Unfold: When A Tempest Can’t Be Touched

I raised my head until my sight was almost vertical to the ground, to get a glimpse of the crown of this giant, ugly mirror.

It must have been at least twice my height.

The mirror’s outer frame was featured by its irregular thickness and fluctuating edges, seemingly representing the shape of an ellipse. Its body was supposedly transparent, sprinkled with irritating air bubbles which blurred the world behind it. They blurred the confusing world in front of my bewildered eyes. The reflection surface was coarse, marking this underskilled craftsperson’s inability to polish their own chaos.

Yet still, I could vaguely see my image.

My dark eyes were young and filled with curiosity, echoing with the messiness of my shoulder-length dark hair. Annoyed by my over-grown bangs, I grabbed them up to keep them from obstructing my vision. I took a step closer. The puffy black and white dress I was wearing reminded me that I was only a three-year-old little girl. This dress was a gift from a nice friend of my mother’s, whom my big sister called Uncle Drama.

Even back then, when my facial features were much smoother and more rounded, my eyes were visibly bounded by strong edges, somehow resembling two trapeziums with curved angles. Perhaps my rebellious nature was thereby hinted.

The little girl in the mirror would ponder the complexity of the world, the phenomenons her mother could not explain, the ways her tiny dress could be made, the tricks her sister entertained her with, the flowers she would not grow, the puzzles she could not solve, the bedtime fairytales that did not make sense, the music Uncle Drama loved to play, and, the reason she was left alone in this room. This big blurry room with an ugly mirror.

However, she was perhaps too young to contemplate the course of her wheel of fate, the nature of the entwined history, and how her story would unfold, page by page, against her will.

As various thoughts raced through my youthful mind, several droplets of water bled down from the top of the mirror. A drop of them lingered a few seconds on the reflection of my eye. For just a moment, its silver sheen lit up my dark iris. But then it moved on, along with the rest of the water drops.

A panicking cry broke my silence—“C! C? Where are you?”—voice of a female, coming from outside, approaching my room.

“Mama…?” I whispered innocently.

Then she entered. She was not my mother but my big sister, Selene.

“Oh my—there you are—” She kneeled down when rushing forward to give me a huge embrace.

“We need to get out of here—”

“Where is Mama?”

“She’s busy—quite busy—but I’m here now—”

“What is happening…”

I tilted my head in her embrace, to observe her long, tidy dark hair. It was braided gracefully, stretching from the two sides of her head to an elegant bun. As she released me from her arms, I got to have a better look at her visage. She was much, much younger. Her lustred, soothing and delicate features inherited from our mother were enhanced by the blossom of teenage, yet burdened with anxiety, or even fear.

There she was. Wasn’t she once just a little girl, sheltered and nurtured by her parents? Wasn’t she once cherished with joy and laughter, dreaming of the endless possibilities of her future?

What happened? What would happen, so mercilessly, to tear away the vivid colours of her life—the life of a fourteen-year-old, beautiful young woman, the life of my very own sister?

“We’re in some small trouble,” said her, calming herself down by gently adjusting my messy bangs, “but don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.”

Yet, I heard the tremble in her voice.

She stood up, took off her long black coat, and covered me from head to feet. Then she bowed, softly lifting me up with her arms.

“Selene—”

“I know you prefer walking by yourself, but this has to do now. We need to go.”

So she carried me out of this room, then another. We were soon outdoor but my sight was blocked by her large, heavy coat. I could feel, however, the chill of the winds slashing across my skin, giving my stomach sudden rushes of fuzziness—a prelude for the disasters that lay ahead.

I knew something was really wrong.

But how could the efforts of a child as young as me, contribute anything to escaping such dread, such misery, such helplessness and such horror?

I tried to peer into the world. The world was blurry. That ugly mirror must have casted a bubbly lid over my eyes.

This was the horror of uncertainty—the most common object in life. When you couldn’t see your path forward, when you were carried onward by anything but your own legs, when the world hid behind a coarse and ugly mirror, when the air alerted you of an irrevocable misfortune, what could you have done, other then opening your eyes and facing such horror?

I listened to my sister’s racing heartbeat. It was getting more rapid and unsettling over time.

“Selene… I don’t like this…”

“I’m sorry but—please bear with it—for a while.” Her breath was heavy. It must have been tiring carrying me. “It will all be fine—trust me—it will.”

I was old enough to tell, she did not even believe in her own words. But I knew the best thing I could do was to keep quiet.

After some moments she stopped and put me down. We were in a small space surrounded by irregular branches of trees whose canopy breached over a step of cliff-like rock. Selene led me closer inside. She then parted the curtain-like long grass in front of the rock, revealing a small hollow, just enough to fit a three-year-old like me. I would find such a hollow cozy, had it been more timely.

She turned around, taking out a folding fan which was slightly shorter than her forearm. Both of the folding fan’s polished wooden guards were meticulously inlayed with a rhombus crystal, whose texture was like the gleaming inner layer of seashells. I would later learn the name of such crystalline—“The Lament Of Siren”.

Selene slashed her folding fan lightly against air.

It was unfolded.

Its fan leaf was layered with sapphire blue, somehow radiating a sense of sorrow.

For countless times I was intrigued by the story of this elegantly crafted folding fan, but all I got to know was that, it was a gift from Uncle Drama to my mother, then my mother to my sister, and soon today, my sister to me.

She kneeled down to grab a handful of earth, powerfully splashing them into midair as her folding fan waved across. The earth spread out and lingered in space against the very force of gravity, like a motionless sandstorm sealed by a moment in time. Again, the world was blurred. Even this tiny world surrounded by branches and rocks. Then, as she stood, golden threads of light emerged on the edge of this space; as she kneeled, parts of the lingering earth fell close to these threads to conceal their radiance; as she turned to me, the earth made way, leaving us with a small but clear and empty area.

“I would have to ask you to stay here, alone.” She looked into my eyes with tenderness. For an instant my mind mistakenly saw her as my mother. “Do you think—you can do that?”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to help with getting things settled…”

“Can’t I also help—”

“Of course! You are already helping. But I want you to help more. Can you do that?”

I nodded my head.

“The earth around us would make this little place look dark and uncomfortable, also unnoticeable. But still, if anyone comes in, these dirt would silently gather around you, if you hold this,”—she folded her folding fan and placed it into my hands—“so that no one could see you. If they really try to get you, the earth would stop them—but not for long. If that ever happens, run with no return, would you?”

I nodded again, but my heart was beating much faster.

“Now this would work the best, if you can make yourself comfortable in this cute-looking small hollow—”

“Like a rabbit.”

“Exactly! You’d be such an adorable baby rabbit.”

She laughed. As she always did.

“Now—scooch in—careful for the grass they may sting a little. Yes! Look how good you’re doing! What a cute little rabbit!”

“But what should I do here?”

“Hmm, let me think… How about…make a story? Or a song? But you have to stay as silent as possible when doing that.”

“Okay! I will make something nice!”

“I’m already excited! Show me when I come back.”

I was scared, but I didn’t want my sister to worry.

“Okay!” said I, with my immature voice.

“Remember—other than me, Mom, or Uncle Drama, answer to no one.”

I nodded.

She smiled, stood up, so the curtain of grass popped back to their place.

She left. I was alone. Again.

“What story should I make…” I murmured to myself.

My world began to flash.

The ringing of school bells.

I hate school—my voice deepened with age—it’s so boring.

The smell of tea and coffee.

This is Solofir—Selene’s voice—my favourite tea collection.

The touch of books.

Can I practise norsiera? Like you? Teach me everything.

The freezing water of the lake.

What’s down there?

You’ll find out.

The secrecy.

No one shall know. Look at me—C—promise me to tell no one.

The loneliness.

How long are you travelling for?

Several months, perhaps.

Do you have to go?

It’s business, C. I do have to go.

The tears on my sister’s face when she finally came back to my hollow.

Where is Mama…?

I’m sorry…

I couldn’t save them.

My breath weighted heavier, and heavier, and heavier until—

I opened my eyes. I sat up fiercely. I was in my bed, running out of breath, shaking.

“What—on—earth”—I held my hand on my chest—“what on earth was that.”

But then I chuckled, “Right—some crazy stuff from—ages ago—sneaking into my sleep.”

My bedside alarm clock revealed the hour of pitch darkness—4.15AM.

“Well thank you my brain! You are so nice to my sleeping quality!”

Memories of that distant past seldom made their way to my dreams, but last night they did. So I was unable to sleep anymore. I crawled to the edge of my creaking bed to open the wooden door of my wardrobe. Its inner side was embedded with a mirror—a proper mirror, in which I could see my slightly startled face as my sight reached my reflection.

Now, again in front of a mirror, I had to take several steps back to see my whole figure. My visage and voice matured with age. Yet, my bangs were still as inconvenient—I managed to part them somewhere to the left of my forehead; my hair were still as messy—but they had decreased in length, now forming a tousled bob.

Yes… It had been thirteen years since I was that little girl in my black and white dress. It had been thirteen years since Selene and I were forced to flee. It had been thirteen years since we became each other’s only family.

A lot had happened since then.

We moved to this town—Crossinwaves, and Selene was offered a job from—as what I had been told—an old associate of our mother’s. It was quite unfortunate of Selene, to have to take on such a job involving much confidentiality, while having a baby sister as curious as I was. Especially when I was younger, she had to make an unreasonable amount of effort keeping me from stealing her documents or tailing her to her workplace. Last year, I finished from school—graduation took place around the age of fifteen in our schooling system. They probably had enough of my regular mischievousness and disobedience, but would love to have more of my desirable grades. The grand college, though a niche option, could be my next step of education. Nevertheless, I would rather not race into that for the moment.

Honestly, all those were not interesting. They were suffocating. I remembered how Selene loved to laugh sharply upon what she found intriguing, and how those laughter, at times, deformed into her screaming in my ears, like those heartbreaking echos through the endless nights after our parents passed, tearing open the old wound of flesh and blood inside my chest. But then I would laugh along with her. I would laugh louder than her. And then, perhaps, reality could soften its touch.

Over the years, we had our ups and downs. In general, however, life had been, should I say, fine.

From the closet, I took out my jeans and my casual jacket—both in navy blue—and my blank white polo shirt. This was just about my usual outfit. As a matter of fact, the significant lack of saturation in my clothing collection was evident even from just a quick glance—black, grey, blue, blueish-black, blackish-blue, blueish-grey, greyish-blue, greyish-white, whiteish-white…

What a boring style—as Selene would comment.

I got dressed and stepped into the living room. I turned on the lights.

The place we called home was a modest cottage on the edge of Crossinwaves, amidst the grasslands which bravely carpeted the primal hills occasionally peppered with sheep and horses. Should anyone visit our place, they might be somewhat surprised by the simplistic wooden character of our humble living room. It would not be hard to observe our lack of time and opportunity to decorate the place with elegant features.

I approached the calendar, which was inked with the seven days of a week—Methaday, Ethaday, Propaday, Butaday, Pentaday, Hexaday, Septaday—possibly passed down from some older numerical system; the twelve months of a year—Setoff, Raindrop, Seederas, Woodblossom, Cropperas, Beamarglare, Sunblaze, Fruitfairy, Golddripping, Frostferest, Hexaflakes, Blanchara—probably carried over from the era of agriculture; and the year in context, recorded using alphabets, essentially transforming the base-ten ordinal number of the year into a base-twenty-six alphabetically denoted number.

(For instance, A was the 1st recorded year, B was the 2nd…Z the 26th, AA the 27th, AB the 28th… BA the 43rd, BB the 44th…etc.)

Today was Hexaday, Seederas 15th, the year HH (the 216th year). It had been three months since Selene headed off to her mysterious business trip, and I had not heard a word from her ever since. I had been alone in our empty cottage, just as the many times I had been throughout my childhood. By now, I thought I would have already got used to sauntering within the dim silence on my own, reconciling with the calls and letters deemed to be unanswered, making that first fresh coffee before the awakening of dawn only to taste its bittersweetness alone. But no. I could never get used to this.

Sometimes it was like going back into that blurry and earthy hollow, waiting, and waiting, and waiting, for her to come back to me. With good news or dreadful ones. I just wanted her here. That was all.

But wouldn’t that be wrong? I should be grateful for the mercy of life which granted us with a nice source of income. Why complain. Why unsatisfied. Why so immature.

I took a sip of my coffee.

As I turned around, a large map hanging on the bookshelf came into my sight. The map positioned Crossinwaves in the south-east part of a larger area—Foldin.

Foldin was quite a special region.

From my little understanding of history, the two branches of mankind, ninakera and dorasias, scattered across the east and west of this land respectively.

Ninakeras, characterised by their dark eyes and hair, have the ability to practise the energy known as norsiera, whose study emphasises on the manners and patterns of energy connection, leading to energy constructions which could impact surroundings. The use of norsiera, requiring crystallines as media, necessitates not only delicate control but also technical understanding of non-trivial concepts. Therefore, skilful practitioners of norsiera are uncommon.

In contrast, dorasiases, whose diversely coloured irises and hair distinguish their presence, wield the energy of derimos. The access of derimos, especially when practised only at a basic level, relied heavily on intuition. Although this power allows dorasiases to have direct control over small parts of nature, the precision of such control is greatly limited by the practitioner’s ability to rationalise their own use of energy.

Nevertheless, the intuitive characteristic of derimos made lower-level energy practitioners more common within dorasiases, while the technicality of norsiera made higher-level ones more noticeable within ninakeras.

For a long time, the two branches of mankind had no awareness of each other. They respectively formed ancient nations of their own, went through both war and peace. Then, after they discovered each other, all that happened all over again—as if history held a self-recurring plot, unfolding its dissimilar pages, only to realise indistinguishable chapters.

In recent decades, due to the boundary disputes between nations, notably the ninakera nation Terrina and the dorasias nation Ciellea, an international region emerged at the centre of our land.

This was Foldin.

Although Foldin was, to some extent, influenced and constrained by its two bordering nations, it operated under a government of its own, making it immediately unique and tempting, both culturally and economically, to the prying eyes of various conglomerates.

Most importantly, this was my so-called “home”.

I would not have imagined that, with a fate bounded by Foldin, within the visible dawn of future, my life would involve so deeply into the swirling of time—the revamp of the market. I would not have expected that, a day would come when the shroud of our secrets withstood no longer, when the presence of choices were mere delusions. I would not have understood that, the price of deception could be so forceful and corroding, enough to peal off the skin of a restless broken soul.

I sat down by my desk, just beside the large window facing the breathless darkness of the night. There, with my coffee, I awaited the first beam of sunlight to dash through the air of deserted desolation, despite the foreseeable inability of such warmth, to deconstruct the essence of solitude.

Some hours passed. It was 7.15AM. My wired telephone rang.