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109
The world as I know it is gone.
Disappeared.
Evanesced in a poof as though it never was here.
Only to be replaced by a strange and ancient dreamscape consisting of the same garden elements, the same fountain, but according to the hazy, sepia tones through which I now view it, this is a much earlier age.
Like all the other Unravelings that came before, I’m a hostage to this drama, an audience of one, forced to watch the play unfold until the final curtain is dropped.
This time, a young boy is the star. His face is obscured by a cascade of dark ruffles that bend past his shoulders in the sort of effortless tousle the girls at my old school would literally die for. His sweater is hand-knit of lumpy brown wool with awkwardly drooping sleeves and a complicated network of scars left from multiple mendings. The pants he wears are at least one size too big, left to hang from a twig of a frame made of jutting elbows and knobs for knees. But what he lacks in bulk, he makes up for in agility and speed, and I watch in astonishment as he steals through the night, his steps quick and sure as a cheetah unleashed.
Though as purposeful as he looks, he’s not without fear. I know this by the quickening beat of his heart that is somehow, inexplicably, accessible to my ears.
There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow dripping steadily into his eye, and I can feel the salty sting of it as though it’s spilled into mine.
When a gut-wrenching wave of nausea rolls through me, I watch in amazement as I clasp a hand to my belly at the exact moment the boy does the same.
Together, we unlock our knees, take several deep breaths, and make a slow count ofun, deux, trois…until the misery has passed. And I know without question, I’m no longer just an observer. Like gazing into a fun-house mirror, I’m now part of this dream.
Driven by equal measures of determination and trepidation, the boy clambers over the edge of the newly completed fountain and cuts a quick path through the water, barely registering the icy spray that bites through his worn clothes and into his skin—ourskin. Then he leaps onto the island like I did, crawls past the cherub, and just before hiding the golden ball beneath Saturn’s wing—the same golden ball now gripped in my hand—he bends his head, shuts his eyes tightly, and infuses the object with the story now unfolding all around me.
Within the clammy confines of my palm, the sun begins a steady heat and thrum. The intensity of the vibration increasing so rapidly, it jumps in my hand, forcing me to struggle to hang on.
This is no ordinary Unraveling.
This is a message—a sort of energetic telegram the boy intended solely for me.
There’s a name for this sort of phenomenon—a term once used by my dad when he tried to teach me about the energy field infused within objects and how to access that power…
Psychometry.
As soon as I land on the word, it’s superseded by the boy’s message, which spews forth in a rush.
Something about another sun he’s tucked away in an ancient royal crypt… It’s a decoy… A trap… Two suns were needed because there’s so much at stake…
I scramble to match the words to the vision, but it all flows so quickly, it soon overwhelms me.
I force my eyes shut, telling myself it will help me connect, delve even deeper. But the churning revolt in my gut calls me out on the lie, and the next thing I know, the trapdoor of memory bangs open as a deluge of forgotten teachings and truths, things I’ve managed to suppress all this time, comes slamming back toward me.
My dad knew this moment would come.
He tried to teach me, prepare me, but I’d stubbornly looked away and channeled my effort into forgetting.
Falsely believing that by turning my back on him and all that he taught me, by denying his existence, I could also deny the grief his absence had made.
But now he’s here—a shimmering vision of the dad I’ve secretly missed for so many years. He looks strong. Fit. With a flop of brown hair, a quirk of a smile, a narrow pinch of nose, and eyes just like mine. The sight of him is enough to make my heart splinter into a million unmendable shards.
And yet, my heart also reminds me that he’s notreallyhere.
This vision of him is more like a specter of memory sent to warn me that, unlike the scary movies Mason and I used to watch, covering my eyes and refusing to look won’t save me from the sort of things he needs me to know.
Needs me to see.
Look!he tells me.Open your eyes and—
My eyes snap open just in time to watch the boy slip the golden ball beneath Saturn’s wing, where it will remain in secret until I come along.
When the boy turns to leave, I catch a quick glimpse of his face.
What I see leaves my jaw unhinged, my eyes gaping wide, as a startled cry trips from my lips.
I lean into the vision, trying to peer closer and confirm the impossible, when a rough hand clamps down on my arm, jolting me out of the dream and back to the horrifying reality of a harsh voice barking into my ear, “Ou allez-vous?”
