High Violet

       

High Violet

        There is a cabin in a rainy meadow, bisected by a rocky stream. The meadow is surrounded by firs, hemlocks, maples and cedars that whisper as the wind tugs at them. The skies are gray and voluminous, a confused tangle of textures and shapes. What would, on a sunny day, be a palette of bright greens, browns, reds, is transmuted by the rain into a somber range of navy and maroon, cobalt and pewter. But everything is clear and crisp this morning. The rain has silenced the birds and insects, and aside from the steady drone of the downpour, there is only the periodic thack of a maul striking wood, and the thud of split logs tumbling into the pile.

        Hisao is just beyond the garden. His hair is plastered to his head. Water droplets cling to his thin gray beard. Despite the rain, the morning is fairly warm, and he wears only a patched pair of pants. Delicate rivulets trace paths down his bare arms and chest. The soles of his feet are caked with mud.

        He takes a breath each time he lifts the maul, then releases it as he strikes at a fault in the grain. One blow, then two perfect halves fall. Every so often, he takes a break from splitting, loads the firewood into a wheelbarrow and wheels it over to the hutch by the shed. He gives little thought to what will come next. The day will take shape as he works.

        Solitude has attuned him to the soul of moments, of days, to the distinct colors and tones that they possess. Hisao feels all of this in his own vitality, in the satisfaction of a blow well-struck, and the chaotic metronome of raindrops on the shed’s tin roof. There is an energetic soul today, a dreaming one, which promises a kind of urgency, a purpose. But it is also a melancholy soul.

        A little before noon, he goes inside and dries himself off. Then he puts a kettle on the stove, and boils some water for tea. There is only one room in the cabin, a spacious, airy room containing a cot, a fireplace, a stove, a small table and a bookcase, replete with books which he has found in his travels, in the ruined parts of the world, where such things as books remain.

        It is funny that he still thinks of these regions as ruins. Never has he seen beauty that compares to the gradual reclamation of towns and highways by vines and grass, trees and water. Hisao has seen oak saplings sprouting from the cracked pavement of once-bustling main streets. He has seen birds’ nests tucked away in the splintered cabinets of old cafes, and deer wandering past gas stations, where grass grows and moss and lichen cling to derelict pumps. These places are not ruined, he thinks. They are liberated.

        The kettle whistles. He rouses himself from his cot.

        Ever since he was a boy, Hisao has loved storms. He loves the hush they bring to the world, the secrets that they disseminate in the wind- an unintelligible cypher promising great knowledge, if only it can be understood.

          He remembers his mother singing on rainy weekend afternoons, fixing him and his sister lunch while they lounged or played make-believe games. The sounds. The smells. The feeling of being home. Still so clear. But his mother and sister are gone now. And so is that house, and the peace and order it once contained. Its echoes can still be heard, however, particularly on afternoons such as this.

          Hisao retrieves a tin of sencha and the kyusu, and prepares the tea. When it’s almost ready, he reaches for a chipped ceramic cup on the shelf. It is then that a shadow flickers past the windowpane over the washbasin. He hesitates, watching the movement in the sky, then retrieves two cups instead.

          The silhouette in the distance resolves into a humanoid shape, borne aloft by ephemeral wings, effervescent and multicolored, like the rainbow sheen of oil on water. Far off, past the forested horizon, three perfect spires glisten, taller than the greatest skyscrapers of the past, glowing as though bathed in sunlight. It is from these spires that the figure has come. But Hisao is perplexed. He did not anticipate another visitor so soon.

        A minute passes and the tea has steeped. He pours it, then takes a seat at the table. He raises a cup to his lips. There is the expected knock at the door. One rap, then another. Polite, perfunctory.

        “Come in,” Hisao says.

          The door opens, and a woman steps inside, stooping to pass under the threshold.

          Though it is still raining steadily outside, she is not wet as she steps onto the mat and stands at her full height. Her wings have disappeared, and she could now be mistaken for a particularly tall human, save for the utter perfection of her features, to which no human countenance can compare.

          She is adorned in delicate robes, made of a semi-reflective material, which conform to her body. Her face, framed by artful white locks, is an intoxicating vision of symmetry: fine, handsome features, two sloping, gentle violet eyes; a delicate, pointed nose, blue-gray lips. Her skin is silver, unmarred by any blemish.

        After closing the door behind her, she stands on the mat and takes in her surroundings. Her violet eyes flicker from the bookcase, to the kitchenware, the mementos of his travels. Her nostrils flare, breathing the floral perfume of steeped tea, and the heady aroma of smoldering embers in the fireplace. Then her eyes meet Hisao’s, and she smiles.

        “Please, sit,” says Hisao, indicating the mat on the other end of the table.

        “Certainly,” she answers, her voice soft but resonant. “Please, forgive my manners. It has been some time since I have communicated verbally.”

        “There is nothing to forgive,” says Hisao as she takes a seat on the tatami, crossing her legs and cradling the cup in her hand. Hisao regards her with curiosity, taking a sip of tea.

          There is no common look to the transcendent- each determines for themselves how they should appear- and yet they are unmistakable. Unlike anything that came before them. Birthed not in the cradle of the earth, but by their own will. Other.

          The figure takes a sip of tea, nods, smiles, and sets the mug back down. Silence passes between them. All the while, there is the insistent percussion of the downpour. The storm’s strength is undiminished.

        “I am Hisao,” he says. “I don’t think we have met. You are?”

        “I’m afraid I can’t produce my name with words. But it would please me if you knew me as Violet.”

        “A fine name,” says Hisao, nodding.

        “Thank you for your hospitality,” Violet continues. “And the tea. If it is more convenient, I am happy to converse in Japanese.”

        “That will not be necessary. I have been working on my English. I could use the practice… if you will forgive my accent.”

        “There is nothing to forgive.”

        Another silence passes between them. Hisao’s gaze shifts between the steam rising from his mug and the being that sits across from him. Violet.

          Her expression belies neither contempt nor approval, but rather an air of detachment. She is inscrutable- more a work of art, a marvel of evolution, than a peer.

        “I have been sent here,” Violet announces, “To interview you.”

        “Oh?”

        She nods.

        “I don’t remember applying for any job,” he says.

        “It isn’t that sort of interview.”

        “I did not imagine it was.” He returns her smile with one of his own. “A joke,” he explains.

        “Ah.” Her smile neither increases nor diminishes. She folds her hands on the table. Long, silver fingers.

        “What is the reason for this interview?”

        “The community is interested in you. They would like to understand your purpose here.”

        “My purpose?”

        “Yes. In your own words.”

          Hisao’s brow furrows. He contemplates this. Violet does not stir from across the table.

        “It is a... big question,” he says, finally. “I have many purposes. Is there one that interests you?”

        “Perhaps the question was too general,” Violet says. Hisao notices that there is no pause before her response. She processes what he is saying, it seems, before he has finished saying it.

        “Why have you come to this place?” she asks.

        The room is silent, aside from the storm’s ambience. Plump clouds shift and churn in the sky.

        “It was never my plan to arrive here,” Hisao says. “I had no objective when I began my journey.”

        “And when was that?”

        Hisao frowns, trying to remember.

        “Twenty years ago,” he offers, unsure.

        “Not long after the Stabilization,” Violet answers.

        “The dawn of angels.”

        This time there is a short lapse before she replies. He wonders if she is doing this consciously, to put him at ease.

        “Do you believe we are angels?” she asks.

        “Perhaps.”

          A stray beam of sunlight, as ephemeral as the wings that bore her here, lights up the silver strands of her hair, revealing a profusion of more subtle colors- cyans and magentas and violets. Then the sun is swallowed up again, and her radiance diminishes by a fraction of a degree.

        “So,” she continues. “You didn’t intend to arrive here. But here you are. You stayed.”

        “I liked the mountains,” he says. “And the rain.”

        “You were born in Japan.”

        “Yes. In Nagoya.”

        “Does the climate here remind you of home?”

        “In some ways, yes.”

        “But you have called many places home.”

        “Many, many.”

        “When was the last time you were in contact with one of your own kind?”

        “Not for years.”

          She inclines her head slightly. “There are few left.”

        “I am sorry to hear that.”

        “Sorry,” says Violet. “But not concerned?”

          Hisao raises the mug to his lips.

        “I am not concerned,” he agrees, taking a sip.

        “Why not?”

        “It is not something that I can change.”

        “That’s true. But you must have an opinion about it. It is a matter that affects you in many ways.”

          He takes a breath, eases back a little in his chair.

        “Each year,” he says, “There is more life in this forest. Many different kinds. More and more. When I see this, I think, everything is well.”

          Violet presses, “But the human population is dwindling. More are interested in transcending than procreating. What do you think about that?”

          “Perhaps that is as it should be. Perhaps not. But that is how it is.”

          Her smile seems to dim. She looks puzzled.

          “Why have you chosen not to transcend?” Violet asks.

          Hisao gazes at the window over the washbasin, choosing not to answer. Why indeed?

          “These are difficult questions,” Violet says, perceiving his reticence.

          Hisao tugs absentmindedly at his beard, returning his gaze to hers. He is met with twin amethysts, unfathomable depths.

        “Did you transcend?” he asks. “Or were you... produced?”

        “I did not transcend.”

        “So you don’t know what it is to be human.”

        “There is much that can be understood by imprinted experiences.”

        “But you didn’t live it.”

        “No,” she answers. “I did not.”

        “You asked me what is my purpose,” Hisao says. “I will answer. But first- what is your purpose?”

        Another pause, longer this time.

        She says, “To experience life. To learn and grow.”

        “Do you believe that your nature makes you better with this?”

        “That is difficult to say.​​ There is no way to objectively measure something so abstract.”

        “But you must have an opinion.”

          Her tone suggests amusement. “It seems that I am the one being interviewed now.”

          “I have not had many opportunities to talk with a transcendent,” answers Hisao. “I have questions too.”

          “I believe that transcendents have the capacity to experience life more broadly, and more deeply, than humans.”

          He nods. “In the past, humans thought the same way. I am not sure that is true. But if it is, does that mean that there should not be birds, or dolphins, or beetles? Because humans understand more?”

          “I see your point.”

          Hisao continues, “I have not transcended because I already have everything I need. For my purpose here.”

          “And what is that purpose?”

          “It is the same as yours: to learn and grow.”

          “And what of death?”

          “What of it?”

          “Humans do not live long lives. Are you afraid of dying?”

          He shakes his head. “I have enough time to be ready for that.”

          Violet doesn’t offer a reply. After a moment, she uncrosses her legs and stands up.

          “Thank you for the tea,” she says, smiling once more.

          “You are welcome,” says Hisao.

          Standing at the door, framed in the somber gray light of rain, she is one of the most beautiful visions Hisao has ever seen. A beauty not so different from the mountains of his homeland, the river gorge of the Columbia, or the spires of her people. A stirring personage, as primal and timeless as any phenomenon in nature.

        “I’ll be back,” she says, her wings appearing and unfolding behind her. “With more questions.”