ID: 14
Username: [Redacted]
Title: The White Ghost

Merde. There are two things in life that a man always dreads. Hearing from the tax collector, and hearing from old teachers. Both know everything that there is to know about you, and both have a way of making you feel small.

I know, I know, I’m being too harsh, but can you blame me? Seeing Old Oak’s name flash on my Transceiver and the message only reading, “Need to confirm something important. Update at soonest convenience.”, made me feel like I was seventeen all over again. Fresh faced and new and doing my internship over at Kanto, toiling away in the lab under Oak’s velvet iron. Wearing away under the immense weight of his expectations.

But what are interns for after all? I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that I didn’t spend the entire summer fetching coffee and running errands. Then again, it was bad enough I vowed to never work in a lab again after that, a vow that I have honored for the last decade. Decidedly a mixed bag.

Any wonder then, that I just sat there the whole morning, staring at the damn device and trying to will those words away? When the impossible didn’t happen, I girded my heart, roused myself from my catatonia and dragged myself away from my campsite to the river and proceeded to nearly drown myself in an attempt to wash the mental cobwebs away. (physical ones too. Apparently, I was still enough for an enterprising joltik. Apologies, my little friend.)

It still took a fair bit of courage, liquid or otherwise, to contact the old man. I told myself I would hear him out, and practiced saying ‘No’ to whatever request he had of me, and redirecting him instead to one of my colleagues. But all that effort was for nothing, in the end. He knew which buttons to press, and I couldn’t say no. Damn him.

If I am to be honest, it really wasn’t that bad. Perhaps it was the fact that I was as old now as he was back then, or perhaps age finally caught up to the old dragon, but he was quite...human, for lack of a better word, when he talked. His voice sounded worn, tired even when he inquired after me, exchanging pleasantries, or what passes for pleasantries in academia. I congratulated him about the expansion of his Pokedex Initiative, mentioning vaguely about rumbles of it getting accepted even in distant Alola. He congratulated me about my newest paper, barely a week out, about the role of habitat configuration in shaping pokemon population processes, directly quoting a line from it about quantitative predictions.

A direct quote that I couldn’t tell you if you asked me.

And I wrote the damn thing.

It was really quite humbling that he kept abreast of my work, even if it didn’t really pertain to his sphere of interest.

Also, utterly infuriating.

In spite of that, when he got to the core thrust of the conversation, did things become really quite interesting. His first questions were about the myths and legends of la belle Kalos; only natural, after the summer that Kanto had experienced, and my own knowledge of them.

Now, I am not an expert, but in my time journeying up and down the entirety of my nation, I have had passing exposure to such things that Oak spoke of, either in local cultures or in ruins. Kalos’ bones might not be as old as Sinnoh’s, but ancient blood flows through our veins and our past is long and storied. It was in our land that the Horns of Life first sprouted, and it was here that the Wings of Death came to roost. The ancient chivalric stories told of fierce nameless monsters that were met and slain in battle, and gargantuan pokemon who were only tamed with the greatest of difficulty.

Oak sounded happier the longer I spoke on the topic, and when I paused for breath, he presented his own question.

“Have you heard of The Ghost of Laverre?” He had asked, and I had to confess my ignorance. Laverre today is a charming little city, built around the Grand Tree. A haven for the Fae, not Ghosts, and I said as much to him.

He replied by offering unlimited access to Kanto’s Safari Zone and the carefully curated ecosystems therein, if I indulged him in this and went and investigated anyway.

Well, how could I say no to such an offer? Kanto’s Safari Zone was the premier model for conservation of rare and endangered species in as natural an environment as possible, and acted as the template for similar protected places all over the world. The opportunity to see it first hand and study it as long as I liked? All for spending a few weeks in a magnifique tourist town and browsing its libraries for the history? Not a bad deal at all, non?

I am such a fool.

I got lured in by pretty promises and lofty dreams and have no one to blame, but myself. What did I think? That knowing some old legends and old wives’ tales would be a good enough substitute for actually understanding the weight of the past?

Silly little fool, you really should have known that an Oak’s leaves do not fall idly.

He knew what he was asking for when he made his request, and I underestimated him. Somehow.

My arrival in Laverre was quiet enough. It was a balmy evening, and I made a beeline for the lovely little cafe for a little delight of croissant and hot chocolate. Dear Caillebotte too relished in the simple pleasures of a mocha spice Pokepuff. The wilds are enjoyable no doubt, and far far preferable to the roiling hurry of the big cities...but food is the first casualty out there.

Trainer meals might fill the bellies, but they never can fill the heart.

My partner was already entertaining the locals by wielding his brushy tail with rare skills and painting their caricatures, and I hadn’t had the heart to disturb his fun, so I left the scout fletchinder I had caught a few months ago to keep watch (Only after bribing him with a bowlful of pecha berries. Whatever happened to trainer loyalty these days?), and made my way down to the library. Already, there was a faint yet captivating aroma on the breeze, a sure sign of spritzees coming out for their nightly hunt, competing within their own habitats for the most unique and appealing of scents. In their social hierarchy, the most pungent aromas are considered desirable, than necessarily the sweetest and most appealing ones. So, an enterprising spritzee would seek out more and more distant pastures for their food, and inevitably run across a trainer, who would then seek out a battle.

It is this precise behavior that has given trained spritzees such a fierce reputation for their...ah...parfum.

Oh, what am I even writing about? This is meant to help me collect my thoughts when I am agitated!!! Future me, when you read this again, please make sure to re-write the notes in the proper journal.

So, where was I? Yeah, I made my way down to the library, the Bibliotheque Mazarine. Built right into the trunk of the grand tree that dominates the center, near to the city’s gym, it is the oldest existing collection of books in Kalos. It was damaged during the war, of course, but initiatives taken by Lysandre Labs restored it to its former glory.

Boasting over three hundred thousand books in its archives, and countless microfiche and porygon protected digital data, it was probably the best place I could ask for, for the research. Except, it was not that simple.

As of now, I am quite unsure what is going on, but all avenues that could lead to the past of Laverre, were closed off. Relevant Books? Sections damaged in fires. Or lost. Or only found in references of references, but never actually present in the available listings. Porygon records? Not updated after the last indexing and those that are, require special credentials. Not even being an accredited researcher opened those particular doors.

The oldest history that I could find reliably, was as recent as three hundred years ago. That particular collection was insufficient, but it provided me with two important clues.

One, the rest of the collection, was once donated by the Chalmers Family of Laverre, and was returned to them once they were ousted from the city they had ruled for centuries. It might as well be a dead end, as any hopes of their return to their roots was out of the question, especially after the ascension of the young lady from Johto as the Gym Leader. (Although, might be a good idea to pay the lady Valerie a visit. She might have had dealings with members of the family.)

Two, the collection was last accessed thirty or so years ago.

By a certain Professor Samuel Oak.

Because, of course.

No matter. I am a patient man. I am going to sleep on this information, do my due diligence and visit the lady Valerie Fache tomorrow at the gym. Even send a letter to sir Repine Chalmers, the last descendant of the once-noble family.

Then I will call Oak and demand an explanation.

And that old man better have good answers for this foolish chase he has set me upon.

At the ripe old age of twenty three, I have finally experienced the bitter ecstasy of disillusionment. Its like when the small child keeps stepping into his father’s too-big boots until one day, or children throwing pokesoftballs at the wall pretending to catch a pokemon of their own, until the time comes to actually catch one, and they misthrow their shot.

That was the same strange sensation I felt when Oak sounded stumped by something.

I wasn’t happy about it, per se. Okay, a part of me was, but mostly, no. It was more like a bemusement, shock and surprise that seemed so uncharacteristic of the man who knew everything.

He was as blindsided by my discovery of careful excision of history as I was, more even, because this was not the case during his visit decades ago. Something changed between then and now, and what that factor was, remains a mystery. He did suggest a few of his contacts who might give me a lead, and he offered to just drop the whole thing, that he would grant me my clearance anyway, but I was not having it.

I told him that I was interested in searching for the truth as well, that this mystery only whetted my appetite even more. And it was the truth, for I AM interested...but it wasn’t the whole truth. Here, in the privacy of my thoughts and pen, I can admit that I want to still do this, so I can succeed where even Oak didn’t.

Its quite juvenile and crass of me, I know, but I want that. I don’t care if it turns out to be a minor curiosity that goes unfeted and unlauded, its the principle of the matter. How did that old poem go again?

‘To strive, to seek, to find and never to yield’

Well, I had the first and last parts covered. It was the middle two that were the contentious issue.

Lucky for me, I got replies back from the lady Valerie almost immediately, and from...well, best to use his title after his punitive correction… Lord Repine Chalmers, after several hours. (I don’t really see the point myself. Even if nobility was still to be honored, the Chalmers family had long since become a vassal to the de Lyons noble house). Lady Valerie agreed to host me at the Gym early on the morrow, before hopeful aspirants come to test their mettle. Lord Chalmers wasn’t quite as forthcoming, but was gracious enough to allow me a few minutes of his time at the end of the week.

Not ideal, but I will take what I can get.

It has been an eventful month. I haven’t had a moment’s rest or a minute to myself, and truly speaking, I really don’t have the time for it now either. Any longer though, and I would have popped, like an overfilled drifblim. If a couple of day’s rest helps to get my head on straight and back in the game, and my muddled thoughts in order, then its a better option than continuing to beat my head against the metaphorical wall.

Right, so, Lady Valerie actually came through in a big way. Despite her preference for the fae, she was born and brought up alongside the infamous ghosts of Ecruteak, and she had a lot of information to share on the history of Laverre. Most of it she had come across in the volumes stored in her city of birth, and while they only had a Johtoan perspective on a Kalosian matter, it was more than I had.

I will do my best to sum it up, if only to narrow down the facts and keep them fresh in mind. My other option is to flip through half a dozen notebooks that I have already filled up with notes. And that’s not happening.

[Five thousand years ago, Kalos, then known as Clovia, was a danger fraught place. Life was harsh enough, what with the untamed wild pokemon, the struggle for resources and frequent crop failures. The locals of the area which is now Laverre, blamed “Wings of Death” for it, of course. As if the Lord Reaper had the time to fly down to the little hick villages and go ‘non non, fuck you in particular’ and lay waste to their fields.

Even so, their fearful superstition had grave consequences, and gave rise to a belief that only life could pay for death, and only death could pay for life. If the Lord Reaper was to be staved off, chosen sacrifices should give their lives. More the number of volunteers, greater the bounty, come harvest season.

The Chosen would then be cleaned, and fed through the winter, housed in the cleanest hut that could be found, and when the fourth month of winter passed them buy, they would be taken to the aspen tree at the center of the village, and hung from their neck until dead, to the cheers and the chants of the locals, as they then awaited the first buds of spring.

Of course, there was less volunteering and more voluntolding…and after getting rid of the old, the sickly, the infirm and the simple by this method over the years, they set their sights on other villages. This violent blood sacrifice soon spread to the rest of Kalos, and the white aspen tree became the central figure of macabre worship.

It wasn’t until the ascension of King Ayzed that these practices were stopped, by force. Of course, what happened to these cults in the wake of the nameless war that laid waste to Kalos back then, is still unknown. Or perhaps its known in that elusive collection that Lord Arse Chalmers still refuses to let me access. But that is another matter.

What we do know, is that around fifteen hundred years ago, a great calamity wreaked havoc in then-Laverre, and the survivors rallied around a nameless hero, only noted for his great height, who helped rebuild the town and in his wake, planted a golden laurel tree to replace the white aspen. The tree that still stands to this day.]

This was all that lady Fache could (or would) tell me, and even for a layman like me, it was evident that there were a great many holes in the narrative. Even setting aside the complicated feelings about the boorish and gory traditions that my ancient countrymen followed, that directly conflicted with the supposed glorious past that we all learned as children...there’s just too long periods of time about which nothing is known. Civilizations rise and fall in a span of centuries, and there’s almost a millenia missing! Not to mention, that the white aspen doesn’t find mention in any text after a point of time. For such a central cultural figure, to which men and women and children from across the breadth of the country were ritually hanged, to go unremarked on and just disappear from history, just doesn’t seem right.

Not to mention, these are conclusions I have arrived at, after a month of delving through the texts that the lady was kind enough to provide. Porygonned copies, of course. I am a little ashamed to admit that my first reaction was to deny it all, and dismiss it as jealous foreign balderdash. Why would beautiful Kalos, ever stoop down to such barbarism? We were a noble and rarefied people, were we not? Burdened by the powers that be, to bring the joy and beauty of creation to a somnolent world?

Recriminations won’t help me any, though I feel that often, with a sharp pang.

Still, I have mounds of text still left to go through, and the bloody Chalmers guy to pester again. Just what had happened between the Arme Ultime and the seeming new chapter in Laverre’s history?

Back again, in the comforting environs of desolate and forgotten forests. As nice as ‘civilization’ was, my heart is gladder for the soft ferns under my feet, the tall trees, the scent of pine needles and old smoke, and the cold morning breeze. Not to mention all the curious little pokemon that investigated me curiously as I stamped over their unchallenged haunts. I was very tempted to take a little detour and lose myself in studying the microbiomes and local habitats, but time was of the essence. Equinox was not even a week away.

Why Equinox? Well, I think I finally have a solid lead.

A lot has naturally happened in the past few weeks. Oak came through in a big way, and his words as well as that of Lady Valerie’s convinced Champion Diantha to put the pressure on Chalmers. I didn’t even know he had that kind of pull! An issue I had bashed my head against for over a month, he resolved in the span of an afternoon. I want to be envious, but I’m mostly just grateful. With the last hour before the teleportation services closed, he finally sent over a sizeable collection of precious books. Almost one-of-a-kind. After the bonfire of the vanities in the lead-up to the war, books in general were something hoarded in stately manor homes and private libraries, and a lot of knowledge was lost that way. Something that I felt acutely when I flipped through the books and deepened my understanding of Kalos and of my people and culture with every page.

All of this, mouldering away in the clutches of a glorified butler! So infuriating!

The history of old Clovia, and the brave and frankly, terrifying people that once called it home, is a bit much to summarize, and I will not even make an attempt. Perhaps later, I can write a paper on it. Return a piece of history that was stolen from the people of Kalos. For now, what is relevant is the fact that with time, the ritual murder at the aspen became more than just a means of culling the population of dependents. Quality gained more importance than Quantity, and to that end, ‘wyrdchilder’ were hunted throughout Kalos and brought here to Laverre, to be killed at the Equinox Festival. From the few fragmented records, it seems evident that these were psychically sensitive individuals. Only so many ways of interpreting “a glance flensed the thoughts from my brain” or “hoisted Jermain by his culottes in the air”, right?

Naturally, Oak and Lady Valerie, both went very quiet and very troubled by this revelation. I was as well. It is not well known, but psychic pokemon have a way of leaving their mark on the world. Even those with faint potential can harness that, like my dear partner’s species. With smeargles, unique brushstrokes and styles are passed down the line, yet there is no genetic marker for the same, leading to the speculation that its a sort of weak psychic echo that allows them to learn.

This is of course magnified for those species specially suited for the phenomena. There have been records of fledgling abras making a pilgrimage to sites where elders of their line died, and they somehow can still commune, in some capacity, with the echoes of the departed alakazam.

Extrapolating from that thought, a site where hundreds if not thousands of human psychics were sacrificed over the centuries? That would be soaked in these psychic echoes, and who knows what deleterious effects those strange energies have had on the world?

Still, all that remained a hypothetical, until the site was found. The best lead I could glean was the description of a sunrise through the mountains on the day of the equinox festival...which ruled out modern Laverre as the site. And gave me a good starting point to hunt down old Laverre. The entire damn mountain range at the north of the city.

Thank heavens for my newly evolved Talonflame. He still requires bribes to do his duty, but he flies tall and sees far, and I need that desperately if I am to succeed.

NOT EVEN A DAY TO SPARE AND WE HAVE FOUND IT!

It has been three months, and I have finally been cleared by Lady Olympia. Something about rain fading into light and peace returning like spring. All this time in her proximity, and I still cannot get used to her poetic intonation.

I have been writing in a journal during my recovery, but I have already left it behind. Lifetimes of sorrows, eons of pain, memories of violence, of raw unfettered grief, of the cold touch of oblivion… I had to process it all and live through it all and I do not care to carry its reminder with me anymore, save for a single page. A solitary memory that I have resolved to keep alive in my heart till I fade as well.

Memory and Legacy. It is the sum total of our lifetimes, is it not? The only proof that we lived, the only proof that we left behind a mark on the world. The greats warp the world where their paths stride, and leave a deep indelible footprint, and for the longest time, I believed that this was the only legacy that mattered. Left in the hands of a chosen lucky few. But perhaps…perhaps it is our memories that forge a bond with the hearts of the people, those that we touch and affect, that holds our legacies fast. Stronger than steel, more enduring than edifices.

My thoughts are scattered still, more prone to drifting. Perhaps I should start again where I last left off.

Yes, I had found the White Aspen, nestled deep deep within the mountains. I have spoken at length about its location with Champion Diantha, and she assured me she will take care of it. For myself, I will not put to paper where it can be found. It is too dangerous. Even so, I managed to track it down, going off on mere fragments of descriptions of a landscape that had changed drastically in the past three millenia. Thankfully, enough remained for me and dear Aetos to sleuth and follow.

The Aspen was impossibly tall, standing ghost white against the green hued canopy that surrounded it, and from its roots sprouted innumerable clones, yet all deferring to it, not daring to exceed its majesty and steering clear of it, leaving a clearing fifty feet across. Old red leaves carpeted the empty circle, gleaming sanguine in the setting sun and they wailed and cried when I crushed them underfoot in my approach. Aetos, his task done, returned to his pokeball and no amount of bribe and cajoling would convince him to stay out of it. Strangest of all, Caillebotte wasn’t any different.

I was a bit worried at the strange behavior, I recall, but so enthused I was by the discovery, that I set those concerns aside. After all, there was only a cold chill in the air and no wild pokemon as far as the eye could see! What did I have to fear? The tree?

So, I touched it. Touched it just as the sun set on the horizon and the dusk gleamed darkly. Touched it at the moment that night and day, ever a circling ouroborous, finally balanced equally on the edge of the scale.

And I was lost.

The last thing I remembered before oblivion took me, was a starry gash opening in the heart of the Aspen, and its leaves coming alive in cold blue fires.

When I came to, it was to the grinning maw of a gengar, who cheekily licked me awake and then disappeared into my shadows, to who knows where. It was bright and sunny, and the clearing was as I last remembered it...but the Aspen was once again, simply an Aspen. The foreboding era and the chill that was ever present in the clearing was no longer. Then I checked my transceiver, and was staggered to find hundreds of calls on it. From lady Fache. From the Nurse Joy of the Center I had last stopped at. From Oak. Most were from Oak. Hundreds of calls, in the past twenty days.

Twenty days.

I staggered, aghast, and fell. Although, not just from the shock of it all, but also because that infernal gengar had whacked my shins with a walking stick, and was unrepentant and grinning at me. With a parting final annoying wave, he left, and took my numbness with him.

Scrambling to my feet, I called Oak, and barely managed to mumble out a few words of where I was, before the memories of lifetimes caught up with me.

Thousands of times, I was washed and rinsed, bathed in oranblossom scented waters. Thousands of times, I was garlanded with fragrant blooms. Thousands of times I was led to the Great White Aspen, in front of whom I knelt. Thousands of times I cried out in pain when they slit open my belly, and hung me from the boughs of the tree, garlanding it with my entrails. Thousands of times I screamed, when they chopped off my right hand, and planted it down on the ground, palms upraised and grasping still.

I felt every torturous moment of pain, as hot blood dripped down into my eyes, blinding me countless times. Felt the agony of aching limbs and tearing muscles. Felt the slow, crawling approach of death’s cold wings. First in my legs, then my remaining arm, then my ruined belly, and finally my heart, before my eyes closed forever.

I was Obelsk of Goscinny. I was Jehanne of Charax. I was Philomene of Alesia. I was Gaëtan, the homeless wanderer from beyond the seas. I was them as they lived. I was them as they died.

I suppose I must have collapsed once again. For the next time I awoke, I was in the hospice at Anistar City.

I will not recount the subsequent journey of recovery that I undertook. Even now, I shudder to think of it and my arm trembles from the phantom pain of the phantom injury. And yet, the White Aspen, or rather, the Great Trevenant, one like I have never seen, never sought to cause me harm. Though it assailed me with the tortured souls that made up its accursed energies, they only wished for one thing. For their sacrifice to be remembered. For their deaths to not be in vain. To not be forgotten. And the Great Trevenant was simply honoring their wishes, on the day of their murders.

One entreaty, that of a boy from Myrah, a certain Luca, not even eight years of age… is what I will put down on paper.

He lived in his little village with his mother and an infant sister. He loved to fly the kite, and treasured a simple green one that his mother had crafted for him. He loved the gurgling laughter of his baby sister when he tossed her stuffed cotton toys in the air with his mind. He adored the taste of sweet custap berries and utterly disliked the bitterness of rabuta. He never complained when the men of the local lord took him away from his mother and his sister, and even as he hung upside down, dying, his only thought was, would his sister remember him when she grew up?

I do not know if your sister remembered you, little Luca, but even so, I will remember you, and carry your name. I will honor your memory, and live the life that was denied to you. That is the only thing I can do, and so I will accomplish it to the best of my ability.

I do not yet know what difference I can make, but one thing I wish to rectify, is to correct the terrible abuses done to our generational knowledge. All the history excised, because it wasn’t convenient, and the irresponsible attempt at covering up the sins of our ancestors because it was uncomfortable to learn.

This hoarding the wealth of knowledge within the covetous hands of the wealthy needs to stop. It is such a reckless and flagrant abuse of our legacy, our history, done by a few men...and the worst part is, the common people do nothing. Say nothing. Worse, they defend these so-called custodians because they don't want to think too hard about what responsibility entails.

My neurons weep in this shared sin. Therefore I drown them in wine.

Or I would have, if the Lady Olympia hadn’t expressly forbidden it.

Merde.

Still, that will all come later. For now, I have a shiny new access card for Kanto’s Safari Zone, and an apologetic letter from Samuel. With my newfound perspective, I cannot even bear to remain angry at the man anymore. For all his faults, and they are many, the man has remained steadfast in his desire to bring enlightenment to the masses with his inventions and research. If nothing else, I can respect that.

Of course, this doesn’t mean I want to spend any amount of time around him ever again. Perhaps I will ask some junior researchers at the institute to take all the data I could gather to him, while I take a break in sunny Hoenn before embarking on a study of Kanto’s habitats.

After all, what else are interns for?