Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(124)

Time lost meaning to her. This was her meditation. This was her purpose. This was creation. Hundreds of stacks, born from a sublime flow. Sculptures working together on the grandest scale, yet still fascinating in the smallest detail.



This was art. Something the machine, however capable in the technical details, could never understand. Because art is, and always has been, about what it does to us. To the one shaping it and the one experiencing it.

For Yumi, on that transcendent day, she was both. Artist and audience. Alone.

Until the spirits joined her.

Ripped from the technical marvel that was the machine, they flowed out through the stones and emerged. One at a time, surrounding Yumi’s creation. Eventually she felt a trembling as the machine panicked and picked up speed. A stack toppled, and she used its stones to create something even better.

A dozen spirits joined her. Two dozen. A hundred. Then hundreds. Each stolen from an increasingly reckless machine. One by one, those that had been transfixed by its precise motions instead turned toward her with awe, rejoicing in her organic creativity. Each was freed from their subjugation by something more beautiful. More meaningful.

At some point, picking up momentum, Yumi realized what she was doing. What this would mean. The machine had created the shroud, and was keeping it in place. Maintaining it, and hoarding all those souls in its clutches, ready to be deployed if needed.

No machine meant no more shroud.

No more souls held captive.

No more…Yumi.

This was true, unfortunately. Though the yoki-hijo had forcibly returned to life from the shroud, they’d only been able to do so because the shroud itself was being maintained by the machine.

Regardless, she did not stop. This time it wasn’t about omens, or what she’d been “born” to do. This time, she decided: Service to her people. Service to the spirits. And last of all, service to someone she loved. No nightmares meant that Kilahito—and all it contained—would be safe.

So as she placed the final stone and the last spirit was pried from the grip of the dying machine, she looked up. Eastward. Toward someone she could feel out there.

Someone frightened. For her.

Behind Yumi, the machine at last fell still. Slumping, disintegrating as the pieces of it that hadn’t been real—most of them, by now—evaporated away. Self-perpetuating, it had needed fuel to keep going. Fuel she had stolen away.

Thank you! the spirits said. Thank you!

Yumi sat back on her heels, closed her eyes.

It was finished.



* * *




The Torish people started to evaporate.

By now, others had come to investigate the strange disturbance. Police, EMTs, even reporters. They’d given medical attention to the wounded painters. They’d listened, incredulous, to the accounts of those who had fought in the battle. Nurses had given blankets to the strange people who spoke a language that—without the bond that Yumi and Painter shared—was unintelligible to modern ears.

But then those former nightmares began to fade away, disintegrating into smoke. At first, Painter worried that they were becoming monsters again. He leaped to his feet, casting off his blanket and dropping his tea. But the people just continued to fade.

Each one smiled as it happened. He met Liyun’s eyes and she grinned, then turned her eyes upward.

The shroud was undulating again. Different this time. Hissing…

Unraveling.

Yumi? he thought. Yumi! What is going on?

I’ve done it… she thought back.

How? he thought, amazed. You broke the machine?

Yes, she replied.

I’m coming to you, he thought, running up to the shroud as it—amazingly—began to crumble away. Where are you?

In return, he sensed only regret.

Nikaro, she said. Do you remember…what you said about sad stories…

“No,” he whispered, falling to his knees. “No…”



* * *




Yumi felt herself going as it all unraveled.

I’m sorry, she thought to him. But sometimes…sometimes it has to be sad.

Her arms became smoke, her beautiful dress melding with the pieces of her as they streamed off. For a brief moment, she felt the thanks of the other yoki-hijo, finally relieved from their service, allowed to vanish. And the others beyond them, the thousands upon thousands of people who had made up the shroud. Their souls were now free.

Why? Painter asked, so pained it made her shudder. Why must it be sad?

Because this is what I have to do, she whispered back, feeling her entire essence unravel. Memories vanishing. Experiences vaporizing. She couldn’t remember her own face any longer. She was…just smoke. From that smoke came old thoughts, echoes. Lies drilled into her from long ago.

I was created to serve, she said. My life is not my own.

It doesn’t have to be that way, Painter sent to her. Your life can belong to you. It should.

Around her, the spirits continued to exult, their emotions so strange to her in contrast to her own pain.

I’m losing myself, Nikaro, she thought. No one knows me anymore. I don’t even know myself. I’m sorry. It was always a dream. Such a wonderful dream. Perhaps the first such ever given by a nightmare…

Yumi, he sent. I love you.

Finally a good emotion.

I love you, Painter, she thought back. Please. Remember me.