A Piece of Advice From Chief Pons

“Ideas are powerful, but not because of their content. Most of the power lies in how the idea affects others. It took me a long time to learn that after I gained my position.”

—Robin Benz

Roo doesn’t let me down until we’re inside his room. Then, he throws me onto a small couch in one of the corners and tells me that he’ll be back later.

Once he leaves, I burrow into the couch, stewing in my anger. Mirei sits on the edge of the bed for a few moments before flopping backwards.

For a good thirty minutes, Mirei and I just lay in our respective areas. I slowly calm down and rethink everything I had said. I definitely let my anger take over. The tough debate frustrated me and I took it out on him without thinking. While there are certain qualities of Roo’s that I don’t understand, they don’t tick me off as much as I made it seem earlier.

I owe him an apology. When he comes back from whatever he’s doing, I’ll beg for forgiveness and hope he doesn’t hold it against me.

Right as I reach this resolution, I hear a knock and then the doors creak open. I turn over on the couch and sit up, expecting it to be Roo. But the person I see at the entrance isn’t the familiar boy dressed in white and green; it’s Chief Pons, sporting an amused expression. His old eyes survey the room before landing on me. He walks over at a leisurely pace, dark green robes grazing the floor behind him. Every step elicits jingling because of the ornate jewels clipped into the braids of his beard. No cape trails behind him this time, nor are there necklaces that glimmer over that mossy stone neck. It appears these are Chief Pons’ casual clothes.

I straighten my back once the man stops before me. His hands are clasped behind his back and his lips are pulled by a gentle smile, so he has an air of tranquility.

“Good evening, Haruki Takahashi,” He says. His voice is deep with age despite him only appearing fifty years old. I nod my head as a greeting.

“Please, come walk with me”—his hand extends to the open doors behind him—“and bring your sister, too.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, wondering whether I should be terrified or calm. In the end, I settle for being cautious while doing what he says. When Mirei sits up and looks at me, expression reflecting her nervousness, I wave her over and stand up. She walks quickly over to me and grabs my hand as Chief Pons turns around. We exit Roo’s room and traverse the mansion’s elaborately designed hallways for some time. After a few moments of silence, the chief speaks.

“I quite like the tea leaves that the surrounding trees grow.”

The sheer randomness of this comment makes me do a double take. “O-Oh,” I reply dumbly.

“I was sipping a hot cup of tea in our dining hall when my son came in. He always barges into places like he’s whipping up a storm, I’ll say.”

A chuckle is pulled from me at that. Mirei snorts, “Yeah, he’s always slamming doors open. Especially at court.”

At the mention of the trial, my shoulders sag and my mood dampens. Mirei carries on babbling whatever comes to mind, unaware of my reaction. The chief merely leads us further into the mansion, listening with rapt attention as we navigate toward no real destination. I think I saw the same Xilio statue three times already, but it doesn’t get any less eye-catching. Sometimes I forget that I’m inside the dwelling of the most important family in the country.

“Yes, yes, I would agree,” The chief chuckles after Mirei says something snarky about Roo. His back shakes with the remnants of his laughter. He maintains a small distance in front of us as he speaks. “I found him quite irritating when he interrupted my tea break. So I, being the ever-attentive father I am, asked him what the matter was. He told me that one of you threw a fit of sorts.”

I gulp, regret settling in my gut like a boulder. “That’s… I want to apologize. I was frustrated after today’s trial and took it out on him. Please, forgive me.”

The chief doesn’t turn his head at all, only walks forward and turns into another hallway. This is the one adorned in all the exceptional paintings by Robin Benz.

“Don’t fret, child,” Chief Pons murmurs. “I once knew a man who did worse and couldn’t get over his pride enough to beg for forgiveness. Roo will forgive a moment of frustration, surely.”

I cock my head to the side while inquiring, “Who was it?”

The chief stops in place, nearly causing Mirei and I to collide with his back. Thankfully, I grab her before she walks straight into him. He turns toward one of the paintings and walks up to it, eyeing it carefully. His expression is inscrutable behind that timeless aura of power. I am randomly reminded of Roo’s porcelain mask.

“The one who painted each of these masterpieces went by the name of Robin Benz,” He answers. “A man who was once the chief of this country. He was my grandfather.”

Mirei and I shuffle beside Chief Pons, eyes glued to the painting. It’s of a child with wildly long hair and a blinding smile. Exotic trees and flowers beautify the background and accentuate the vibrancy of the boy’s blue eye color. The style is very composed and tranquil, and reminds me of the seventeenth century Japanese art style Ukiyo-e.

“This is a self-portrait he made very long ago. Some days, when I pass by the painting, I think of how his reputation completely clashes with this portrait. The man couldn’t have been more chaotic—he proposed at least ten radical ideas every lunar cycle to the neighboring city mayors and even the monarchs of the sea country, Senea. Lade’s relationship with Senea has since deteriorated due to his antics.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Mirei bluntly questions. I frown at her rudeness, but Chief Pons answers without hesitation.

“Because the position he put himself in reminds me of what the two of you are going through now. I suspect I can provide a bit of guidance, if you so wished.”

I keep my surprise to myself and nod my head emphatically. But I can’t help questioning how some crazy chief who’s long dead has anything to do with us?

“Any advice would be greatly appreciated,” I say, bowing quickly.

Chief Pons chuckles, the shake of his head nearly imperceptible. “No need to be so formal, boy. Any friend of Roo’s needn’t be so courteous.”

I bite my lips to hold back a noise of shock. This man saw us together once and is convinced we are friends! Moreover, it was under difficult circumstances where our innocence was being tested! In my head, I commend this man for his optimism.

Chief Pons finally tears his gaze from that painting and faces us fully. His breezy air melts into one of seriousness.

“I’m mostly aware of how your trial has been proceeding. I’ve been acquiring the court records since the idea of debating this matter was brought up. And something tells me the final verdict will be a trying one, indeed.

“Whatever it is you fear, think about whether avoiding it will serve you or hurt you later down the road. My grandfather didn’t think so far and ended up dead earlier than he should’ve been. More difficult than piecing the nation back together was the grief of those closest to him. There were problems never talked out, relationships never rebuilt, and closure never attained. An early end is one of the worst experiences imaginable, so think deeply before proceeding after the verdict is released.”

My breath stalls in my chest. Then, it all hits me at once. How I’ve been acting since appearing in this world, what I’ve chosen not to do or say.

My mother would be ashamed of me, is all I can think as I clutch my forehead. I hang my head with the unbearable realization. Memories of the month after that first hospital visit all those years ago rise up into my mind like fire.

* * *

“Honey, I just can’t bear to see him like this. He’s in his bed all day, which would be fine, I get it, that hospital visit was damning, but he’s doing nothing. Nothing!”

Hushed whispers punctate the cold silence of the kitchen as my mother clutches the phone to her ear. A muffled response from her husband makes her crumble over the small cabinet. Swathes of hospital bills and after-visit notes teeter off the edge and slip to the floor.

“I think I’m going to go on a leave of absence. I can’t let him be alone like this… I keep thinking the worst might happen when I’m gone…”

A week prior, everything had been fine. The school had just closed in lieu of summer break starting, releasing loads of young children into the local parks and neighborhoods for just over a month. I had been one of them, screaming and running around the park while a classmate of mine chased me.

And then the coughing started.

And then the wheezing started.

And then the fever ravaged my blood, ripping my body apart, worrying my parents, causing me to cry incessantly. It just wouldn’t stop. Sometimes I would seize, and those days were the worst. Paramedics constantly flocked to my house. I never ran around again for a long time, so the only moments I saw my neighborhood friends were when their aghast faces were squished against the windows, watching the blue and red lights blink outside my house.

After I seized for the first time, people in white coats and blue scrubs barged into my room. I remember fearing them, thinking they were ghosts from under my bed. But they were so gentle when they put me on a stretcher, I ended up liking them. I blacked out after that, and when I woke up, I was in a white room. Fluorescent bulbs illuminated IV stands, computers, and monitors of several varieties. The steady but slow beep of the heart monitor is what woke me up.

I looked to my left, and saw a doctor with a clipboard. She was talking with my parents quietly, but not enough for me to not hear it. At that time, my hearing was still okay.

The words “supposedly terminal unknown illness” didn’t mean anything to me until I saw my parents’ faces. They were contorted with the rawest despair I’d ever seen, worse than the expressions of the Sendai 2011 earthquake survivors on the news. After I begged my parents to explain it to me, depression seized my happiness and took it away for good. I wouldn’t do anything except lay in bed.

One night two months later, I was crying a lot. I don’t remember what it was about, but it was really bad. Sometimes, when I was suffering a lot, my mom would sing me this lullaby. Not once has it failed to lull me to sleep, thus pushing me into blissful unconsciousness. But that night, I couldn’t hear the tune from her mouth, so I didn’t stop crying. My mom’s face, always so gentle and content, fell upon realizing what was really going on.

She snapped her fingers into my ear, begging me to tell her I heard it. I blubbered a small, “Not really,” and immediately, she rushed me to the ER.

An audiologist slapped some hearing aids onto my ears while an IV pumped pain-numbing fluids into me. From that night onward, the hospital became my second home. I wasn’t dreadfully angry about it at first. I was only a small kid at the time, so to me, it was a bit exciting. I got lots of big meals and presents from all the neighbors, wishing me good health and spirits. One of the presents had been a watercolor set. My mom and dad watched me, enraptured by the happiness slowly coloring my chubby cheeks as I swept the cheap paint brush across a fist-sized canvas. Vibrant colors blended together to form a watery representation of my family: Mom, with her messy waist-length hair; Dad, with his crooked glasses and freakishly long arms; and me, standing triumphantly, one foot on either of their shoulders. It was like a fun human pyramid, a picture that would never make it to reality.

My mom and dad cried upon seeing it, but not out of sadness, out of relief. Dad stretched out his arm from the bedside chair, long enough to reach the small painting in my pale hand, and grasped it with shaking fingers. He cradled it in his hands for hours as Mom occasionally tilted it more so that she could see it.

Their child has come back to them.