[Spoilers of references from future volumes]
(15th August 1982, Kristiansand, Norway)
(Perspective of Narration: Samuel Oskker Annje Havn)
It felt like all things, regardless of good or bad, were happening on a hot summer afternoon. The chorus of sparrows that migrated from the south. The bare, lone summer cicadas that played over the radio. Perhaps it was my favourite time of the day, and June always occasionally came to visit around this time. On second thought, that might be it. To the point of the topic, Jamie lost his job last week, and he's been trying to find a new one since. He asked if he could stay at my place for the time being, which I readily agreed to. I've been noticing his unpleasant mood lately, judging solely from the rate of beers disappearing from my fridge. His relationship with his girlfriend worsened over the years, and it could be any day now that they break up. I, on the other hand, only started living by myself after Emma graduated from Uni, which was four years ago. Cora and I both accepted that we needed to be alone for a while and catch a break. We never actually divorced, but we haven't seen each other for quite some time. She'd moved super far north to her parents' old residence after their passing, in Tromsø. Regardless, both Jamie and I felt quite nostalgic to see each other again. Pappa, he grovelled to me one morning. You were snoring loudly in your sleep again; I could still hear it loud and clear as bright morning sun shone through my curtains. But little does he know, I could hear him rattling like an old tractor engine as I lay fast awake at nearly two in the morning. Ever since Cora left, I've been diagnosed with insomnia on multiple accounts. Sleeping pills worked at first, but after approaching one year since diagnosis, they began losing all effect, so I quit the prescription. Clearly, even though I was openly accepting Cora's absence, my body wasn't.
One day, while working my part-time job as a cashier in the local department store, a young girl around 7 or 8 years of age came up to me to buy a few bags of chips. She had said I looked too old to be working a cashier-like job. Shortly after, her mum can be heard scolding her on the sidewalk. But I then, too, contemplated why I was still working a job that most kids nowadays do. If it wasn't due to a lack of pension and wealth, then what's the deal? Why couldn't I bring myself to retire? I remember Cora suggesting one evening that I should purchase some farmland. What's the problem with that? I loved farm animals when I was a kid. I used to feed those cattle on local farms all the time. So why did I abruptly reject the idea? I was thirty-five then. What would my decision be if asked that same question now? Unbeknownst to many people, Cora and I share a mutual telepathy, meaning we can transmit and receive messages in our minds with each other as we can in real life, although only over a certain distance. This niche ability seems more powerful than it really is, as the transmitting end could always block the connection, rendering the receiving end unable to read that message. This means that we could still hide our little skeletons in the closet, just now both verbally and telepathically. We both manifested this ability in our childhood, but unlike mine, which was meticulously and oh-so-obviously given during my travels in the Alpine realm, Cora, from what I've been told, got hers after she passed out when she went skiing with her brother in the Swiss Alps and was caught in an avalanche. It was around that same time when Lloyd dislocated the Talismans and caused Merdei magic to leak into Central Europe, marking the beginning of Dispersion (pronounced 'Jedevennt') in Alpine, which translates to 'The Ovial Calamity'. Through investigations by Osten, she was the only person throughout the entire incident to contact Merdei's magic.
The only person to contact Merdei's magic. Pure magic. But someone else had contacted magic, and it certainly wasn't pure.
A curse. The curse that leeched off my sister's Synph and life force. The Curse of Forklör. June Haven.
As the years went by, she made fewer frequent visits. She had moved back to Kristiansand ten years after her husband died in 1953, and surprised me on her first visit by bringing Osten for the first time in 25 years. She used to knock on my door once a month on a Sunday afternoon, after Cora and the kids had gone to the theatres, joyfully searching for topics to discuss. Osten would often send her supplies of Alpine tea, which we both love, and she'd bring them over. Quite a few times, I asked her if it would be more convenient for me to visit her instead, but she dismissed it, saying she didn't want my wife and children to come home to an empty household. I would open my mouth, wanting to tell her how she was ever more lonely than I was; to tell her that I could see the grief and hysteria beneath that pretty, pretentious, casual smile; to tell her that she did nothing wrong and comfort us both in our shared trauma, knowing that the past won't go away. But I never said anything. I didn't dare to say anything. Why didn't I say anything? I loathe my uselessness, my silence.
I was questioning myself at first, but soon she made it clear to me why—her health was deteriorating. I knew she had chronic pain in her lower extremities ever since she turned 40, but she never complained to me. Her doctor mentioned something about permanent nerve damage, but couldn't find the cause. We both knew what he was referring to. Osten painstakingly reached out to her as soon as he had time, suggesting prescriptions that would ease her suffering in her legs. She openly refused, which caused Osten to reach out to me.
'Convince her to take them,' he insisted. I could hear the desperation seeping through his voice cracks. 'Smuggle it into her food if necessary.' He then forcefully shoved the sack of tablets into my drawer and rifted back to Alpine without further ado. I couldn't do anything except sit on my quilt and stare into the dim, blank ceiling. I couldn't do anything.
In the end, I crushed the tablets into powder and poured them down the sink. It would've only hurt her more if I listened to what was a cry of desperation. I wasn't sure myself back then, but I'm pretty sure she knew—the futility of the medicine, placebos at most. My sister was distraught, but she wasn't yet stupid. She was well-informed on how the medicine worked, as she was given those same doses 30 years ago. It was an assortment of Alpine herb bases, infused with anti-curse Merdei and benzos. The tablets can serve their purpose normally inside the Alpine realm. But without sufficient Merdei pressure in the Earth's atmosphere, their magical properties would dissipate, and they may as well be fake supplements. I think Osten knew that better than anyone, but he couldn't bear to watch her suffer. He blames himself every single day—over what he'd put us through. He was lying to himself.
She continued to visit me when she had the will, and each time I felt like a spoiled child. After all, not every sibling has this opportunity to be living so close. But then again, not every sibling went through the ordeals as we did. Time flies by like autumn leaves as you grow older, and for some, that signifies the end is near; for me, it meant something was bound to happen.
At last, it happened. In the autumn of 1977, Cora and I contracted a severe case of the flu. It was so bad that we were bedridden for nearly two weeks. I couldn't remember the last time I was sick for that long. Meanwhile, June began experiencing psychosis and collapsed on the sofa in her own home. After my recovery, I rushed to her aid immediately. She broke down when I called her name, crying hysterically in my arms.
'Make it stop,' she begged. 'I can't unsee their faces.' But I could only hold her, pat her on the head to try and comfort her, as my stomach fluttered with dread.
Worst of all, I was forced to hear my own sister telling me to end her life.
'It's going to be okay, Junie,' said I as tears collected beneath my red eyelids, dropped and hung onto my thick beard, and wet my checkered sleeves. 'It's going to be all right, Sis.' What else was I going to say?
Her schizophrenic episode lasted seven whole days and nights, three of which were spent shivering on her sofa before one of her neighbours discovered her and called an ambulance. She spent the remaining four days hospitalised under my supervision. From what she could recall, her dead husband and imaginary children appeared and talked to her after she came home one afternoon from shopping. She lost it when one of them told her to commit suicide, triggering catatonia. Her husband died more than twenty years ago, in a horrible car accident involving a drunken driver steering into the opposing lane. June was 6 months pregnant at that time, sustaining a concussion and two broken ribs during the crash. Unfortunately, none of her two unborn children survived the affair, and she was widowed at the flourishing age of 30.
What would you've named them? I asked, sitting by her bedside.
They told me their names were Alan and Sonja. She forced a weak smile, her cheeks still pale from the three days of stress and starvation. And I said they were beautiful names. They replied with, 'But you didn't name us. Pappa did. You were never there for us in the first place.' I couldn't face them for three days. No mother can face being confronted by her dead children. I had truly wished for death, for the Creator to punish me for my sins. In the end, I couldn't even move an inch of my body, and I realised there existed punishments far crueller than death. I fully expected her to break down again, but to my surprise, she was stable. I asked her if she needed a cup of water, which she gladly accepted. I asked her how she was feeling, if they were still present in her head. She said they were still there, but she no longer looked angsty. They're not upset with me anymore, she muttered. They said I'll feel much safer and happier with you by my side. I contently agree. I needn't worry anymore, right, Sam? I held her hands and clasped them together. These hands—ill-fated and unembellished they may—held me warm, for that single moment.
Four days later, we were dismissed from the hospital. Feeling easy, June hummed a childhood song as I accompanied her home. It was nothing short of familiar: De Gamle Historiene om Kongen. I first became aware of it when I was five years old, and it quickly struck me how long it had been since I last heard it. Must've been too long. June had a peculiar vocal talent for as long as I could remember. Surprisingly, this talent had been left unnoticed for the longest time, only ever praised by me and several of her friends. It might be because she never tended to show off, in contrast to me, and sang only to those whom she was willing to. When we finally arrived on her doorstep, the orange sun was hanging over the horizon of mountain silhouettes like a blob of pudding, its last embers wavering as they danced through the heated air. For the first time in four days, I turned around with my back against her and breathed a sigh of reassurance; I hadn't gotten a single night of restful sleep during these past few days. And so I wondered that night, with a lingering tingling sensation in my cheek from June as she kissed me farewell, that perhaps it wouldn't be so long tonight.
Following the years after her psychosis, her personality shifted dramatically. It felt like she was a completely different person. Some aspects of her new being became beneficial, while others drastically worsened. For example, she began jogging regularly in the mornings and evenings, and wouldn't return home until nearly midnight (I couldn't help but worry), as if her legs magically mended overnight. I questioned her about this on several occasions, and she'd quickly agree without further explanation, and sometimes would straight up avoid the subject. I couldn't tell whether she was actually enjoying herself or not, despite her mood seeming to improve overall from our meetings. She also became increasingly religious and superstitious, avoiding normally justifiable acts and habits, and grew obsessed with magic—not the magic from Alpine, but practices like divination, sorcery and mosaic—something you'd find in a medieval village pre-renaissance, where people were on the end of the rope, slowly descending into madness. At the same time, I fell into a period of emptiness due to Cora's absence, combined with my sister's newfound idiosyncrasies, which fuelled my depression and self-doubt. I felt oppressed by something that forced me to pretend a normal life, while gagging me internally, unable to find an answer to these recurring themes.
In the summer of 1982, a few days after Juni turned 59, she invited me to her home for no particular reason. In her backyard, there'd always lie a garden of a few assortments of fruits and vegetables that she'd grown since moving to Kristiansand. But for some odd reason, on that day that I came over, she made me watch her extirpate the entire plot, overturning every root and plant grown in the soil, much to my horror. What is the meaning of this? Exclaimed I angrily. You loved gardening in your free time. She did respond with some justifications, something related to growing tired, but I was hardly listening. No explanation could fill the emptiness that existed so earnestly. To me, she was but protesting. In truth, neither of us was content nor happy with ourselves, and yet neither of us could find a definitive answer as to why. A helplessness that wouldn't disappear. She said we should try wizardry and witchcraft, to which I anxiously retorted, with Give it up. A fifty-three-year-old man and a fifty-nine-year-old widow, who both struggled with PTSD since childhood, shouldn't be seeking more attention than they already have. She gave a pained look. But you believed, she said. And I replied, the Juni that craved athleticism and the Sammy that was too busy devouring chocolates probably did. She left me alone in her own home without saying another word, her destination always being the old, abandoned playground a few kilometres south of the local primary school. I was left feeling hollow, then that gutted guilt that I've always hated filled the empty gaps. In hindsight, I realised that since the destruction of the Talisman of Masters, I'd long forgotten clairvoyance, and if only my demented head'd remembered what she was meaning, then things might've been different a year later. I should've seen the signs, and yet I was so oblivious and disregarding by twisting my words, that it only turned out worse in the end. I was dancing with fire.
On my 54th birthday, I was surprised with a birthday card when I checked the mail that morning. It came from my sister, who hadn't made one since childhood. It was certainly strange behaviour, but I didn't realise something was up until later that evening, when I accidentally dropped it on its back, revealing a brief message written in thick, erratic strokes, which was the complete opposite of her usual small, tidy cursive:
My doctor said I'd been diagnosed with chondrosarcoma since last month, and I won't be able to leave my home for a while. But you needn't worry about me, and I wish you, again, a happy birthday.
I'd relapsed since last Christmas, and I wish I'd found this out when I was still sober.
I spent over three hours that night reading her message over and over again. She was fine a few weeks ago, I told myself. Someone dropped a heavy concrete block in my intestines, and every inch of my skin itched to the core. A few blinks later, I found my bulging eyes staring into the white porcelain bowl that was the toilet; during the predicament, I thought to myself that the shit and piss stains were too meticulously protruding and provocative for me to be examining this up close, before completely heaving and ejecting the contents of my latest dinner. And I always liked Lefse too. I thought as I gasped and groaned for breath. Some of the gunk fell onto my thick beard (I kept telling myself to shave it, shave it before it becomes too long, so why haven't I done it?) during the emesis, and it was undeniably a mess.
After recovering from the initial shock, I dragged my haggard self back to the living room and collapsed on the armchair. There was subtle laughter that came through the moonlit window, while I lay lifeless, swinging to and fro as the lone emptiness within grew ever greater. My neighbours, a group of drunk freshmen, were having their second party with The Beatles blasting in the background. The household they rented was constructed a few years ago by a construction company as part of a series of renovations of regional estates. It was the first of its kind to have a finished foundation, but the project was discontinued due to the mother company's bankruptcy. However, since most of the framework was already completed, I decided to purchase the property and furnish the unfinished places. The property was rented to those college students since October of last year, and they've been living there since then. Such was one of the few feats I'd achieved in the previous decade as a senior citizen in Kristiansand.
The last time I'd seen her face was on a stormy evening, in late October of 1985. I would never forget how pale but peaceful she looked, gratified as we sat on a deep-crimson leather sofa by a small television, and told jokes to each other. The mood was lighter than one'd expect, and if you didn't know it, it would've appeared to be a normal evening to the average Joe. The only light source came from the small hearth crackling behind us. Neither of us liked our rooms to be brightly lit, especially after dark. Needless to say, the dark arrives really quickly at a latitude of sixty degrees approaching wintertime.
'Time flies by way too quickly when you're old,' remarked June lightheartedly. 'It felt like only yesterday when Jamie was reading picture books on my lap. Look at him now, all grown up and married. Given the circumstances, I still feel nothing but contentment for you, Sam.'
'Point taken,' replied I. 'If only I could give you even a fraction of how I feel.' To my surprise, she began chuckling.
'It's genuinely enough of you to even be here for me, Sam, for I have realised over time that it's often my interactions with others that cause them to construe me as this melancholic, independent, and selfless person, which isn't always the case. It's all been stapled to the wall already, since our childhood. People become sympathetic when they see me struggle and fail. Why? Because I always overestimate my capabilities. Perhaps all but myself already knew that, and I was too stubborn to listen for my own good.'
'I've never doubted your capabilities, though,' I rebutted. 'You are just too extreme on yourself. You've always wanted the best for everyone, so you never wanted to become a burden. But then, when something bad happens, you think you ought to blame everything on yourself, to shoulder the responsibility all on your own. That's when you begin to lose your touch.'
I had a feeling she wanted to continue the conversation, but was then interrupted by a bad coughing fit, and disregarded it. I patiently waited for her to recover, and at that moment, a strong gust of wind rattled the windows and violently buffeted the trees. Somewhere, along the network of pavements, stood tall a singular tree shedding the last leaf of the season. After it so desperately clung onto its branch for some final moments, the withered leaf detached itself from the root, carried away by the wind. It then drifted on for 2 or 3 kilometres, tossed and flipped between the snowflakes, before landing and sticking itself stem-first into a pile of built-up snow. When she finally stopped coughing, she dully stared down at her slippers and gave a tired but reassuring smile, which could've only been directed at me.
'How long do you think I have left?' she asked me softly.
And the truth is, I didn't know. Nor did I ever want to know. Nor did I want to answer.
'You need not answer me,' she went on to unravel a blue wool yarn next to a half-finished woven sweater. 'The next worst thing is to guilt-trip someone who already feels bad for you. At the end of the day, nothing comes to light but heartache. To be clear, I amn't suffering as much as you think from this ailment, and neither should you. Even if I become tired-er and tired-er each day, it's still easier than going through one hundred thousand trips of guilt and resentment, which I can't handle.'
'Are you implying that you crave death?' I asked, despite knowing the answer.
'It's not a matter of craving. My life already ended back when the curse overpowered my alignments and forced heartstop and transfiguration. Everything that happened afterwards was due to my selfishness and courtesy from Zuretha. That was the only reason that Benjamin Faley died, and I was brought back. I know you never believed it to be my fault, but recalling what I did on that day, I truly blame myself. I killed him. To put it simply, my death was long overdue, but now, the reaper showed up to collect this soul. This scummy but beloved soul.
'Although, objectively speaking, cancer will be my undoing, it wasn't all bad while it lasted, and I have wonderful people by my side, one of them who I know won't let my memories be forgotten for a very long time, and that makes me feel better.'
'Would that person be me?' I asked suggestively.
'We both know well enough that your ass wouldn't make one hundred. Poetically, it'll make one hell news out of someone pushing their sixties' flirtation; and you don't flirt with your wife enough.' My sister had an odd taste in humour, and that often resulted in others taking a while for the joke to land. But I've gotten used to it, so I naturally couldn't stop laughing.
***
Juni Rosedalen Byrondatt Havn passed away on the 5th of January, 1986, at the age of 62. For some reason, Osten nor anyone else from Alpine came to attend her funeral. I myself would live for nearly another forty years before joining her in the afterlife. After saying goodbye to my children, my grandchildren, and my first great-granddaughter, Juni, I take my last few breaths and prepare fall into an eternal sleep on my deathbed. The last thing I saw before passing was the swaying leaves of newly planted trees. They looked like the hair of the old hermit.
Explicitly, Osten would continue to reminisce about our memories for at least another 2,000 years. However, for simplicity's sake, when the beeping monitor born out of modern technology flatlined, our story truly ended there.