The Revelation of the Vine: Graft

Chapter 3: Last Mortal Breakfast

I tried to turn my eyes away from the sun, and push the images of the solar-flare into the back of my mind, but they refused to be ignored, as if they were trying to hint at some ominous thing I could not recall or foresee. I stared in the direction of the dawn until the sun had risen completely over the horizon, feeling as if I had seen this before somehow, and thought it had to have something to do with my forgotten Rest. My attention was lured away to the rising sounds of bustling knights, and the smells of firewood and food that came from the encampment, as my stomach suddenly growled like an angry boar. I broke free from the stupefying gaze, and turned toward the wagons in the distance. Small plumes of white smoke rose into the air, and everyone seemed to be focused on getting their plates. I stepped into a Vine-Surge, and the world in my peripheral vision became a blur of streaking light. In my focal point I saw the camp grow and trees rush by, as I sped through the Vine and emerged a short distance from the site. The sounds grew louder, and the smells more potent and tantalizing, as I casually walked the rest of the way. Wood was crackling in roaring flames. Logs were being split in two as axes sliced through them and slammed into the stumps beneath. Armor and cookware clanked as the cooks rushed about, and frying pans --filled with eggs, bacon, sausages, and potatoes-- sizzled on top of the grates above the roasting pits. Most of the Seeds went and sat in a group by the eastern wagons by the time I arrived, digging in to their last meals, but one of them was sitting off by himself. He sat on a flat rail connected to the side of the southeast wagon with a half-eaten plate of food off to the side, and was leaning forward with his arms folded across his knees, eyes locked onto the snow. Long strands of brown hair draped down over his face despite the top layer being pulled back into a high ponytail, and the lower layer cascaded down his neck to his shoulders. The name Vhalrin streaked across my mind, and stuck to the image of our meeting yesterday evening in The Last Drink, the tavern in Lastbreath to the south. A handsome lad of 18--despite the weather-worn condition we found him in-- with fair olive-skin, and eyes bluer than a cloudless sky. He said he d washed up along the shore in Firstrock about 2 years ago, and couldn't remember anything other than his name and that his ship had been caught in a storm somewhere in the eastern Oracle--somewhere around Old Atmos most likely. Ever since the last of the Founders fell and the Mist was discovered surrounding Old Atmos almost 1100 years ago, people have washed up along the coasts and everyone with the same story -- they are known as Veilians, and their curse, the Blink. No one knows if they actually come from Old Atmos, or if they re just adventurous types who were unfortunate enough to answer the call of the mysterious eastern continent. Most of the people of Vine have completely forgotten its true name by now, but not us, and legends of the Forgotten Land had spread throughout the countries. Some foolish rumors claim a treasure waits for anyone who can survive the Mist that surrounds it, but so far none have returned with any knowledge they had ever attempted to go. My focus moved over to the ones sitting in the group, but Vhalrin s face suddenly flashed in front of my eyes, then my vision faded for a second. I saw a broken world, filled with desolation and scarred earth, and then my vision returned. I was focused on the Seeds when my mind began to process the light that flooded into my eyes. What in the Vine was that, I wondered. I glanced back to where Vhalrin was sitting, and caught his eyes as he looked up with a sigh. One corner of his lips curled into a grin and he waved. I nodded, and waved back. Suddenly my own face flashed in front of my eyes, and I shook my head, then I turned my eyes back to the group. There was a Drasian boy, Tenbu. We picked him up in Lao-Tzu, way down south in Drasia--the double dragons, land of many coasts-- where he was trained to be a great warrior from his youth. Now he s a 19 year-old master of their mystical fighting arts. He s extremely gifted and disciplined, but somewhat reckless and can be a bit of a wisecracker. He has straight, jet-black hair that pokes out in messy spikes like the shaggy mane of a black wolf. His eyes are the color of coal, and shaped like almonds. A thin nose drops between them, and hovers above his lips; his skin, golden-yellow. The oldest one from this generation, to his left, is a well built and tall Gmirri; like Jurgen, but more tall than wide, named Falkir. Long braids mixed with loose strands of wavy, blonde hair frame his fair-skinned face, hanging just short of his shoulders. His eyes are as blue as the sea and just as wide, while a larger nose than his neighbor s--with a small dent in the left side of the bridge-- hangs in the center of his face over pale lips. A thin layer of facial hair wraps around his lips and chin, and up along the angle of his jaw. All of the Seeds but Vhalrin sat in that circle, surrounding a blazing fire; each one eating his meal and savoring every bite, as if it might be his last. None of them spoke a word. A silence filled with apprehension lingered over them, and it reminded me of the day I first arrived 757 years ago; sitting with a group of guys I d only known a few weeks, eating a meal I knew would be my last, but for what reason it would be so, I had yet to understand. Jurgen spotted me near the southwestern wagon after picking up some food from one of the cooks. He carefully walked over with two small plates with a few steaming bites of food in one hand, a broken loaf of fresh bread on top, and two small mugs of warm Dawn-brew in his other. I grabbed my plate and mug from his full hands, and then he placed his on a flat tree-stump near the wagon s rear wheel. We both sat down in the cushion of snow, and he broke the bread in half then handed me a piece, as steam rose up from the warmth. We ate our small ration of food silently, and watched the Knights we d come to know over the last 50 years eat their small meals as well. They sat around a fire across the camp from the Seeds. Their armor glistened in the sunlight. I wondered how many of the Seeds would be sitting there in 50 years when we returned for the next generation. "Reminds me . . . of our special day . . . doesn't it," Jurgen said between bites of bacon, egg, and potato. "I remember sitting . . . right where Falkir is." He pointed a finger toward the tall young man, taking a drink of his brew to wash down his food. A satisfied burp escaped his throat, as he set the mug down with a hollow pop on the stump next to his nearly spotless plate. He looked at me glibly--the way a man looks after glutting himself to euphoria-- with his brown eyes sparkling in the light and specks of bread and bacon littered throughout his white beard. He laughed heartily, as he removed his helmet, and rubbed his bald head and face with his hands, "I m stuffed." Memories raced through my mind the same way they did every 50 years, inspired by this place, and this event. 14 tours I've made since rising to the rank of Captain in my first 50 years as a Knight. Then images of the solar-flare popped into my head again. It was the most unique experience about this whole trip. That and Vhalrin, the mysterious easterner. He s the first Veilian I've come across in my lifetime, and as far as I know the only one to ever join the Knights of the Vine. "You got that spaced-out look, V," Jurgen said, bringing me back from my thoughts, and stared at me through squinting eyes. "Is something on your mind?" "Not really something," I replied, glancing at the sun, which had now reached half an hour s height above the horizon. "More like nothing." "You re not kidding . . . nothing on your mind is something." Jurgen s eyes went wide as he said that last part, and then he broke into another laughing fit. "I guess so," I laughed shortly, but the serious nature of what had happened wasn't very funny. "Have you ever forgotten your Rest before?" "Seriously, V," The smile on Jurgen s face suddenly melted away, leaving no trace that it had ever been there, "You too?" "What are you talking about," I asked, "Who else?" "Well," He looked at the Seeds, then at the Knights, then back at me and lowered his voice into a whisper, "We didn't tell you this, cause we didn't want you to worry, and yours was coming up in a couple days so we decided to wait and see if you had it too, but none of us remember our last Rest either. This doesn't make any sense, V. What do you think it means?" "I don t know," I sighed, overwhelmed by the news, but feeling like I d known all along. "But I feel like I m in constant d'j-vu." The wave of unknown fear that crept over me in my wagon this morning returned, as if summoned by my sudden attention to my own strangeness. Something inside me said that it couldn't be coincidence. Something strange had happened, but I couldn't remember what or when. I felt like I was inside of myself just then, like I was looking at the screen of my eyes from the back of my head. I stood up, took a deep breath, then exhaled and looked around the camp; first to my left and then to my right. Every movement I made felt like I was waiting for my body to catch up. The shapes I saw trailed across my sweeping vision, and I closed my eyes. Foggy red color painted the inside of my eyelids from the sunlight, splotched with flashing black circles. A garbled voice lanced through the thoughts of my mind, bringing a wake of emptiness. It sounded far away and warbled like it was underwater. It echoed back and forth across the emptiness of my mind, indecipherable, and came in waves that crashed into the echoes. It was almost maddening. Jurgen s hand grabbed my shoulder and tugged my consciousness back to reality. I opened my eyes, and everything started to fall back into place, like offset gears grinding into sync once again.