Krymzyn (The Journals of Krymzyn Book 1) (8 page)

With cloudless azure skies overhead and warm, dry air surrounding me, I spent the entire summer and fall doing nothing but running. Residual chemicals from chemotherapy were gradually sweated out of my body as I tried to make up for months of lost training.

Due to the brain surgery, every muscle in my body stung with constant torment when I ran. At times, the pain amplified beyond description, but I didn’t care. The pain just made me run harder. I remembered Davis when I ran, the agony he and his family had suffered with no reward, and any pain I felt couldn’t begin to compare.

As my feet and legs pounded across endless miles of hilly dirt trails, my thoughts inevitably drifted to Sash. The time we spent together on the Tall Hill was replayed over and over again in my mind. I tried to analyze and understand the undeniable connection I felt with her, the same connection she’d admitted to feeling with me. Running was my only real chance to be alone with those thoughts. So I ran . . . and ran . . . and ran.

At the last regular cross-country race of the fall season my senior year, I qualified for the regional meet. With a furious sprint to the finish line at regionals, I passed two other runners to earn the last spot in the high school state championship.

When I bounced up and down at the starting line of state finals, loosening my arm and leg muscles, my physical condition was only at about eighty percent of where it had been before the surgery. What I lacked in muscle strength, I was determined to make up for with mental focus.

Just before the starter’s gun fired, I glanced at Connor standing with my family and coach by the side of the course. Connor clenched a hand into a fist, pounded it against his chest several times, and mouthed one word to me.

It was the same word he had said to me before the start of my races for many years. The same word that, as he’d crouch in the starting blocks before a sprint, I’d yell at him from the side of the track. That word had become our private credo—not only for sports, but for life.

Believe
.

Neither of us was religious. The only connotation was to always, beyond everything else in life, believe in ourselves. That word had never had more meaning than it did in the moments before that race.

Mom, Dad, Ally, and Connor were cheering, jumping up and down when I sprinted across the finish line of the three-mile course. Despite the November chill in the air, I was drenched in sweat. Everything I had inside me, physically and mentally, had been sacrificed to that course. I had nothing left when the race ended.

“You know, if it weren’t for the tumor, I know you would’ve won this race,” Dad said as he hugged my panting, sweat-soaked body at the finish line. “You should be really proud of fourth place, Chase. Awesome run.”

I smiled when our embrace ended, leaned over, and rested my hands on my knees. “I didn’t need to win,” I said, looking up at him. “I just had to finish the race.”

His smile beamed with approval, pride, and understanding.

The rest of my senior year was difficult. Since I was unable to drive, always being dependent on my parents and friends was a huge inconvenience. The feeling of separation, of being viewed as different, damaged, even pitied, was always with me. I spent more and more time alone, running, painting, and thinking about everything that had happened to me in Krymzyn. I tried to understand how I knew beyond any doubt that Krymzyn was real. More than that, I believed that there was a reason for my visits there, but I had no idea what that reason was.

During my senior year, I went to the hospital every three months for preventative scans, not that a scan would prevent anything. The checkups always created apprehension and anxiety in both me and my family. I never wanted to be the source of agony for my parents again, to watch them suffer through another surgery and recovery because of me. Guilt couldn’t begin to describe how I felt when I realized that a small part of me was always disappointed when the scans were negative. I longed to see Sash again, but only a tumor would take me to her.

I never mentioned Krymzyn to anyone other than Davis, but they all saw my paintings. I’d told them that the images were just from my imagination, but they also had to have realized they were the same things I’d drawn since I was twelve. I assumed they thought that my drawings were part of my own internal therapy. My family let me know that they were always there for me if I wanted to talk, and while we discussed my physical and emotional recovery, “hallucinations” never entered the conversation.

The mile wasn’t my best race—longer distances were my strong suit—but I made it to the state semifinals in that event at the end my senior year. I’d already decided not to run competitively in college despite a few partial scholarship offers from smaller schools. I was sure the larger schools feared my medical history, but none of that was important to me. When I was accepted to one of the most prestigious art schools in the country, The Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, nothing else really mattered.

My parents insisted that I live at home and commute for the entire four years of college. I was allowed to start driving again after being seizure-free for a year, but my parents and doctors still wanted me to live at home. The forty-five-minute drive to school never bothered me. I often took running clothes with me so I could trek through the hills over Pasadena in the evenings.

Connor attended USC as a film major. Although both of our schedules were hectic, we remained just as close as brothers, seeing each other almost every weekend. But I drifted farther away from other friends and focused more and more on my art.

My father converted a room behind our garage into a studio for me. Whenever I was in the cozy and well-lit workspace, Casey slept at the side of my desk on a dog bed we had for him. He was getting older, much less active, and plenty of white had replaced the gold fur around his face. Instead of runs, I took him for long late night walks.

When I wasn’t working on a project for school, I sometimes sat at my computer, painting digital landscapes of Krymzyn or pictures of Sash. But as the four years of college passed, the memories of Krymzyn gradually faded, seemingly farther away and much less real. The only reminder as I grew older was the soft feminine voice I’d suddenly hear out of nowhere, always whispering the same three words.

You will return.

*             *             *

A Hollywood graphic design firm offered me an internship during my senior year of college that led to a job after graduation. The company worked on everything from movie posters to TV commercials, but my specialty was video game design. I also started dating Jessica my last year of college.

I had a sketch pad full of drawings of Jess, her long raven hair, slender face, athletic body, and big almond-shaped eyes. One time, on top of a charcoal sketch of her, I mindlessly used colored pencils to add amber in her eyes and wavy red lines in her hair. As I stared at the drawing, I knew that her resemblance to Sash was what had really attracted me to her.

An apartment in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles became my home after graduation. On the fringe of Hollywood, it was close to my job and the Hollywood Hills, with their miles and miles of trails for running.

At the age of twenty-two, I was living on my own for the first time. I missed my family and the security I felt being around them, so I’d stop by once or twice a week to visit my parents. I always had the excuse of visiting Casey, but I’m sure they knew it was really to console my own feelings of loneliness.

Ally was attending the University of California at Berkeley, majoring in environmental sciences. I might have received the artistic gifts in the family, but my sister had the intellectual aptitude.

Connor landed a job as a production assistant with a documentary film company. His hours were long, but it was the perfect entry-level position for him. His goal was to eventually make films that would do what they could to change the world—or at least open a few eyes. Despite our busy schedules, we always made time to go for a run together or grab a beer after work.

Jess accepted a job with an advertising agency in San Francisco. We did the long-distance thing for a few months but gradually drifted apart and argued more, until the dreaded and unavoidable phone call.

“I just don’t feel like we’re going anywhere,” Jess said. “I mean, after a year together, you still won’t even make love to me.”

“I told you. I just want to wait,” I said.

“Wait for what, Chase?” she asked. “I know it’s not a moral thing. So you tell me what it is.”

“I don’t know, Jess. I really don’t.”

“You’re the only twenty-two-year-old virgin I know—guy or girl! Don’t I turn you on?” she yelled.

“Jess, you know it’s not that,” I said, and it wasn’t. She was way out of my league, I often thought.

“Then I guess you don’t love me enough,” she pouted.

How was I supposed to answer? That I was clinging to some whacked-out fantasy girl who might only exist due to hallucinations caused by a brain tumor? Tell Jess that I believed the voice I kept hearing over and over in my head that said, “You will return”? Tell her that I believed even more in the connection I felt with the girl who’d spoken those words, a connection that was stronger than anything I felt with anyone here on Earth?

And that if Sash and I did ever make love, given that sex didn’t exist there except in the Ritual of Balance—which, according to Sash, she’d never be chosen for—I wanted us to be on level ground? That I wanted us to be able to share the experience of our first time together so that it was new and exciting and perfect? Was that how I was supposed to answer? Because if I did answer that way, even if it was the truth, it would sound really insane—even to me—and I’d probably end up in a psych ward.

“I just want it to feel right,” I answered, knowing that there was only one person it could ever feel right with.

“If it doesn’t feel right by now,” Jess said, “it never will.”

And that was the end of that.

“I’m sorry I can’t be here to protect you,” the young woman whispers to the tree.

Her forehead rests against charcoal bark while one hand gently caresses the trunk. An enormous branch, recently ripped from the tree, lies rotting at her feet.

The young woman leans back from the decaying bark, letting her eyes roam the drab Barrens in front of her. She spots a pale figure skulking along the crest of a far away hill. The sadness on her face flares into raging fury. She tightens the grasp on her spear, digs her feet against the ground, and launches into a sprint towards the creature.

“Stop!” a woman’s voice, the tallest of the Disciples, screams from the road behind her.

She ignores the Disciple’s command. Slivers of light bloom from the young woman’s body until brilliant beams skim over the treacherous wasteland. She slides to a stop on the once-distant hill, her eyes and ears alert, spear at the ready, as she studies the terrain in front of her.

A shallow, narrow gully cuts through the black dirt at the bottom of the low hill she stands on. Across the ravine, a steep rise ends in a jagged ridge. Her ears twitch at the slightest sound while her eyes sweep across the scraggly rocks. The Murkovin lurks behind, the young woman concludes. She lunges forward but halts in her tracks just before reaching the gully.

I leap over the ravine, sprint up the hill, and soar over the ridge. The Murkovin I saw crouches below the edge. I thrust the tip of my spear through his skull when I land, but three more wait in hiding.

One charges from my left, two from my right. Spinning to my right, I block the attack of one, twist again, and impale the gut of the second on my spear. He grabs the steel shaft with both hands, strength still in his arms.

A spear tip gouges my shoulder and blood spills down my arm. My grasp on my spear weakens as I try to pull it from the wounded Murkovin. The one who stabbed me jabs again. I dodge the tip but the last creature leaps from behind, a spear aimed straight at my skull.

Crouching at the edge of the gully, the young woman quickly scans the ridge again. She slowly steps backwards, stopping on the top of the hill behind her. With tremendous force, she slams the point of her spear into the ground. Sparks fly off the tip as the steel shatters black crystals of dirt.

“If you enter the Delta,” she yells, “you’ll meet death!”

The young woman waits vigilantly, her muscles tensed and spear in hand. If they attack her in the open, she knows the result will be different than if she enters their trap.

She glances behind her. The female Disciple still stands on the road near the edge of the bridge, two Watchers now at the Disciple’s side. The young woman snaps her head back to the ridge, but the Murkovin never appear.

After turning away from the gully, the young woman sprints towards the road but doesn’t blend her light. The Murkovin won’t attack so close to the bridge. When she nears the road, she slows to a walk, the thrashing river at her side. Her vision is drawn to a large black slab of stone in the center of the rapids.

Why am I protected from death with a vision now when I was shown my own dead body on that rock in my Vision of the Future? Why was I not shown the events that will lead to my death in the river so I can prevent them?

She looks to the road where a tall female Watcher stands on one side of the Disciple. A green-haired man, recently ending his Apprenticeship and now a Watcher, lingers on the other side. His scalding eyes bear down on the young woman as she walks to the road.

He stares at me as he often does. I don’t like the way he looks at me—I never have. It makes me feel uncomfortable, as if he wants something from me, wants to possess or control me. It’s the kind of expression no one should ever have when looking at another. There’s no respect in his eyes.

The blue-eyed Teller looked at me in a strange way once, but his stare was different. His eyes were curious, filled with appreciation as he gazed upon me. There was shame in his eyes when I was unclothed in front of him, as though it had some significance in his world. But there was also innocence and respect in his stare. I felt safe in his eyes.

“We crossed the bridge when we saw the Murkovin,” the female Watcher says when the young woman reaches the road. “We would have come to your aid, but as you know, we can’t match your speed.”

The young woman bows to the Watcher in a show of thanks.

“Please leave us,” the Disciple says, turning to the female Watcher. “I thank you for quickly coming to my side.”

The two Watchers walk to the bridge and cross over the metal surface. The young woman glowers at the back of the green-haired man’s head until he reaches the arch of the bridge. He never turns to look at her, but she knows that he feels her piercing glare.

“We don’t kill Murkovin without cause, only in defense,” the Disciple lectures. “You must remember, they too serve a purpose to our balance, and the Barrens belong to them.”

“I could feel the tree’s pain,” the young woman pleads. “I know it’s wrong of me, but I wanted to return that pain to those who caused it.”

The Disciple stares silently at the young woman, admiring the incredibly strong, extraordinary adult she’s grown into. The Disciple had asked the young woman to accompany her into the Barrens, although it was not the duty of a Hunter. She had thought that the young woman’s perceptive abilities might help find clues as to how Murkovin had recently entered the Delta.

“You must never succumb to the same extreme emotions the Murkovin feel,” the Disciple says. “I sometimes wonder how you survive with so much feeling inside you.”

“I once told you,” the young woman replies, “that when the Teller who first came after my Ritual of Purpose was here, I could feel what he felt in his world as well as what he felt being in ours.”

“I remember. That’s why, when he was here long ago, I thought it might help you to spend Communal with him. It’s unfortunate that his visits stopped.”

“He was also in my Vision of the Future,” the young woman confides.

“We’re to share that Vision with no one else. That Vision was for your eyes only.”

“I was shown my death in my Vision,” the young woman says, ignoring the Disciple’s reproach. “I wasn’t upset at the sight of my body. I don’t fear death, although I don’t want my life to end too soon. I was overwhelmed by his emotions as he leaned over my body. That’s when the things I feel opened inside me.”

The Disciple gazes thoughtfully at the young woman, eventually making a decision to break with long-standing tradition, with the ways of Krymzyn.

“The Teller was in your Vision of the Future?” the Disciple asks.

“Yes,” the young woman answers.

“Did you see your manner of death in your Vision?”

“No. Just my body on a rock in the river, but I knew my life had left.”

“What was the Teller doing?” the Disciple asks.

“I believe he was trying to bring me back to life. I felt his desperation. It’s as though his feelings are what opened me to the many extreme emotions that I still don’t understand. Sometimes, like when I saw the Murkovin moments ago, I find them difficult to control.”

“It’s possible,” the Disciple says after a few moments of contemplation, “that the important part of your Vision wasn’t you. To be shown one’s death would alter the way a person lives their life and the decisions they make. I don’t believe that would benefit you in any way, and the Tree knew that when it showed you the Vision. So it’s possible, if you saw your body, it was only meant as a way to open you to these emotions Krymzyn wants you to understand.”

“Why would Krymzyn want me to feel these things?”

“As other planes have evolved, Krymzyn has always been a constant. We’ve learned from recent Tellers that several planes have seen immense growth and change never experienced before. Evolution doesn’t imply only positive change. Many negatives are inherent to the process, and many struggles. The necessity to maintain balance with one’s world is even greater than before.

“In order for Krymzyn to provide the essence of balance needed for other planes to exist,” the Disciple continues, “it’s obvious that, on some levels, we must experience change. A part of Krymzyn needs to better understand what’s felt in those worlds, even if the emotions appear to be a regression from our own balance. Although the reasons why may be unclear to us now, they’ll eventually be revealed. I fear that it’s a burden you must often bear alone, but I know how strong you are.”

The young woman lowers her eyes to the ground, weighing the Disciple’s words. “I understand,” the young woman finally says. “It helped me when he was here. I could sense his reaction to the emotions and feel how he controls them.”

“As I said, it’s a shame his visits ceased.”

The young woman turns away and steps onto the bridge. After examining her own reflection in the steel below her feet, she looks back to the Disciple.

“He’ll return soon,” the young woman says.

“How do you know?” the Disciple asks.

“My Vision of the Future hasn’t yet come to pass. In my Vision, my face looked as it does now.”

The Disciple nods her head before walking to the young woman. Side by side, they cross silently over the bridge, the hostile river flowing beneath them. The young woman pauses and closes her eyes.

As much as I long to be with him again, to understand all I feel inside, I don’t want him to feel pain in his world.