Novels

I am not ashamed to admit, I was crying when we left Lady Song.

I did not look to see if my companions too had been affected by her words; more fool me, I thought it polite. Of course, had I been born of another time and perhaps another place, I would likely have found it the height of callousness to allow them their thoughts alone.

Of course, that lovely part of me that embraces my Sensate nature was already crafting a poem — but now I found myself in conflict twice over. First because I could not find the words to express such an experience as Lady Song — an embarrassment in itself — and second because a portion of me did not want to craft a poem. It felt, in some macabre way, gauche. Barbaric, perhaps, which was a state of being that I had long decided I would never experience.

And there we were, in the darkness.

Surrounded. Alone. The five of us together.

No hopes, no dreams, nothing but the uncertain truth of our situation.

There was a pool of light we could not see.

A howling scream we could not hear.

Children, children everywhere, grabbing and laughing and crying.

Thousands dead, thousands more alive.

A singular moment stretched on into infinity.

We were now, and then, and to become. It was everything I ever wanted. It was Hell.

Now, I will not say that this is where the conversation ended. I will say that this is where the important and interesting aspects of the conversation ceased. Hours passed as each of us tried in turn, begging, pleading, promising, and threatening. The two Majesties did not mind our efforts, nor succumb to our pleas.

If you are interested in the fascinating, if at times repetitive and at all times impractical, conversation, you may find them in my poem The Detailed Discourse of the Two Majesties.

Oh, the Apex, the beautiful and winding words that descended from the base of the cervical vertebrae to the occipital.

Heresy. Damnable heresy for one such as I, a Sensate in good standing of the Grandiose Guild, to say I still find myself at a loss for words. What could be said to convey the glory and horror of the hallways, stairways, and byways of the Apex.

For the beauty was not in its sweeping archways, its Ivory palisades, its golden buttresses, nor its marbled cloisters. The strong tendons of the Apex shone in the silver light, yes, and the broad trapezius glistened with glamorous charm.

Even with the careful and steady guidance of Nock, it took us many days to make our way out of the wooded jungle that was the Inner Wings. We traveled through the Asparitetis and out the other end, around the Oyn and about the Upper Scapula we walked, seeking egress from the foul environs, until at last we arrived at the Pollier.

Covered with barnacles and dangling vines, the Pollier was perhaps the quietest portion of our journey. It was neither cold nor warm, but still and soft. I do not think any of us particularly enjoyed the experience, but it was the necessary transition point between where we were, and where we needed to go: the Spine-case.

I fear the rest of our journey through the tunnels will bore you, and so I shall carefully edit out that which remains incidental. Suffice it to say that there were a great many adventures had with me and my pilgrim as we wandered; a few poems of note, though none deserving of praise.

We spoke little, though it became quite clear that we both understood that the other was searching for the Encinidine. Did we ever truly decide to work together? Perhaps not. All I knew was that somewhere in these tunnels lay the next step on the path. The purportedly knowledgeable Sparker had said so.

Down I slid, for how long I do not know. It was a descent most familiar for me, a descent most familiar to all, I am sure.

We have all fallen. Whether through fortune or failure, a steady descent surrounded by guiding sides of metal or wood, that gently nudge us to the left or to the right, in hopes the landing is much softer.

We never look up when we fall. We cannot bear to note how far we have slid, how impossible it will be to return to where we were. Only down, to prepare ourselves for the moment when the fall ceases, for it must cease some day.

“I cannot fathom,” muttered Sir Juhrooz, as he turned the paper this way and that, “what the purpose of this procedure actually is.”

“Oftentimes,” Mr. Porist carefully positioned his sheers around his earlobe, “the purpose is the procedure.”

My Doppewassl friend stared at the paper for a moment more, before slowly nodding. “For seven days and six nights, I and my fellow trainees caught a drop of water as it slid down a pane of glass. We would then let the drop fall from our fingertips onto the top of the pane, and catch it again and again. We did not know what this was supposed to teach us, and even now I still do not know. Perhaps it taught me nothing, or perhaps I learned something more than mere knowledge. I sometimes remember how it felt, each drop landing on my finger, then falling again after I crooked my knuckle. I remember noting whether I caught the drop earlier or later, I remember trying to flex my finger in different ways to make the drop fall faster or slower, I remember counting how many times I had caught the drop, and forgetting the number after so many times. Sometimes I wonder if our master was trying to teach us the same.”

You walk forward, or back, you’ll get to where you’re going. Might take days, or weeks, or hours, or seconds, you’ll be where you are, and that’s where you’ll be.

It is at this point, the moment that my merry band plunged deeper into this ominous and portentous domain — a place laden with tales of ominous forbearance and caustic airs — that I must pause to talk of time.

“Well then,” Mx. Image shuffled about, looking to and fro. “We are, indeed, in the Sibilants, yes? And yet I have heard countless tales of its nature. Indeed, entering the Sibilants is as easy as opening the door, but leaving again, well…”

“There is no escape,” Sir Juhrooz nodded. “Bound about by sinew and custom, once you have entered the Sibilants, it is here that you will die.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” I assured my companions. “Why, there are at least seven poems regarding the Sibilants in the Guild’s libraries, and how could those poems exist if their creators had not left again? I myself have met several people in the course of my life who have detailed the internals of this macabre domicile, and I am certain I didn’t meet them here. One might as well say that Gnatted Hollow truly is invisible. True, there way out may not be as obvious as the way in, but I am certain some method exists. We must simply find it.”