The shiny, yellow-green flecks appear around us, somewhat like luminescent insects. They, too, swarm the cairns and hover over the hearth. The empty sprawl around us changes into a riverside. There is a bridge across it. We are inside a pagoda, ornate vines woven through the stone walls.
Again, I am rendered speechless. There is no science to any of this, only magic. But that is precisely what our imaginations are; illogical, emotional, chaotic. There is no strict order of processes for what and how we think, and Eschatis certainly reflects this.
The gentle patter of rain forces my attention to the pagoda entrance. The sound of chimes permeates through, leaving me awash in calm. Laith is standing once more, stirring the pot on the hearth. Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles.
“Would you like some more tea?” she asks.
Their rituals are fashioned personally. Nibli informs me that no two wayfarers share the same practices.
“The intent is the same,” they say. “The intent is all that matters. How they go about manifesting the intent is completely up to them.”
“So then there are no routine practices among wayfarers?” I repeat, for clarity. The wraith hesitates, considering what they have just implied. I study their side profile in the interim, realizing they are no longer as hideous as I originally thought them to be.
“Their tools are always the same,” they say, then. “The instruments of Eschatis are necessary. They have to use the same ingredients for the tea; the same cairns for a mindscape erection—it is how they use them that differs.”
“Where do you get the tools?” I ask. “I do not see any perfectly-round stones to create your cairns. Nor do I see any vegetation outside of mindscapes for your tea.”
“What do you hope to achieve with these questions?” asks Laith, a tinge of condescension in her tone. She relieves Nibli and takes their seat.
“To understand. It’s what we do.”
Laith finds my response amusing. “And your lot assumes everything has an explanation, do they?”
“Yes, because there is an explanation for everything. Whether or not it makes sense to us is another matter entirely. Our main objective is to learn, so that one day it might.” The smile I render is not returned.
“Scholars,” states Laith, shaking her head. “And how is Zira? Is he well?”
I hesitate, unsure of what to say. I settle with diplomacy. “Yes, he is well.” That is neither true nor untrue, and therefore safe.
But there is a certain doubt that wicks across Laith’s face, as if she knows I am omitting something. She leaves the topic alone nevertheless, beginning to fashion little baubles and sticks together with twine. I make a note to ask what those are later, because I’m still waiting for the answer to my previous question.
“The Antediluvian quadrants are where we get our supplies. They are the only static areas here,” says Laith.
“Static, as in always in the same location?” I ask.
“Static, as in an unregulated mindscape that never changes. We can’t call them mindscapes at all, really. There are places here that precede us; possibly precede Eschatis entirely.”
I am intrigued. Yahweh had asked me to observe these quadrants, and now I fully understand why. “Precedes, by what?”
Laith only shrugs. “We don’t investigate, only perform our necessary duties. There is no need for us to understand why or what anything is, only that it is.”
“I would like to see these quadrants, if possible.”
“You’re in luck,” says Laith. “This station will need its coffers filled before the next wayfarer arrives. Nibli will be going to collect supplies. You may go with them.”
At the mentioning of their name, the wraith looks toward us. Our eyes lock.
“So, when do we leave?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement.
ACAUSALITY
Time and space.
WHAT ARE THEY? WE ARE PROGRAMMED TO BELIEVE they are the defining characteristics of reality. But what is reality, if not something that is being observed by a collective set of conscious beings who all agree on the observation? Time and space, according to everyone I meet, are not applicable here—yet Nibli and I are walking side-by-side through an endless expanse of both nothing and everything, and neither of us will disagree that this is happening.
Reality is subjective. Our Court strives to make it objective, an absolute truth through evidence and reasoning, but here I realize that it was all a waste of time. We were only seeing one side of the embroidery: the tidy side that fits into specific categories and predictable, governing orders. Eschatis is the messy underside; the one not shown, yet necessary for the embroidery to exist at all. To be a wholly individual is to exist in both places simultaneously. Chaos and order, each imposing on the other. And that is what it means to be… conscious.
My first discovery.
The excitement of this makes me pause, unable to function for a moment. Nibli slows ahead, looking to me in question. “Are you alright?”
“I am more than alright,” I murmur, stifling a laugh.
The wraith only blinks, then walks on. Eventually my mechanics return and I hurry after them. We are following a train of gold this time, not blue. Nibli is quiet, and while I mean to ask what makes threads a different color, the continuous barrage of thoughts pull me into my own headspace.
My first discovery—as in, discovery of a novel multiversal function—leaves me heady. I continue to cycle around it, making sure that it is sound. The definition of intelligent consciousness has always been a hot topic, particularly with Adrial. My discovery will be praised. It will also be scrutinized and dissected by other scholars—;
And by other scholars, I mean Yahweh.
The heady excitement transforms into anxiety.
It is now that I notice there is a strange essence wafting from Nibli’s body, like yellow-tinged smoke. Either this is a new event, or I couldn’t see it before. As if on cue, the wraith looks down at me. This time, when our eyes lock, my heart skips into my throat.
“Your sanity is slipping,” Nibli informs me, their expression depicting one of mild inconvenience. “We’ll have to stop at another station.”
“What for?” I ask. “And why is my sanity slipping?”
“For one, you’re with me,” says Nibli. “My effluvium has a strong effect on those who aren’t fully subconscious.”
“Fully subconscious,” I repeat, confused. “Please, explain.”
“People who don’t belong here,” Nibli replies. “Chosen travelers are fully subconscious. They aren’t bombarded by the logical constraints of consciousness.”
“I am fully subconscious,” I argue. “My body lying in our succumbence chair back home can attest to that.”
“But you’re conscious. You aren’t deep dreaming, but lucid dreaming. You will return there and remember everything that happened here. Information doesn’t flow naturally between our realms, and thus, your state of mind is beginning to suffer for it.”
“We don’t need to stop, I have this,” I say, reaching for my flask.
Nibli watches me gulp from it. “What is that?”
“A tonic that mimics your tea,” I say, cringing from the acrid taste. “Developed by my court.”
The wraith says nothing, regarding me with a mixture of contempt and awe. The effluvia, as they call it, has vanished. My heart rate begins to slow. I am no longer fixated on my first discovery.
“You can detect it,” I venture. “My decline in sanity?”
“I can. That’s essentially why I exist.”
“Will you alert me when it happens again?” Because I do not trust myself; I wouldn’t have known at all if Nibli hadn’t said something.
“Yes,” they say dismissively, and we continue following the thread.
*
We arrive at the Antediluvian Quadrant after a while—at least, it felt like a while to me. I ping Qaira for a time lapse calculation since our last communication. If I were to guess, it was a se
veral hour trek; although I’m certain Qaira will tell me that it’s been two weeks, or something equally ludicrous.
Nibli and I came across numerous mindscapes along our path, some in the distance, others close enough that the feelings generated from them began to seep through. And it was only then when I discovered how lacking the Multiverse was in articulating meaning and experiences. The only way through which we can communicate with other individuals is through language. But the language is restrictive to words that we’ve ascribed meaning to.
For example, if a group of sentient beings from differing worlds each have a bottle containing an item inside, and are instructed to tell the group what is inside the bottle, each of them will have a word or way to convey the item; but the word or conveyance will largely depend solely on the observational characteristics of the item, like rock or insect. Some may be more poetic than others, attributing a color or deeper description to the item, however the feelings from both their psychology and life experiences that the item may generate cannot be conveyed. Everyone in the group has the same item, but each of them experiences the item differently.
As Adrial poignantly once said, “No one sees red exactly the same way.”
Of course, his musing had come at a random time (as they often did), with little to no context of what he meant, so I didn’t pay it much thought until now. Soft sciences aren’t respected enough in our Court, and Adrial’s genius is sorely underrated. Hopefully this mission will change that.
The mindscapes we passed conveyed the meaning of its renderer in both emotion and observational characteristics. At one point we’d passed an oasis in the middle of nothing, with a clean, sparkling pool of (what I presume was) water and lush vegetation, containing leaves of every color on the spectrum. As serene as everything looked, an overwhelming sense of dread consumed me as soon as we drew near. Nibli confirmed the feeling, although they oddly seemed to enjoy it.
Other mindscapes were less straight forward in appearance. Innocuous things such as random alien cabinetry or staircases placed in our path evoked glee to the point of me having to bite my tongue or I would have erupted into a fit of giggles. I had to sip from my flask four times in order to keep stabilized through the course of our journey.
As we finally reach our destination, I am emotionally exhausted. Nibli seems fine.
The luminescent flecks return, billowing up from around our feet as we approach a colossal, roofless dome-like structure. There is a cavernous entrance appearing to descend into the ground, and I am unable to identify the material of which the walls are made—an impossible mixture of stone and metal, crude and refined, splotchy and mosaic. Surprisingly, I feel nothing as we pass through the entrance. It seems as though Antediluvian quadrants exude no emotional meaning, which I find very curious.
The entrance passage leads us into an underground spring. The water is tinged green, and flecks permeate the surface, rising and disappearing over our heads. I switch vision spectrums, and see markings on the walls. They are the same as that which I’d seen in the rebirthing tunnel. I take a vis-capture, lingering there.
Nibli notices I am not with them up ahead, and turns. “Is there a particular reason you are staring at the wall?”
“These markings,” I comment. “Do you know what they are?”
“Antediluvian language. I don’t know what it means. You’ll find them at every one of their constructs.”
I hesitate, thinking. “Can any of the wayfarers translate this language?”
“No.”
“Do you know why this mindscape doesn’t feel like anything?” I persist.
“No, but it isn’t really a mindscape. Mindscapes are temporary and generated by a traveler’s subconscious.”
I frown. “Laith led me to believe that these quadrants were dreamt by the Antediluvian race.”
“They were.”
“So, they are mindscapes.”
“Again, no,” says Nibli, “for the same reasons I mentioned before.”
The wraith does not permit any further inquiry and continues ahead. I am forced to follow, confused. The cavern leads us up and out into the interior of the dome. Reminiscent of a colosseum, there are rows of stadium seating on the right hemisphere. On the left, a brush of wild flowers and tall grass nearly bury a tiny enclosure, made of the same metallic-stone material as the dome. There are flecks everywhere.
I circle in place, clasping my hands against my heart. Nibli finds my reaction amusing and offers me half a smirk. They then proceed toward the flowers, removing the satchel from around their neck.
“We make tea with the white ones,” they inform me, digging through the brush.
“What about the baubles and the sticks?” I ask.
“We can’t get them here,” says Nibli. “But we have enough of those anyway.”
The novelty of the scenery begins to wear off, and then I start noticing all of the tiny details. Some of the architecture makes little sense. There are levers on the walls, and remnants of digitized screens. Everything is very big, as if constructed for giants. There are discs half-buried in the ground, arcing in blade-like fashion. They appear to be cogs, or parts of a machine.
I take a step back in my mind, looking up at the levers and screens. I imagine how big the hands must have been to use them, and then compare that to the enclosure. I am brought to the imagery of someone operating a music box.
I circle in place again; not excited this time, but overwhelmed. My conclusion is both harrowing and wonderful. We are in the remnants of a mechanical box, designed for and used by titans.
Qaira suddenly responds to my ping with a timestamp of three days after my succumbence.
No, that can’t be right. I ask him to resend, insisting that he’s made an error.
It’s been three days and four hours since you’ve gone under, he snaps. There’s no error.
Last time I spoke to you, you told me I’d been under for five days.
—What are you talking about? This is the first time we’ve spoken.
I don’t respond and stare numbly ahead, as Nibli plucks flowers and places them into their satchel.
—Hello?
Have you seen my updates in the thread? I ask, evading the question.
Let me check, I haven’t looked. Qaira goes silent for a moment. We have a vis-capture of the rebirthing cave. It says you submitted it twelve hours ago.
Only twelve? I balked. Can you let me know when you receive another ping? It will happen in two more days.
—Uh, sure. If you’re trying to measure the time dilation between there and here, I wouldn’t bother. Time is fucked in Eschatis.
Yes, I sigh. I’m realizing that now. Still, I might as well see if there’s some kind of pattern to be gleaned.
—Suit yourself.
Qaira cuts the call.
I then join Nibli, and help with picking tea flowers.
The little enclosure in the middle of the brush holds a wayfarer pot. The hearth is cold, but Nibli came prepared. They remove a set of smooth, athanasian spheres, and then place them in an ordered arrangement at the center of the hearth. The wraith closes their eyes, and after a minute or so of stillness, the hearth erupts to life with blue flames.
Nibli makes me tea as I sit, lost in thought. It appears as if I am staring at the wraith, but in fact I’m staring at nothing.
“Are you alright?” they ask, pouring water collected from the spring into the pot, sprinkling flowers in thereafter. Their voice brings me back to the present, and I suddenly laugh.
“Is that a no?” inquires the wraith.
“No, just,” I begin, between laughs. I clear my throat, composing myself. “The image of you, so dark and dreary, sprinkling flowers into the teapot. It’s funny, I’m sorry.”
“Looks are deceiving,” says the wraith. “The same could be said about you.”
“How so?”
Nibli stirs the pot, seeming mindful of what they say next. “You don’t act like the other schola
rs I’ve met.” They ladle tea into a cup and hand it to me. “Don’t feel like them, either.”
“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“You should be neither,” says Nibli, taking a seat beside me. “All I mean is that the others I’ve met were much more somber, less light-hearted.”
“Zira, Qaira and Leid,” I murmur, sipping the tea. “They’re our most cynical of the bunch. There are more in the Court like me than not.”
Nibli nods, saying nothing else.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I mention.
“Do what?” asks the wraith.
“The tea,” I say. “Surely you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble if I wasn’t here. I have my tonic.”
“Is your flask bottomless?” asks the wraith.
“No.” The question cues me to shake the flask, realizing it is already half-empty.
“I’m sure the tea tastes better,” adds Nibli. “It’s no mind. Laith wants me to be accommodating, so I am being accommodating.”
Such a nice ghoul, I think, and then I think of something else. “Wayfarers have augurs,” I venture, “and Laith calls you her augur.”
“I am not an augur,” says Nibli, almost reflexively.
“But you can act as one?”
“I was designed to absorb negative emotions for sustenance,” they say. “So yes, in that way I act like an augur.”
“But you also act like a wayfarer,” I say, trying to warm the conversation with a smile.
“Laith has taught me certain things, but I can’t generate or sustain a mindscape. I can only help sustain hers.”
“Where is your body?”
Nibli hesitates with a response; confusion wicks across their face. “Body?”
“You originate from the Multiverse. Poekka’s Esoterics Laboratory. Your physical body must be somewhere, then?”
The wraith’s expression turns bleak. They glance away. “No. I was euthanized right before the rift was opened. They labeled me a failed project. Luckily, both events coincided and my subconscious transcended here.”
Covenants: Quantum Dream (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 11) Page 4