The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus
Page 56
CHAPTER SIX
He had been reborn for the space of a day. Never had he imagined that the pain could be so great.
After he crossed the border, he stopped and looked back at what he had left behind. The land of his birth. The work of his childhood dreamings. The only person who had loved him since his mother’s death.
The only person who ever would.
Behind him, at his back, he could feel all that lay ahead in his journey. He would use the art of his trade to force his way into audience with the Queen of Yclau. There, he would tell the Queen that he had murdered fourteen men and raped an innocent virgin before he turned sixteen. He would tell her that he had spent the past three years as the King’s Torturer, destroying every prisoner he was given, with all the skill of his cruelty. He would tell her that he had entered her land unlawfully, a border-breacher from Yclau’s enemy neighbor, with no excuse for his violation except the Yclau blood of his mother, long since sullied by his deeds.
He thought it unlikely that he would live that day out. And if the Queen permitted him to live, and did not send him back to Vovim where death awaited him, he saw no reason why she should give him the opportunity he craved, to work in the Eternal Dungeon. And even if a strange miracle should occur and she should give him that gift, he saw no reason that the men who ran the Eternal Dungeon would permit him to exercise his skills.
Why should they? His only skill was to destroy. He knew nothing about helping a prisoner to rebirth.
The border was so very close. The Hidden Dungeon lay less than a day’s run from the border; that was the only reason he had been able to accomplish this escape. He could go back now and tell the High Master of the Hidden Dungeon that he had slipped out of the dungeon only in order to cool the hot blood of his youth with some bed-play. He knew that his talents were great enough to achieve this deception.
His own master would not be fooled, but Master Aeden was a forgiving man. He would be forgiven again, and loved again, if he returned. But if he stayed away . . . Every moment he stayed away increased the chance that he had lost the only love he would ever receive in his youth or manhood.
He felt himself sink to his knees upon the winter-cold ground; his chest was heaving. He wanted to pray to the gods for guidance, but he feared that Mercy considered him a traitor for leaving her land. As for the torture-god . . . For so many years he had dreamt of the proud moment when he would enter hell’s dungeon. There, in the most perfect place of torture that could be imagined, hell’s High Master would give him work suitable to his talents.
The dreaming lay within him like a strangled corpse. He knew what awaited him upon death.
Something slipped from his hands: the only belonging he had taken with him in his long run to the border. Fumbling with cold hands, he reached forward to pick it up. Then he stopped. The pages had flown open when the book fell; there, under his hands, lay a passage that he had not noticed during his first and only reading of the contraband volume.
“We ask our prisoners to risk their lives and their souls,” the black book said. “We must be willing to risk the same for them.”
Slowly he picked up the book, hugging it to his body. He looked once more upon the treasures of his old life, of all the joy that lay in his time of dark deeds. Then he scrambled to his feet and turned his face toward his new life – toward the pain of rebirth.
o—o—o
Water dripped in the corner of the cell. The air was cold. Fire burnt in the room, but it was in Layle’s back and head and heart.
He felt the emptiness he remembered from his first breaking, twenty years before. At that time, beyond the pain of his rebirth, joy had awaited him. And now—
“Did it work?”
He turned his head, which still ached from his crash onto the floor. Elsdon remained where Layle had left him, kneeling upon his shins and forearms, his torso lifted up by the support.
“I don’t know,” said Layle. “Do you feel reborn?”
With a scream, Elsdon launched himself from the bed; the pillows that had been supporting his torso flew like tree-petals in springtime. The junior Seeker landed upon Layle’s abdomen, his legs straddling Layle’s body, and his fists pounding on Layle’s chest. “It worked!” he cried. “Tell me it worked!”
“It worked,” Layle said, caught between pain and laughter. “You were there the whole time. Oh, Elsdon, I heard every word you spoke—”
With another scream, Elsdon launched himself onto Layle’s neck, biting and kissing indiscriminately until Layle’s laughter overwhelmed him and took him prisoner.
Only a thumping upon the wall from their long-suffering neighbor in the next Seeker cell put an end to their incoherent cries and laughter. The two men subsided slowly, Elsdon’s head now resting in the hollow of Layle’s shoulder as the High Seeker stroked his hair, feeling the emptiness fill with something greater than had been there before. It had been that way after the first breaking also.
He felt Elsdon’s breath upon his chest, sweetly warm and moist. Elsdon’s fingers played with the hairs around his nipples, which were stiff from the usual coolness of the underground cavern in which the Eternal Dungeon was housed.
“We’ll have to tell Mr. Bergsen,” Elsdon said in a tranquil voice. “He’ll be delighted that his idea worked. Layle, I’ve seen you fool prisoners in the rack room, but even so, I never guessed that you were so good at play-acting.”
Layle smiled into his hair. “And I never would have guessed that you played Torturer and Prisoner when you were young.”
Elsdon moved his hand so that it rested upon Layle’s heart. “I was scared to do so for years. Then one of my school-friends suggested that I play a torturer who secretly healed the wounds of prisoners and helped them to escape from further torment. After that, I played the game every day.”
Layle chuckled. “Destiny. You were meant to become a Seeker. Or a play-actor.”
“Bloody blades, no!” Elsdon buried his face into the hollow of Layle’s body, trying unsuccessfully to hide his reddening cheeks. “I was terrible today. The way I laughed at the worst moment—”
“Your amusement at the guard’s entrance startled me, I’ll admit.”
“Oh, I couldn’t help that. Layle, there you were, speaking with all the deep-voiced authority of the High Seeker, and you were talking to a broom.”
Layle lifted his head so that he could see the object in question, leaning against the wall next to the door. He said with a smile, “It looked different in the dreaming.”
“Well, that wasn’t the laughter I was referring to. I meant at the beginning of the play, when you entered the bedroom, and I went all hysterical on you—”
Layle kissed his head again. “That didn’t disturb me, my dear. I knew that it would be hard for you to enter into your part, when you had so little training at play-acting. You did much better than I’d imagined you would. The only point at which I nearly broke out of my dreaming was when the torture began. Your scream seemed real—”
“It was.”
Elsdon’s voice has turned low. Layle lay still a moment, fighting the impulse to grab Elsdon’s face and force it into view. Then he carefully pulled himself and his love-mate into a sitting position and allowed Elsdon to lay his head upon Layle’s shoulder again, shielding his expression.
“I hurt you?” Layle said finally, trying to keep his voice level.
“No worse than I’ve been hurt with prisoners.” Elsdon’s voice was level also. “You know how it is, Layle – I get so caught into the prisoner’s tale that it’s hard for me not to feel his pain. And you made the dreaming seem real to me. Even though I couldn’t see what you could see, I could almost feel the manacles closing upon me. . . .”
Layle gave a soft curse and held Elsdon tight, then quickly released him, uncertain whether his touch was welcome at this moment. Elsdon raised his head then; a soft smile grazed his lips.
“You were wrong, you know. My love for you isn’t a flaw.”
Layle sta
red at the cold floor upon which they sat. “So you noticed that.”
“Of course I did, love. It was the central point of our play. You were trying to tell me that I mustn’t love you – that my love for you would cause me unnecessary pain, and that I must remove that flaw through a breaking.” He kissed Layle on the High Seeker’s motionless lips and said, “Love, I followed you into the hell of your dreamings. I allowed myself to see within your darkness. I did that out of love for you. Do you truly consider that a weakness?”
Layle pulled Elsdon tight then, pressing his face against the junior Seeker’s hair so as to wipe away the moisture in the corners of his eyes. “The weakness is mine, that I let you come with me. That I can never find the strength to send you away.”
“Then stop trying,” Elsdon said firmly. “You tried to send away your dark desire, and if you had succeeded, what would you be today? You’re High Seeker because of your desire, Layle, not despite it. Your struggles with it gave you the strength you have today. And if you send me away—”
“Yes.” Layle’s voice was muffled. “Yes, Elsdon. I know you’re right. It’s just hard sometimes to believe— Tell me the truth. When I walked in here at the beginning of the dreaming, were you truly afraid?”
Elsdon placed his hands on both sides of Layle’s face and lifted the High Seeker’s head. He waited until Layle’s gaze had bonded with his before he said, “Yes.”
Layle swallowed, but he did not break his gaze. Prisoners must not break their gaze with their Seekers. “You still want me.” He was surprised to hear that the words emerged as a statement rather than a question.
“Of course I do. Layle, I wasn’t afraid of you; I was afraid for you. It was the first time you’d gone fully into a dreaming since your madness.”
He let out a bit of his breath. “The play between us had only begun.”
“But I had to wait an hour for you to arrive, Layle! You told me you needed time to prepare yourself in the sitting room, and I dared not disturb you. By the time you finally arrived, I was certain I had lost you again.”
Layle released the deepest part of his breath. He kissed Elsdon on the forehead, saying, “I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I needed time to talk to the torturer who knew the Code. . . . I needed to talk to my master.”
He saw understanding flame through Elsdon’s face. “That must have been a conversation worth hearing,” the junior Seeker said quietly.
Layle nodded, but he could not bring himself to speak of it yet. Instead he wiped the crumbs of tear-dust from Elsdon’s face and asked, “Are you all right now?”
“Of course I am, Layle. You know I recover from such things – why are you worrying about me?”
“Because, Mr. Taylor, I prefer that my Seekers be in good health before I reprimand them for breaking orders.”
Elsdon slid his tongue swiftly over his lips as he stared at the piece of ground that Layle had been staring at a moment before. He began to clutch his hands together.
“I told you before we started,” Layle said. “I did not merely tell you but I ordered you, in my capacity as High Seeker. I said that we would not make love while I was in the dreaming. We would play out a scene of torture and rescue in hopes that this would satisfy the cravings of my dark desire, but I would not touch you sexually. The danger was too high that I would lose control and rape you. Do you remember this order?”
“Yes, sir.” Elsdon’s gaze remained on the ground.
“You manipulated me into a promise that forced me to have sex with you. Do you deny this?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have a defense for what you did?”
“No, sir.” The words were spoken without hesitation.
That was the problem, of course. Elsdon had not done this blindly. He had done it in full knowledge that he was breaking orders and would face the consequences afterwards of his disobedience. Suspension from his duties? Loss of his title as Seeker? Elsdon could not have known how seriously Layle would treat this offense, nor what the price would be for what he had done.
Layle sighed, trying to remember why it was that he had decided four years ago that the High Seeker could be permitted to love-bond with one of the Seekers under his supervision. Finally he gave up the struggle to understand his motives. He crooked his finger, using it to lift Elsdon’s chin. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It was a masterly display of your talents as a Seeker.”
Elsdon’s expression was so dumbfounded that Layle could not forbear laughing. After a moment, Elsdon joined in and leaned into his embrace. “No long sessions on the rack?” he said.
“I may have you mop a floor or two. Anything more than that would be hypocritical, given my debt to you. For you have given us, my dear, our new way to make love. To make love in a way we never have before. When we’re together, I won’t leave you by going into a dreaming; I’ll simply remember what passed between us today. That memory will be enough to bring my desire forth.”
Elsdon sighed as he hugged Layle tighter. “That will be delightful, to have you enter into my world of love. And when I enter into yours—”
Elsdon raised his head, apparently alerted by the sudden tension in Layle’s muscles. He frowned at the High Seeker. “Layle, surely you didn’t think I was going to make you stay in this world every time we went to bed together! I know that it’s as hard for you to remain outside your dreaming as it is for me to stay within your dreaming. Fair shares – you’ll come into my world, and I’ll come into yours.”
“There’s no need,” Layle replied in a taut voice. “I explained to you already, I can remain with you here. There’s no need for you to undergo pain again—”
“Oh, bloody blades, Layle, don’t act like a brainless Vovimian!”
Layle realized after a moment that he was gaping, and shut his mouth. Elsdon, looking chagrined that he had chosen this common Yclau insult, said more quietly, “Love, sometimes I think you leave that keen Seekerly mind of yours at the doorway to this bedroom. I enjoyed play-acting with you. It was painful, yes, but no more painful than being a Seeker, and I don’t recall that you ever let me use pain as an excuse for neglecting my duties while you were training me. You drove me through all the labor of transforming myself into a Seeker; you knew how great the rewards would be for me. Are you going to stop me from undergoing the same pleasure of learning how to play-act?”
Layle decided that his brain had certainly been left behind somewhere beyond the door; he could not seem to find a response to this. Finally he said, “I never meant it to happen more than once. Just that one time to feed my desire and keep it from breaking free—”
“Oh, sweet blood!” Elsdon pretended to swoon onto Layle’s lap. “High Seeker, you have most certainly lost your wits. That beautiful play we just performed, thanks to your desire – after all that, you’re going to talk about chaining your desire or being chained by it? Layle, you owe the dark desire your life. Of course you can’t let it run wild, but neither can you keep it in the darkest cell of a dungeon—”
“Apprentice it.”
Elsdon stopped in mid-sentence. “Pardon?”
“I’ll turn it into my apprentice,” Layle said slowly. “I’ll take the torturous murderer that is my desire, and I’ll train it to use its skills at breaking to bring good to the world.”
Elsdon smiled, pulling himself up into a sitting position on Layle’s lap. He patted the High Seeker on his head, saying, “I knew that you’d find your wits eventually. Layle, this is going to be such fun; I’ve already thought of a dozen plays we can perform. We could be Yclau soldiers who were captured by Vovimian soldiers, and you’d be forced to watch as I was raped and tortured, and afterwards you would help to heal my soul by making love to me—” He looked down to where he was sitting on Layle’s lap. “Oh, you like that one, do you?”
“Elsdon, stop,” Layle said, hoarsely and far too weakly.
“Stop? Why on earth should we stop? Let’s perform that one now, Lay
le. I haven’t even told you about the part where the enemy soldiers come back, and you’re forced to fight them for me. . . .”
Layle felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He leaned forward and kissed Elsdon lightly, saying, “My dear, I can see that you’re going to shower me once more with gifts I’d not thought to imagine. But later. Your shift is beginning.”
Elsdon squirmed in Layle’s lap in order to look at the water clock, dripping in the corner. “Bloody blades,” he grumbled, and scrambled to his feet, his hand already reaching for the neat pile of clothes he had left in the middle of the floor. “Layle, how do you always know when the night shift is beginning, even without looking at the clock?”
“From the High Master’s earthquake.”
Elsdon paused, his half-hose dangling from his hand. “What?”
Layle gave a light chuckle. “When the guards at the entrance to the Eternal Dungeon open the gates to let out the cave bats for their nightly feeding, they’re especially forceful in slamming the gates wide open. The crash causes a slight vibration through the entire dungeon. It feels like the beginning of a cave-in.”
Elsdon grimaced as he hopped on one foot, trying to pull on his half-hose. “I’m glad I’m not as sensitive to touch as you are – I’d be shivering with horror at the beginning of every night shift. Though granted that your sensitivity has its uses in this room. . . . Where’s my hood?”
“I’ll get it.” Layle pulled himself off the floor, stretched to ease his cramped muscles, and walked toward the night-table where his hood and Elsdon’s lay companionably mingled.
Behind him, Elsdon was grumbling again. “I hate these dusk-to-dawn shifts. If I were a High Seeker fashioning shifts, or even a High Master . . . Layle, is what you told me about the torture-god true? That he’s supposed to be a benevolent master? Because, if so, I’d like you to tell me more about the Vovimian religion. That’s not the picture of Vovim we were given in school. . . .”
His words were a faint background in Layle’s mind. The High Seeker stood by the night-table, his hand upon Elsdon’s hood, as he stared down at the yellowed etching.
The whorled pit was filled with dozens of ice-cells, each lovingly depicted, along with the torture taking place in them. Ice hung everywhere, except in the places where fire was being used. Above it all, standing alone on a walkway that served as a balcony, was a long-bearded torturer, holding a black object that might have been a pincer, or might have been a hot iron.
He felt Elsdon’s hand touch his shoulder. The junior Seeker said quietly, “Wherever he is, Layle, I’m sure he has forgiven you.”
Layle made no reply. He continued to stare down at the tiny figure, so carefully drawn that an onlooker could see the small smile on the man’s face as he stared down at the torture.
Elsdon’s hand suddenly went tight upon Layle’s shoulder, like the strap of a rack biting in. “Layle,” he said, “am I entering a dreaming, or are there fewer people in that picture than when we looked at it before?”
“Elsdon,” he replied patiently, “you’ve only seen this etching once. I’ve stared at it a thousand times, and—” He stopped abruptly, his eye moving back and forth over the image.
The woman was missing. The woman whom he had gazed at a thousand times as a child – the woman who was being roasted by a torturer. Nor could he find the man who had been encased in ice in the glittering cavern. The people bound in the blood-dark pool were there – some of them. Some of their torturers were missing too. The cavern with the hanging souls was only half filled.
His gaze skittered back and forth, seeking a familiar pair, but the etching disappeared from his eyes as Elsdon came round to the other side of the night-table and pulled the thick paper up, peeking at its underside.
He looked up. Layle could see only his eyes from behind the paper, peering upwards with dark soberness. “Love,” Elsdon said, “do you know the title of this picture?”
Layle shook his head. “The copy that hung in my childhood home was framed, with no indication on the outside of who made the etching or what it was called. I could tell from its style that it was old – far older than the Eternal Dungeon – but that was all. The art tradesman who found this copy of the etching had to locate it by description.”
Silently, Elsdon laid down the paper so that the underside showed. At the bottom of the page, written so faintly in pencil that Layle had not noticed it before, was the name of the artist, the date of her birth and death four centuries before, and three words: “The Eternal Dungeon.”
Layle met the eyes of Elsdon, who had returned to stand by the High Seeker. Then, with the same movement of eye, both men looked down at the paper. Layle turned it over.
After a moment Elsdon said in a small voice, “There are definitely fewer people in the picture now.”
Layle made no reply; he had found the pair he was looking for. They were in a higher ice-cell than they had been before – the highest ice-cell of all, in fact. A man in red was lying upon the Adoration, tiny rivulets of sweat covering his body, but no manacles bound him to the platform, as they once had. Nearby, a green-clothed torturer watched the self-breaking with compassion clear upon his face.
Layle heard Elsdon’s breath pull swiftly in, but he did not turn his gaze to see whether his love-mate had noticed the same scene. His own gaze had returned to the long-bearded torturer on the balcony, who might have been holding a pincer, or might have been holding a black-bound volume.
I can be what I have been till now, one of the lowest members of the higher order. Or I can join the lower order of mankind and be among the best of them.
Layle touched the torturer lightly with his finger, feeling the beginnings of a smile creep onto his face. He murmured, “I think Mercy will be pleased this time with your decision to stay.”
He felt the moisture of breath upon his ear. A voice whispered, “If Mercy walks in the world above, I know what form she has taken.” The voice was followed by a warm kiss on the ear; Elsdon added, “I’ll see you at dawn, love.” He reached for his hood.
Layle was still staring at the etching when he heard Elsdon open the bedroom door. He whirled round. “Wait!”
Elsdon paused, watching as Layle quickly clothed himself and pulled on his hood. By the time that the High Seeker came forward to join him, Elsdon was smiling. “You’re going to work with the prisoners again.”
It was not a question, but Layle nodded. “I have an idea for a method to help your new prisoner. I’ll tell you on our way. . . .” He flipped down the face-cloth of his hood, then put his arm around Elsdon’s shoulders and steered him toward the door to the corridor. His arm was still guiding his love-mate when the door closed behind them. The Seekers disappeared down the corridor, their voices fading, until no sound was left but for the endless drip of water.
o—o—o
Back in the bedroom shared by the High Seeker and his love-mate, the lamp flickered low, casting deep shadows upon the etching. The torturer on the balcony smiled as he looked down upon his dungeon.
The transfer to the new host had been as painless as always: his lowly servant had joyfully embraced the opportunity to serve his master in a higher capacity. And the timing had gone well also. The High Master had joined with his host just in time to exchange a few words with the Consultant whose Code book had so intrigued him, before the man began his work. Then the High Master had been able to witness the prisoner’s searching through the eyes and mind of a host who knew the Consultant well enough to be able to tell whether the man was trying to deceive the High Master.
The man had not deceived him. How very odd. The High Master never ceased to marvel at how, even with his divine powers, he could learn new truths each century from his servants.
He felt the touch of his host’s mind, urging his hands forward. He did not resist, but joined his thoughts fully with his host as High Master Aeden opened the Code of Seeking and began to read it again, in hopes of learning new ways to bring justice.
o—o—o
o—o—o
. . . Nonetheless, it is possible for more conscientious historians to reconstruct the steps Layle Smith took to emerge from his madness by noting the first recorded instance of his use of “play-acting.”
This is, of course, Layle Smith’s most famous contribution to the overarching principles of transformation therapy, which were developed by dozens of Seekers and which now serve as the backbone for psychologists’ interactions with criminals and other deeply troubled patients. “Play-acting” has proved so valuable a form of therapy that it is often used with patients suffering only from mild ailments of the mind.
The principle behind “play-acting” (I should add for the lay reader) is that it is impossible for someone dwelling outside of the delusional world which a patient has formed to change the patient’s outlook by rejecting that world. Rather, he must enter into that world, much as an actor enters into a play. By acting as though the world is real, the psychologist can gradually help the patient to recognize any inadequacies in his world-view.
But the conscientious psychologist must go further than that and recognize that delusional world-building is simply a distorted form of the creative impulse that is found most especially in young children, artists, and seers. Thus the psychologist must be on the alert for any signs that the delusions have caused the patient to reach a higher understanding than the outside world offers him.
Though the second part of this principle is often neglected by arrogant psychologists, it is quite clear in the earliest instance of the use of “play-acting,” which occurred in the sixth month of 359. It is no coincidence that this date is three years after Layle Smith first began to enter into madness and two months after he finally returned to his full duties as a Seeker. Layle Smith himself acknowledged, in a brief note to the High Master of the Hidden Dungeon, that he “came to realize the full value of play-acting with prisoners by understanding the truthfulness of my dark dreamings.” This sentence has been distorted by revisionist historians to mean that Layle Smith believed that his delusional world was true in the mundane sense. But the context of Layle Smith’s sentence shows that he had in mind something akin to artistic creativity and religious visions, and that his time in madness, however painful for him, opened up to him mental and spiritual vistas that he had previously striven to avoid.
Revisionist historians who sneer at Layle Smith’s time in madness and see it as akin to the darkest abuses that took place in the Eternal Dungeon have forgotten this: that the potential for evils of the mind did not disappear with the coming of modern psychology – rather, the potential increased. Would that the modern world had its own Layle Smith who could open up our dark dreamings and show us where the treasure lies amidst the poison.
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
Transformation
HISTORICAL NOTE
At the tender age of fourteen, I decided to write a book on the history of the Agrarian Revolution.
I had conceived of this idea while at a British school, attending a history class which, in the space of an entire term, covered the changes in farming over several centuries, and especially the conflicts that arose between the aristocracy and the working class. The conflicts arose because many members of the aristocracy seized peasant farming land and made it their own. One of the means by which the ruling class ensured farming profits thereafter was through the Corn Laws (“corn” being the British word for the most important grain in any given territory – in England, that meant wheat). These laws regulated the price of grain. By the early nineteenth century, a combination of high bread prices (due to the Corn Laws) and bad harvests were resulting in starvation conditions for the working class. As a result, reformers arose, demanded expanded representation in Parliament.
“I want to write a book about the Agrarian Revolution,” I told my father the following summer. “Will you bring me with you to the Library of Congress?”
He did. It was not the first time I had visited America’s national library with my father, who is a literary historian; as I recall, he began taking me there when I was eleven. But the summer of 1978, when I had turned fifteen, was the first time I had visited there as a researcher. My father showed me how to look up titles in the National Union Catalog, a book catalogue that filled an entire wall with hundreds of volumes. (These were the days before computers took over the job of keeping such records.) Afterwards, he asked me which aspect of the Agrarian Revolution I wanted to research first.
I thought about this, and then replied, in my bloodthirsty manner, “The Peterloo Massacre.”
The Peterloo Massacre occurred in Manchester on August 16, 1819, when a peaceful group of reformers held a rally, bringing along their wives and children. Cavalry soldiers dispersed the crowd, using sabers. As the Encyclopedia Britannica puts it, “In 10 minutes the place was cleared except for bodies. The numbers of killed and wounded were disputed; probably about 500 people were injured and 11 killed. [Henry] Hunt and the other radical leaders were arrested, tried, and convicted – Hunt being sent to prison for two years.”
“You might want to look at some newspapers,” my father suggested, and soon I was immersed in 1819 newspaper accounts of the massacre.
Twenty-four years later, I handed my Muse a story about prison abuse, and he handed me back a story about the Agrarian Revolution. That story was Debt Price, which would later appear in my Master/Other story collection. But apparently, my Muse wasn’t satisfied with giving me a novella with a 12,000-word passage in which nothing happened except that the characters experienced a series of bad harvests. Instead, while I was writing “Deception” the following year, I discovered that one of my main characters in the Eternal Dungeon series had taken part in a certain peaceful rally that ended with bloodshed and with his own arrest.
From a historical point of view, “Deception” is anachronistic. “Deception” takes place in 357, while Weldon’s arrest occurred in 339. In the Eternal Dungeon’s world, three years pass for every one year in our world, so, while “Deception” is set roughly in the year 1881, Weldon’s arrest would have been roughly in 1875, three decades after the Corn Laws were repealed in Britain. But the general ferment for workers’ rights continued throughout the nineteenth century until, in the 1880s, trade unions began to be formed, taking the place once held by medieval guilds. At that point, conflict between the unions and other forces in society became inevitable.
Nothing more needs to be said about the historical aspects of Transformation. If the reader detects only a faint whisper of societal change in this novel, this is because the characters themselves have experienced no more than that.
o—o—o
o—o—o
o—o—o
=== The Balance ===
According as it is with the laws that belong to the present life, so shall the Judge act with most just deed towards the man of the Lie and the man of the Right, and him whose false things and good things balance.
—Avesta: Yasna 33 (translated by L. H. Mills).
The Balance 1
TRUTH AND LIES
The year 359, the fourth month. (The year 1881 Clover by the Old Calendar.)
Historical accounts of the Eternal Dungeon usually skip directly from its most exciting event – the madness of its first High Seeker – to its second most exciting event, an incident that would change the nature of the centuries-old dungeon and revolutionize forever our nation’s treatment of prisoners and other societal misfits. This is a shame, for it is a clear that the second event owed a great deal to the first.
It is necessary in this volume, therefore, to linger upon small episodes that, at the time, must have seemed insignificant. The first of these, of course, is the return of Layle Smith to his prisoners.
The documents of the Eternal Dungeon, while frustratingly vague about the nature of the High Seeker’s madness, do give us detailed information about the first searching Layle Smit
h undertook three years later, when he finally returned fully to his duties. We learn from these documents that, although the High Seeker had planned to return to searching prisoners, the exact timing of his return was forced on him by circumstances.
Moreover, the circumstances in question were not ideal. Elsdon Taylor, the Seeker who had cared for Layle Smith during his illness, had recently entered into spiritual isolation in the dungeon’s crematorium in order to mourn the death of his father. He was therefore unavailable to serve as a chaperone to Layle Smith, as he had throughout the most serious phase of the High Seeker’s mental illness.
It is hardly surprising, then, that the greatest number of documents from this period reveal the anxiety of witnesses as to whether Layle Smith would lose control again. The danger seemed particularly strong, given the crime the prisoner had committed . . .
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.