The rain fell relentlessly. The skies outside had turned a deep dark gray, painting the woods a soft stygian shade.
Damien drummed his fingers on the small dining table, looking out the window, watching the rain. He glanced at the large plate before him, grabbed a cookie, took a huge bite of it. Then he looked out again, with the same bored, absentminded expression on his face.
Jack, Max, and Lyn were with him in the kitchen-slash-dining space, munching on cookies, sipping on homemade iced tea, stranded in Mr. Brighteyes' cabin as he was. Mr. Bato had gone to Mr. Brighteyes' room to lay the teacher on his bed to rest. After his turn in the bathroom, Sander had volunteered to help.
They'd been gone for a while now, Lyn observed, looking up from the novel she was reading. And when the door didn't move to open, she looked back down again, her eyes falling upon the words etched on the pages.
Max had his earbuds plugged into his ears, humming vaguely to whatever song was playing that moment, playing an imaginary guitar beneath the table on occasion, trying to distract himself from the trepidation he felt. He would get a cookie from the plate every now and then, drink from his glass of iced tea, glance over at the words of the novel Lyn was reading. She had been staring at the same page for the past twenty minutes now, he noticed.
Jack held his phone, spinning it around in his hand, several rotations as the minutes ticked by. His phone worked now, to his relief—all their phones did, to everyone's relief—but he didn't feel like using it. He didn't feel like doing anything.
Jack found this weird. Hella weird, he would say. And he found it weird how he seemed to actually care, seemed to feel this nagging concern, for this strange man he'd come to know for only a month. Yet something else bugged him as well: there had been a sort of thumping sound for almost half an hour now, and Jack was sure it wasn't from the pelting rain. He glanced over to Damien seated beside him, catching sight of his friend's left knee jerking up and down.
"He's gonna be okay," said Jack, breaking the silence. "Just need to sleep it off, is all."
"Yeah," muttered Damien. "He just got emotional."
Unable to concentrate on what she was reading, Lyn slid her bookmark between the pages, closed her book, and let out a quiet sigh.
That's the thing—emotional. But the intensity of his sorrow, she thought, was a bit too extreme over something historical. Unless he witnessed it himself . . .
Unless he witnessed it himself.
Maybe, Lyn thought. If she can't ask Mr. Brighteyes today, she decided, she might have to ask Mr. Bato.
There was a possibility, she thought to herself. His eyes, man, Lyn recalled Max saying. Mister Bato's eyes have got this red tinge to it. And it was true, as she observed for the past weeks—a dark red iris, almost brown in low levels of light, with bright red flecks scattered about. He always had this strange air to him, this lingering feeling about him that he never belonged here, even making his ignorance obvious at times.
Sander had to teach him how to use the electric kettle. Mr. Bato had asked Max how a wardrobe could possess such a sharp chill, how it emanated a bright white light when opened:
"Because it's a fridge?" Max had said, pulling the door open, showing him an array of food stocked up inside. "The cold makes the food last longer."
And when Max had gone, and when he had thought no one was watching, Mr. Bato pulled open the fridge door and pushed it closed noiselessly. Open, close, open, close, open, close, again and again. He watched excitedly as the light within turned on when opened, and shut off when closed.
A door opened somewhere, pulling Lyn out of her train of thought.
Damien, Jack, Max, and Lyn turned their sights to the backdoor. Sander stepped into the kitchen; Mr. Bato followed, closing the door behind them.
Max pulled his earbuds out of his ears, tapped on the pause button on his phone screen. "How did you get there?" he asked, perplexed.
They had seen Mr. Bato and Sander go in to Mr. Brighteyes' room, but for the past half hour or so, they had never seen them step out of the room, nor heard the creaking of the door in which they came in, nor the scratch of it against the wooden floor, nor the sound of footsteps.
"There's a door in Mister Brighteyes' room that leads to the back porch," said Sander. "If you didn't know, there's a porch at the back."
Max glanced past them, at the window looking out at the small vegetable garden. He caught sight of a silhouette of a wooden railing. "Oh."
"Sander and I discussed the events of this afternoon," said Mr. Bato, walking over to the dining table. He and Sander took their seats.
"Is he okay?" asked Max.
"He's fine," said Sander. "Just tired. I think the simulation scene under the big tree wore him out, emotionally and physically."
"I'm thinking the whole simulation thing might have done something to him, too," said Lyn. She turned to Mr. Bato, and said carefully, "Does it take a lot of energy for Crystallians to create a simulation like that? I mean," she added, "if you're Crystallian, you surely must know, but if you're not—"
"I am Crystallian," said Mr. Bato.
Lyn's eyes widened. "Oh."
The others exchanged looks, although none of them seemed surprised.
"Figures," said Damien, with a shrug.
"Kadasan, specifically," Mr. Bato explained. "Of the Golot Mountains of the Southern Island. And what is this simulation you speak of?" he added.
"The thing I was talking to you about," said Sander. "How Mister Brighteyes brought us into the world of Crystalline, but it wasn't Crystalline itself. The colossal illusion that surrounded us when Mister Brighteyes brought us—"
"Yes, yes, I remember now," said Mr. Bato. For a moment, he sat still and quiet, his eyes fixed on the ligneous surface of the dining table, as if the prosaic woodiness of it interested him. Then he said, "It would take immense energy to create such an illusion, so much so that it would leave the bearer of the Essence lifeless. I doubt Elohim would permit such a thing." Another pause. "The Essence of a Crystalllian is limited to the mere manipulation of existing elements. I believe no Crystallian would have created such vivid imagery as he did."
"So you're telling us it's impossible for him to do that without risking his life?" said Jack, leaning forward in his seat.
"What I meant to say is such a feat is impossible for any Crystallian," said Mr. Bato, looking at Jack. "To create such an illusion is beyond anyone's inherent ability."
Then Sander said, "Mister Brighteyes didn't seem exhausted, though."
"He seemed pretty chill," said Damien. "Didn't seem to cost him anything. Except when he broke down after the thing with Apollyon and the First People," he quickly corrected himself.
A moment's silence, each one of them deep in thought.
Max's eyes widened, and he looked at his friends, and said, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Damien shrugged. "No."
"Okay, okay, hear me out," said Max, excitedly. "What if—What if Mister Brighteyes is a different specie of Crystallian?"
Sander's brows drew together. "What?"
Damien chuckled. "You make him sound like one of those dinosaur experiments from Jurassic Park."
"No, no. Not like that. I mean, think about it," said Max. "You know how some people are more talented than others? And it's just this natural thing to them. What if he's this naturally more powerful Crystallian?"
"As far as I am certain," said Mr. Bato, "no Crystallian is more powerful than the other. More skilled in the use of their Essence, yes. But more powerful, I doubt."
"All right, what if Mister Brighteyes is this super skilled Crystallian?" said Max, hopefully.
Mr. Bato shook his head, reached an arm out to take a glass from the center of the table. "Even if the Teacher were the most skilled Crystallian to walk the universe," he said, pouring iced tea from a pitcher into his glass, "to create an illusion as colossal and vivid as he did would require immense power. Exceptional skill will never suffice."
Mr. Bato sipped on his iced tea.
"Okay. Scratch that," said Max. He leaned back in his chair, and, with his arms crossed and his eyes focused on nothing in particular, he went back to scouring through the sea of thoughts in his brain, picking up ideas and discarding some, forming a few new theories as he went about.
Lyn remembered, then—the same question she had asked herself minutes before, one she had taken mental note of, one she had been meaning to ask Mr. Bato or, better yet, Mr. Brighteyes himself.
"So the creation of Crystalline," she began. "How long ago was that?"
"This world of yours is older than ours. That I am certain," said Mr. Bato, glancing at the various forms of modern technology scattered about the cabin. "About two thousand years, I believe. Yes, about two thousand years since the beginning of Crystalline."
Lyn took note of this, and she wondered.
Damien thought for a while. Then he leaned back in his chair, shrugged, and said, "I've got nothing."
"Although I must admit," said Mr. Bato, after taking another sip of iced tea, "there is this strange mystery surrounding the Teacher." Another sip. "Have I ever told you how he brought me here from Crystalline?"
"Nope," said Jack, ever the spokesperson for he and his friends. "You never mentioned anything about it."
Mr. Bato cleared his throat. "Let me begin with saying that the people of our world are vaguely aware of your world's existence, as well as its inhabitants."
"How?" asked Max, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"Your world to us is a Crystallian legend," said Mr. Bato. "A myth."
"And what does the legend say?" said Lyn.
"The legend tells of a servant's escape from his wicked master," said Mr. Bato. "The servant, having escaped his master's house upon the imminent threat of death, traveled three years without end.
"One day, no longer had he any food or water, he sought rest by a lake, and cried out for Death to take him than to persist living a life of fear and suffering. Death had pity on him, yet knew it was not the servant's time to pass. With that, Death sent forth Sleep, and Sleep held the servant in her loving embrace and pulled him down into the lake with her.
"For three years, everyone believed he had disappeared forever—they believed that he had perished in his hunger and thirst, or that he was torn apart and devoured by wild beasts. Until the three years had passed, and one day he emerged out of the waters, an aged man of gray, well advanced in years than what three years could have done him.
"For three years, he had roamed the lands of Earth, lived three years a life of peace, without fear of his wicked master. And upon his return to Crystalline, a Servant of Elohim sealed his speech and made his tongue useless.
"He returned home, for Death had taken his wicked master by then. The servant, however, spoke no word since the Servant of Elohim appeared to him—a heavy price to pay for his knowledge of Earth and the lake, and his freedom.
"The tale of the servant, the world of Earth, and the mystical lake became known all throughout the lands of Crystalline. And for centuries, curious travelers have made their attempts to search for the mystical lake to no avail. A few have claimed to have found such a place, but what lies! Ridiculous, even! Hence, to this day, no credible accounts of such journeys to this world of Earth exist amongst the common folk of Crystalline—save for my account, of course."
Mr. Bato shook his head, chuckled to himself.
"Strange, strange things," he said. "Never would I have envisaged the reality of your world, nor would I have ever envisaged myself to step foot here. Yet here I am speaking to you this very moment, training you in the art of combat and weaponry every week's end."
"But still," said Max, his voice rising in amusement over this tale, "that's so unfair! You Crystallians know about our world, and we have had no clue that your world exists, or that these things can even happen. All this time we thought this was all fiction, something so make-believe that people would think we're making this all up, until this happened."
"So what does this have to do with Mister Brighteyes?" asked Damien, redirecting the conversation back to the topic at hand.
Mr. Bato finished his iced tea. "He never used the passageway to bring us both here."
The youths exchanged perplexed looks.
"So," said Sander, "did he use another passageway?"
"No," said Mr. Bato. "The Teacher has his own methods." The corners of his lips quirked up into a knowing smile.
Jack leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. "So you're going to tell us what his methods are?"
"It's simple, really, but not quite simple," said Mr. Bato. "The Teacher called amongst us for an expert in both combat and weaponry, for one willing to teach a few with no knowledge of such. I stepped forward and declared my willingness to take on this task. A few days later, at the crack of dawn, the Teacher and I walked out of the camp. I expected us to make our journey to the mystical lake. As I said, however, the Teacher has his ways: once beyond the camp, as the sun rose up the horizon, we were swept up in a sudden whirl of wind, and in a heartbeat's time, we found ourselves standing right before his cottage. And as we approached, I noticed the five of you stomping about, dancing strangely upon the floorboards—"
"Yeah, Mister Bato, we remember," said Jack, running a hand down his face in humiliation. "Don't need to shove it in our faces."
A perplexed expression crossed the combat and weaponry expert's face, replacing his smug smile, and Mr. Bato held his palms up. "I hold nothing in my hands to press against your faces."
"It's an expression," explained Sander. "It means you don't have to remind us."
Mr. Bato nodded, more in acceptance than complete understanding. "Such strange speech," he muttered, pouring himself another glass of iced tea, draining the pitcher empty.
"A'ight, so lakes and whirlwinds and other stories aside," said Damien. "What's this got to do with Mister Brighteyes?"
"What's your point?" added Jack.
Before Mr. Bato can respond, Lyn caught that knowing look in his eye, and somehow, maybe, she knew where he was going with this.
"Mister Brighteyes isn't Crystallian, is he?" she said.
Mr. Bato smiled, raised his glass of iced tea in her direction. "See, boys," he said, lowering the glass to his lips. He took a quick sip. "The girl understands."
Outside the rain poured on, and the skies grew dark a couple hours later as Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn walked in the rain, through the woods, to The Raven's Nest for dinner.