The Bed (Not the Sleeping Kind)

Camellia didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The Bed was huge. Layers upon layers of buildings and alleyways folded in on themselves, the city itself built upon uneven ground, with sea caves and miniature reefs abound. Neat black-rock bricks formed houses, businesses, and streets, while light gray rock accented balconies, stoops, fountains, and everything else. Some of it seemed like obsidian, even, with that otherworldly sheen that only volcanic glass has.

She was overwhelmed. There were so many people. Regular people, the hard-to-interact-with kind, the kind you had to please, the kind who always placed expectations on you, the kind who judged you with every glance.

Bustling to and fro, the citizens of The Bed were a busy people. A market constantly spewed a stream of regular humans, going about their daily lives. And they were all breathing like normal.

It weirded Camellia out.

Damos held her hand, leading her through the crowds with ease. She spun her head around as they marched, taking in the sensory overload with abandon. A man arguing with a shopkeep, pointing furiously at something inside; a woman consoling a crying child while another woman held the kid’s hand; two young men sitting on a bed of seagrass in what looked like a park playing some sort of card game with raucous laughter. Talk about stressful!

I wouldn’t be able to do it, either. Power through, Camellia.

The only thing that kept her from going insane was the marine life all around her (no, not the people, the— you know what I meant).

Schools of fish ducked in and out of alleyways, swimming through the crowds. A giant sea turtle hooked up to a harness pulled a man’s cart; a strange sight, given that the turtle swam while the cart simply rolled along as if on land. Bunches of barnacles crusted the wooden doors of entryways, and colorful coral adorned the edges of the homes just as in the village on the outskirts. Interspersed healthily were gardens of kelp, seagrass, and those strange, worm-like plant things, what do you call them?

Hold on, maybe Camellia is thinking about them. Let’s check in.

-that garden! And the things in the flower beds! What kinds of anemones are those? I’ve never seen anything like ‘em.

Yes, that’s it! Anemones. Thank you, Camellia. Ah, well, not like she can hear us.

Every corner of The Bed was simply teeming with life. It kept Camellia’s heart rate in check as she followed Damos through it all.

She paid little attention to the architecture, so I’ll describe some of that for you, too, Obbie. The buildings had much more refined designs compared to the previous huts. Ornate pillars marked entrances, recessed carvings adorned random walls, and statues stood on every corner. It was a veritable museum, if you ask me. Classical, yet medieval; ancient, yet contemporary. Their height didn’t reach the magnificence of the skyscrapers Camellia knew, but they were still pretty impressive for a world with no electricity, maybe six or so stories at the highest.

Despite the clutter of the streets, it felt airy (water-y) and open. The constant winding alleyways and multiple levels of streets should have made the whole place cramped, but the beautiful shimmering surface remained visible from every vantage point. Similarly, the color contrast between the buildings and the sea life growing on and around them provided a pleasant visual balance.

A city of paradox, huh? Camellia thought. Yeah. Paradox. Humans breathing like normal underwater, a free and open view of the water’s surface despite the tall buildings, dark, foreboding stone supporting more rainbows than she had seen in her entire life. It all contradicted itself in odd harmony. Instead of a sky, there was a shimmering ceiling. Magical, really.

The two came upon a massive plaza at the heart of the city, where a throng of people crowded around a giant statue. God, these people have no awareness of the space around them, Camellia grumbled to herself as she and Damos squeezed past an oblivious couple.

As they got closer to the statue, Camellia marveled at the space beneath it. That thing has to be at least 10 meters tall. Holy carp.

Oh, I see, Camellia. You say holy “carp” because you’re a marine biologist. Cute.

Feeling her hand slip, Damos slowed down and looked behind him. Camellia was gazing up at the statue in awe.

And for good reason, too. The woman depicted was beautiful. Long, intricately carved hair flowed all the way down to her feet, where it coiled on the ground in spools. Above her head, one arm was raised, holding a large, circular shield. The other stretched out in front of her, towards the ground, offering a welcoming hand. Despite the stalwart pose, her face was calm and serene, as if to say, “I’m here now.”

Who is that, Damos? Camellia thought to ask, but stopped herself to avoid the embarrassment of not knowing in public. It would be rather silly to ask, down here. She would ask when they were in a more private spot.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at such a spot. After a brief glance at the giant statue of the beautiful lady, Damos led her through a few more winding streets before stopping in front of one of the buildings.

“Here we are!” he proudly proclaimed.

Camellia raised an eyebrow. “And where is ‘here’?”

“My house! Well, actually this is the shop, but we live on the second floor.” Damos turned around and opened the door.

Struck with a thought, Camellia looked up. The building, constructed of the same black stone as the rest of the city, was about three stories tall, matching the rest of the block. For a city underwater, it sure looked a lot like something she would have found on land. They even had a roof over the top, as if shelter from the elements took priority. Camellia wondered aloud, “It doesn’t rain, though, right? So, why do you have a roof?”

Damos turned his head, hand still on the doorknob, and looked at her like she was crazy, which maybe she was. “‘Rain’? Like water in the sky? Isn’t that some weird phenomenon that only happens up Dryside?”

Heh, “Dryside.” Must be what they call the island above the surface, Camellia thought.

His face scrunched up in confusion. “Wait, how do you…?” Troubled by the thought, Damos shook his head. “Well, whatever. The reason we keep the house covered is so that the fish don’t swim in and mess the whole place up.”

Feeling somewhat foolish, Camellia felt her cheeks turn red. It would be an embarrassment she’d have to get used to, though, if she wanted to learn anything about this world.

A troubling thought crossed her mind. Was her question too obvious? Not just embarrassing, but enough to make him question her story? He might figure out I’m lying about my memory.

Damos brought a palm up to his forehead with a smack. “Ah, right. You wouldn’t know why. The memory thing. I keep forgetting you have amnesia. Haha, forgetting!”

Camellia stared at him, unimpressed. Maybe I don’t need to worry about him discovering my secret, after all.

He continued, “There’s a local octopus that loves stealing our keys, too. We try to keep the door shut at all times. Crafty lil’ fella. Phoebe loves that guy.” He turned back around and stepped inside the door.

Was Camellia meant to follow him inside? The first floor was a shop, after all, but still, what was she going to do there?

As if reading her thoughts, Damos called to her, “Don’t be shy, now, Camellia!”

She shrugged and followed him inside.

When Damos had said ‘shop,’ Camellia had imagined a humble storefront selling food or clothing or some other boring, everyday things. However, what greeted her was a genuine emporium of steel and leather, an armory unto itself. All manner of swords and axes sat displayed on racks, and mannequins donned hefty fish-scaled plates.

Her rapt gaze at the equipment around her was abruptly interrupted by a gruff shout.

“Damos!” A tall, wide-set man emerged from a curtain of strung seashells behind the counter, which gently drifted back into place in the water as he pushed through them. He looked similar to Damos with the same sharp jawline and ambitious eyes, though he was clearly older and less muscular.

“Dad! Hey, uh-“

Damos’ father growled, “Shirking training for that ‘goodwill’ out in the Crags again? Phoebe mentioned you were absent today.”

With a dejected mutter, Damos cursed Phoebe under his breath.

His father continued, “If you have any intention of making me and your mother proud, then you’ll continue to refine your skills as a contender. It’s almost time; you don’t have the luxury of goofing off.”

“I have every intention of making you proud, Dad. Promise.” Damos sure sounded as though he meant it, despite apparently playing hooky.

His father looked at Camellia. “Now, allow me to assist this fine patron here, hm? What can I do for you?”

Camellia once again felt a piercing stare, though at least she was covered, this time. Thank goodness. She began, “I’m not actually here on business, my apologies,” she bowed. It just felt like the right thing to do. “Damos brought me here. I’m a friend of his.”

So he’s a friend now? Alright, Camellia, if you say so.

The friend chimed in, “She needs a place to crash for a bit. I figured she could use the spare room.”

The grizzly shopkeep sized up Camellia, evaluating her potential. “A friend, eh? You aiming Dryside, too?”

Camellia smiled. “I might be.”

What a smooth talker.

I’ll be frank with you, Camellia has only the vaguest idea what Dryside even means. Her thoughts tell me that much. She just tossed that out to fit in and not make a fuss. Quick wit, that one.

With a nod of approval, Damos’ father waved his hand toward the stairs and disappeared back behind the seashell curtain.

Camellia then followed her new friend upstairs and into the spare room.

The interior of the home was—

Oh. It appears Camellia has passed out on the bed. Alright. Another time, then.

Let’s let the poor girl get some beauty sleep, shall we?