what they were, and lost the desire for both self-destruction and that of others.

Another pupil I’d read was Asuriel, a soldier who abandoned his company when they were wiped out by an opposing nation’s militia. He learned a sword technique that could so effectively cut, he could slice through the very fabric of reality; he used this skill to end all the wars upon his homestead, and taught the Hunter the art of balancing one’s wills, how to temper oneself, something the Hunter needed to learn after finding himself so distraught with the circumstances of his death. Of the rest I have read but little, until the moment I opened the Tome at random and found it awaiting my sight. I’d decided that if the Hunter had a favourite pupil, it was this one, for they had also written an enterprise titled A Culmination of Wind and Sea, a book that discussed the origin of the cosmos and how the world truly was, an opus which ultimately sold two copies. The second copy was the one sitting atop my bookshelf, inside the chest in which I kept the Tome and other items kept in memoriam.

Three books, a Tarot card, bracelets, and a photograph of Rhiannon Shae, one of the bravest people I ever had the occasion to meet and without whom, I am certain, none of us would be able to read any books nor think any thoughts ever, nor exist outside of a wrathful fallen angel who would have swallowed the cosmos whole if Rhiannon hadn’t performed a Martyr’s Summon and… well, there was a mess of things that happened, and she’s dead now, but her memory survives, locked tightly in the chest I keep atop my bookshelf. I feel as if that implies the notion of her memory existing outside my head, or those of her sister and parents and friends, but such an implication is without value; it is untruthful. It is due to Rhiannon, in part, that I delved more thoroughly into my shaman tasks. The pressure galvanised by the realisation of all a job could entail struck me at the end of her wake, and I have since vowed and fulfilled my oath, to work more diligently on the path laid before me by the Hunter’s Tome. And my tutor became quite pleased with my progress, the knowledge that I dedicated to memory with great ease, the history of his existence and the like… that I could remember it so clearly made him very happy. It is one thing to read theory, however, and an entirely different thing to practise it, and knowing this I would oft venture into the Aether and apply that which I studied, much as a chemistry student does in the laboratory, but with greater hazard and less preparation.

During the past few weeks — as I’d been at university rather than the homestead, except on the weekends — I’d barely run into my comrades from the days past during which we fought against the demon of consumption. Ellesnara, Rhiannon’s sister, and I had seen each other maybe once, and then it was brief and without utterance. She still in part blames both herself and me for her sister’s death, and she, as the surviving Shae daughter, probably felt quite responsible for the well-being of her parents, though they were no longer vampires but fully shaman again and needed not the sacrifice of blood formerly necessary. Cassiopeia, Cassie for short, had visited me once or twice when I was at home. She brought me news of Chitose (who I’d not seen, sadly) and Charlotte, the latter of whom she heard was investigating to explore the deaths of an entire clan of Exorcists.

“An entire clan?” I asked when she mentioned it. Cassie sipped on her tea, placing the porcelain down with such grace it made no clink, not even when she rubbed her finger about the cup’s rim.

“An entire clan. Only three survived, apparently. And the most interesting bit is that it seems as if the attack was from another Exorcist’s Cross, one related to the clan.”

Of Slade Irigis, my best friend who happened to be an Exorcist, I had too seen little. The same was true for Violet, the woman who once babysat me and taught me the elementary principles of fighting. She was becoming a gym teacher, and probably would be simultaneously the best and most terrifying teacher a student could hope to have during physical education. And there were always Claire and Mum I missed, for they were away from home but always in my heart.

“Lorcán?” I heard someone inquire, knocking upon my dorm door. I recognised the voice as Niamh’s and opened it after sealing away the Tome in my treasure trove. “Have you time to lunch?”

“You know my schedule by now,” I said with a smirk. “Do I have time to lunch?”

Niamh smiled in response, her soft amber eyes twinkling with laughter that never left her mouth. “Since your next class isn’t until the fourteenth hour, and it’s only the twelfth, I think you do. Come, Maeve; we’ve friends to meet.”

“Friends to meet? Mine, or yours?” I asked as I sealed the entry and walked alongside the girl whose visions came to her when painting.

“Both.” Such was Niamh’s way of speaking.

I suppose being able to glimpse aspects of the future induces one to indirectly or implicitly answer another’s questions. The aroma about the cafeteria — regardless of what cooked that day — was of pizza and cinnamon. To me, at least; no one else smelled these things every day. It occurred to me once that my nose could perhaps be caught in a temporal loop, always deigned to smell pizza and cinnamon when I neared the feeding bay, and in all honesty I didn’t mind it so much because I could always smell the other things once I entered the cafeteria, but when Niamh mentioned that the cooks were making an attempt at vegan burgers again, I could only nod my head and pretend I knew the same thing from the scent surrounding the dining hall.

Isn’t it an interesting concept; that all of a sudden what was in public school deemed a cafeteria has at university become a dining hall? I mean, it’s kind of pretentious in some ways — it’s where you eat food; who actually cares what you call it? — but the jargon of university life worms its way into your vocabulary, and you find yourself correcting others when they say “The Science Building” by looking at the speaker with concern in your eyes and raised brow before gently reminding them, “Vinci Hall?” I see where the sassiness of a Google search mistype comes from: the university students who programmed it having to be corrected about which hall they were entering.

Of course, me being me, I still referred to places as “the [insert subjects taught] building.”

Niamh brought me to a corner booth by the window, upon which had been taped a flier announcing the impending presence of a circus nearby. The windows of this part of the dining hall (it does have a nice ring to it, honestly) allowed for a full view of the campus up to the library, which was honestly a forest with a path placed through it, a walkway that diverged into five other paths which led to various other class buildings or residence halls. It certainly was a beautiful view, though occasionally the sun was a bit strong for my comfort. The weather was pleasantly cloudy today, however, and for this I was grateful, for it appeared that we would be sitting at this booth, in which, before Niamh and I joined them, sat four others.

The first to introduce himself was Ira Norman, who seemed in many ways the forefront of the group in a way that I felt immediately was well-calculated and nuanced, but moments afterwards — as if some after taste offered allure — that it was merely because he was a nice person, and intelligent. His dark blue eyes reminded me of a burning field of cornflower, but it was a lovely sight to see at night from far away, and one could never know which flowers were burning if one were to witness it during such a time.

By contrast to the subtlety of Ira’s dominion was that of Nathaniel Carter, whose spearmint green Mohawk spoke volumes regarding the strength of his character. From the glances Nathaniel directed at the young woman beside him, I could tell that he would protect her regardless of who came after her. And though Nathaniel spoke the loudest and the most, the one whose gaze would never meet mine (but always his, as if from him she gathered the strength to be around people) was the quietest, and spoke the least. She was introduced to me by Nathaniel and Niamh rather than herself (which did not perturb me and seemed to earn from her some semblance of conditional trust), but her attentions seemed focused on the music that played in her ears, or the many ways in which one could turn a fork about their hand. I was impressed at her dexterity, but I felt that to remark upon it would cause her to put down the fork and stare longingly into her hands for the duration of the conversation, and I would rather not coerce her into such a reaction. Her name was Phoebe.

The fourth member of the company was Isabel Wann, and from the power exuding from her graceful poise, one would expect the brunette to be a princess.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” I said when allowed a place to sit, between Nathaniel and Niamh.

“It’s officially a crowd, twice over,” muttered Nathaniel. A mutter for him was regular volume for the rest of us, it seemed. I understood his point, despite the cacophony of his voice; three’s a crowd, and we were six.

“What’s your major, Lorcán?” asked Isabel, the princess.

I answered, “Independently planned, modern myth explorations.”

“And what do you seek to do with that?” asked Ira, leaning forward, chin resting on the bridge crafted by his long, immaculate, interlaced fingers.

I shrugged. “Probably follow the family business. Write.”

“What’s your last name again?” Nathaniel asked, typing away hastily on his phone.

“Maeve,” I replied.

“Whoa!” exclaimed the Mohawk-wearing lad. “Your mom and dad are like, famous…” He put his phone to Phoebe, who reached out with a slender hand and took the cellular device. She read it swiftly and passed it to Isabel; Phoebe flashed me the faintest of smiles before returning her attentions to the fork.

Isabel said, “Fiction writing… science fiction. An interesting enterprise. My family owns a publishing company, and we’re always looking for new talents. If you need advice or anything, please ask.”

Thus I learned Isabel might actually be a princess. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said with a smile.

“It was you, right? Who shut away the demon?”

Even Nathaniel’s seemingly permanent smile fell when Phoebe spoke.

“That’s a record,” muttered Nathaniel. “She’s never spoken to someone that fast…”

Softly, trying to hide the tears that pricked at their constraints, I answered, “I was there, yes, and I did fight the demon, but it wasn’t me who shut it away. It took all of us… how did you know?”

Phoebe’s eyes found her fork again, and I suspected that she wouldn’t answer, but within a minute she was speaking again, her voice soft and measured, as if someone were pouring syrup into a golden cup. “I just knew.”

In a world of police officers unaware of the other planes of existence, such an answer would have been intolerable and unacceptable, and certainly Phoebe would have been pressed to answer more truthfully, to give specific details regarding her whereabouts during the month of July, and the like. However, to those of us as myself, shaman who understand that sometimes knowledge just graces our minds with its presence, Phoebe’s answer was enough, and I bit my tongue.

“What was it like, Lorcán? Banishing a demon from an existence upon our plane?” asked Ira with urgency beaming from his face.

“A struggle, certainly. We lost a few friends along the way. But worth it, I presume, to not be consumed by a single entity without the choice.”

“Arguably, you didn’t give us a choice to be consumed either,” said Nathaniel with a wide smile that somehow grew larger when I replied, “It wouldn’t have offered.”

“So did the dream-painter here show you her recent one?” asked Isabel.

I nodded; everyone at the table shuddered a bit with the recollection of Niamh’s work. A beam of light attacking the gates of Eden was not a good thing to observe, and that Niamh had painted it five times so that the rest of us could share with her this burden, were each painting to have burned itself to a single cinder as it had for me... it was a portent, but for what we knew was our station to find out. Except, I realised after he was excluded, Ira, who was not a shaman but what Nathaniel referred to as a ‘normy.’

Isabel added, “I looked up the crown and crossed keys yesterday, and they apparently stand for the papacy. Like, the Pope, the Roman Catholic Pope.”

I was confused a moment. I hadn’t seen the crown and keys, but a woman dying. Specifically, my mother, whose appearance in the portent had been isolated — as I learned the painting’s burning was — to solely my observance. Aside from those discrepancies, what I’d experienced was what the others had, too. After a few minutes discussing the various possible meanings of the vision Niamh had shared with us, Ira and Isabel declared that they had class soon. I, checking the time, realised that I must do the same. And so for the day we parted ways.