Then I must be well and truly mad. That, or I’m ill. Thinking back on the past few weeks, however, I’m positive the weather has begun to warm. Snow, trickling into slush. Another side-effect of the North Wind’s weakening influence?
Once we’re settled in the tiny vessel, the boat carries us upstream, through rocky lowlands and austere plains. We reach a split in the river and veer right. Though my attention clings to the passing landscape, I remain aware of the king’s gaze on my face. Perhaps he’s curious of my reaction to our surroundings. Sand transforms into soil, then grass, then trees, plentiful and burgeoning, respiring the scent of wet earth following a hard rain.
My heartbeat isn’t quite steady as the little boat bumps against the river bank and Boreas helps me ashore. Silt and mud suck at my boots. Beyond the bank lies an untouched land.
“Makarios,” he murmurs.
It is a dream, or a dream of a dream. For whatever reason, winter has not touched this stretch of earth. Pressed between eastern and western horizons, the grassy fields roll in gentle undulations, bright pops of wildflowers sprinkled throughout. The sky is a clean sweep, curved and blue, dappled by soft clouds that fade in the distance. The smells are sweeter, the colors brighter, and the air all but sings.
Taking my hand, Boreas draws me uphill. Softened grass unfolds beneath our wandering feet. “This is where souls of divine origin, as well as virtuous men and women, are laid to rest. Those worthy of a peaceful afterlife.”
After a moment, he releases my hand. I’m almost sad to let go. “How often does that happen?” I ask.
“Rarely. To be judged worthy of this eternity is the highest of honors.”
My parents would not have been laid to rest here. The Meadows is a greater likelihood. No crimes committed, no worthy deeds completed. They were simple folk.
My footsteps make not a sound as I trail after Boreas. He walks slowly, as though he does not have a destination in mind and is happy to meander.
The perimeter of the field is marked by cypress and white poplar, a canopy crowned by silvery leaves. The hills shallow out, and I glimpse glinting creeks in the dips and hollows. It’s so peaceful I’m afraid to speak, a quiet that will remain undisturbed for all eternity.
A little farther on, the river peeps into view. A few specters crouch at its bank, filling buckets.
“In Makarios,” says the king, “it neither snows nor storms nor rains. Here, the souls are untouched by sorrow. They have everything they need.”
One of the men, dressed in simple clothes, cups the water in his hands and brings it to his mouth. I step forward in alarm. “He’s drinking the water. Won’t he lose his memories?”
“That river is not Mnemenos.”
Oh. And then I remember the split in the waterway. “What river did we travel on?” This water is the deep, endless blue of a jewel.
“It is not named. It originates in Makarios, up near the mountains.” He points west, where the rocky earth serrates a patch of sky. “When it reaches the end of the Deadlands, it drops off, falling into mist.”
“Do the inhabitants of Makarios retain their memories?”
“They do not,” he says. “Over the years, I’ve found that remembrance often leads to rifts in the population. A breeding ground for jealousy, envy, greed. It is better to begin with a blank slate.”
“What about families? People who are related?”
“Families are an exception. If two or more people from the same family arrive at Makarios, they maintain their relations with one another. Memories of their former lives, however, are lost.”
As much as I hate the thought of losing memories of my current life, I think I agree with him. Life ends, just as it begins. I would not want anything holding me back from embracing who I could be in the afterlife. Starting anew.
Beyond the poplar trees, souls gather in a large clearing within a circle of tents. They are dancing. Loose, flowing dresses for the women and trousers for the men, their transparent forms winking in and out as they pass through the light of the sun.
“They look happy,” I remark in surprise.
“They are happy.”
I glance up at Boreas. He continues to watch the specters—many of them children—trade off partners. There is an ease to his features. Contentment.
“Come.” He tugs me forward by the hand. “I’d like everyone to meet you.”
And by everyone, he meanseveryone. Uncles and daughters and cousins and friends and fathers and neighbors. A woman with a face pressed by deep folds shuffles toward us. She reaches out, takes Boreas’ hands in her own. “Quiet one,” she says. The words, more breath than substance, sound pleasing to my ears.
That he is letting someone enter his space is shocking enough, but to let her touch him? And without fear?
“This is my wife, Wren.” He rests a hand on my shoulder. “It is her first visit to Makarios.”
