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Resi is back on the river of lava, standing on a small solid lilypad of a
rock. His feet are made of stone again, his legs fire, his torso water, and
his head air. He represents all four Houses. Before, he wasn’t really able
to move, except maybe one foot up and down. He felt very heavy and locked
down. Now he feels free. Now it feels like these four parts of him belong
together, working in harmony. No element is trying to take over the others.
He is one with himself. He hops off of the lilyrock, and begins to skate
upon the lava. He feels free here, so he just enjoys the thrill of sliding
around.
He’s having so much fun, he’s barely paying attention to the hellscape
around him. It’s not too hot for him. It’s not scary. He’s perfectly
content. But he’s also alone. He continues to skate, until he begins moving
downhill, at which point, it’s more like skiing. Faster, faster, faster. He
twists and turns, and makes killer jumps off of little lava rock ramps. He
can’t fall. His airhead keeps him aloft for as long as he needs to find his
footing. He tucks his legs in intentionally. The wind compensates more
persistently, until he’s flying.
He soars and loops in the air, sometimes flapping his arms like a bird, and
sometimes straightening out like a superhero. He points himself downward and
dives into the lava. It doesn’t burn. It’s not even thick. It feels like
water to him. He opens his eyes as he’s swimming, admiring the little rock
creatures passing him by, looking for little minerals abundant in the lava
snow falling from the surface. He pops his head back out, and climbs onto
the rock. He starts to walk again, catching his breath, and enjoying the
crisp, hellish air.
He comes upon a metal floor buried in the dirt. It looks familiar, but he
can’t place it. He decides to dig. His arms and hands are the only fleshy
part of him in this state. Bits of dirt stick under his fingernails. It
feels good. Cool. Pleasant. It makes him feel like he’s a part of something
big and beautiful. He digs and digs, and digs some more. Black paint peeks
out from the ground. It’s writing. Someone has written on this curved metal
wall. Yes, it’s so thick, it must be a wall rather than a floor. He keeps
digging. It’s a V. No, he digs farther and realizes it’s just the top
of a Y. Y, Y, why is he digging? He can’t help
himself. There is empty space to the left of the Y, so it’s the
beginning of a word. He moves to the right, and pushes the soil away.
A. He pushes more. N. He already knows what it’s going to say,
but he has to finish that last letter. Another A. Yana. This
is the Yana water tower, it’s the only building on the island that’s higher
than five stories, and the next highest building only has to be that way to
accommodate the movie theatre.
The island has been buried in the lava. He thought this was a fun place, but
it’s not. This was his home. It was home to hundreds of thousands. Did they
escape, or are they dead? They’re dead. Look at that sky. This isn’t Earth.
He’s not picturing the cataclysm his ancestors escaped centuries ago when
they came to Bungula. This is Bungula. That now-distant volcano is
Central Mountain. It only looks shorter, because the lava has overwhelmed
the land below. It erupted, and killed everyone. He knows it. He doesn’t
know how he knows, but he does. They didn’t see it coming. They couldn’t.
And now they’re all dead. Only Resi remains. Or maybe he’s dead too, because
how could anyone survive such destruction? He’s not really here. He’s only
the ghost of Resi, receiving the warning of what will happen if they don’t
act. But how will they act? What could they possibly do?
He looks closer at the bright stars in the sky, growing brighter, becoming
true suns. They’re shining their glory on the ground. The lava is beginning
to disappear. He doesn’t see it end.
Resi awakens to a massive headache. He tries to reach up to massage the back
of his head, but he’s tied up. He looks down at his side. It’s a cot. It’s
been turned up, and he’s wearing it like a backpack, sitting on the cold,
dark floor. He can’t see a thing around him besides the cot. The spotlight
trying to blind him blocks his vision of anything else. Disembodied arms
take hold of his. He feels the ropes begin to loosen. The cot tips backwards
with a crash. The edge of it hits the back of his head, briefly worsening
the pain.
The hands pull him up by the armpits, and sit him down on the cot. A second
light bangs on, not towards him, but into the auditorium seating. Speaker
Sherman’s granddaughter is the only one sitting there. She’s staring at him
stoically, legs crossed. She plants both feet on the floor now, and leans
forwards with apparent fascination. “What did you see?”
