This is a sore topic, I realize, and quickly change it. “Wayfarers originate from the Multiverse.”
Nibli only looks at me.
“So do travelers,” I go on. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but the difference between them is that wayfarers no longer belong to the Multiversal conscious stream, while travelers straddle the line. Consciousness in the Multiverse, subconsciousness in Eschatis. Is my assessment correct?”
“I… think?” says Nibli, wary. “This is a conversation to have with Laith, not me.”
I concede, slouching my shoulders in mild disappointment. Nibli picks up on this, and gets to their feet. “If you’re replenished, we can go back to the station.”
“What of the hearth?” I ask.
“It’s only temporary. My hearths don’t last long.”
I nod, handing Nibli the empty cup, to which they place back in their satchel.
PURPOSE: A PERSPECTIVE
ONCE UPON A TIME, WE THOUHGHT OUR universe exploded from nothing. Then we realized there were more universes than just ours, layered over one another; their matter similar yet unique enough to constrain the observer to its adhering physical laws. Not too long after that, we learned all of the known universes were created by an even older universe, a place we’d resided in but could not see until the veil was lifted from our eyes. We thought we had figured it all out with the discovery of alpha-Insipia.
Now here I am, exploring another universe neither created by nor even resembling any other universe we’ve come across. But it is a universe; the matter and logic are foreign, yet sentient life interacts with each other, albeit strangely. And… this universe exists inside of us.
This fact spins in my mind, over and over, as I try to parse how such a place could exist. It is an accepted law that sentience forms from non-sentient evolution of organisms under just the right environmental conditions. But the existence of Eschatis challenges that. I can only imagine the heated debates in store for us at our council for months (if not years) over redefining properties of a universe. The data I collect here will certainly contribute to them. Therefore, I must ascertain as much as I can. The better the data, the milder the headache.
We are back at Laith’s waystation before I know it, having spent the return trek consumed in thought. She seems irritated at us, although her expression is often like that, so I am unsure until she says, “Took you two long enough.”
I instantly notice the environment we’d left not nearly as warm now. The blue flames of the hearth have dimmed to dull red. There is a layer of black mold on the pagoda’s wooden foundation, and vines have snaked their way up one side of the exterior wall. The sight of them sparks the memory of the abandoned augur’s trap, and I shudder. Were these vines a universal representation of cognitive decay?
“I was being accommodating,” mutters Nibli, handing Laith the satchel full of tea flowers. “There you go. Fill the coffers.”
“First you need to clean my mindscape,” she says. “It nearly rotted away with you being gone so long.”
“I thought time was not applicable here?” I ask, to which Laith shoots me a look. It is a genuine question, misunderstood as sarcasm. At least now I know there is some kind of time relevance to Eschatis, though not at all what I’m familiar with.
“There was a quadrant much closer, until your lot killed its sentry,” says Laith.
“Sorry,” I say, even though that has nothing to do with me. “Can I help you fill your coffers?”
Laith’s expression softens at my offer. “Of course. I’ll never turn down help.”
That’s good, because I have a lot of questions for her.
We stuff tea leaves into jars and place them back upon the shelves. There are a lot of jars, although whenever I try to count them, I can’t get an exact quantity. It is confusing and frustrating, and eventually I give up.
Outside the pagoda, Nibli sits at the hearth with their back to us; wispy, yellow-brown effluvia appear in the air, suctioning down toward the wraith, soaking into their form. I pause, half-filled jar in hand, watching as the wraith filters all the negative emotions from the mindscape, consuming it raw.
“Nibli only used you as an excuse,” mentions Laith, and I glance at her. “They always linger away from the station whenever I send them out. It makes the meal more satisfying when they return.”
“Such a crafty wraith,” I say, a tiny half-smile forming on my lips. “What happens if Nibli doesn’t return?”
Laith hesitates with a response, finishing stuffing a jar and capping it. She places it back on the shelf, and I notice a tremor in her hand. “The mindscape turns sour.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “The hearth burns out, and I eventually fall into madness.”
“Wayfarers are susceptible to madness?” I ask, taken aback.
“We’re more susceptible than travelers,” replies Laith. “Travelers have shadows, only they’re unrecognized or unacknowledged. We have separated ourselves from our shadows. Our shadows can’t leave for too long, or our light-selves wane. You need both to be considered whole.”
“Why separate at all, then?”
“If we don’t separate, we’re not wayfarers.” The dissatisfaction by her response is evident on my face. She chuckles. “In order to create lasting mindscapes and hearths, separation is necessary.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
I wait for her to continue, but Laith only shrugs. I stew in this new information, stuffing more flowers into my jar. “What is the purpose of a wayfarer?”
“It’s in the name. We fare the way.”
“But why do you fare the way? And to where?”
Laith sighs. “Not everything is packaged neatly into a satisfying explanation. No one tells us why when we are chosen. They tell us what we do, and how to do it. You get an idea of why after a while, but you also know it isn’t the entire picture, only a piece.”
“Cogs in the machine,” I say.
“Exactly. Where I was from, there was a great forest. Every spring these little blue and yellow insects would pollinate the forest, bringing new or revived vegetation for the rest of the year. None of them knew they were pollinating the forest, or that there was even a higher purpose to their existence. All they knew was that they were hungry, and to eat, they had to perch on flowers and consume their nectar. They couldn’t know, because their scale of thought was practically null, and their scope of existence was very small.”
I understand the point she’s trying to make, yet can’t help but feel insulted nonetheless. “You are sorely underestimating us. We are capable of acquiring answers to complex problems, unlike your pollinating insects. Your idea of the wayfarer’s purpose that you mentioned is the first step of a ladder. You work on the idea, and then the idea that stems from that idea—all the way to the top.”
“But the ladder never ends,” says Laith, dismal. “Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“Even so. My noble often says the importance lies not with the answer, but the journey to discovering it.”
There is a newfound appreciation behind Laith’s emerald eyes. She regards me for a few moments before asking, “And what do you believe is a Scholar’s purpose?”
“Are you deflecting, or is this a tit for tat?”
Laith frowns. “Do you doubt my curiosity in you?”
“The Court of Enigmus believes its purpose is to record the Multiverse.”
“What for?”
“Depends on who you ask. For our clientele, it’s to deliver the best service within our protectorate. Some of us believe we are matter formed with the sole purpose of understanding itself and the environment.”
Laith smirks. “So, you are the self-proclaimed Multiverse-in-Animate.”
“Not only us. Any form of sentience, really. We just happen to be the most skilled at the moment.”
“You’re telling me what your organization believes,” Laith points out, finishing the last jar in her stack. I realize I am
sorely behind, and speed up in my work. “Do you share the same belief?”
“I don’t know,” I say, deciding that Laith deserves my honesty. “My Court is filled with brilliant, albeit arrogant, members who sometimes lose sight of what we are fortunate enough to have, and how we should use it.”
She says nothing, a studious gaze behind her eyes as she waits for me to continue. I had no intention of continuing, but now feel forced. Finishing the last of my jars, I cap it and place it onto the shelf, emitting a sigh.
“I believe our purpose is whatever we make it. I don’t believe there is a grander, cosmic purpose for us and it is arrogant to believe so. I do believe there is a purpose to everything, but we are all only a part of its numerous processes, and the perpetrators of this higher purpose probably don’t even care that we exist.”
“Like insects pollinating flowers,” says Laith, and then I realize that I’ve been had.
“Like insects pollinating flowers,” I reply, accepting her slice of humble pie.
*
It is much later when Laith finally decides to answer my question. We are sitting at the hearth as Nibli hangs baubles on the flora around the creek and pagoda. We collected so many antediluvian flowers that there are some left over after filling the coffers. Laith pours the remaining flowers into the bubbling pot, save for one that I ask to inspect.
The petals are soft and white, the entire flower no bigger than the crook of my center palm. There are faint lines of gold and silver ornamenting each petal, like veins of a leaf. Near the style and anthers there is a glittery dust, and it sticks to my finger when I touch it. The dust flashes, and then lifts from my finger with a mind of its own, sparking once more before dissolving in thin air. Its behavior is identical to the mysterious flecks that drift across Eschatis like snow. Clearly the substance is crucial to this place; but why and in what way, I’m not sure. I catalog the phenomenon into attica, then cast the flower into the pot.
“The purpose of a wayfarer isn’t made clear when we are chosen,” begins Laith. “We arrive here confused and disoriented. We are consoled by the ones who we are set to replace, and then mentored in their craft. But.”
I wait, vis-capture running.
“From both my own experience and of those around me, I am nearly certain that every wayfarer who emerges through a gate has been somehow permanently stripped of their consciousness.”
‘Wayfarer candidates,’ I notate into the capture, ‘may include beings rendered comatose or otherwise removed from conscious reality due to mental illness, trauma, or even death.’
“So a wayfarer’s physical body may still exist in the Multiverse, but they do not,” I clarify.
Laith nods. “As far I’ve seen.”
“What happens when their physical body is no longer in the Multiverse? Does that have any effect on their existence here?”
“No,” says Laith. “Once we’ve separated ourselves from our shadows and built our first hearths, we are no longer tethered to the conscious realm.”
I add a few more notations to Laith’s statements, and then move on. “What is the difference between a wayfarer and traveler? Do they emerge from the same gates?”
“They do.”
“Then how can you recognize which is which?”
“It’s… hard to explain, but you can tell just by looking at them,” says Laith. “Perhaps you will be lucky enough to witness a traveler during your time here.” There is a carefulness to her tone, one that suggests she is being very mindful of her words. “The traveler is only here temporarily before moving on. As their wayfarer, we invite them to our hearth and give them tea in preparation for their pilgrimage.”
“Their pilgrimage to where?”
“We don’t know. We never see them again.”
That statement leaves me eerie. “How often do travelers come through the gates?”
“Again with the time,” Laith says, clicking her tongue. “I can’t tell you how often because your perception of time is not my own. Let’s just say that the traffic is steady.”
I only nod as my mind begins folding in on itself. She senses my slipping sanity and ladles me some tea. After a few sips, I am balanced once more.
“Trying to use conscious faculties here, like logic and reasoning, can turn you mad,” warns Laith.
“Yes,” I murmur, “so Nibli has told me. Unfortunately, I can’t complete my mission without them. If traffic is steady, do I have a fair chance of seeing a traveler step through that sometime soon?” I look toward the illuminated gate, situated behind us.
“The chances are high, yes,” says Laith. “But a wayfarer is set to take this hearth as well. They may beat the odds.”
“What happens when the wayfarer arrives?” I ask.
“We set out to find and revive another cold hearth,” sighs Laith. She leaves the pot and takes a seat next to me as Nibli returns from the creek. “Probably the one you found. It’ll be easy, now that you’ve gotten rid of the augur for us.”
I glance around the glen mindscape, sensing its stillness—the quiet, cut by intermittent chimes; the celestial white noise as illuminated bodies sweep overhead like clouds on a windy day; the ataractic hum beneath my skin, an effect of Laith’s tea—and then wonder if she ever misses her old life. I know better than to ask that question.
Whether she did or not, it didn’t matter. It is entirely possible that predestination governs our existence, and free will is only a pipe dream. Regretting decisions made or mourning the past distracts us from the realization that we wouldn’t be right here, right now, without our discourses. We would be somewhere else, someone else.
I look around the hearth, realizing Nibli and Laith are only sitting there, watching the flames. It feels a bit awkward. “So,” I say, breaking the silence, “what do you two normally do when you’re not twining sticks together or stirring pots?”
“Sometimes we hold hands,” says Nibli. “Sing songs.”
The wraith’s expression is so deadpan that I think they’re serious. Before I can express my amusement, Laith rolls her eyes. “If you weren’t here, we would be scrying.”
“Scrying?”
“Communicating with the other wayfarers, sharing news, what have you,” she says.
“I don’t intend on keeping you from doing your jobs,” I say. “You can just pretend I’m not here.”
Laith shakes her head. “It’s impossible. Your presence creates imbalances in the leyline. There is too much interference.”
My ears prick at the new term. “Leyline?”
“The connection we have to the other farers, generated by our hearths.”
If I just heard her correctly, she has implied there is an energy stream here, fueling a kind of subconscious link, probably brought on by the ritual with the stones. “Are the leylines related in any way to the specks of light that rain on us?”
Laith stares at me, hesitant. Perhaps she is surprised I made any connection at all. Or perhaps she has no idea what I’m talking about.
“When a mindscape is erected, I notice them,” I explain. “They seem to proliferate whenever we are in close proximity to … imaginings.” I nod at the pot over the hearth. “The flowers we brought from the antediluvian quadrant have an identical substance in them.”
“You’re asking questions I don’t have the answers to. I will agree that a wayfarer’s power is garnered by antediluvian materials collected at the quadrants.” She raises her hands, gesturing around us. “How any of this happens isn’t something I indulge myself with. We don’t need to know how it works, only that it does work. Explanations and solutions are how your realm operates, Scholar, not ours.”
There is a moment where my frustration peaks and I almost ask how she couldn’t possibly want to know; but then I remember that Eschatis doesn’t allow for logical thought. Here, no one wants to know. Because they can’t, or they go mad. And… such a design may have been intentional.
That thought is interesting, and I make no
te of it in the thread. It’s a proposal which I doubt will be substantiated on my mission, but the Court loves that kind of controversy; and when you’re us, entertainment is scarce.
“However,” adds Laith after a lengthy moment, which promptly whisks me from my thoughts, “there is someone who might be able to give you more than me. If you can find him, that is.”
I perk at her offer. “I’m willing to try. Who is he?”
“Another wayfarer,” she says, frowning in consideration. “Well, that’s a loose term because he’s not really tithed to the leyline anymore. After abdication, most wayfarers leave, while he comes and goes whenever he pleases. A bit unorthodoxy that one, sort of like you.”
My excitement is placed on pause. “Wayfarers are abdicated?” I ask. “And they can leave?”
“Yes.” I open my mouth, but Laith quickly shuts me down. “I don’t know where they go. My time served isn’t over, but I don’t think they return to wherever they originated.”
“And why’s that?”
Her eyes are solemn, and there is a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. “Because most of them don’t have a body to return to.”
Fair point. Leid’s athanasian knowledge genocide was deemed a success, so this is likely the case for Laith as well. I don’t mention it, though.
“One moment, let me try to scry for him.” Laith closes her eyes and bows her head. Another train materializes from the station, leading out into the celestial sprawl. “You’re in luck, he’s around,” she murmurs. “For how long is anyone’s guess. You might want to start now if you hope to catch him.”
An icy tingle shoots down my spine. “You’re not coming?”
“How can I?” asks Laith. “I can’t leave my hearth.”
“And Nibli?” I press.
“You saw what happened to the mindscape without my wraith,” says Laith.
I look back out at the train, hesitant.
Covenants: Quantum Dream (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 11) Page 5