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She returned to Celestic Town after a long time away; yet the town seemed to have been preserved in amber, unchanged in a golden haze.
“Cynthia.” Her grandmother greeted her with warm ceremony. Like Mount Coronet, her grandmother was perennially capped with snow, and like Mount Coronet, she had been rooted in one place for as long as anyone could remember. “You’ve come to see the paintings.” It was not a question.
Cynthia nodded, a little bemused. “Yes. How did you…?”
“After that horrible spaceman came to see them, I expected you would want to do more research. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said again, but with considerable more difficulty. At the mention of the spaceman, the leader of that awful Team Galactic, her throat had nearly closed up. “Grandmother. Is everything all right here? Did those men give you any more trouble?”
“Oh, no, no. That young trainer that came by gave those goons quite a thrashing. A friend of yours?”
“I suppose you could say that.” Cynthia thought of Rowan’s young mentee, dark-haired and bright-eyed, familiar in a way that made her melancholic. “I’m glad someone was here to keep you safe. ”
“The Pokémon of the lakes wouldn’t have let anything happen to us.” Her grandmother’s voice was warm with confidence. “They’re always watching over this place.”
That kind of reckless faith was dangerous, especially after what had happened at Lake Valor. Cynthia sighed. “Just be careful, Grandmother.”
“Yes, yes. How long were you planning on staying?”
She really wasn’t sure. “As long as it takes to find what I’m looking for, I suppose.”
Her grandmother looks oddly pleased with this answer. “Well, come along, then. You can stay in your old room.”
Cynthia lingered at the edge of town for a moment longer. She hadn’t really come back, not since she’d become champion. Sporadic visits now and then, never more than a day, but not an extended stay, not like this. She was surprised at the trepidation she felt, reentering Celestic; an unpleasant sensation, not unlike guilt, curled in her stomach.
Cynthia stepped forward, shivering slightly as entered the shadow of Mount Coronet. She had forgotten how cold the mountains could be.
Cynthia is ten years old, and she lives in Celestic Town.
She stays with her grandmother in a small house, south of town. There’s a pool in the garden, where magikarp and barboach swim in slow, lazy circles under the tranquil surface. Every morning Cynthia wakes up early to feed them, dipping her toes in the water on hot days. Every morning she looks up at her neighbor, Mount Coronet, as it reaches into the sky, haloed by clouds.
She loves Mount Coronet. One day, she’s going to climb it all the way to peak. For now, she is content to stay safe in its protective shadow.
She loves her grandmother, too. Grandmother, with her warm eyes and her careful hands, always smelling of old paper and older stone, always with the old charm resting against her soft throat, bone and ribbon entwined.
Her hometown is a slow, sweet place. Everyone knows everyone else; there’s the Mandara couple, who have been selling herbs in Celestic for years; their daughter, Ginny, who is mostly grown up but stays in town to help her parents; Donnie the black belt, who is an expert at fighting but prefers to spend his time spoiling his precious Blissey; Abbott, who does odd errands around town when he’s not dozing behind a fishing rod.
They all take Cynthia under their wing in their own ways; she is one of the only children in Celestic, but she’s never lonely. She practices martial arts with Donnie, or she helps the elderly Mandaras grind up medicinal roots in their little store, or she files papers at the Historical Research Center.
Sometimes she visits the ruins. She steps inside the yawning dark of the cave, where the temperature drops suddenly, and lets her eyes adjust to the new dim. Every time, her heart skips a beat when the murals come into focus. The beautiful, intricate figures seem to dance across the cave walls, shielded here from the elements for thousands of years. Water drips from the stooping stalactites, so the whole place smells odd, somehow both fresh and old. In here, the air thrums with stories, stories of creation and destruction and chaos and order, stories that have existed since maybe the very birth of Sinnoh itself, breathing and alive.
Grandmother says that Celestic Town is where the past lives. Cynthia believes her.
Once a year, she burns incense at the tiny shrine in the center of town. There are two worn photos there, one for each of her parents. They died when she was very small.
She misses them sometimes, but in a detached sort of way. Grandmother is more than enough. Celestic Town is more than enough.
It was easy enough to settle back into her old room. Cynthia was gratified and a little touched to discover that her grandmother had kept it clean and ready for her, even after all this time.
Settling back into the rhythms of Celestic Town was a little bit more difficult. She’d forgotten, too, the slow and meticulous pace of life here, how every task, no matter how trivial, could take hours. Where was the hurry? There was always time to sit and talk to the neighbors, reminiscing about things that had happened decades ago as if they had happened yesterday.
The problem with this was that Cynthia was on a bit of a timetable. There were certain myths she needed to clarify, certain stories she needed understand, and this was very difficult to accomplish quickly when every trip to the Historical Center archives devolved into a two-hour long conversation with Jerry, the archivist, about a radio show he had once listened to as a boy.
It was all terribly frustrating. Cynthia took to early morning training sessions with Garchomp to dispel some of her exasperation. One morning saw the two of them practicing agility in the garden; Cynthia calling out commands, Garchomp following them to the letter, cutting through the grass with a smooth, lethal grace.
“Well, if that isn’t the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” someone saic, and Cynthia turned around, smiling despite herself as she recognizes the voice.
“Donnie!”
“Champion Cynthia,” he returned, grinning widely. He still wore the same gi and worn black belt, but his face was lined in ways it hadn’t been before, and his hair, once dark, was now thickly streaked with gray.
A little pink shape toddled behind him; Cynthia knelt down, extending a hand in greeting. “Hello, there.”
The little happiny peered at her for a moment before hiding behind her trainer again with a squeak. “From my Blissey’s egg,” Donnie explained, his eyes shining with pride.
“She’s beautiful, Donnie.”
“Means a lot, coming from you, Champion.” He was only teasing; Cynthia could see the affectionate glint in his gaze. “How’re you enjoying your time back in Celestic?”
“It’s been….all right,” she demurred, but he was shaking his head, laughing.
“Jerry talking your ear off?”
“I know he’s only being friendly.”
“Well, he should remember that you came her for a reason.” Donnie nodded in the direction of the ruins. “Something to do with those crazy space guys, right? We’ve been hearing reports on the radio.”
Cynthia remembered that almost no one in Celestic Town owned a television. “Yes, Team Galactic. I’m trying to get to the bottom of whatever they’re planning.”
“Well, if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.” Donnie sounded so assured that Cynthia looked at him twice. “Don’t be modest, Cynthia. Everyone knew you’d be something great! You always were a smart cookie.”
She shook her head, half-smiling, not quite believing him, but appreciative of the support either way. “Thanks, Donnie.”
“And if Jerry gives you any more trouble, give me a call. I’ll come set him straight.”
She laughed without reservation. “Thanks, Donnie.”
In the garden, Donnie’s happiny had overcome its shyness and was now play-fighting with Garchomp. Cynthia wasn’t worried; Garchomp moved with exceeding gentleness, the old scar on its muzzle gleaming in the soft morning light, familiar with its surroundings.
Grandmother is the elder of Celestic Town; she’s also the head of the Historical Center, where they keep a bunch of old, important stuff. Sometimes old, important people come to see the old, important stuff, like Professor Rowan from Sandgem, who looks very stern but is actually quite nice.
Most of the time, though, people don’t come by the Historical Center. People don’t come by Celestic Town, period; it’s high up and out of the way, no gyms or anything. They don’t even have a Pokémon Center, though Grandmother swears she’s been trying to get one built for years.
But one day, Grandmother’s friend comes down to Celestic Town. She’s an older woman, like Grandmother, but where Grandmother’s hands are grainy with dust and nicked with paper cuts, this woman’s hands are ropy with old burns and scars, healed many times over.
With her, she brings a swarm of little sharp-faced pokemon. Gible, she calls them. They seem very young, blinking in the cold mountain air with big, dark eyes.
They are herded along by a larger pokemon, indigo, sleek lines and long, dangerous tail. Garchomp; the mother of the little gibles, according to Grandmother’s friend, who introduces herself as Wilma.
They had been hatched last month, she explains. Now they were nearly big enough to choose their trainers and begin their journeys.
Cynthia, who has been hovering nearby in delighted fascination, stops short. Choose their trainers? Wasn’t it the other way around? Trainers were the ones who chose their pokemon.
When she voices this concern, Wilma laughs, though not unkindly. These were dragons, she explained. They were far too proud and stubborn to bear being picked like fruit. No, they had to do the choosing themselves. They had to mark their new trainers as theirs.
How did they mark their trainers? This question is answered that same day; one gible, its eyes fixed on Cynthia, leaps forward and sinks its sharp little baby teeth into the meat of palm.
Cynthia falls back, too shocked to cry out; the gible, despite its earlier aggression, runs up to her clumsily, burrowing its broad little head into her side.
Cynthia looks at her hand, at the four bleeding tooth-marks in her palm, and then looks up at Wilma, her eyes round.
There, says Wilma. It chose you.
Reception was spotty in the mountains, but she still managed to receive a call from the League within a week.
“Champion.” Lucian’s voice was even drier than usual when broken up by static. “How goes your quest for answers?”
Cynthia allowed herself a smile. “You sound like you’re talking out of a book.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Lucian said immediately, and she almost laughed at how offended he sounded.
“Nothing. How is everything at the League?”
“Aaron is wandering around like a lost lillipup, Flint is driving me up the wall, and Bertha is being maddeningly calm about everything.”
“So, business as usual, then.”
“I suppose.”
Silence ticked between them for a few moments, interrupted only by the white noise of the bad connection. Cynthia’s mirth faded, and now she almost hesitated, uncertain if she wanted to hear the answer to her next question.
She said, “Lucian. Do you remember what I asked you to keep an eye on before I left?”
A pause on the other end of the line. She thought she could hear the faint sound of a page flipping.
“Yes,” he said finally. “The activity of Team Galactic members across the region.” Another pause. She waited. “As you predicted, there has been increased Galactic presence on Routes 207, 208, and 217, as well as reported sightings inside Mount Coronet’s cave system. They seem to be preparing for some sort of event at the peak.”
She let out a long, measured breath, unsurprised but worried all the same. Ever since that man—Cyrus—had visited Celestic to view the cave paintings, she’d known. Whatever he was planning…it had to do with Mount Coronet, with the mythical pokemon of time and space, with the guardians of the lake. If only she could understand what connected them all…
“Cynthia?” Lucian’s voice brought her back to the moment.
“Yes, I’m here.” Cynthia let her gaze wander to the window, framing Mount Coronet against a stormy gray sky. “Thank you for the update, Lucian. I’ll be back soon and I’ll explain everything. There are just a few questions I need to clear up.”
“How are you so sure that the answers you’re looking for are there?” Lucian sounded skeptical.
Cynthia sighed and closed her eyes. “Call it intuition.”
One day, Donnie’s Blissey wanders off.
It’s not an unusual event, but Donnie works himself up into a fuss, nonetheless. For all that he’s an expert black belt and martial artist champion, Blissey is his heart and soul, and he dotes on that pokemon terribly. He comes around the Historical Center to ask if anyone’s seen his beloved Blissey.
Truthfully, Blissey is more than capable of taking care of herself; still, Cynthia feels a bit bad. She can’t imagine how awful it would feel to lose your pokemon like that. So she decides to try to help out. She sits on the steps of the Historical Center in deep thought, trying to figure out where Blissey might have run off to.
She closes her eyes. Breathes in deep. Where is Blissey?
A cool breeze puffs against her skin, picking up strands of her hair and playing with them. The sounds of the space around her—the wind in the grass, Gible chewing on the staircase handrails, Donnie’s forlorn voice—shiver in an out of focus, like she’s floating on water and the waves are lifting her, up and down, up and down, up and down…
Cynthia opens her eyes and calls for Donnie.
He ambles out of the Center, looking distraught; but his eyes brighten when she suggests that Blissey might have gone to visit the nearby gorge.
Blissey does love going to the gorge, he exclaims, excited, and hurries off, tossing a thank-you to Cynthia over his shoulder.
Cynthia grins, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. It feels nice to help!
From the window of the Center, Grandmother gives her a scrutinizing look, but says nothing.
Later, she asks Cynthia: how did you know Blissey would be in the gorge? No accusation in her voice, just mild curiosity.
Cynthia shrugs, more occupied with playing tug-of-war with Gible, who’s got hold of her favorite sweater. It was just a feeling, really; she tells Grandmother as much.
She’s has always had little notions like this, tickles at the back of her mind, nudging her to do one thing or another. She can’t quite explain it; sometimes, a choice just feels right.
Like you’re sailing on the sea, Grandmother suggests. And the currents around you are guiding you, even if you can’t see them.
Cynthia nods. It’s exactly like that.
Aura, says Grandmother. That’s some people call it, anyway. But I suppose you could call it intuition.
The Historical Center archives were not a mess. In fact, they were the exact opposite; pristinely kept, precisely organized, exceeding easy to search through.
Cynthia wished they were a mess. If they were a mess, then, at least, her irritation would be warranted; as it stood, the only reason she was failing to find answers was that she herself did not know what she was looking for.
There were approximately two dozen versions of the creation myth on file in the Historical Center. Of these two dozen versions, only nine agreed on the identity of the first pokemon; only seven agreed on the role of the lake guardians in the world’s creation; only three agreed on the way that the pokemon of time and space could be harnessed.
Cynthia could have screamed. Instead, she groaned, putting her head down on the desk, dislodging a thick sheaf of papers, which proceeded to feather dramatically across the floor.
“That didn’t sound very good.” Her grandmother’s face appeared around the corner of the door.
“I’m sorry, Grandmother.” Cynthia gestured unhappily to her surroundings. “I just can’t figure out which one is right.”
“Which what?”
“Which version of the story.”
“All of them,” said her grandmother. “Or perhaps none of them.”
How did that help? Cynthia stared; her grandmother sighed and smiled.
“Oh, Cynthia. Don’t try to think like a professor; there may not be just one answer to this. I’ve found that stories are a bit like children. They tend to grow in their own way.”
Grandmother tells her a story:
First, there is only darkness.
And then there is an Egg.
And in this Egg there is Time and Space; in this Egg there is Mind and Body and Heart; and in this Egg, born from darkness, there is Darkness.
Grandmother tells her a story:
First, there is only Darkness.
And then there is Mind and Body and Heart; and then Darkness has mind and body and heart and Darkness does not have time and space; in darkness, there is no Time and Space.
Grandmother tells her a story:
First, there is an Egg.
Perhaps the Egg came from darkness; or Darkness came from the Egg.
And in this Egg there is every sea that ever sparkles, and every meadow that ever grows, and every sky that ever soars, and every song that is ever sung and every story that is ever told.
Cynthia hadn’t visited the ruins yet.
It was unnecessary —she was nearly finished with her research in the Historical Center, and although her findings hadn’t been completely satisfactory, she’d learned more than enough. Really, all things considered, the most practical thing to do would be to leave Celestic right away; travel back to the League, update the Elite Four on Team Galactic’s plans, then fly to Mount Coronet herself. For all intents and purposes, her mission had been fulfilled.
But.
She hadn’t visited the ruins yet.
It was one of those feelings—she had to do it before she left, absolutely needed to, but—
The time wasn’t right. Not yet.
And then it was.
She woke up in the dead of night, disoriented and, for a moment, unable to recognize where she was. The thin light seeping through her window grounded her; she saw a sliver of moon in the sky, amid the stars.
She needed to go to the ruins. She could feel them pulling at her, the sensation almost physical, the tug towards the cave and the painted murals, towards the pale reaching stalactites and glassy puddles of water.
Cynthia drifted out of bed and into her clothes, the motions feeling dreamlike, disconnected from her body. She slipped out of the house and walked through the thick, dewy grass towards the cave.
The gaping mouth swallowed her up; for a few, breathless moments, she was trapped in the suffocating dark, before her eyes adjusted, and she could make out the familiar shapes on the wall.
Cynthia stood alone in the middle of the cave; the only sounds were her breathing and the steady plink-plink-plink of the dripping stalactites.
The cave was empty.
Except it wasn’t.
She could feel them around her, the people and pokémon of the past; their knowledge and will and emotion singing from the worn stone walls. Their joys and their sorrows, their victories and their defeats, their understanding and their ignorance. Breathing around her. Alive, alive, alive.
Cynthia reached out her hand; she was unsurprised when it was grasped by another.
She’s almost eleven, and Grandmother says she’s ready to go on her journey.
Cynthia is unsurprised. She has been feeling the same way for some time; the cozy embrace Celestic’s tiny borders, once comforting, now feel stifling. She and Gible have battled every trainer in town twice-over; Gible is proudly sporting a new scratch on its nose, courtesy of Ginny’s shuckle. Cynthia’s tired of the everyday routine; she wants to see something new. It’s a relief to hear Grandmother say the same thing.
Still; now that she knows she’ll be leaving soon, she gazes upon everything around her with nostalgic fondness. She’ll come back, of course, but probably not for a little while, at least.
She decides to spend her last night in Celestic somewhere special. The pond? The gorge? Maybe the shrine. No…
The ruins.
Cynthia packs a little night-case, recalls Gible into its pokeball, and bids Grandmother good night. Then she sets off across the damp grass and towards the cave.
She sets up her sleeping bag under the mural. She likes the idea of the painted figures watching over her one last night; maybe wishing her good luck on her journey. She promises them to come back soon, wherever she ends up going.
When she slips into sleep, she has strange dreams.
She dreams that she is trekking through a path thick with snow, Gible at her side, shivering to the bone.
She dreams that she is soaring above a glittering lake, a laugh dancing in her mouth, the breeze tasting of salt.
She dreams that she is flush in the heat of battle, sweat hot on her brow, dust caking her lips, her hands curled in resolute fists.
She dreams she is curled next to a crackling fire, the air thick with sonorous chirping of nocturnal pokemon, leaves swaying above.
She dreams she is a tunnel deep underground, her muscles aching but her heart leaping with triumph as she spots a tell-tale sparkle lodged in the stone wall in front of her.
Cynthia dreams of many things; but, finally, she dreams she is back in the cave, except she isn’t alone. There’s a woman there, tall and dressed darkly, her hair faintly gold in the dim light. She is staring at the mural, the painted figures dancing across the walls; her face is strange, caught somewhere between happiness and sadness.
She reaches out a hand. Cynthia, unthinking, grabs it.
The woman looks down, her expression vaguely wondering.
“You look familiar,” she says.
“So do you,” says Cynthia.
The woman nods. This is an understandable answer. “Do you come here often?”
“All the time.”
“I used to come here all the time, too.” This with a trace of sadness.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I went away for a while. And then when I came back it was all different.”
“This place is never different.”
“I know. I meant that I was different.”
“Oh.” That is sad. Cynthia squeezes her hand in what she hopes is a comforting way. “Well, the past lives.”
“What? Oh—yes, the slogan of this town.”
“It’s not just that.” Cynthia frowns. “It’s really true. Everywhere. Around you and inside you.”
“I hope that’s true. Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost part of myself.”
“It is true. I promise. Whoever you think you lost, or whatever you think you lost, it still lives somewhere. I promise.”
“All right.” The woman grips Cynthia’s fingers and smiles. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here with me.”
“Me too.” Warmth fills Cynthia’s chest, pure and wonderful, like iridescent bubbles. She she smiles back.
Cynthia wakes up slowly, her dreams slipping away in snatches. But the warmth remains; when she looks at the dawn light creeping through the cave entrance, she is smiling.
Her grandmother had never been a sentimental person. There were no tears or embraces when she saw Cynthia off; just an encouraging smile and a squeeze of the hand.
“Have faith, my dear,” her grandmother said, and when she pulled her hand away, something was left in Cynthia’s palm. A familiar shape, threadbare purple ribbon and smooth bone pendant.
Cynthia inhaled sharply in recognition. The old charm. She’d nearly forgotten the weight of it bouncing against her hip. The last time she’d seen it, was when she had pressed it into the hands of—
“Your trainer delivered it to me in perfect condition,” her grandmother explained. “It was certainly nice to hold it in my hands again! But, I think it is time that it went back to its rightful owner.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “But—Grandmother. I’m not—”
“Of course you are,” said her grandmother. “You always have been. You brought the charm back once—I trust you can do it again.”
“Grandmother.” Cynthia’s chest felt tight. She wanted to say, I left for so long. And I went so far away. And I didn’t come back until I had to. How can you still trust me?
“Cynthia.” Her grandmother’s rough palm found her cheek. “You, of all people, should know that time and space mean nothing. When it feels right, your heart will draw you back. We’ll be waiting. This is where the past lives. This is where your past lives.”
The town gathers to see her off—Ginny and Jerry and Donnie and the Mandaras and all the rest, weighing her down with parcels of food and old running shoes and much-used maps. Cynthia says her good-byes at the edge of town and then walks to the beginning of Route 210, Gible waddling at her side and Grandmother trailing a little behind.
At the route marker, she turns around, tightening her grip on her backpack and offering Grandmother what she hopes is a brave smile.
Grandmother has never been a sentimental person. She pats Cynthia on the cheek twice, her eyes brimming with affection and pride, then takes the old charm off her own neck to tie it around Cynthia’s wrist.
Cynthia tries to protest—the old charm is priceless! It should stay in Celestic!—but Grandmother shakes her head.
There’s no use in keeping it shut away from the world, she says. Take it for a journey with you. Let it meet all kinds of new people and pokemon. And then bring it back here and tell us everything.
But—Cynthia blinks, still uncertain. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be away, how far she’ll go before she comes back.
Grandmother smiles and shakes her head. You’ll come back, she says. That’s all that matters. Not time or distance.
You’ll come back.