Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(33)

“Do you want out or not?”

He grumbled, but as she began to recite the prayers, he repeated them. She wondered if perhaps she should be kneeling too. So she knelt beside him, hands laced in the pattern of reverence before her, head bowed. It would give him a good model at the least.

Was it the words or the heart that mattered in a prayer? Perhaps the spirits would accept his words and her heart.

The half hour was over in no time—saying only six of the prayers was novel, and barely felt like it was enough. But at the end Painter groaned as if she’d made him do something terrible, like carry his own luggage. He flopped to the side, and she decided to let him rest before making him—

“Hey!” she snapped. “Don’t close your eyes.”

“Just for a moment,” he said, his eyelids flickering.

“If you fall asleep, we might swap again!”

“You don’t know that’s true…” he mumbled.

So she did the only thing she could think of to wake him. She stuck her finger through the middle of his forehead.

The immediate effect was that overwhelming warmth, spreading through her body with a ripple—a tingling shiver riding before it, like a flower on a thermal. Then the blurring of self, that connection to him. She felt his fatigue, his concern, his frustration. His emotions washed against hers, mixing like overlapping prayers—blurring together, but still distinct.

It wasn’t terrible. But it was unnerving, as it mashed them both together in a way that was utterly unnatural.

He sat bolt upright, pulling away from her. “Hey! What are you (lowly) doing?”

“Keeping you awake,” she said. “We must meet the spirits. You can’t afford to nap.”

He huffed, but stood and shook his arms, the moment of drowsiness apparently past. “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

“We have to meditate,” she said, “until the ritual time.”

“Ritual time,” he said. “Ritual bathing, ritual clothing, ritual place. When do I get my ritual tote bag? My ritual underpants? Ritual fingernail clipper?”

“Levity,” she said, “is not becoming of a yoki-hijo. Your duty is to our people. To make light of your position is to make light of their lives.”

“It’s a shame then,” he said gravely, “that their lives are all so (lowly) ridiculous that mockery is inevitable.”

“Enough!” she shouted, pointing at him. “You will take this seriously.”

“What happened to you?” he muttered, backing away before she could poke him again. “I liked the demure version of you better.”

“Nothing happened to me,” she said. “This is who I am. The person I have to be. If I grow lax, then people die, Painter. Do you understand that? Farming among my people ends without the yoki-hijo. If I am not my best self, then people will starve. Forgive me if it’s a little stressful, therefore, that I can’t do my duty without the cooperation of a liar who finds all this funny!”

He glanced away, looking ashamed. As he should have been. This was the way she’d been trained—with relentless conditioning toward solemnity. With unyielding strictness. Until the desire for levity and individuality had been drained from her like pus from a boil.

It had worked for her. She’d turned out fine. Rather, she’d turned out to be what she had to be.

It would work for him. She merely had to remain stern. For his good and the good of the spirits as well.

“We wait, then,” he finally said.

“We meditate,” she said, kneeling.

He knelt beside her. “Meditate, eh? So…we just kneel here and think?”

“No thinking,” she said, spreading her hands to the sides and tipping her head toward the sky. “Meditation is the opposite of thinking.”

“Uh…I can force myself to be calm. Will that work?”

She glanced at him, and he seemed genuinely confused. Did…she really have to explain something so simple?

“It is more than calmness,” she clarified. “It is an utter rejection of all emotion, sensation, and individuality. You often start by fixating on something rhythmic, like your breathing or the deliberate stretching and relaxing of a muscle. Some find it helpful to vocalize a tone or a mantra. The goal is to empty your mind of all thought—abandoning even the initial focus that started the meditation.”

“What’s the point of that?”

She cocked her head, baffled. “To center yourself in the cosmere,” she said. “To wash your mind as you wash your body. To expel emotional refuse, as your body does with physical excrement. To be clean, down to your soul, and to renew. You’ve never done it before?”

He shook his head.

No wonder he was so…well, him. How backward must his society be to know nothing about a need so fundamental?

She started him out—as you might with a child—with a focus on breathing. She centered herself, let herself simply exist. The familiar sense of drifting enveloped her, followed by the sensation of…nothing.

Complete emptiness. Being. Nothing else. She was as the rocks, the trees in the air. The…

He was there next to her.

She could feel him. Now that she was centered, she sensed him pulling on her. She cracked an eye; his own eyes were closed, but he was smiling, his mouth twitching.