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The Amber Garden

The Amber Garden

The Alchemists’ Council, Book 3
tagged : epic
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London, Waterloo Bridge Station — August 1848


Ravenea stood on the platform surveying the unfamiliar surroundings and glancing anxiously at the outside world folk hurriedly walking by. Was her clothing appropriate? Would she pass among the people of the outside world unnoticed? She could not decide whether she was being overly anxious or respectably cautious. Perhaps if she were here on official Council business, or perhaps if this unconventional location were a crossing point at which she intended to greet a potential Initiate, her usual calm professionalism would prevail. Instead, much too late to change her mind, she repeatedly second-guessed her choice. What could possibly be worth this risk?


“Good afternoon,” said Fraxinus. Ravenea flinched slightly. Despite his flowing white hair and voluminous robes — highly unorthodox amidst the station’s occupants — she had not seen him approach. “Our time here is limited. I will be boarding a train within minutes.”


“Am I to join you?”


“Of course not!” His ice-blue eyes snapped at her, punctuating his words. “What excuse could you possibly offer the Alchemists’ Council if Azoth Magen Quercus learned you had embarked on an outside world train journey with a Rebel Branch Azoth?”


“What excuse am I to offer even for leaving the London protectorate for this station?” she asked. She glanced around once again at the passersby, worriedly skimming for a familiar face.


“Simple curiosity. Is this station not an architectural marvel of the modern world?” He gestured up and outward. For the benefit of onlookers, she smiled and nodded.


“And for what reason other than mutual observation of this outside world spectacle have you requested a meeting?”


“To relay information that may affect your future.” He paused.


She waited, hands clenched.


“Let me rephrase,” he continued. “To relay information that may profoundly affect the future of all three dimensions.”


Ravenea shivered despite the summer heat.


“Yes?” Her impatience grew.


“The Osmanthian Codex has been activated. If memory serves, the manuscript will mature fully within thirty years. The Rebel Azoths will then, once again, possess the knowledge to create an alchemical child.”


Ravenea froze, momentarily stunned. Her thoughts raced.


“But the bloodlocks! Osmanthus himself sealed the Codex with his primordial blood. And Makala sealed the secreted libraries from intruders after the Second Rebellion.”


A smartly dressed man within hearing range turned immediately to frown at her. She did not recognize him. He must merely have found her words vulgar.


“The ancestors intended worthy descendants to open the bloodlocks on both the Osmanthian and Aralian manuscripts,” said Fraxinus. “And Makala followed their lead.”


“Who is responsible?” she asked him. “A Rebel Branch Elder?”


“An Elder? Really, Ravenea, if an Elder both carried the bloodline and met the required prophetic conditions, one of us would have enlivened the manuscript centuries ago.”


“Then who?


“An outside world scribe,” he responded.


“That cannot be. Makala would not have allowed—”


“Yet here we are. And we have you to thank for this evolutionary exception.”


Another chill coursed through Ravenea.


“In what sense?”


“Our scribe was born in the outside world to exiled alchemists.”


“Alchemists cannot—”


She stopped. He smiled. She understood. She caught her breath.


Ilex and Melia.


Fraxinus turned, walked along a nearby platform, and disappeared into a train. Engines bellowed. People shouted. Wheels shrieked. Ravenea could not move.


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Home Sickness

Grandpa was only halfway through his college degree in Japan when Japan's fifty years of colonization of Taiwan ended in 1945. Taiwan was "gloriously restored" to the Chinese motherland. He went back to Taiwan, and worked hand-to-mouth for a while, then sold a few fields and took out a mortgage to buy a three-building compound with a covered walkway in front and an ornamental arched façade. He converted it into an inn. At the time, the town was a supply station for a mine. It was prosperous for a time, and a lot of travelers came and went. There was a need for it.Grandpa said this had been his dream as a student in Japan. He'd been a stranger in a foreign country, and knew what it was like to feel homesick. He wanted to open an inn where travelers could make themselves at home.In fulfilling his dream, Grandfather had grasped the tail end of the town's prosperity. The first ten years, business got worse and worse. When he'd finally made back his investment, the mine closed. The town economy was now mostly based on supplying produce to the city, and there were fewer and fewer people passing through.The first, and oldest, phone in the inn was installed when business was at a low. You could call in or out, but few did.Several years later a branch provincial highway went through, finally lifting the torpor that fell upon the town with the closure of the mine. And the business had a second spring.Grandfather's joy was in in his brow. He followed the trend and changed the old phone for this second one with a rotary dial. It was his baby. In those days, Grandpa was one of the few with the means to invest in home electronics, with a choice of style and colour. The lock for the phone hung at his waist until, in his extreme old age, he gave it over to you for safekeeping.The phone was a way of showing off, you know, something the neighbours fought to see. At first, he let them dial for free, as there weren't many people making calls. And they maintained decorum. They touched it and smiled, sharing in the excitement.Later, he started charging a fee, as people were taking advantage. Not all of them, though. There was this one farm widow who would come in to call her son, who had gone to work in the city after graduating from junior high. Maybe she didn't want to let her feelings show with Grandpa standing there, so she always kept it short. "Anything wrong? Good. Bye." She was an old neighbour who didn't take all day, so he didn't charge her. He even encouraged her to talk a bit more, but she always politely refused, said thanks.Her son went to work on a sand dredger, and when he was back on shore, he'd call Grandpa to ask after his mom. Grandpa'd tell your father, who was her son's classmate, to ride his bike to the field and ride her back. Maybe because this time the person on the other end was paying, they talked a bit longer. But she mostly responded to her son's questions, saying little herself. Later on, the sand dredger sank into the sea near Okinawa, and no survivors were found, like the stuck cover on the proverbial pot. The mother went crazy, ran to the inn, lit incense, knelt in front of the phone, and jerked the incense up and down, paying her respects, over and over.All this happened before you were born. Grandpa took you to see the field where the old lady worked, but it had gone fallow. Who knows where she was buried? All you can do is play a onsoling scene in your imagination: her face just lights up when your father arrives on his bicycle by the side of the field to tell her her son's on the phone. "Hop on, I'll give ya a lift!" Perhaps that was what she was what she wanted most of all, to see someone who reminded her of her son?

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