Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [73]
The ride wasn’t long. They plunged to the bottom of the quarry road in a matter of breaths, though Jarrod never took any. He never breathed again. His tulpa body ached for air and while he forced himself to stay under, to keep Rosette afloat, the world around him slowly disappeared, retreating from the edges of his mind like waves sucked back from the shore.
When he hit the bottom he used his last wisp of awareness to propel her to the shallows, then the water towed him under, taking him further downstream until its voracity was spent, defused by the expanse of the Corsanon Fields. He drifted away from his body as it died. Like a bubble popping, the sensation reminded him of waking from a dream—a little sudden and disorienting but only a dream after all. For a moment he let go of every intention and desire he’d ever had. His awareness scattered, leaving him bit by bit—honeybees fleeing their smoky hive, searching for flowers far afield.
The rain fell through him, and no wind blew. Further and further he drifted away. From a great distance he heard a cry and the corners of his mind that still recognised such things turned back. He knew the voice. It was Rosette, and she was crying for him. Sobbing.
Rosette?
He didn’t struggle with the choice. There was nothing to fight or push against. He knew what he wanted to do and in the clarity of that goal he became coherent. He was Jarrod again, skimming over the terrain, searching the wetlands for the remains of himself, searching for the quickest way to return to Rosette. All he had to do was find his body and heal it. How far could it have gone? He spotted something. Was that a boot up ahead? He dropped lower to inspect.
It was a boot, and a bit of his leg. When he discovered the rest of his body twisted around a tree trunk, he changed his mind about jumping back into it. The broken limbs, severed leg and eviscerated organs were not inviting, and not habitable either. He couldn’t tell if he’d drowned or bled to death but either way he’d have to create another tulpa from scratch. How long will that take? Days? Months? He didn’t know, but this place seemed as good as anywhere else for the task, so he started immediately.
He hovered in the fork of a giant white oak, settling in for the long process of turning his thoughts into form. He had a good visualisation started, almost an outline, when something distracted him. The water below had subsided, revealing a corpse. He paused his creating to take a closer look.
Floating face up was a young man, his body lapping the base of the tree like a dinghy tied to a wharf. It was caught on a root, the trickling stream washing the body clean as it flowed past. Jarrod dropped closer still. The young man’s eyes were the strangest colour. Like violets in the snow. Fascinating.
They were open eyes, staring into nothing without a tear or a blink. The rain fell into them, overflowing the rims. Definitely dead, but from what? Jarrod scanned the internal organs. The body had been buried quite recently, judging by the congestion of muddy water in his lungs, which was great news. There was no damage from the crows or other scavengers. Everything seemed in quite good order. He looked for the cause of death and found an arrow in the neck. Tricky. So many veins and arteries in that region. He checked for toxicity and found traces of Conium maculatum. Hemlock? Primitive. Still, the preserving qualities of the alkaloids could be a blessing. Jarrod felt a prickle, like goosebumps. If the ascending paralysis hasn’t travelled too far it may not be so bad.
There would be one screaming headache to deal with if he did wake up in this body. He probably wouldn’t be able to eat for a week, but