Day Thirteen

The woman climbs a dusty hill, her skin caked and cracked, the healthy rosey glow now ashen. Breath ragged, a soft, rattling warning, her hair is gone and it took all her willpower to sever it before she was sent away to this strange place in the hopes she might remember where she left it and one day return, somehow knowing something momentous was occuring, that she was part of it. The knowledge drove her to this place, a planet she had never visited before, yet navigates as if born to it.
At the zenith, she pauses on one knee, sucking on her tongue in order to produce enough spit to speak. She doesn't taste the grit, doesn't hear the vultures, doesn't feel the heat. Looking up, she sees a narrow, deep cleft in the ground, layered stone upon stone all the way down into darkness. There is stillness except for the stupid birds who never fly above the hole. Her real self, a teacher of hyperbolic geometry, might wonder at this, might attempt to draw on old lessons of her own about the vacuum of the depths. The, could it be called a canyon? it's so narrow, was free from the grip of the sun but massive, human-like profiles could be seen even through the gloom. Her heart hammers in her chest, but what drove her must be done.
"There is a green water sea that bathes the feet of mountains. The black rock does not flinch from its chilly touch or the sliding caresses from the tails of the sea people, who cover their eyes with shells and grow coral along their spines. The war of flames is beneath the waves, and the icy silver stars fall, swim gracefully down to fight the great beasts with hearts of magma. They are endless, spawning with every breath of the earth. The glitter-skinned stars and the sea people, hair of anemone, barnacled hands, ride the great whales as chariots into the battle, leaving their dances behind in the hopes, one day, a door may be found deep within the mountain."
An invisible wave passed over her face and she sighed as the memories left her, the dream, the fugue state, gone as softly as a kiss. She looked around, saw a murky sparkle to the north and realized she was close to a city. A pressure on her hip, wrapped in stained layers of muslin, turned out to be a gurgling water bottle, anti-fatigue pills and a thick packet of dried meats and fruits.
"Was it a vacation? I know I've always wanted to visit the deserts," she asked and a fresh breeze grabbed her words and tugged them along to the north. Running a thin hand along the stubble on her head, she nodded once, twice, and quickly wrapped a length of the cloth around her head to prevent sunburn. Setting off with suddenly vigorous strides, she failed to hear the deep rumble of the canyon as beings of stone, veins of calcified water, stirred and stretched. Their words were the murmur of the breeze and all through the rock, the human's speech moved like quicksilver. They could not travel, could not seek the source, but deep within, they all knew, had listened and became restless.

The kitchen was a purgatory for the privileged. Comform mats surrounded low ashwood tables and slick oilskin curtains hung from the ceiling, reducing the clank of dishes and providing a sense of intimacy for the diners. There were tumbling trellises of purple flowers scattered around the room, each one anchored in a bubbling fountain that provided a place to wash before and after eating or simply a refreshing drink. Smaller passengers had occasionally attempted to bathe in them, only to have the incredibly powerful filter pointed out by a smiling Steeress. Most stayed out of the fountains and the stubborn few became amusing posthumous tales.
Betaine watched from a higher platform, the floor a graceful marble mosaic, the table carved with tittering nymphs chased by fat-bellied bears, honey on their muzzle, pregnant roasts in their paws. Vines curled around the legs, twirled together around the tabletop, sheltered the upper class passenger from the curious stares of those eating below. Despite the sound dampening, it didn't keep out all the whispering. He attempted to ignore the annoyance; it wasn't him they were interested in but who he worked for.
The meal was delightful, thick, steamed sweet rice mixed with slivers of a tender hotly-spiced meat and crumpled ugly lumps of a black mushroom that was said to grow only on the undersides of rocks overhanging the ocean. Betaine eyed it curiously at the end of his chopsticks, like a clump of brain, the sort of flower that blooms where Death walks. Sampling it produced a salty, chewy sensation and then the memory hit. He felt it explode behind his eyes, fought to gain control over the view of a sea that commanded his vision, its wild, chill churning casting clouds of spray into the clear, violet sky. Giant iridescent bags floated far over the horizon, kemket, they were called, trailed miles of tentacles to the water below. The feeling was a vast and fantastic freedom, lightly touched by loneliness.
His fingers drummed on the table in an automatic sequence, pinky twice, thumb twice, then ring, middle, index in three quick thumps and pulled him from the memory. There was a moment of silver dark waters and then the kitchen refocused around him. He sucked a morsel of the mushroom from his teeth and stared at the attendant Steeress, a dusky, curvaceous girl whose uniform barely constrained a figure that clashed with her smile, a slow seductive dance against an anxious, polished blankness. The right half of her face was covered with an elaborate tattoo that shifted as she moved. showing a familiar gold-clawed hand plucking the sun from a rose in a shower of petals. She was an obvious attempt to appease him, a subservient worshipper of his patron, similar to the ones that had tried to attend him for months.
"Do you always feed your passengers noetic hallucinogens?" he asked in between bites. The mushrooms were neutralized automatically as he ate, their memory demand denied.
"It's quite a celebrated dish and we've never had a complaint so far. Usually they enjoy the visions," the Steeress replied, "we can prepare you something else if it's causing interference with your abilities, but your teliphrase scan indicated no allergies or susceptibilities to this variety of morenel."
"No, but a warning would be appreciated next time."
"As you wish, sir. Oh, a Master Ober of the Red Dragon Cell respectfully inquires if he may join you after dinner."