people

Anisa

Reflection, by Ellen Reinhardt

Oh joy!

I love you, I love you, I love you. You make me happier than the sun, and more at ease than the moon. You move so effortlessly, cutting through the world as a knife. The crowd parts as you walk the street, the world traces your words as you speak them from your heart. You are as clear as the sky, yet as deep as the ocean. I could listen to you mix, swap, assemble your words forever. Your beautiful words.

You exist exactly as you should, exactly where you should, yet nonetheless conjure brilliance that could never have come from anyone or anywhere else. You inspire me. You know everything that you need to lay foundation, plank by plank, brick by brick, metal sheet by metal sheet, for anything that life could put in front of you. You are never unsure; every unknown is instantly contained by a plan to discover.

I love when you hold me. That you value yourself so much, yet deign me worthy of your time, makes me love myself. That you make me love myself so, makes it necessary that I make you love yourself so as well.

Sordid, base pornography, thought Anisa. Required reading for Saxle 102 at Northpoint, despite not originally being Saxle. ‘Illthusian’, a language she’d never heard of before.

She was 15.

Callister had been the one to make it a requirement, so she complained directly to him, haphazardly floating in, on time to the second, opening her mouth to his back as he continued playing fortepiano: “Headmaster, what example do you intend to set with ‘Reflection’? We must accurately utilize language, yes, and I understand the techniques the writer is using, and I understand how we can use these in our own writings and speeches; however, I question the telos of such emotional displays. What does it tell the students if they believe emotion and attachments are a valid way to convey information? Should we not be promoting an objective basis from which to reason?”

Half paying attention, he stopped playing, swung his head around, and gave her four parts disappointment, three parts surprise, and two parts annoyance. “I take it you disliked it, then.”

“Quite. That father continues to support this academy is a marvel.” It wasn’t. The academy was nearly as old as the first Bythrusian steps on the island. But, she was in a rather sour mood, and that she was aware of this soured her further.

“When you go back home, young lady, and you’re given your royal duties, how do you intend to compel your people if you don’t speak to their humanity?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I will gather information and statistics, I will speak the truth, and I will execute. I will not be compelled by arbitrary whims. A princess must exist above it everything, and feel nothing, lest her rule be arbitrary and tyrannical.” If she repeated it enough, it would be true.

Callister was failing to hide his disdain, but he was attempting it, which was respectable. “Do you hate everything about this academy?”

Unexpected. Obviously, he wanted her to say no, and though she so wanted to say yes, needing to read stupid words from a stupid girl from a stupid land, saying yes would be a lie. The academy had good food, and there were some good books, and… “No. The academy has good food, and there are some good books, and some of the teachers are quite good. And I’ve learned a lot, and I feel a lot more confident in my ability to manage people. And it’s fun to write.”

He smiled. “I’d like to show you something.”

He led her down the hall, into The Plot That Was Always Hot, unlocked a door, opened a hatch, and climbed down a ladder, as she floated behind. Down, down, down the ladder, and hotter, down a hall of brick to the sides and a bronze arch on the roof, there was a pane of glass. There was a door to its side. Through the glass, down another hall, past another door with a window, there was the face of a woman missing half her head, though it was hard to see much more than that. It may have been a painting immediately behind the door, a ‘memento mori’. Or, perhaps a zombie head on an unseen shelf.

“What is that,” stated Anisa, flatly, though not unkindly, and not as a question.

“The writer of ‘Reflection’,” said Callister, focused on the head. “She’s the reason this academy exists at all. She inspired its creation. You don’t have to like her writing, of course, but understand that one is not compelled to action by statements of fact or statistics. Regardless if you act on truth or lies, edicts without humanity, without compassion, will lead to tyranny.”

Apparently, her mother and father trusted this man enough that he could proselytize to their children. Or, they didn’t care. She would need to be ever more guarded from future dogmatic possession.

“You didn’t have to show me a dead head to tell me that,” she said. Yet, there was something moving past the glass, some sort of worm twitching around, in some foggy fluid. Perhaps it was in a jar.

“She’s very much alive,” said Callister.

“What’s an edict?” said Anisa.

“A governmental order,” said Callister.

They stared at the head for a while.

“That’s disgusting,” said Anisa.

“Yes, it is,” said Callister. “But anyways. When you become a big important queen, don’t forget we’re all people too, okay?”