Early Summer, The Cicada Reliquary

I heard the clicking before I opened the cabinet.

At first it was so faint that I almost dismissed it as another ordinary sound within the Archive. The building has developed enough peculiar habits over the years that I no longer investigate every unfamiliar noise immediately. Most eventually reveal themselves to be settling timber, rainwater moving through old stone, the furnace pipes expanding with warmth, or one of the countless other explanations that make life here pleasantly predictable.

This was different.

The sound was soft and intermittent, like lacquered shells gently tapping together somewhere beyond the western hall while rain muffled everything outside the conservatory.

I found myself listening for it more than once before finally following it upstairs.

The Cicada Reliquary occupies one of the smaller preservation cabinets near the botanical shelves. Compared with many of the objects entrusted to the Archive, it has always seemed remarkably modest. There are no violent histories attached to it, no elaborate containment procedures, and no obvious danger beyond the usual caution owed to fragile things.

It is simply beautiful.

The reliquary has been carved in the shape of a resting cicada, its folded wings forming a protective shell around the chamber within. Beneath layers of faded black lacquer the wood remains remarkably well preserved, while tiny shell inlays catch the light whenever the angle changes. Silk bindings still cross portions of the wings exactly as they were tied centuries ago, giving the impression that the insect is merely asleep rather than sealed.

The damp weather had loosened several of those bindings, so I carried the reliquary into the conservatory shortly after breakfast intending to reinforce them before further damage could occur.

It promised to be the sort of work I usually enjoy.

Needlework requires patience rather than urgency, and there is considerable comfort in repairing something one careful stitch at a time.

Clio settled beside the sewing cloths almost immediately.

Although she appeared perfectly relaxed, I noticed her ears turning toward the reliquary whenever the faint clicking returned. She never looked alarmed, only attentive, in much the same way she listens toward the lower stairwells whenever something stirs beneath the foundations.

Muninn chose not to join us at all.

I heard him moving somewhere among the upper rafters for much of the morning, yet he never descended into the conservatory.

As the day progressed, the clicking became easier to distinguish.

It was not metallic.

Nor did it resemble loose fittings shifting inside the case.

The sound possessed an oddly organic quality, dry and hollow, like empty shells touching polished wood with each quiet movement. Several times I caught myself looking up from my stitching because I had become convinced that something inside the reliquary had shifted.

Eventually curiosity overcame good judgement.

I opened it.

The folded wings separated smoothly beneath my hands without the slightest resistance.

Inside I found exactly what the catalogue describes.

Several preserved cicada shells had been arranged with extraordinary care around layers of faded silk wrapping and a collection of brittle memorial fragments too fragile to unfold safely. Everything appeared undisturbed. There was nothing living within the chamber and nothing that ought to have produced any sound at all.

The clicking continued.

Clio stood the moment the reliquary opened.

She did not approach it.

She simply listened.

At some point I became aware that my work had stopped entirely.

The needle remained suspended between my fingers while I stared into the reliquary, unable to remember how long I had been sitting there. The conservatory gradually returned around me piece by piece until I could once again distinguish the rain against the glass, the distant movement of water through the old pipes, and, somewhere far above, the slow ticking from the cabinet containing the Broken Pocket Watch.

Then came another memory.

Or perhaps another borrowed memory.

I stood beneath towering cedar trees in the heat of late summer while cicadas sang so loudly that they seemed to fill the air itself. White shrine walls reflected the afternoon light, paper charms stirred gently in the warm breeze, and my hands were stained dark with fresh lacquer resin.

Someone beside me spoke quietly.

"They remember the summer dead."

The words lingered long after everything else had faded.

I do not know who spoke them.

I do not know what they mean.

Even so, I found them unexpectedly difficult to dismiss.

I closed the reliquary almost at once.

The folded wings settled back into place, and the clicking ceased immediately.

The silence that followed felt remarkably complete.

This evening I returned the reliquary to its cabinet beside the Pressed Botanical Journals and the Spiral Idol. While locking the doors, I became aware of an unusual fragrance lingering in the western hall. It reminded me simultaneously of fresh flowers, damp earth after rain, old incense, and the faint sweetness of leaves beginning to decay. None of those scents lasted long enough for me to determine their source.

The rain has continued well into the evening.

Clio has woken several times from otherwise peaceful sleep, each time pausing to listen before settling again.

Muninn has spent the better part of the night arranging dried flower stems and black feathers among the upper rafters with unusual care. I cannot see the pattern clearly from below, though he seems entirely satisfied with it.

As I finish writing, the Archive has become quiet once more.

Almost.

Every so often, when the rain eases for a moment, I think I can still hear a faint clicking somewhere beyond the western hall.

It is soft enough that I cannot be certain whether I am hearing it at all.

— M