Chapter 17 The Peacekeeper

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“There’s something about her that takes my breath away.”

            - John Steinbeck

 

 

Burns

 

It was nice talking to Scales again. Of course he wanted to know all about Emma. So I told him how we met, that she had hurt her leg and that I helped her. And that she decided to stay for a while. Maybe in a while Emma will agree to visit him with me. I’m still hoping for that.
Guitar music reaches me from the other side of the hall and I stop at the door and listen. I don’t know why she talks herself down all the time. She has a lovely voice, but the song is rather sad.
Her back is turned towards me, but I don’t mind. I don’t want to disturb her. She seems peaceful when she plays. Is this how she really is? Or used to be?
It’s only been a short time since I’ve first met her, but I’m starting to realize that being around her is changing me. Or maybe it’s this body I’m wearing. Being human is much harder than I expected. I don’t understand these conflicting emotions.

The music stops and I hear her sigh. When she turns and notices me, she visibly flinches. But then she gives me a faint smile and I let a breath escape that I didn’t know I was holding.
“It’s a good guitar,” she says and I walk into the room.
“I’m glad,” I answer and sit down next to her.
There’s a peaceful smile on her face and he seems to be in deep thought. Just when I’m about to ask her about it, she speaks up. “I just remembered something about my parents,” she says, “how my father loved to hear me play. The only time he was ever proud of me.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t the only time,” I try to comfort her.
“Maybe,” she whispers.
“I’m sure of it.”
She smiles sadly. “Thank you.” Her fingers absentmindedly pluck the guitar strings, producing a tune that sounds vaguely familiar to my host’s body, but of which I don’t have any remembrance.
A thought crosses my mind and I ponder over it for a while.
“What is it?” she asks when she sees my face.
I shake my head at her. “Nothing important. I was just thinking.”
“About what?” she tilts her head curiously. “if you expect me to tell you everything, the least you could do is show me the same courtesy.”
She’s right of course, but I’m not sure this is something she wants to hear. “I was just thinking that… if you were a Soul, you’d like the Blind Planet.”
She blinks at me confused. “Blind… Planet?” she asks.
I nod. “The planet has many names. The Blind Planet. The Planet of the Bats. But those that have lived there refer to it as the Singing World.”
“Why is that?” There’s curiosity in her voice and she lowers her guitar.
“Because of the creatures that live there,” I explain.
“What do you mean?”
“The planet is supposed to be a dark world, but warm. The creatures that live there are completely blind, but they use sonar to visualize their surroundings.”
“Like bats,” Emma notes and I nod.
“Yes, that would be their name in human tongue, though they show no resemblance to bats on earth.”
“Then what do they look like?”
I let out a soft laugh. “I don’t know. I’ve never lived on that planet, but I’ve met a few Bats on the Mist Planet.”
“Why do they call it the singing world?”
“Singing is how the Bats communicate. They love to sing so much, that the only time they are completely silent is when they are grieving.”
Emma closes her eyes for a moment. “It sounds like a wonderful place,” she whispers, “I wish I could see it.”
“I think you would feel right at home,” I say equally soft. It is meant as a compliment, but I’m afraid she won’t see it that way. But she surprises me.
“Yeah, I think so to.”
“It’s pretty close to Earth,” I tell her, “you could do a roundtrip in a human lifespan.”
She opens her eyes and looks at me with a sad smile.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Emma shakes her head. “I’m not upset.” She plays the guitar again and I can’t help but listen. “What now?” she asks when she catches me staring again. But she sounds amused rather than annoyed.
“I was wondering what your name would be if you were a Bat,” I say honestly.
Her eyes widen the tiniest bit, but then she turns to her guitar again. Her hair falls in front of her face, so I can’t see her expression. “And?” she asks, “what would it be?”
I smile at her attempt to feign disinterest. “I can’t be sure,” I say, “because I was never a Bat, but I think it would be something like ‘Silver Song’.”
Her head rises slowly and she stares at me.  “Silver…  like that.” A soft smile appears on her face. She plays again.
“You’re good,” I compliment her, but she shakes her head.
“I’m average,” she says, “I’m just the only one you’ve ever heard play before.” Her eyes are amused. “You’re biased.”
A laugh escapes my mouth. “Perhaps,” I admit, “what was that song you we’re playing when I cam in? Did you write it yourself?”
“No,” she laughs, “just something I’ve learned to play once.” She hesitates. “Do Souls write songs?”
I have to blink a few times, because I’m not sure what she means. “Some do.”
“I was just wondering,” she continues, “because… all the things you do here on earth are because you have a… human… body, right? I was just… curious… can Souls create new things? Or do you simply have memories of human things? Do you even have memories of your own? I’m… I don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“I understand,” I assure her, but I have to think on her question. She wants to know the strangest things. She does have  me thinking though. Can we create new things? Do we have inspiration?
The Bears built beautiful ice cities, so when we took over we continued that trait. I remember some great creations. That was us right?
And when we assimilated the Vultures, we used their technology to travel to other planets. We did that. Did we not?
Or did we merely use a knowledge that lingered in the hosts’ bodies?
Can we create new things on our own?
“I don’t know,” I whisper. It’s something I’ve never wondered about before.
She eyes me calmly as if she had expected that answer.
My hand brushes the neck of the guitar. “May I?”
“Of course,” she says and hands it to me.
I hold it the way I saw her do and try to play. The sound that comes out is rather horrid. I wince and Emma laughs, but quickly tries to smother it.
“You can laugh,” I say, “it was horrible.”
“Maybe you’re not cut out for music,” she says amused.
I hand the guitar back to her. “I think it’s for the best if you hold onto this.”

We sit in silence for a while with Emma softly playing the guitar. I think it’s the first time we had a normal conversation. I hope it won’t be the last though. What I really want is to know more about her past. Her family. Her friends.  But every time she talks about them, it seems to make her sad. And that makes me wonder if we were wrong. Maybe we shouldn’t be on this plant. There are worlds in the universe that needed our help. Some even welcomed us. But Earth is unlike any other planet we have ever assimilated. Or perhaps it’s just meeting Emma that makes me feel this way. After all, humans are very individualistic creatures. Still, I like being human.
Emma’s voice breaks my trail of thoughts. “I remember how we used to get together with some friends and make a bonfire. We’d hold marshmallows over the fire and play guitar and sleep under the stars.” She smiles and has a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Sounds like fun,” I comment, “maybe we can do that here. The garden is big enough.”
Slowly her head turns my direction. “We can do that?”
“Of course we can.” I let out a laugh, “it won’t rain tonight, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
That brings out that true smile again and I’m glad small things like that can make her happy. I like it when she’s happy.
“That would be nice,” she says.

***

The fire is glowing a deep orange and I feed it some more twigs. I can’t believe I’ve never done this before.
It’s close to sunset, but it promises to be a clear night so we can say outside.
The bag of marshmallows I brought home from the store lays at my feet. It’s already half empty. Next to me Emma plays soft melodies on her guitar.
Maybe we can do this more often.
I glance at Emma and watch as she suppresses a shiver. “Are you cold” I ask concerned.
She gives me a halfhearted smile. “It’s a bit chilly for camping.” She pauses for a moment before eyeing me curiously. “Can’t you produce heat waves or something? You’re from Volcano Island, aren’t you? Or Lava World or something.”
“Fire World,” I laugh, “and no, I can’t do that. What I can do is get us some blankets. I’ll be right back.” I scramble to my feet and disappear into the house.
I know I have a spare sleeping bag somewhere, though it takes me some time to find it.
With two bags tugged under my arm I make it to the kitchen. Something in the back of my mind is telling me hot chocolate goes well with marshmallows.
Through the window I can spot Emma and soft music finds its way in my direction.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth and I struggle to carry everything back into the garden in one go, taking small steps so I won’t spill anything.

Emma gratefully accepts the hot liquid and the sleeping bag, wrapping the latter around herself in order to get warm. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face as she blows at the steam in her cup. “But you could?” she asks. When I look at her oddly, she clarifies her question. “Breath fire? When you were a…”
“Fire Taster,” I help her once I understand it’s a continuation of our earlier conversation.
“Right,” she mutters and gives me a questioning look.
“Yes,” I answer her, “I could.”
She nods ands stares at her cup with a thoughtful expression.
There are questions in her eyes that I know she’s not comfortable with asking. Perhaps in time she will. I think we’ve made a start at least. She doesn’t look so frightened anymore.
That must count for something.

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