A GOOD THING THERE ARE NO MONKEYS AROUND.
They’d begun to find a balance between them: Buruu holding himself back enough that his thoughts didn’t make her headaches worse, but loud enough to constantly test her control. She still worked at the wall inside her head, pushing the pieces of herself into place like masonry onto budding ramparts, a dam to bear the brunt of the Kenning’s noise and heat. But her grip would often falter, bricks cracking and splintering, his words squealing inside her head like a feedback loop, her nose spitting blood. She felt the Kenning growing stronger; a tide swelling behind her eyes, dashing itself over and over against her slender defenses. And still, she had no answers why.
Circling for endless hours around Shabishii island, she finally spied the place she might find them. Glowering upon a natural plateau, rooted so well in the stone it was difficult to tell where the brickwork began and nature’s work ended. A skulking cluster of ancient buildings, sheltered against a sheer cliff face, outer walls dropping into the raging sea. Broad curving roofs, like decapitated pyramids stacked atop one another. Dark brick and black tiles.
The Monastery of the Painted Brethren.
No light gleaming in thin windows, no movement on high walls. The buildings were intact but overgrown, long vines working their way decade by dusty decade through the brick. The storm swelled overhead, a splinter of lightning stabbing the horizon, thrust blade-first into that blood-red sea as thunder broke the sky.
Can you see anyone?
NOT A SOUL.
Closer?
They circled. Lower. Nearer. She could see tangled fields in a vast quadrangle, what might have been food crops now trying to run wild in the vaguely poisoned air. A rope and pulley hung forlorn over a natural harbor, gnawed and slapped by the swell.
How the hells did they build this place?
They landed in the overgrown courtyard, cobbles choked by weeds, rain flooding in cackling waterfalls over the battlements. There was no sign of struggle—the outer doors were still whole and barred, the stonework unmarred by siege or fire. But slipping lightly off Buruu’s back and surveying the surroundings, Yukiko’s heart sank. Whoever lived here had done so long ago. Nobody builds a fortress in climes so inhospitable and then lets nature reclaim it.
Buruu surveyed the surrounds with unblinking, molten eyes, head tilted, puzzlement in his gaze. With a faint disquiet, Yukiko realized the world inside her head was almost completely silent. No blazing tangle of human thoughts, not even the burning sparks of birds or beasts. A few lonely gulls wailed at the very edges of her senses, but that was all. The monastery, the scrub-brushed cliffs, the entire vista felt almost entirely bereft of life. The storm was the only sound, the shushing of constant rain, a whip-crack of thunder setting Buruu to purring, thin fingers of lightning racing each other across the clouds.
I SMELL NOTHING.
Yukiko winced, flinching as if Buruu’s thoughts were a solid hook to her temple. Another inexplicable surge of power, always when she was least prepared, her wall dashed to pieces. Breathing ragged, body sore, suddenly and terribly tired of this; her closest friend in the world being the source of almost constant pain. She fought the welling frustration, knowing it would only make things worse, send the Kenning spiraling out of control. Toward what? Another earthquake? Her skull splitting open, brain flopping about at her feet like some drowning fish?
She pressed her hands to her brow, squeezed her eyes shut.
You’re so loud, brother …
I AM SORRY. I HATE TO HURT YOU.
Anger flared then, despite her best efforts to press it back. The Kenning had always simply been, never changing, never failing; taken for granted as thoughtlessly as talking or breathing. It was as if her legs had suddenly betrayed her, sending her skipping when she wanted to stand still, tripping her onto her face when she wanted to run. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of it. Truly afraid of who and what she was.
She looked up to the monastery’s silhouette, charcoal-etched against the lightning sky.
I hope we find our answers here, Buruu.
I DO NOT LIKE THIS, SISTER.
We’ve flown all this way. It seems foolish to stop at the threshold.
I THINK FOOLISH MAY BE BECOMING OUR SPECIALTY.
Thunder crashed again, rain falling like tiny hammers. Though part of her (part of him?) longed to be up in the clouds, her human side was shivering cold, drenched to her bones, the ever-increasing downpour doing little to ease the nagging ache at the base of her skull. She felt exhausted, sore from the flight, thirsty and miserable. A few moments out of the elements would be a welcome change, if nothing else.
We’ll find no answers out here in the rain, brother. And every moment we waste is another moment Hiro’s wedding draws closer.
A low growl, tail lashing. His volume receding slowly, not unlike an ebbing tide.