(Greetings! Topaz again. Thisfairly depressing chapter is a lot longer than the first one was. I think there'll only be one more chapter after this. Any reviews would be much appreciated! -Topaz Fox)
The next day came, and instead of sun, it brought rain. It was actually more like a thin, depressing drizzle, the kind you can't hear tapping on the roof. You couldn't see it, either; the only way to know it was there at all was to step outside and feel it mist clammily against your skin.
I was in terrible spirits. My frantic fear had just shut itself up and withdrawn deep inside of me. My mind was in chaos, but my outside could only manage gloom. My parents, being adults, probably assumed that I was sad because of the bad weather. They couldn't have been more wrong. I decided to dress in black that day, to secretly mourn the death of the caravanners…and of their village.
Everyone else in Tida was happy, though. As I walked with my mother down Market Street, I was aware of lots of cheerful talk and whistling. Every man, woman and child was abuzz with the news of the caravan's return. There was not a single unhappy face in town.
I was the only one who knew what was coming.
We passed Tida's beautiful Crystal. Two strong Lilties boys were helping Clernoc set up decorations for the night's supposed events. They were arranging a huge tarp on four wooden poles over the Crystal, then setting up colorful banners underneath the tarp. I heard Clernoc say, "It'll take more than a little rain to stop this festival."
More than a little rain, indeed.
My mother was in such a good mood, she allowed me to buy a pastry from the baker's stall. Usually this would have made me a delighted little girl. Because of my dark attitude, I almost declined her offer, but thought to myself that it might be my last ever Tida-made treat. That alone made me want to cry, but I selected a little cherry pie and ate it on my way home. With every bite, I felt a bit of pain for my poor, oblivious friends and family.
Back at home, I moped around for hours, sitting in my room and sighing. The indifferent gray that covered the sky turned to black as night approached again. My mother made a delicious dinner of baked striped apples, roast meat, and boiled star carrots, her traditional "caravan feast". I found it hard to swallow the whole meal. My parents peered at me more than once for eating so little.
The festival loomed. I was so reluctant to go; it left a bitter taste in my mouth. A bitter, bloody taste. It was like I could smell fear and pain, like wolves can. My parents, of course, were pleasantly unaware of my suffering. They forced me to march into the dreary rainfall outside. For a moment I thought that my dream might really have been nonsense. The shadow of my conscience told me to stop fooling around; my premonition was real. A terrible cold grip squeezed my insides, and I felt increasingly sick, knowing with every step that there would never be another festival.
A crowd had gathered under the tarp. Because I was shorter than most, everybody ended up towering over me. I felt like I was trapped in a great big wall of flesh. The word flesh made me think of blood and death, and I felt suddenly claustrophobic. I tried pawing pitifully at people, to get them to move aside, but nothing happened. Finally, I clung to my father and waited for what I knew would never come.
Clernoc sent two "sentries" to the town gate to wait for the caravan's return. The two chosen ones dashed off into the blind night, leaving the rest of us to wait. Most people tried to contain their excitement.
I tried to contain my fear.
So we waited for the sentries to come running back with the good news. We waited…and waited…and waited some more. Minutes turned to hours. Hours spanned greater and greater in number. One hour. Two. Three. Four. Everybody was kind of nervous, but still idiotically faithful that the caravanners would come. Their loyalty amazed me.
But loyalty did not decide the events of this night. It was past midnight by the time we all returned, damp and tired, to our own houses. Clernoc had said, "Fear not, citizens: our brave myrrh gatherers have undoubtedly just been delayed." Yeah, I'd say they've been delayed, I wanted to shout. But I kept my mouth shut. Clernoc told us to never lose hope, and then sent us home.
Everyone "knew" the caravanners would return the next night. But they didn't.
They didn't return that night…or the next…or the next. A week of false hope fell away. Two weeks. Three.
Our Crystal was fading now. It didn't give off the refreshing glow it once had. Its rough, pretty edges seemed rounder, and when I looked at it, it was a little blurry. It was turning grayer and grayer, and the fact that it was dying was plain as day. The Miasma was encircling us more every day.
Each day, it was getting harder to live comfortably. I always had a sharp pain in the back of my brain now, and I had to think about breathing in order to do it successfully. It was like my lungs were being compressed smaller and smaller every time the sun rose. Sleep eluded me, and I learned to live with only a few hours of it each night. I became a zombie, a ghost of what I had once been.
My neighbors were that way, too. They were happy enough, I guess, but they all wore the same foggy expressions on their faces. I noticed that everyone was complaining about headaches and memory loss, and people started to slur their words, like they were tired or drunk. We were all dying with our Crystal.
Still, Tida kept hoping.
One morning, I woke up blind. I screamed. I heard someone rush into my room and open the door. It was my mother.
"Alice! Baby, what's wrong?"
I burst into tears. "Mommy, I can't see! I can't see! I'm going to die!"
Warm, loving arms wrapped their way around my aching body. "Shh," cooed my mother. "It'll be okay. You're going to be fine. Shh."
She rubbed my back until I quieted down. My sight gradually returned to me, making me somewhat calmer. I said that I was better, that my mother could leave now, but she stayed. I was happy that she remained there holding me in the morning's semi-darkness, but the ever-present presence of future death made me feel ill. Little knots twisted in my throat, and I felt a gaping pain in my stomach…both symptoms of fright.
"Mother?" I whispered. I looked up at her like a calf before the slaughter. She smiled sadly. "Yes?"
"We're all going to die soon, aren't we?"
At first, my mother looked very, very tired, like she might collapse. For the first time, I realized that I wasn't the only one really feeling the effects of the dreadful Miasma. Everyone else was feeling them too, just as greatly as I was.
Then my mother's certain fatigue was masked by a steely glint in her eyes. I knew that glint well enough. It was the sparkle of determination. It's kind of astounding that there can be determination in even a dying woman's eyes.
"No," my mother said firmly, "We're not going to die, honey. The caravanners will come back in time to save us all."
There was one shining moment when I believed my mother. I believed everything was going to be okay. Then the clarity of that terrible dream came back to me in full. I remembered the dark and the pain, the blood and the bodies, the awful smell of rotting death…
I knew that my mother's views, the views of everyone in Tipa, were just an illusion.
Somehow, though, nobody would believe me when I told them so. It was like I was invisible because I was young. Nobody would believe me about anything, especially not death or destruction. I guess…I guess that's just the way the world works. I could do nothing…not even save my own family.
But at that moment, in my mother's weakening arms, I knew that I could save myself. And that's exactly what I had to do.