the pearl harvester
by Shuyan Zhou
PART I: PARTY PREP
He’s sifting through grey-pink for nacre covered memory, fingers slipping through intangible cool. Notebook open on the workbench, the entry of the two tears is dated for New Moon and Waning Gibbous. The one from Waning Gibbous, fourteen moons ago, is extracted already. It sits, nestled in its pouch, waiting.
Nucleated-in-New-Moon, he is searching for yet. Southern is one of his smaller troughs, though not the smallest. He has five troughs.
When a smooth warmth, distinct from the gelatinous muscle incubation, brushes his fingertips, he gently pinches, then pulls. It’s not round, as he expected – quite the rarity, it has merged with another tear. And a natural one, at that! It’ll fetch a good price, he thinks, a natural. The fact it’s merged, though...he understands why his father reproached their father, but when it comes to the trends of the stars, he is lost. Only the whims of his nameless sun can he hope to guess. He places the gem in its pouch, and heads out.
A good day of work today, and not even afternoon! Yesterday, he finished work early, too, and went to the shore. It shared a poem with him.
He’ll buy an apple for the shore today, for it to share with its sisters. The waves do love the golds and greens of fruit.
*****
He wakes from his bed, light peaking in from his window. Today, he muses, should be packaging day. But the merged gem of yesterday has him excited, so he’ll try to produce a tear today.
Glueing on the Joyful wig (shoulder length blonde hair, fluffy but otherwise thin), he evaluates his fat jars. He’s running low. Taking the wax and knife, he grafts it onto his thighs, his hips, his upper arms, anyways. It feels like the heat of getting poked and cracked by the oven; not sweating, but drying.
They head to the amphitheater, 2 rounds away from town. Rarely do the townsfolk come here, but when they do, they don’t mind the audience. Today, there’s a crowd of zero. The open air has their sleeves fluttering in the wind, and they wonder how their father ever performed in the town’s dark, moody theatre. It’s a good day, they think, as light catches on the sky’s baubles.
It was not a good day. Not only did they fail to produce a tear, but they knocked over their jar of fat, saw it kaleidoscope onto the floor in the evening light. (It’s still there, but they’re depressed, so they’re sleeping.) Four is bad luck, and two people had come, minutes apart, to watch. 2 + 2 is four. 2 x 2 is four. 22 is four. What is two, if not the progenitor of four? It had gone downhill from there. They had felt the tear dry up, dry before it fell. Maybe their gems are doomed to lose their luster. Maybe they should just find a new job and give up on harvesting. Maybe...
*****
They wake from their bed, crow caw carried from the empty coin in their wall. They feel subdued today. No performing, today must be packaging day. (They don’t feel like performing after yesterday, anyhow.)
Melting the wig glue, washing away the fat grafts, he chooses the day’s outfit. Grabs the notebook, and heads out for Southern.
‘Waning Gibbous.
14 moons.’ This is written on the front of the first description card.
‘Swallow before evening meal.
Do not bite or chew.
Single use, intended for Solstice-D only.’ This is written on the back of every description card. He stamps his stamp next to the text. “TPH,” it reads, in red ink.
‘New Moon.
21 moons.
Special: Merged with a natural.’ This is written on the front of the second description card. He stamps the back with his stamp.
Pulling out the Southern basket, he places the two, newly packaged gems into it. It rests along with a gem harvested five moons ago. That one only grew for 8 moons – much shorter than usual, but he had had a good feeling. It does have a nice luster.
Three from Southern is higher than usual, but last year, he hadn’t sold any from Arctic. It’s still growing, he feels, so there is an extra from Southern. Arctic is nucleated in singulars.
PART II: SOLSTICE
He wakes from his bed, town bells ringing from his walls. Today is the first day of the Summer Solstice Celebration. The Solstice!
He gets up, carbonized fat etching another layer into his floors. He pulls out her, the Special Wig (knee-length brown-purple hair, thick and wavy), and gets ready. Puts on vendors’ clothing, as all the townsfolk do, and prepares for the stars.
1) Get the baskets from Pacific and Indian (Atlantic she has brought to her bedroom already, and Southern is on the way)
2) Send greetings to the shore and its sisters
3) Put the blanket on her vendor booth
4) Eat Celery Pie for lunch
5) Bring the baskets from Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, and Southern to the booths
6) Look at the vendor booths before the stars arrive!!! She wants to trade for one of the rancher’s cherries this Solstice
She’s bathing in evening light when the stars start arriving. Her gems glisten on her blanket, refreshing like ice on this summer day, her personal air conditioning. The stars meander their way in, as they always do; bottleneck at the gate meant for one person.
It’s a larger crowd than normal, numbering over 20, even, and her sun is near the back, waiting to trickle in. She hopes they buy the merged gem from Southern, or the Third Quarter/13 month from Pacific. This year’s batch from Indian is quite good, but she thinks the merged gem and that one from Pacific are the best. It’s rare that Pacific produces one of her best.
Since decades back, (over two centuries, now,) her sun has been her first customer. All the stars buy one of her dreams for Solstice-D, but most purchase on the second or third day. It’s their little ritual.
Stars are leisurely in their appreciation. There’s two stars – one of them has been attending Solstice’s longer than her, she remembers being by her father’s side as they bought one of her father’s dreams – appraising the rancher’s booth. (Hers is near the back of the grassy field, at the curve of the U-shape they’re organized in.)
He agreed to a cherry for a dream from Atlantic, after day two’s sunset. She’s excited to pick a cherry. Maybe, she’ll eat it by the shore, and her sun will join her.
(They’re at the gate now, almost in the venue. They’ll be at her booth after 3 birdsong.)
Excuse me, a voice interrupts, and she startles.
“Yes,” she asks, and looks at the star that has crept before her. They’re new, she thinks, she hasn’t seen them before. How rare! The last time a new star came was 55 Solstice’s ago now. “You can place a bid, or buy, at my price. No reserve price.”
I see, they say, thanks. And the star starts touching the dreams from Indian. Stops, starts on Atlantic.
“Um,” she starts, “I ask that you refrain from touching unless you intend to purchase the dream,” but the star continues, unhearing.
“Dear customer-,” she tries once more, but balks as they sigh loudly into her mind.
She’s not sure what her face is twitching into; never has she even caught whispers or jokes of a star behaving so rudely to a harvester. And she’s one of the Universe’s best, small as this town is!
She glares at where their shoulders would be, bristling as they lift the merged dream, New Moon/21 moons, to inspect. From her understanding, stars don’t even need to lift things up to observe! Her sun has told her that they, the stars, see through proximity. These faceless, eyeless, amorphous beings. (All the stars she has seen vaguely resembled her own form, though, so she’s not sure how amorphous they really are.)
Excuse me, a quiet voice rings, though not directed at her, you are not to touch dreams until purchased from the harvester.
The offending star scoffs at her sun and pulls coins from within themselves. I guess I’ll have to buy this one then, if you’re gonna bitch about it.
“Can you even afford it,” she wants to say, but as coin after coin is dropped onto her table, the words die in her throat. The star leaves, with her precious, near impossibility of a dream, and she is on autopilot as she sweeps the coins up into her bag.
“You can place a bid or buy at my price. No reserve price,” she repeats, though her sun is more than familiar with how she operates. She hasn’t said this to them in centuries.
They browse, slow, methodical, respectful, the remaining dreams. Pauses at the Third Quarter/13 months from Pacific, at a couple from Indian, and at the whole of Atlantic, to her surprise.
They take longer than usual, but eventually, they say:
I’ll take this one.
They’re pointing at the Third Quarter/13 months from Pacific, and it’s the only thing that can save her day. The ones from Indian were good, but if her sun had bought one of the, in her opinion, average dreams for Atlantic, she might have just burst out crying.
Picking up the dream, she hands it to them, and they hand her the coins.
Thank you, they say.
“Of course,” she smiles, “though I only wish you could have bought that other dream.”
They nod, in agreement. A waste, they whisper clandestinely, but don’t tell anyone I said that.
“It merged with a natural tear. 3 centuries of harvesting and never have I had such an occurrence.”
Her sun doesn’t bother with ‘next time,’ nor ‘you’ll make another.’ They leave her be, without empty platitudes, and they finish their separate evenings.
PART III: DAY THREE
She wakes from her bed, town bells ringing from her walls. Tomorrow is the Summer Solstice, the Solstice-Day, and the rancher’s cherry from day two has lifted her mood. She will eat it by the shore, today, before going to her booth.
The waves are excited to see her today, and they are entertained, watching her taste her cherry. She waves goodbye when she finishes, keeping the pit to return to the rancher.
On the third day, they do not close their booths until night has fallen, to send everyone to a late-night's sleep. That way, everyone is ready to sleep-in on Solstice-day and celebrate before bed.
She gets to her booth early and stands with her feet in the grass. The breeze is nice today, so she closes her eyes to count baubles. She wishes she could perform, she is in perfect condition to produce a tear, but she must vend.
It is late evening when she sells her last dream, and she is glad the day has gone without a hitch. She lets herself sit, now, and thinks about what she will eat to celebrate tomorrow. Her sun will come over for a shared evening meal, then they will go to the shore. They will dream in Third Quarter/13 months, and she will sleep on the sand. Then they will wake, and perhaps her sun will stay another night, to keep her company.
Excuse me, a voice says, breaking her from her thoughts.
It’s that new star, the rude, throw-my-money-around one. She thought they were done with her booth. Something cold settles in her as she watches their stuff form.
I thought I bought a dream, they say, dropping crushed pieces of her merged gem, New Moon/21 moons, onto her bare table, but it was only a pearl.
The fall is cinematic, each shard catching the sky’s last light. An impossibility, unexplored and forgotten, unrecognized as even a dream.
The star leaves as her father’s heartbreaks, and their father’s heartbreaks, finally find their path to her.
To their fleeting figure, all she can whisper is:
“No refunds.”
Photo of Shuyan Zhou
BIO: Shuyan Zhou is an artist from the Pacific Northwest, currently studying geophysics at Colorado School of Mines. They were a staff reader for Belletrist Magazine and editor-in-chief for Bellezine, and are currently working with High Grade magazine. They love to dabble in various mediums, primarily visual arts.