Meditation

Madame Pualis did not talk with Aurore for long; after ten-odd minutes, they stepped out of the study. Lumian accompanied his sister in escorting Madame Pualis all the way out the front door. He then looked toward Aurore. "What did she want you to help with?" Aurore curled her lip. "She wanted me to lead the singing at the Celebration of Praise. I refused." The Lent Festival in Cordu Village consisted of three parts: first, the Spring Spirit blessing parade; second, the waterside ceremony; and third, the Celebration of Praise held inside the church, which was mainly performed through musical instruments and a grand choir. In the Dariège region, the lead singers were usually the church choir, but Cordu Village lacked such resources and had to substitute talented singers instead. As for playing musical instruments, the villagers did not worry about that. In a village with a tradition of shepherds, music—or rather, musical instruments—was an indispensable part of daily life. After all, shepherds spent year-round out in the wilderness, living in crude shacks or dugouts; aside from their companions and flocks, their most frequent company was the flute they carried with them. Apart from herding, playing cards, and chatting, playing the flute to soothe their hearts with music was something almost every shepherd did. For that reason, a common phrase describing a shepherd in dire straits and utter destitution was "He doesn't even have a flute." Surrounded by so many shepherds, the other villagers of Cordu were inevitably influenced. Whenever they gathered to chat in the square, someone would inevitably play an instrument, letting melodious tunes resonate far and wide. "Mm." Lumian was quite relieved to see his sister standing firm. It was fine to join the crowd and make noise during those festivals, but becoming the center of attention not only wasted time, it also risked attracting unwanted greed and attention. To protect his eyesight, with only a kerosene lamp providing light, Lumian read for just a short while before washing up and heading to bed, seriously contemplating how to safely test what made him special in the dream. The lady's advice had been spot-on several times in a row, leading him to trust her words completely without even realizing it. In the dead of night, Lumian entered the dream once more and woke up there. He patted his pockets and habitually counted them, confirming that the loot of 217 ferrins and 25 kopecks was still there. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lumian picked up his axe and steel fork, bounded downstairs, and headed straight for the hearth. The fire had already gone out. "When I'm not dreaming, the clocks here keep running..." Lumian furrowed his brow slightly. In such a "realistic" dream, what could possibly be special about him? —"The clock keeps running" was a Dariège idiom meaning that time stops for no man and flows ever forward. Lumian returned to the bedroom he considered the safest, set down the axe and steel fork, and quickly stripped off his clothes. Then, he stepped up to the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe, inspecting his body inch by inch to see if anything differed from reality. Nothing was out of the ordinary. "A mental anomaly?" Lumian was in no hurry to dress. He walked straight back to the bed and sat cross-legged, copying his sister. Previously, to help him achieve lucid dreams, Aurore had taught him a few rudimentary meditation methods devoid of mystical elements. He wanted to try them now to see if, in total stillness, he could perceive any potential anomaly in his mind or body. Step one: regulate the breath. Lumian deepened his breaths, slowing his pace accordingly. With each slow, long, rhythmic breath, Lumian gradually emptied his mind. At the same time, he outlined a crimson sun in his mind, focusing all his attention and thoughts upon it to shut out all stray notions. Aurore had specifically urged him that when meditating, he had to choose something real and representative of light to visualize, lest he attract the notice of something foul and evil. As a nominal believer of the Eternal Blazing Sun, Lumian's first instinct was naturally to visualize the sun. His mind gradually calmed, until the entire world in his perception seemed to consist of nothing but that crimson, blazing sun. Suddenly, Lumian seemed to hear a sound. It seemed to originate from immeasurable heights, yet also sounded right beside his ear—unintelligible, yet carrying the rumble of thunder. Amidst the indescribable buzzing, Lumian's heart thudded wildly. It felt as if an iron drill had been thrust into his skull and violently stirred around. Agonizing pain erupted in an instant. The blazing sun turned blood-red and was rapidly stained with a profound black. The visualized image shattered. Lumian snapped his eyes open and gasped for air, feeling as if he were on the verge of sudden death. A full ten or twenty seconds passed before he recovered from that near-death experience. Instinctively lowering his head, he inspected his body. He saw strange things on the left side of his chest. Dark black symbols resembling thorns seemed to emerge from within, originating from his heart. Linked one after another, they extended toward his back like a chain. Above these "thorns" were patterns resembling eyes and squirming, worm-like lines, all of a bluish-black hue. At this moment, these tattoo-like markings were slowly fading. Lumian was startled at first, but countless thoughts quickly surged through his mind. He scrambled out of bed, rushed over to the full-length mirror, and turned his back to it. Then, craning his neck hard to the left, he examined his back. He could just make out that the chain of black "thorns" reentered his body at the center of his back. In other words, this chain of "thorns" formed a loop that locked down his heart and the corresponding part of his body. "The black ones and the bluish-black ones are two different sets of symbols. The bluish-black ones look somewhat familiar... Hmm, they're a lot like the ones on that old man I helped when I was a vagrant... And it was right around then that I started having dreams filled with thick fog..." Lumian analyzed this "anomaly" that differed from reality until the markings faded completely and vanished. Seeing this, Lumian felt rather disappointed. Though he had found what made him special, he felt it was meaningless. For the process of drawing them out caused him excruciating agony, bringing him close to death. In such a near-fainting state, what difference was there between facing the monster carrying a hunting rifle and serving himself up as a meal? And if he waited until he regained the strength to fight, the "anomaly" would have practically faded away. The climate in the dream was quite cold, like early spring in the mountains. Lumian felt uncomfortable staying naked for long, so he quickly dressed again. Merely doing this simple task left him unusually exhausted, and his head began to ache again. Clearly, the shock caused by his earlier meditation could not be shaken off anytime soon. Under these circumstances, Lumian decided to give up on exploring for the night, make no further attempts, and simply sleep soundly to recuperate properly. ... When he woke up, dawn had not yet broken. Looking at the darkness inside the room and the faint touch of crimson near the curtains, Lumian carefully went over everything that had happened in the dream. "I've meditated many times in reality before, and I never heard that strange sound or felt any pain... "Does the anomaly only exist in that dream?" Lumian sat up in confusion, intending to confirm it. Following the procedure once more, he attempted to meditate. The crimson sun swiftly surfaced in his mind, and the clutter of his thoughts gradually settled. This was the meditation Lumian was accustomed to—no strange sound, no severe pain, and certainly no near-death experience. After a while, he concluded the meditation, unbuttoned his shirt, and looked down at his heart. There wasn't a single symbol. "Sure enough, that anomaly belongs strictly to the dream and doesn't affect reality..." Lumian didn't know whether to feel glad or disappointed. He raised his head toward the curtained window, his thoughts drifting as he pondered whether the dream's "anomaly" could be utilized, and if so, how. Just then, he noticed what seemed to be a dark shadow outside the window—not a large one. Lumian's pupils dilated instantly, and he tensed up completely. His first instinct was to call for his sister, but he immediately recalled that he was inside their home and Aurore had said she would keep watch; she should already have noticed. Thus, he cautiously climbed out of bed and crept toward the window. Throughout this, Lumian kept waiting for his sister to call a halt to his movements. Aurore did not appear. Lumian reached the window, gripped the curtain, and gingerly pulled open a slit. Outside was a quiet, profound night, with the crimson moon hanging far off on the horizon. On an elm tree not far away whose leaves rustled gently, an owl perched quietly, facing Lumian's window. It was visibly larger than most of its kind. Its eyes were not at all dull or rigid; the gaze it directed at Lumian held an indescribable sense of condescension. That owl! It had returned! Lumian's heart leaped into his throat. Just like last time, after locking eyes with Lumian for a dozen or so seconds, the owl did nothing—it simply spread its wings and flew into the depths of the night. "..." Lumian was at a loss for words. Only after a good while did he pull back the curtain and grumble under his breath, "Are you out of your mind? "Every time, you just come and stare, take a look, and leave without saying a word! "Are you mute, or do you have an intellectual disability? All these years and you still haven't learned human speech?" In truth, Lumian had his own theory about the owl's behavior. He believed it dared not make a move because of his sister's presence. After all, Aurore had said that safety was guaranteed at night as long as one didn't leave the building. If he had acted on impulse just now and poked his head out the window, that owl probably wouldn't have flown off so quietly. After cursing for a bit, Lumian decided to draw the curtain and catch a little more sleep. His gaze casually swept outside, only to freeze in place. At the edge of a small copse a dozen or so meters away, a figure was walking slowly. She wore a dark dress of coarse cloth, her hair sparse and white. "Naroka..." Lumian recognized the figure. It was none other than Naroka, whom he had previously asked about the sorcerer legend. Naroka's face seemed half-submerged in darkness. Under the faint crimson moonlight, her eyes reflected a strange gleam, and her movements were unnaturally stiff, like a wandering ghost.