The Sphere

by Martha Faë

  “Please. I know you can.”

  The rain keeps falling steadily, but I’m not moving until I’ve convinced the boatman.

  “They have told you of the river, eh?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I know it’s the way in for all the new residents of the Sphere. And I know it’s you who brings them over.”

  “That’s right. It’s the way in. You cannot get out here.”

  “But I don’t belong to this world! I have to get out.”

  The boatman is quiet for a while.

  “I do not know if it is possible to get out. The membrane at the entrance to the Sphere is upriver, but as far as I know it only opens in this direction.”

  “It opens the other way, too! Beatrice got out.”

  Charon’s face lights up like a coal, but the rest of his body is still. I’m afraid that I’ve made him angry—now I’ve surely lost my only chance to get out, if there was any chance to begin with.

  “How many know about Beatrice?”

  “I think just me... She accidentally confessed.”

  I’m relieved to realize that the boatman is blushing more from embarrassment than anger. I decide to try my luck—after all, I’ve got nothing to lose.

  “Beatrice is the one who should be ashamed, you know? It was nasty of her to take advantage of your condition to trick you.”

  At last the rain stops. The raindrops trickle slowly down from the leaves of the trees onto the grass. Charon falls back into a heavy silence. Everything about him is deliberate, even his silences. I have enough time to watch a spider hard at work between two branches, weaving its web with patience and meticulous care. I don’t know if it’s the hushed song of the river, if everything in this place lends a sense of calmness, or if it’s the influence of the boatman, but even with this anxiety weighing down my heart I feel like time has stopped, like there’s no hurry. I breathe deeply and enjoy the feeling. After a while the deep wrinkles in Charon’s face relax, and the expression of gentle, solitary wisdom that moved me to touch him before returns. His slender, wrinkled hands set the leaf he was using as an umbrella gently down in the boat. A slight movement from beneath the boatman’s fine eyelids tells me he has finished his deliberations.

  “So, can I?” I ask, so quietly that the sound barely leaves my body.

  Charon nods and slowly takes up his oar so I can get in. I take a step toward the boat, with no idea at all how I’m going to fit into something so tiny. I move my right foot carefully, with the finesse of a ballerina. It seems like my best bet, given what the boat is like. As soon as the tip of my foot reaches the white nutshell it grows larger. Soon both my feet are inside. Still, I haven’t even sat down on the rough wooden crosspiece when the boat sinks almost to the bottom of the river. It bumps against the pebbles and water rushes in, soaking us. Charon’s long, white hair, which had stayed dry so far, is dripping now, and the boat is flooded.

  “I am sorry, but you have to get out,” says the boatman, up to his neck in water but still totally calm.

  Then, without warning, my tears come. They splash against the surface of the river, stirring up new streams of water and huge rolling waves. I cry wildly but silently for a few seconds, and then explode in a wail of pain that contains everything I’ve held in for years. Everything that ever hurt me, from the littlest thing to the biggest, it all comes out of me in the form of salt water. My weeping is so great that the river starts to rise. Charon throws his head back to keep his nose and mouth out of the water. He’s on the verge of drowning when the water rushing out of me finally runs out. I wipe my eyes with my hands and take in the boatman’s sad situation. I come over and carry him back to the riverbank on my shoulders. Once the boat is empty, it turns back to the size of a nut, and begins to float again.

  “Nothing like that has ever happened,” says Charon, sitting on the grass at the edge of the river.

  “You mean my crying?”

  “Your crying was remarkable, but I meant the sinking. No one who weighed so much has ever gotten into my boat. I’m sorry, but it won’t be possible to carry you to the start of the river.”

  “I could swim,” I say.

  “Impossible. The river would spit you right back out. It only allows the boat to pass, nothing else. Don’t think you’re the first to try going upriver under your own power. More than one person with an explorer role has thought they might reach the limits of the Sphere, and then they’ve had to be fetched back from the beach or from some hilltop... The river spits you out quite forcefully, believe me. I don’t recommend trying it. And now, if you would be so kind as to help me back to my boat, I would appreciate it. I feel out of my element when I’m not in it.”

  “Of course!”

  I help the boatman back to his fragile vessel. Once he’s inside again, he clasps his old, knobby hands in his lap. Charon’s serenity has an undeniable beauty.

  “Don’t you get bored here by yourself?”

  “How would I get bored? This is my role. Everything is good when everything is in order. Though to tell the truth, things have not had their usual perfection in some time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one has arrived for some time. Normally I’m not here; I usually go upriver and wait there. I stay there with the boat and when I feel weight I know someone has gotten in, and then I carry them to this side. But there hasn’t been a new publication in so long that I no longer bother going up the river. If someone does show up, they’ll shout, or I’ll hear the waves.”

  “All of the Sphereans weigh something?”

  “That’s right. The weights vary a little from one to the next, though no one weighs as much as you. The boat floats with all of them.”

  I know there’s not much else for me to do here. My time is running out; I’ve got to find another way out.

  “Thank you, Charon.”

  I take his hands in mine and squeeze them affectionately. The boatman smiles gently. I walk away, still carrying a little bit of Charon’s serenity with me.

  17

  I’ve racked my brain looking for ideas, but I can’t think of any way to get out of the Sphere. I guess there’s nothing for it but to listen to Dracula. Maybe if I can reestablish the order of this world, things will get back on track for me, too.

  I hear the voices calling me constantly now. They come from the sky, out of the sea, from behind plants—they’re everywhere.

  With all the time I’ve spent in this world, I’ve learned the ins and outs of all the roles. At this time of day my companions are in the permanent hospital. I go in through the hidden door at Gannochy House and head straight up to the office; I’m sure I’ll find them there.

  “I think I know where the missing people might be,” I say once I open the door and see that they’re all there.

  “Dissie!” Beatrice exclaims. Guilt is written all over her face.

  “They might be in the little cemetery. Where you found me.”

  “But... in the tombs?” Beatrice is horrified.

  I sigh and sit down. I’m feeling too weak to stay on my feet.

  “I ended up at that cemetery by accident, then when I was looking inside the tomb someone pushed me in. I heard a lot of things—fighting, threats. I think I heard the creature that’s behind all of this.”

  “Who is it?” asks Morgan.

  “I don’t know. It had a very strange voice, like it was coming out of a tube. I’m sure it wasn’t a Spherean, and it was the person in charge of the winged creatures. It kept calling them useless, and complaining that they didn’t know how to do anything right.”

  “And rightly so,” says Sherlock. I look at him; he seems to be sane again. “They lack discretion,” he goes on, “and they are not precise. Think of the incident with Mr. Gray, for example. It makes no sense to have that portrait if they don’t also have Dorian.”

  “Right,” I say. I try to think of the best way to say what I think has happened. “I’m afraid that some of the missing people could be...
dead. I mean, dead like my original theory, you remember?”

  “Permanent death?” asks Morgan.

  I nod. Beatrice lifts her hands to her mouth.

  “In the tomb where I was trapped there’s... something. You all should go look for it. I’m too weak.”

  “But you have to come with us, you must guide us,” pleads Beatrice desperately. “You’re the only one who can bring back balance.”

  “It’s true,” adds Morgan. “Your presence is needed.”

  I think about Beatrice’s and Morgan’s words for a few moments, and then I agree. I don’t know how or where my way home will open up. I have to be there for anything that might be my chance to bring balance back to the Sphere.

  I’m so weak that the walk to the little cemetery is an arduous trek. My friends take turns helping me as we walk.

  “Look at the tomb where you found me,” I say, resting against another tomb.

  “Allow me to take charge,” says Sherlock.

  He reaches inside the open tomb. He pulls something out and drops it as soon as he sees it in the sunlight. The pieces fall to the grass. They look like heads.

  “By the Blessed Creator! What is that?” cries Beatrice.

  “Heads,” says Morgan, coming closer to look at them. “But... made of what?”

  I double over and start to heave when I realize what was in the tomb with me. My stomach seizes and I’m wracked with pain, since there’s no food at all in my body.

  “It’s not any of the missing people?” I ask.

  “No,” answers Morgan.

  “It must be some other Spherean, someone whose disappearance you didn’t know about.”

  “They aren’t Sphereans,” Sherlock says with complete certainty.

  “Then maybe they’re the winged creatures. The things that were here had come to bury some of their companions. There must be more remains in one of these tombs. I would guess, from how close everything sounded, it’s this one.” I point at one of the nearest tombs. “Or maybe this one.”

  Sherlock pushes the stone off of the first and Morgan looks inside.

  “There are more here,” she says, using two fingers to take out another head. “How bizarre. These heads are completely flat. What are they?”

  “The winged creatures, I told you already.”

  Oddly I notice that I’m getting some of my strength back. When I talk to my friends I feel reinvigorated. Sherlock gazes at me with obvious respect.

  “They have some similarity to us,” he says. “Not a lot, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they’re a completely separate type of being. I would have sworn that the winged beings would be... I don’t know... different.”

  “Not Sphereans?” I ask.

  Sherlock tilts his head by way of an answer. I wouldn’t be able to say whether the remains belonged to Sphereans or not, either.

  “They might be supporting roles, or extras,” says Morgan. “Minor citizens of the Sphere, with very small roles.” Morgan glances at me to see if I’m following her explanation. “Sometimes they only have a role for a few minutes. Most of them don’t even have names. It will be difficult to figure out if one of them is missing because they only interact with each other. They would never tell us if one of their own had disappeared. They think they’re so insignificant that they would never come to someone like Holmes.”

  “That’s right. They never bother us with their problems,” adds Beatrice.

  “I think there’s a registry of supporting and extra roles,” Morgan continues. “I can go see if some ‘girl’ or ‘neighbor’ or ‘grandfather’ is missing. It’ll be a long search.”

  “Do it,” I say. “Fast.”

  “If I might point something out,” says Sherlock, “I don’t think they are supporting roles, or extras. These remains are flat. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He looks at them through his magnifying glass.

  “Something might have crushed them,” I say.

  The other three look at me with alarm. It’s not the first time they’ve looked at me that way. Despite all the time I’ve spent in the Sphere, I still haven’t gotten used to the glassy looks that meet some of the things I say. The fact that a single one of my ideas is enough to make the eyes of my almost-human friends lose all their life, to make them look at me with total bewilderment, reminds me (as if I could have somehow forgotten) that I don’t belong to this world.

  “They’ve been crushed, yes,” I say firmly. “I know it’s horrible, but it could happen. I don’t know, a big rock, even some kind of instrument of torture...”

  “You don’t have to explain to us how they might have been crushed,” says Morgan. “I think everyone here is capable of imagining different ways of being crushed. The thing is, it’s impossible for them to remain flattened like this. Their nature must be flat.”

  “The texture is strange,” Sherlock remarks. “Look...”

  Morgan and I come over to touch the remains.

  “It’s true,” says the fairy. “The texture is like...”

  “Cardboard,” I finish.

  “Well,” Morgan says, “just to rule out the possibility of supporting roles, why don’t I look in the records?”

  “Yes, go look,” I answer. “Have Beatrice help you, you don’t want to take too long.”

  “And I?” asks Sherlock.

  “You can help me take out the rest of the remains we find. I’d like to look at them more carefully.”

  “Of course.”

  Sherlock responds so meekly that I know he’s lost his role again. It’s really awkward, and more than that, it’s a shame. I liked the Sphere the way it was. For the first time I wish with all my heart—and for reasons other than my own self-interest—that this place would go back to the way it was before.

  Taking out all the remains turns out to be a laborious task. We find more pieces not only in the tomb where I was trapped and the ones nearby, but in many others. We find misshapen heads and arms and legs, all from some kind of counterfeit creatures, poor imitations of reality, though we still don’t know their precise nature.

  We have to make two trips to get everything we found back to Sherlock’s house, and now, in his living room, we have a pile of cardboard remains so high that it almost blocks the way across the room. During the course of searching for the remains and carrying them over, Sherlock lost his role a few more times, but luckily he’s gotten it back again each time.

  “I’m surprised by your investigative skill,” he says, looking closely at me. I watch him. I don’t know whether he’s in his role or not. “I truly admire your intellect. It’s the most attractive I’ve encountered ever since I was published. I might even say—if you don’t mind—that since you appeared my work has been much more pleasant... The best thing about my work is that you’re here.”

  All right, he is out of his role. I guess I should feel flattered by his words, but there really isn’t anything appealing about them when it’s obvious they aren’t based in reality. I’d take my imperfect reality over this perfect fantasy a thousand times over... Wait, what am I thinking?

  “I know why you’re ignoring me,” Sherlock goes on, as he sorts the remains into piles: legs, arms, heads.

  “I’m not ignoring you,” I say patiently. I’ve had to sit down again, I’m feeling so weak.

  “Beatrice told me everything.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “About my rival.”

  I smile a little, I can’t help it. Sherlock looks so serious—even somber—his furrowed brow tells me that the fact of Axel’s existence really is worrying him.

  “I said I admired your intellect earlier, except for one thing...” I nod from the sofa. “If you were really so intelligent you would realize that I’m a million times more suitable for you than that... that other man.”

  “Axel. His name’s Axel.”

  “He’s your complete opposite.”

  Beatrice, of all people! She’s turned out to be more of a gossip th
an she seemed.

  “Tell me,” Sherlock stops working and comes over to the sofa, standing in front of me with arms akimbo. “Why do you prefer him?”

  “I’d need days to tell you.”

  “I demand an immediate explanation!”

  I look hard at Sherlock. He really is angry.

  “Axel knows how to see what’s inside of me, the whole thing, all the little things that make me myself... I don’t think you’ll ever understand it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Come here,” I say, though I’m not really sure why.

  Sherlock sits down next to me. Our legs press against each other like they did at the circus, but this time we’re alone. I look at that face that is exactly to my taste: caramel-colored eyes, dark hair. It’s like I somehow had complete freedom to imagine him exactly as I’d like him to be, physically. I lean in slowly and kiss him. It’s an unhurried kiss, and I mean for it to be a kiss of opportunity, both for Sherlock and for me. If I go back to my world, I’ll bring this with me, and if I don’t... Well, if I don’t go back, it wouldn’t be so bad to have a companion here. I close my eyes and let myself be carried away. I surrender myself. Then I sit back and look at him again. We stay quiet for a while, floating over a desert.

  I didn’t feel a thing, and I don’t think he did either. It’s like I just kissed someone who wasn’t made of flesh and bone.

  “That doesn’t fit my role,” says Sherlock, getting to his feet.

  “I know,” I say, ruefully. “Mine, either.”

  18

  Morgan and Beatrice come into the house looking crestfallen. It’s obvious they’ve found nothing.

  “Nothing!” exclaims Beatrice sadly. “We went over the records of the supporting and extra roles line by line. We checked them against the inhabitants of the Second-Class District and no one was missing.”

  “It’s been exhausting,” says Morgan, flopping down beside me on the sofa. “As expected, we weren’t exactly well-received in the Second-Class District. No one dared say anything to us, but they all gave us dirty looks when they saw us sitting there on a bench watching the passersby, with giant stacks of papers on our laps.”