Page 47 of Ulune's Daughter

Rhodes envelops me in a warm hug.

I tip my face up to his even as I hug him back. “What’s that for?”

“You’ve worked amongst all this death for so many years.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, that’s kind of an archeologist’s stock in trade. I hope that doesn’t sound callous. It is horrific what happened to this culture. It disappeared literally overnight with barely a ripple in the historical record to mark such a monumental loss of life. Some legends persisted in neighboring cultures. The Magi of the Mist were likely the source of the human myth of Atlantis. But other than a few legends, they vanished. That’s what made their culture so fascinating to me. There have been other civilizations that disappeared, like the Khmer Empire in Cambodia, interestingly right around the same time, but none that ended so abruptly. Famine or disease were almost always factors. Everything I’ve found indicates food was plentiful prior to the start of the civil war; they could cure almost any disease. What they couldn’t heal were the nightmares.”

“Show me,” he says. “Show me more. Show me what you found.”

I lead him through the exhibit, which is designed as a spiral maze. The outer spiral shows the culture’s achievements: their distinctive and beautiful art, their runic written language, their building techniques, which were even more advanced than the Romans’. The inner spiral shows their descent into madness, war, and suicide. At the center of the spiral there are three, twenty-foot-high totems I’m still reassembling which commemorate the war and the final decision to accept the “cup of dreamless sleep.” I lead Rhodes through the construction, pointing out the elements of the totems.

He stands back, his hands on his hips, as he takes in the totems. He shakes his head and for a moment my gut clenches. Maybe I’ve taken the exhibit in the wrong direction?

“Kellan, this is overwhelming. Their despair ... I can feel it.”

I nod. That’s one of the things that drew me back to the Magi of the Mist again and again. I left the excavation several times, not just to go on recovery and acquisition missions with my team, but also to get mental space away from Isla Cedros. It kept drawing me back. I couldn’t leave their story untold. Their grief and loss demand respect.

“It’s affecting,” I agree.

“It’s unfinished,” he said.

“Well, yes, I have another week of work?—”

“That’s not what I mean.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It feels like unfinished business. What happened to the dream demons? Why didn’t they follow the survivors to the mainland?”

I lift my hands. “I don’t have all the answers. They understood infectious diseases well enough to understand that some illnesses spread via direct contact and others didn’t. They considered the dream demons infectious. The taint spread through families. Blood relations even of different generations were more likely to fall victim to the dream demons than unrelated individuals living in close proximity to each other. The survivors may have been from unaffected families. I know from Mayan legends that ‘Mist People’ were strictly forbidden from having children with other Mist People. Transgressors were put to death. That legend might be rooted in attempts to stop reinfection.”

Rhodes walks slowly around the headpiece of one totem, viewing it from all angles. “This symbol?”

He points at a fan-shaped carving with three wavy lines above it.

“That’s the cup of dreamless sleep. It’s two hands with the thumbs together and the fingers angled away to create the cup shape.” I demonstrate with my own hands. “The wavy lines above the fingers are the cup’s contents. Originally, I thought they poisoned themselves with datura or oleander. Both grow in the area. But that’s not supported by the remains I’ve been able to reassemble. I think the Water mages among them created a magickal poison.”

He stretches his hand to the symbol and holds his palm over it but doesn’t touch. “Water mages are healers. Life-givers. Creating a death potion is a subversion of the Element.”

I haven’t asked what Rhodes’ Element is. Hearing him speak, I don’t have to. He’s a Water mage. I could have guessed that, given his affinity for Water, but there’s no question after that speech.

“Everything in nature has its opposite,” I say gently.

He shakes his head. “No. This was so wrong. Their desperation ... Goddess, it hurts.”

“It ... hurts?” I ask.

I’m inured to the horror of the Magi of the Mists’ ending. I realized what happened based on Olmec and Mayan legends before I ever got to the island and found the remains. I’ve worked among their graves for years. It doesn’t impact me on an emotional level anymore. Freya, the museum curator, has told me the exhibit is affecting, but her reaction wasn’t anything like Rhodes’.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you empathic?”

“I don’t know.” He shudders. “I haven’t felt anything like this before.”

“Let’s get out of here. Picnic and groping, right?”

He forces a smile. “Yes, picnic and groping.”

I lead him out of the museum’s back door and through the pines. There are a lot of walking trails leading from the museum into the forest that surrounds Bevvy. A bunch lead to overlooks and they’re usually crowded with students doing things they’re too young to do legally. I lead Rhodes to a different trail. It winds through the pines, rising and becoming increasingly rocky. The burble of water rises above the sough of wind and when the trees give way to a clearing, there’s no view over Bevington, but rather a rocky grotto and a bubbling spring.

Rhodes sighs, a much happier sound than he was making back in the museum.

I didn’t realize viewers might be so strongly affected by the Magi of the Mists’ demise. Obviously, I want the exhibit to have impact, but not to the detriment of anyone’s mental health. I’ll bring a couple of classes through the exhibit to see if anyone else reacts the way Rhodes did.

---