Sabine - Chapter 3

Sabine awoke in a cold sweat, and shivering all over her body. The scent of the Forgotten lingered on the air like a morning mist, though it never went away. She was among the others like her, in their City. The City had no name, for there was no other city in the realm of Memory from which it needed to be distinguished. A man stumbled past, clad in rags and smelling of decay. His eyes were fixed on a point far off across the ashen sky, and he whispered unintelligibly to himself. 1

Sabine drew back into her worn jacket, away from the cobbled street. She drew the collar up about her face, and closed her eyes, trying futilely to dream herself away form this painful place where she found herself every morning.2

The City was vaguely reminiscent of a particularly desolate neighborhood of London in the Victorian era. The streets were filthy, and would have been disease-ridden, had anyone dwelling there been real. The buildings were cold and empty, and the street vendors never sold a thing. Nobody in this realm had need of food or drink, and most slept on the street out of habit developed when they were still Known. Those who did live in homes lived in empty apartments with no electricity and no furniture, simply gray doors, gray walls, and gray floors. The world went by in shades of black, white, and gray, and the only color to be found in the City was on the person of Memory incarnate, when she would pay a visit.3

It was on such a day that Sabine found herself waking on the street. Memory trailed by, robes of crimson streaming behind her like banners. As usual, a crowd followed behind her, tugging at her clothing and pleading to be released or to be done away with. As this crowd passed by, Memory shot a fleeting glance at Sabine, full of warning and malice. Sabine pondered this as she walked the cold streets, startled by Memory’s having shown feeling other than her typical morbid glee. Sabine thought back to their meeting of the previous day, daring to wonder if she could somehow contact Corydin. This accomplished nothing, merely provoking the same caustic tears she cried daily. Suppressing the urge to scream and drive sharp objects through her skull, she eventually ordered herself to stop weeping, and went back to sleep. 4

Corydin was dreaming again, the very same dream he’d dreamt all week. He was in a park, most likely Golden Gate, and the usual weekend group of African drummers were sitting cross-legged in a circle, improvising a complex rhythm. In the center of the circle was a woman, dancing barefoot in an embroidered skirt and bikini top. She was laughing with her head thrown back, a laugh like the sound of a crystal wine glass tapped by a fingernail. And Corydin himself was carving something into a tree. He carved his own name, then another, which he could never quite make out. Then his name would float toward him, as if carried by the breeze, and he would wake up without ever seeing the woman’s face. 5

He woke up, disquieted by a feeling that there was a reason for this recurring fantasy. He got out of bed, dressed, and went into a tiny kitchen to make a pot of instant coffee. Filling a travel mug with the bitter black liquid, he left the apartment, without bothering to lock the front door. 6

Stepping onto the sidewalk, he inhaled the pleasant scents of Haight Street. The smell of a nearby Ethiopian restaurant was most prominent, mingled with incense smoke pouring forth from an Indian clothing shop. He started off West, in the direction of the park, meaning to get to the bottom of his perplexing dream. Arriving at the panhandle, and continuing along the path that led into the heart of Golden Gate Park, he began to hear a song in his head, which was very familiar, yet he couldn’t for the life of him think where he had heard it. Even more perplexed, he walked for about thirty more minutes, finally coming upon a large open field, where a group of men were in the middle of an intense soccer match, and a group of African men sat in a circle with various percussion instruments. Starting, Corydin headed toward the drummers. 7

The men were situated right at the edge of the field, and the next hundred feet or so to the edge of Fulton Street was covered in Eucalyptus trees. The trees bore the names of thousands of lovers, and Corydin was drawn to one in particular as if he had been there countless times before. Directly in front of him at eye level was carved a large heart, bearing his name and another. He reached out to touch the soft bark, and a flash of embroidered linen appeared in his mind’s eye. The vision faded almost instantly, but he found that he could now just make out the first letter of the other name, the rest of the word having been worn away by the elements. The name began with S.8