“Your luggage has already been transported to Paphos,” Eireas informed us.
“Paphos?” I asked.
“The city closest to your ship,” he explained. “You heard its trumpets on your first night in Capribo.”
Paphos was a very ancient city closely connected to myths and legends of old. The Greeks believed that the goddess Aphrodite first stepped foot on its shores shortly after rising from the sea foam of Cyprus. It is no wonder that we spotted a temple at its outskirts, I thought. The locals no doubt continued her worship at the sight of her birth.
“Is this how they were moved?” I indicated the tracks.
“Yes,” said Sarmia. “They were taken by staytee. We will do likewise.”
“What is that?” Daniel asked.
“Ah, it is coming,” the advisor motioned to an approaching light at one of the tunnels.
It turned out the tracks did not convey trains as we knew them. A staytee was a small mobile compartment which roughly resembled a bullet from the exterior. The metal cylinder was windowless and ornamented only with Anuprian writing and numerals. It glided silently along the tracks and stopped at the mid-point of the platform. A segment of its upper half lifted with a hiss, exposing a room within.
Stairs were built into the transport, and we descended, wide-eyed, into a comfortable little lounge. The floor was wooden and a continuous couch curved along the perimeter of each of the bullet’s rounded tips. A table was positioned at the center and a little cupboard stood against the wall opposite the doorway. It is remarkable that so little a vehicle could seat the nine of us so comfortably.
“There is no driver,” Daniel pointed out curiously.
“No,” the King confirmed. “Staytees travel independently.”
I translated the message as we settled ourselves onto the couches. I sat at the forward end with Ella, Lady Pearson, and Daniel. Sarmia pressed her palm to the curved interior wall of the cylinder and the surrounding segment illuminated. She entered a command into the screen and the staytee door quietly lowered into place. Almost immediately, the vehicle began moving, but we had only the sensations of momentum to judge our speed and direction; the little bullet offered no exterior views.
“Would anyone like some kontrecense?” Eireas asked, and we politely accepted the offer.
He sat closest to the cabinet and we watched with curiosity as he removed nine petite handle-less cups from its drawers. Using a pair of tongs, he placed a triangular pouch resembling a tea bag into each. Hot water was dispensed from a charming miniature faucet within the cupboard. We each took our cup and offered him our thanks. It surprised me greatly that a King should take on the duty of service. But then, I was still unaccustomed to the Capribian social structure. I could smell from the brewing liquid that the pouch had indeed contained coffee, but I was baffled to find it had dissolved into the water in its entirety, leaving behind neither grounds nor bag.
“I admit,” Daniel began awkwardly, his first words directed to me and my companions since his outburst in the King’s chamber that morning, “I shall miss discovering the little marvels of this place.”
“The choice to depart is yours alone, Father,” said Lady Pearson pragmatically.
“Perhaps,” Daniel agreed.
“Of course, the money in your case would be of little use here,” she added almost as an afterthought.
Daniel sighed. “I suppose my quality of character is forever tarnished in your eyes,” he said mournfully to us all. “Since these are my final hours with some of you, I may as well admit to my crime. I fled to Africa after it was discovered that I was stealing from my monastery’s estate. I thought enough time has finally passed to allow for a return to Europe. And then this happened. I was absolutely wretched with remorse when we landed here. Truth be told, I believed God had punished me for my sins.”
“Did you think us equally guilty of something to be cast away at your side?” Ella asked.
“Not quite,” he said softly. “The more I learned of this place, the more I recognized I was banished here to spread the word of our Lord. My teaching serving as eternal penance.”
Lady Pearson raised an eyebrow. “And what has changed your view?”
“Why, the prospect to return, of course,” said Daniel.
“And your penance is over, just like that?” the old woman prodded.
“Being exposed to a world without light was enough to forever banish all temptations of sin, I can assure you.”
“That is the problem with religion,” Rémy said defiantly. “It can be twisted to mean whatever the speaker wishes.”
Lady Pearson nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
I could see a furrow of agitation forming on Daniel’s brow. “Surely you are not saying that you are godless?”
“We said nothing of the kind,” Lady Pearson countered. “Once again, you heard something which was not there.”
“Though I must admit,” I stated, “I never had much faith. I followed the traditions of my family, and found joy in them, but never believed the stories at their foundation.”
“You are American,” Daniel waved a hand dismissively. “A nation of such cluttered beliefs that your words do not surprise me. Many of your founders shared those sentiments.”
“Well I have always felt the same,” Ella chimed in proudly. “And it is refreshing to admit as much without fear of ridicule or damnation.”
“We are truly free here,” Rémy observed. “The beliefs we hold are not important. In fact, they are private and of no concern to others. This world values acceptance. It’s ironic that compassion for our fellow man, the bedrock of any faith, is found more prevalently in a faithless land.”
“To be good without God,” Daniel shook his head. “Who would have thought such a thing?”
“But you do recognize it to be true?” I asked.
The priest took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Yes,” he finally declared. “In these people, and in yourself, I find it to be true.”
The journey to Paphos was very brief, lasting scarcely more than twenty minutes. We felt the staytee slow to a gentle stop and watched its door hiss open within a large and beautiful terminal. The station was monstrous, with brightly lit wall-screens, great arched doorways, and a hefty glass dome at its apex. I spotted dozens of staytee tracks, and many more of the little vehicles. There was a crowd of excited people at the other end of the hall, behind a line of purple sentries. They cheered as we stepped out onto the platform.
We were led through a side door and into a closed carriage which transported us through the city. I looked out at the hilly terrain and admired its beauty. Aleria was a city of white stone hidden beneath a canopy of tall trees. By comparison, Paphos was wide and lit. Its charming ivy-covered buildings were multicolored and exceptionally picturesque. Flowers of every type grew from beautiful bronze pots beside the road. In spite of its size, the city reminded me more of a quiet European village than a sprawling Mediterranean port. It was busy, but nothing compared to the bustle we witnessed in Alexandria. Life seemed to flow at a slower pace on Capribo. I inquired about this distinction.
“There was a time, not very long ago, when the Lisispal was very different,” Eireas informed me. “Self-interest reigned. Everyone sought prosperity, but few were happy. Lives were busy and people were constantly connected to the world at large, without connecting to their deeper selves. Our larger cities retain much of this old lifestyle. While I admit that it’s invigorating, I cannot endure it beyond the occasional visit.”
“If they were more connected to the world, how did they become more interested in themselves?” I asked.
“It is ironic, I know,” he affirmed with a smile. “Our philosophers study this period closely, and they believe that focus simply shifted. Everyone wanted to be seen without seeing. Ideas were expressed without thought. And deep connections were lost in the face of speed and convenience.”
“So why is Capribo different?” Daniel inquired, his cur
iosity piqued.
“There was a social movement about a century ago known as Káthodonou, the return of thought. Capribo was among its early practitioners.”
“His highness wrote some very popular papers on the subject,” Sarmia proclaimed proudly. “They brought him great popularity during the elections three years ago.”
Eireas beamed. “And I have devoted my term to practicing those ideals.”
“How long is a King’s term?” I asked.
“Seven years,” he responded.
“What does it entail, this return of thought?” Daniel questioned. “I assume there is a desire for increased education.”
“The name is a bit misleading,” Eireas admitted. “The movement does not concern itself solely with thought, but more with the practices of our daily life. Over the last century, the alliances have rediscovered an appreciation for our lands, devoted technological progress to the elimination of waste within our resources, and passed many laws to protect the flora and fauna of the entire globe.”
“Protect them how?” Daniel asked. “You still eat meat, so surely the killing of animals is not forbidden.”
“It isn’t,” Eireas went on, “but the treatment of animals used to be unregulated. It pains me to think of an era when productivity was more important than decency. But never again. The eastern-most alliance has always upheld a similar philosophy. They believe that every life, even the ants emerging from the ground, have a soul which deserves to be protected. Unlike us, they do not eat meat of any kind. While we have not adopted the belief to such an extent, our animals now have a legal right to a happy life with no unnatural treatment and a gentle death.”
The words resonated deeply within me. I thought of the similarities between this era of productivity and our own practices at home. My travels had exposed me to the lack of concern toward the abundant life which shared our planet. The reminder of our habits unsettled me.
“This land is far greener than I expected,” I remarked. “Is this likewise a result of the movement?”
“Not quite,” the King replied. “It was in other parts of the world, but this island’s forests were at risk of permanent loss long before Káthodonou. Irrigation technology and planting have been priorities here ever since.”
Our coach proceeded silently along the cobblestones until the buildings around us had all but vanished. I spotted farms in the distance, with neat rows of vibrant crops lining the hillsides, though the area around us had become empty of civilization. We gazed out at the open field. A number of large red flowers protruded from the native grasses, their waxen petals shining brightly in the sunlight. Black bumblebees floated among them.
A variegated wood began not far beyond the outskirts of the city. Thick shrubs and dense trees soon conquered the landscape. We passed a number of people walking in both directions on the path. The coach came to a standstill at the heart of this wood. We followed our hosts out onto the thelísta stones and watched our vehicle turn back to the city. Two purple sentries stood waiting for us on the road, though they kept their distance as we continued our journey on foot.
“Your highness,” Daniel began after some time, for he had spent the remainder of the journey deep in thought, “might I inquire to our destination?”
“You have a great decision before you,” Eireas answered softly. “What better place to consider your choice than the Temple of Ma’at?”
“Beg pardon?” said Daniel.
“Ma’at,” I answered. “A goddess of ancient Egypt. She represented truth and justice.” The priest seemed to stiffen at the thought of entering another pagan house of worship.
“Not quite, Mr. Laurence,” King Eireas corrected. “You are right, but Ma’at is something much greater than a goddess. It is a philosophy. Ma’at is the very rhythm of the universe. It represents balance, but not from without, from within.”
“I don’t understand,” Daniel admitted.
“There was a time when people chose to believe that the gods had a predetermined plan for their life. Or that destiny shaped their fortunes, their attitudes, and their circumstances. It is only when we take responsibility for our actions and pledge to grow in mind and heart that we see how archaic those beliefs truly are.”
“And this is Ma’at?” I inquired.
“Yes. The philosophy was often represented by a white feather in ancient times. A goddess of the same name was then created so that these qualities may be worshipped. In modern times, however, we believe that Ma’at is represented by the self. We do not worship it; we only hope to emulate it.”
“Then why is there a temple dedicated to it?” Daniel scowled.
“I suppose the title endured over the eons,” Eireas confessed. “You already know the structure. You slept at its base on your first night upon our shores.”
As if on cue, we rounded a patch of trees and the landscape opened up before us. I saw the same familiar park, with scattered trees and thick grass, upon which we stumbled exactly one week prior. But how different it now looked. Locals were clustered throughout the area. They appeared to delight in the simple pleasures of nature around them: the shadows of trees, the fresh sea breeze, and the smells of untainted flora.
Our road wound up through the grounds and I spotted the familiar temple at its terminus. Its massive white columns reverberated majesty and the crimson tiled roof shone like a field of poppies. As if in response to our knowledge of the last week, its bronze doors now stood open and welcoming.
“This is an area of serenity,” said Eireas. “The communal spirit of thought helps to clear the mind and provides inspiration and support.”
“Please take all the time you wish,” Sarmia added. We thanked our hosts and they sauntered to the nearby trees.
My companions and I continued our trek to the temple. The locals looked upon us with curiosity, for Lady Pearson, Captain Travert, and Father Daniel were still clothed in their stuffy nineteenth-century garments. Despite the interest and scrutiny, we were not approached.
“Granny, are you sure you want to keep walking?” Ella asked, taking hold of her grandmother’s arm.
“I am fine, dear,” the old woman replied. “Rémy was kind enough to travel to the medical center with me after breakfast. They injected my knees with a fluid, and the pain has all but disappeared.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going?” Ella inquired.
“I did not want to worry you,” Lady Pearson replied. “Nor did I want to get your hopes up.”
“Look,” Travert interrupted with a whisper, and we gazed out beyond the precipice.
The Bigorneau. How nostalgic the little ship appeared out on the water. It remained anchored just as we left it seven days earlier, yet a century could have passed in that time. It brought me a pang of homesickness to see something so familiar after a week in this foreign world. But for all its sentiment, I likewise became keenly aware of its simplicity. It was a floating anachronism, representing not only outdated construction, but an outdated world.
Travert asked Rémy to join him on the lawn overlooking the ship, and the pair left our group to talk privately. Daniel likewise excused himself to stroll alone amongst the trees. The ladies and I decided to enter the Temple of Ma’at. I recalled first walking up the wide polished steps, the chill and dampness of the fog creating an atmosphere of enigmatic suspense. By contrast, the warmth and light of the day made for a comfortable subsequent visit.
I scrutinized the rich carvings at the top of the monument and chuckled. I had initially believed them to be lacking in skill. Mind you, this was before I became privy to the simplified ancient garments of the locals. Even after witnessing the grandeur of the Tower of Marble and the impossible heights of the Alexandrian buildings, the temple continued to awe. The Corinthian columns alone, at the height of twelve men, were enough to fire the imagination.
The interior of the cavernous space felt like a long-forgotten sanctuary of mysteries. The ceiling was lost in shadow high above us. The unbr
oken panel of glass which composed the lower portion of the building provided low tempered lighting and an extraordinary vista of the surrounding landscape. By some trick of the imagination, the darkened interior added saturation to the world at large. The grass had never looked as green, or the sea as blue, as it did from within this hall. The elaborate mosaic upon the floor was, indeed, the only internal embellishment to the structure. It depicted a large white feather at its center, from which radiated scenes of people and monuments of every culture. I discerned the pyramids of Central America in one vein, the moais of Easter Island in another, and countless other structures which were wholly foreign to me. How much there was left to learn of the Lisispal!
In spite of the enclosure, I felt the stirring of a breeze within the hall, and I suspected it possessed some mechanism of ventilation which was lost to me. The slight gust carried with it the echoes of hushed voices, for we were not alone within the temple. Capribians of every variety sat on large cushions throughout, reading from the feeble light of that electric paper, some sitting stiffly in poses of deep meditation, while others were lost in whispered conversation. We three proceeded to a corner and sat upon the colored little stones.
Almost immediately, a young dark-skinned woman approached us. She smiled and bowed her head welcomingly. I was about to stand to address her when I saw she carried three large cushions at her side. She gave them to us silently.
“Amthel,” I thanked her quietly. She smiled again and disappeared into the dimness, rejoining a group of people seated at the center of the vast space.
“This monument is stunning,” Ella observed once we were comfortable upon the seats.
“Indeed,” her grandmother said. “It is a desirable respite from the trials of the day.”
“That reminds me,” I began, “thank you for your words this morning, Lady Pearson.”
“About Father Daniel?” she asked.
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