Chapter 19

Icarus stood at Maren’s front door trembling like a leaf in a windstorm—cold or fear, he couldn’t be paid to say which. He stood frozen, knuckles primed to rap against the wood, but his hand wouldn’t descend. Maren, with all her strange gifts and talents, must have sensed something waiting for her out front. 

She opened the door wrapped in a white dressing gown and dark blue robe, not an ounce of surprise on her face. She stared at him, searching to find whatever she suspected, then turned in a silent invitation. He half fell over the threshold into the generous fire-warmed comfort of her modest townhome. 

Wordless, she bid him to sit and disappeared. The clang and hiss of a teakettle filled the empty space of his mind. Icarus stared into the fire and lost himself to the bend and flow of the flames. When she returned with a cup of warm tea and more milk than she had a taste for, he jumped at her touch. The rattle in the saucer betrayed the tremor in his hands and he made himself set it down after a single scorching sip. 

She sat in the armchair across from him, leaning on her knees. The weight of her stare pulled all the gravity in the world onto his shoulders, “What’s going on?”

He swallowed and ran his tea-scalded tongue along the newly peeling skin of his burned mouth, “I don’t know.”

“I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

He took a deliberate breath, then another, and told her about his dream. She listened with a still intensity that would never stop making him uneasy, but never once interrupted him for clarification. When he finished, she sat back and rolled all of it around along her tongue and he swore he could hear the gears in her mind turning.

“So,” she said after a swelling silence, “there’s a war coming to the realms of fae and demons and they’ve reached out to you for aid.”

He nodded, “Appears so. And it appears it’s my father’s doing, whatever that means. I read his notes, Mare. You did, too. He’s insane. He’s trying to force the end of days about, but I don’t understand why.”

“The Inquisitor told us why,” she reminded him. “Your father believes himself a saint. The most dangerous type of man is the one who believes himself righteously above the law.”

“But if he’s in a gaol somewhere, what threat does he pose?” Icarus frowned and tried again with the tea. It had cooled enough to sip, warming him from within. 

“If the fae and the demons are panicking over it, I’d guess there’s a risk of his escape. Especially if there’s another player in whatever game this is,” she adjusted her robes and yawned despite herself. “At the middle of all this is the gaol. I think we need to find that in order to find anything else.”

He nodded, her yawn infecting him with a great pop of his jaw. He rubbed at his eyes so hard stars exploded across his vision, “The thing in my dream said it would help us. I have to trust it, apparently, not that I’ve much of a choice in any of this.”

“Then we have to wait and see what it meant and hope it delivers,” she sighed and blinked at him. “You’re exhausted, Ico. You need to sleep.”

She only ever called him that when she was saturated with pity for him. He shuddered and looked away, his body curled inwards and he felt himself shrinking, “I’m afraid to, Mare.”

He was so small, so exhausted, so utterly useless and lost. He could see the pieces, but he couldn’t make them fit together. There were so many missing parts, so many unknowns, but none of it would resolve if he didn’t manage to sleep.

She got to her feet and motioned to him, “Come. I’ll stick you in my bed and watch you. If you try to get up, I’ll slap you back to the world of the living.”

He managed a reduced smile and got to his feet, it was better than pretending he could manage it alone. Her bed was warm and soft, all of the things he would never associate with the woman who slept in it. She dragged an overstuffed reading chair in front of the door and locked all the windows, drawing curtains as an extra layer of defense. 

“Nowhere to go without getting through me,” she mused and pulled a blanket up to her chin when she settled down for the night. 

Icarus stared up at the ceiling and considered what it even meant to sleep anymore. It had been days since he was truly rested and he was beginning to forget how falling asleep felt. When he was starting to wonder if this was his life now, this never ending cycle of wakefulness that started to make him feel like he might be losing his mind, darkness came and swept him away on its blissfully dreamless current. 

**

Icarus woke with blessed lightness. It took a moment to register that the covers weren’t his, the room was someone else’s, and Maren was curled up asleep in a chair by the door. There were no dreams when he was finally permitted to rest by whatever had him in its clutches—no monsters or graveyards this time. Maren’s presence felt like a natural warding against creatures of the dark. 

He eased up onto his elbow and rubbed sleep from his eyes with a hand still mottled with dirt. By the time his feet hit the cold wood of her floor, Maren was stretching her arms to the sky with a soft sound. It was for his benefit, she had a habit of being suddenly there that would not have done much good for Icarus in his state. 

“You stayed in one place,” she mused and rose to put her chair back in its place. 

He poured a glass of water for her from the bedside pitcher and a second for himself, “Aye, your reputation as a demonslayer must be stronger than you think.”

“Add dream warden to my list of skills, if you don’t mind,” she accepted the glass and drained it quickly, then gave him a judgmental once over. “You need a bath.”

“I look like a gardener,” he grimaced at his dirtstained fingers. 

“You look like the garden,” Maren corrected and waved him off to the washroom. 

It wasn’t the first time Icarus had wound up at her home, there were periods over the years where it was a regular occurrence. He knew the lay of it and had spare clothes in the guest room, so inviting himself to the use of her generous brass tub was not an awkward affair for either of them. 

The steaming water was a welcome reprieve for his aching joints, the stone scrub and lily-scented soap a balm for the broken skin of his hands. He let himself linger in the comfort of it for longer than he should, wasting a part of the morning Maren often made good use of. When he finally emerged, she had left him a pile of his spare clothing on the bed and spirited away the rest.

He fastened the last buttons on an old shirt and belted on the brown trousers he didn’t recall being so loose. The vest to match wasn’t his, but he knew better than to ask where it came from. Icarus had been close in size to her husband, the sharing of his things brought Maren some reprieve knowing there was a tangible piece of the man still in use in the world. 

Downstairs, she had already laid out a carafe of strong, black coffee and a plate of eggs, bacon, and toasted bread waiting for him. She was crisp and smart with her dark hair tied back and her well-fitted suit in forest green. 

“I didn’t know you owned so many suits,” he raised a brow and sat down to breakfast, letting the heavy food serve as a panacea for his still-sparking nerves. 

She shook out the morning paper and scanned another article, “Not much of a dress-inclined lass. Harder to chase after monsters.”

“Like a sheet caught in the wind, I imagine,” he sipped the coffee and groaned. Maren’s coffee was the best in the city and he would die on that hill, “So what’s the plan for today? Who do we take the sword to? What should we light on fire?”

She folded it back up and set it on the table with a shake of her head, “Why don’t we take on a case. Something easy, enough to replenish our Eidolon and give your… friend… time to show you some answers.”

His friend the dream-monster who had promised to help them find the mysterious gaol housing his father. He nodded gravely. Though it wasn’t his favorite plan waiting around for a monster to get him information by a mysterious otherworld mail system, what else was there to do?

They finished their breakfast and headed to the office, both of them tense pretending it was a normal day and nothing terrible and strange had happened. What father trying to start a holy war winding up in a faerie gaol? A dream monster making a pact? Sleepwalking fits and digging up heads in a graveyard? No, these were just two everyday netherists heading to their daily labor of exorcising fae from human hosts. Standard living, if you asked him. 

Edith let out a cry of delight when she saw them both stumble in, which boded well for Icarus’s formerly haggard appearance. She was on Maren immediately, “How’s the eye? Oh, deary, it looks much better. And you aren’t limping as much, Father Ulrich. I haven’t heard from Reed, is your contract squared? Might you need me to muscle some coin out of the holy man?”

The idea of Edith unleashing her debt collection skills on Father Reed was a tempting sight, but Icarus shook his head, “No, no. He’ll be good for it, it’s probably in the accounts already. Phone the bank, will you? If it’s not, then you’ve got my full authority to march down and settle with him in person.”

And bring a torch and plenty of pitch when you burn that place to the ground, he thought to himself, but she didn’t need to hear that part. 

Neither of them had filled Edith in on their change in status with the Church, nor would they unless it became relevant. After all, nothing they did had much to do with the Church in the first place. They only called when they were forced and knew Icarus was the best—or had been, he wasn’t sure where he stood now. 

“What’s come in the last few days?” Maren asked, flipping through a few of the newer papers sitting in the inbox. 

Edith plucked them from her hands and shuffled them around before pulling one out, “Here. This one. Easy case. I don’t want either of you taking on anything strenuous, hear? I’ve already put off several potential calls to next week so you’ve got time to rest proper.”

Maren scanned it thrice and nodded her agreement, passing it to Icarus. Though it pained him to be reduced to chasing a bodach out of a father of three, it was a necessary part of their work and would restore their dwindling supplies. 

**

In all, they handled two cases and were flush with fresh Eidolon for Maren to distill using whatever arcane processes she wielded. Icarus never bothered to learn, not when the best was already doing it for him. He felt better by the time they returned to the office, less like the ground was about to tilt from under his feet and throw him into the sky. 

He slumped onto the couch in his office and Maren waggled two ampules his direction, “We’ve got to dose. You because it’s been a while, me because I can feel my lungs liquefying.”

He smiled wanly and took one in his blue-tinged fingertips. She sat beside him and they toasted with a tinkle of meeting glass, then snapped the tops. She let it drop into her eyes and was gone in a breath. Icarus felt the same cold tingle around his wrist and shook out his hand, lifting the vial to

How High We Go in the Dark - 25%

Hello Inkmongers!

I've begun How High We Go in the Dark, and will be posting updates here after every 25% I read!

I'm understanding the format now-- these are standalone short stories that are lined in vital ways. In total, they add up to a complete novel. It's really unique, and I'm excited to see how it pans out!

Here are my thoughts so far!

30,000 Years Beneath a Eulogy

This chapter was absolutely gorgeous. 

As a former anthropology major, having an archaeologist narrator feels like coming home. 

There’s a relatability to Clara, Cliff’s daughter. She’s worried about the future, about climate disaster, and determined to make a real difference in the world— to make a future for her daughter, and all future generations. This story takes place in 2031, and it’s mentioned that Clara was in her early 30’s when she passed— meaning that she was born right around the year 2000, just like me. This is a view of the future that feels so pervasive in my generation (for good reason). For as long as I can remember, the generations before me have been talking about me and my peers as the people who would one day fix all of this. The melting permafrost, the rising seas, the spreading deserts. I’m artistically inclined, and never had plans to pursue the hard sciences (except as a kindergartener, when I wanted to be an ornithologist (I love birds)), so my relationship to this kind of existential calling was certainly different from Clara’s. In college, my professors spent the summers excavating coastal dig sites on the time crunch of a rapidly rising sea level— just like Cliff.

There’s a certain kind of angst that I grew from a desire to make a difference, and knowing that my passions aren’t the ones that will put me on the front lines. So when I see Clara neglect everything else in her life to make a real difference in this struggle, I get it. I don’t know what it’s like to be a mother, but I do understand that if you’re someone who can help, you have to help. That it’s bigger than all of us. 

I got full body chills when I realized what Cliff was actually doing when he was lying in Clara’s bunk, looking through her things. He was excavating his daughter’s life— performing archaeology on the life she left at the Batagaika crater. There’s so much we can learn about each other from the materials we leave behind. What we looked after, what we shoved in corners or discarded, the memories we hold onto.

Nagamatsu earned my trust here. He gets archaeology on the level that archaeologists do. Archaeology is about piecing stories together, tracing the tracks left behind from a life— one lived by a real human who is both knowable and unknowable. He sees and shows the parallels between the epistemology (the process of finding out what is knowable about something) of ancient humans like Annie and the epistemology of the people we think we know in our own lives. What better way to explore grief?

City of Laughter

The first story beautifully opened the door to grief as a theme, and this one let it gush though unchecked. This story is grief distilled. 

I was immediately struck with the horrible irony of the Arctic Plague. Clara began her research in Siberia to protect future generations. It was an act of devotion, of love for the world, a self-immolation for the sake of the world. In the end, it resulted in the condemnation of children everywhere. The fact that the Arctic Plague only affects children is stomach-turning. To imagine Yumi, Clara’s daughter, falling ill to the very thing Clara worked to protect her from is unspeakably tragic. However, we’re not shown that— it hangs in the air as a terrible implication.

The City of Laughter is hard to stomach. It’s cruel and merciful. Unfathomable and a genuine consideration. Gruesome and beautiful. The concept of the euthanasia rollercoaster comes originally from Julijonas Urbonas in 2010, and was first exhibited in 2012— he was a PhD candidate at the Royal College of Art in London, and a former amusement park employee (Wikipedia). It’s intended to make the riders feel euphoric before making them go unconscious, and ultimately kills them. The concept forces us to ask the question— what if you could choose for your last moments to be euphoric?

Nagamatsu’s story was originally published in 2013, and was modified for inclusion in How High We Go In the Dark’s 2018 release. And it makes us ask the question differently— what if you could decide for your child’s last moments to be euphoric? To me, this is a much harder question to answer. To decide to euthanize your child is borderline unthinkable. I say ‘borderline’ because I know that this is a decision that some parents make. I’m lucky to be naive to this experience, but I can imagine that time, pain, struggle, healthcare systems and much more can gradually make this decision thinkable. 

For me, the deception that the City of Laughter necessitates is almost unforgivable. I say ‘almost’ because up until it was Fitch’s turn, I couldn’t put myself in the shoes of the parents who brought their kids to the park. To imagine being the child, kept in the dark and denied information about my own guaranteed death by the people I trust most in the world? I feel the blinding pain of injustice— It’s. Not. Fair. It feels even more unfair that the children won’t get a chance to feel the injustice that’s just been done to them. But then— if there’s no one to feel that injustice, no one to experience the hard feelings, no one to realize what was done, was there an injustice done at all? If a tree falls in the forest. . . but placing myself in this world, imagining that I occupy a reality where the City of Laughter exists, I, Sam Cote, hear the sound. I exist, and I can feel the injustice that those kids didn’t get to feel. It feels like a duty— if no one else will, then I must. And I’d probably implore others to feel it too. But Nagamatsu won’t accept such an easy answer— and this makes me trust him immensely as an author.

Seeing Fitch throughout the story and hearing Dorrie’s reasoning for bringing him to the park, it began to make sense to me. Making this kind of decision is arguably the hardest thing anyone has to do, and yet if the circumstances are right, it can be the right thing to do. There’s a line from Danny’s father, Skip’s first charge, that reads:  “Thank you for giving us a way to say goodbye. We didn’t want him to die in some hospital overflow center” (p.37). By the end of the story, after seeing how much Dorrie loves Fitch, after seeing all of Fitch’s agony, after seeing how great Fitch’s final day was— this is what I want for Fitch too.

This is the power of stories, right? It’s a chance to challenge what we think we know. To realize that people in circumstances we can’t yet comprehend handle situations we can’t yet comprehend in ways that we can’t yet comprehend, and walk away with some small understanding. A seed of some other experience so that if— knock on goddamn wood— I’m ever faced with a similar situation, I will have come across this kind of thing in the past. Or if I meet someone experiencing this, my tiny understanding might help me support them.

I sobbed after reading this.