Hespira

by Matthew Hughes

  “I would like to help, if I can. You helped me.”

  “Did I?” The question was not rhetorical. “I caused you to know things about yourself that you had not known, and did not want to know once I revealed them to you. By giving you that knowledge, did I truly help you?”

  “Yes,” she said, “because you made it possible for me to choose whether to embrace those ‘things about myself’ or to reject them and make a new beginning.”

  “New beginnings,” I said, “come in all different kinds and sizes. Not every one of them is a blessing.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  I made a gesture that said she should not involve herself with the matter. But she was not a woman who was easy to deflect. I wondered if that was why someone—for I was still sure there was a someone—had scoured out her memories.

  She said, “I have this impression that there is some secret between us, but you keep skirting around it. That makes me think that it is a dark secret.”

  “Dark enough,” I said, then reproved myself. “I assure you, it is nothing to do with your case. It arises from my own circumstances.”

  She wanted to continue the discussion, but I said that I had to think about what Osk Rievor’s broken message might lead to and retired to my cabin. But when I was stretched upon the pallet I did not turn my mind to the situation at the cottage. I thought instead of what Hespira had said.

  I was not used to thinking of myself, certainly not of trying to decide whether I was happy or not. The workings of my finely calibrated mind had been the core of my life—I was what I did—but I had scarcely ever turned its focus inward, nor needed to. It was a precision tool that I applied to the universe, but only to the macroverse that began where my own skin met the air; the microverse within had remained unprobed, at least since the juvenile introspections of my formative years.

  And I would rather it had remained that way. But now I had lost a part of myself; it lived in a cottage surrounded by the tomes and paraphernalia of a system of thought I had always despised. And that system was shortly to overwhelm the rational universe in which I had flourished, leaving me—if I survived the transition—facing a cosmos for which I was spectacularly ill-equipped. My brief foray into the coming era of wizards and wills had made that clear.

  So I was mired in a quandary from which I could find no exit. Whatever efforts I might bring to the task, the Great Wheel would roll with crushing weight right over them. And perhaps over me. After a lifetime of successfully dealing with problems “out there,” I had come up against one that, grapple with it though I might, admitted of no solution. And, in yet another instance of the universe proving to me that it operated fundamentally on the principle of irony, my inability to solve this terrible “out-there” problem had left me with one “in here”—with which, it seemed, I was equally ill-equipped to deal.

  The sleeping pallet asked if I wished to avail myself of its services. I found that I did, and let it proceed.

  #

  Our passage through the next whimsy brought no more battered bees or partial messages, nor did the one after, which cast us far up The Spray toward Old Earth. Either Osk Rievor had said all he meant to say, or he was unable to say anything more. There was no point in dwelling on the matter. We endured the long traverse of normal space until the final whimsy, idly talking, eating, sleeping, and availing ourselves of the Gallivant’s extensive store of diversions. I preferred games that tested the wits; Hespira favored dramas and told-tales. We did not delve again into the realm of my emotions, she out of politeness, I out of a conviction that to do so would avail me nothing.

  As we neared the last whimsy, I was in my cabin, speculating with my assistant on what would become of these strange quiddities when the universe came under its new operating rules. Whimsies, like the irreducible uncertainty that characterized the quantum underpinnings of time, space, and matter, challenged the very notion of rational cause and effect; no one truly knew what they were or how they had come to exist, though theories were rife. Still, for all their essential mystery, whimsies had served to propel, if the word was appropriate, spacecraft from one region of space to another since time immemorial. The Ten Thousand Worlds could not exist without them.

  Yet, when I had been pushed forward into the centuries after the impending change, I had journeyed back to Old Earth from the distant world Bille, traveling on a wizard’s boat borne by a dragon. But we had passed through no whimsies nor anything like them. We had sailed through some medium that the denizens of the magical future called “the ether,” against which the dragon’s wings had beat and found purchase. I had earlier, in my own era, traveled between Bille and Old Earth in the Gallivant, and it seemed to me that the trip had taken longer. It was hard to be sure, however; in the wizard’s ship, we had traveled under the shield of a powerful spell that insulated us from any harmful effects of a transethereal passage, and I had noticed how one’s sense of time could become unreliable in the presence of strong magic.

  It was difficult to discuss the matter with my assistant while we were figuratively in the Gallivant’s belly, since the dragon that had carried us home was—or would be; tenses grew strained during discussions of time travel—this very spaceship, after it was transmogrified by the transition to the age of sympathetic association. It seemed the wisest course not to burden the ship with this knowledge, since that might affect the shape of future events and create causational loops or dead-ends out of which I was not sure I could easily navigate.

  “But the thing that disturbs me about whimsies,” I said to my assistant, “and indeed about the other arational aspects of the universe in our supposedly empirical era, is the sheer arbitrariness of it all. Here we are presented with a cosmos that largely works on definable, discoverable rules. Two and two always equal four, past precedes present which precedes future, cause reliably gives effect.”

  “Though the details can be difficult,” said my assistant.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but the principle remains sound. Then, all at once, just as we begin to feel we’ve got the rules established, a voice issues from somewhere off-stage and says, ‘Oh, by the way, here are a few exceptions.’ And for those exceptions, no explanation is offered.”

  “Indeed,” said the integrator, “nor even suggested that any explanation is required.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And then we transit to the age of sympathetic association. Will becomes the paramount force, and things that are like each other are connected even though they be separated by distance or time or physical barriers. But however powerful the practitioner of magic, be he the mightiest thaumaturge atop the highest heap of mighty thaumaturges, let him misplace just one syllable of a complex cantrip and he finds himself turned inside out.”

  I paused to think of Bristal Baxandall, the first practitioner I had ever encountered—the incident had happened almost a year ago now—whom I had discovered on the floor of his book-filled house in just such a sorry, inverted condition. “For all the will and all the associative sympathizing he could bring to bear on his situation,” I said, “he was undone by a simple relationship between cause and effect.”

  “Magic,” said my integrator, “has rules. At the heart of the willful, associative universe, we find a modicum of rationalism, just as we find uncertainty at the core of the rational cosmos.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And there seems no other explanation for it than sheer perversity on the part of whatever entity is responsible for the whole untidy business.”

  I thought about it a moment more then said, “Perversity, or just a very idiosyncratic sense of humor.”

  “That,” said my assistant, “is beyond the scope of any comment an integrator might offer. But, if you will permit me to tread upon the personal, you seem to be unusually troubled by your thoughts.”

  “I will not disguise it,” I said. “For almost a year I have known that the life I have loved must come to an end. But I began, once I was forced to admit t
he unpalatable truth, with only a taste of that bitter knowledge. The experiences of the past several months, however, have required me to swallow more and more. The truth has been carried deep, down to the very plumbs of the Hapthorn belly. And now it has got right in amongst me.”

  “What does that portend?”

  “That I must come to a decision, I suppose. I have been going on, practicing my profession, pursuing my avocations, as if life still spread its grand carpet before me. But, in fact, the carpet is being rolled up. The question is, do I wait for it to reach my toes? Or do I step off the old rug at a time and place of my choosing?”

  “A grim choice.”

  “At least, if I do not wait too long, it is mine to make.”

  The ship’s chimes sounded. The last whimsy was nigh. I lay upon the pallet and took the sac into my hand. “Perhaps Hespira, Irmyrlene Broon-Paskett that was, has the better of it,” I mused. “The cup of self-knowledge was taken from her hands and its contents cast into the dust, leaving her free.”

  “You have never sought to be free of knowledge,” the integrator said. “Indeed, those who relish that freedom you have long disdained as misguided paupers.”

  “It is possible,” I said, “that I have been the misguided one. I am scarcely enriched by the knowledge I have carried with me this past year.”

  Years before, when my worst trouble had been long spells of boredom, I had instructed my assistant to take issue with me whenever I exhibited signs of self-ache. It began to do so now, but the ship interrupted with the insistent “whimsy-imminent” chime. Before irreality could outrage my senses, I tightened my fist, felt the coolness of the drugs’ penetration, then felt no more.

  #

  Again, no ill-used bee awaited my return from nescience; instead, as I was clearing the drug-induced scurf from my brain, sitting semi-vacantly at the salon table nursing a mug of punge, the ship said, “I am receiving a relayed message from Osk Rievor.”

  At the same time, my assistant’s voice sounded from the air beside me. “As am I. It has been passed from ship to ship by craft outbound toward the whimsy we have just come through. It is some days old.”

  “Are they the same message?” I asked. When both integrators answered in the affirmative I said, “Then let one of you display it.”

  Two screens appeared, one overlapping the other, each showing the acquired face of my former intuition. Then the screen that was in the rear suddenly appeared in front, to be instantly superseded by the one it had leapfrogged. The competition continued, so quickly that the image seemed to flicker in the air. Meanwhile, the recorded Osk Rievor began speaking, but the voice came from two directions, the two versions slightly out of phase so that they achieved an echo. I found the composite effect most unwelcome. “Stop,” I said.

  Both images froze and the voices ceased. “I thought,” I said, “that we had worked through this nonsensical rivalry.”

  Neither integrator replied. I was gratified that at least I did not have to endure the two of them blaming each other. “One of you will move your screen to my right, the other to my left,” I said. When the separation was achieved without further conflict, I announced that I would make an arbitrary choice.

  “Whichever integrator’s screen this is,” I said, indicating the one to my right, “will display the image. The other integrator will provide the sound. You will coordinate with each other to synchronize the two.”

  Osk Rievor again appeared in the air before me. His aspect was calm. “I do not know if my messengers reached you. But all is well here. The salamander is under control and I am learning much of interest by studying it. Let me know when you have returned to your lodgings and we will confer again.”

  His hand lifted as if to signal an end to the transmission, but then it paused in midair and I saw another thought come into his aspect. “Oh, yes,” he said, “and, obviously, it would probably be best not to spend any more of the jewels.”

  Then his hand completed its motion and the screen went blank.

  Hespira spoke from behind me. She had come in while the message was being played. “What is ‘the salamander’?”

  I turned. She was wearing again the long gingham dress with ribbons at the shoulders that she had worn when we had first collided. “I do not know,” I said, “though it seems he expects me to. It must have been referred to in his earlier message.”

  “Well, whatever it is, he has it under control. That is probably for the best.”

  I could not say. But I was somewhat puzzled. “He seems to have acquired an integrator.”

  My assistant said, “I have been examining the message in detail.”

  “So have I,” said the Gallivant.

  “Enough,” I said. “Ship’s integrator, you will operate the ship and prepare us one of your splendid breakfasts. I suspect we will need to be fortified for whatever Osk Rievor has been up to. Meanwhile, my assistant and I will examine the message.”

  The screen reappeared in the air to my right, then centered itself. It also expanded, so that in a moment Osk Rievor’s face took up most of the salon’s inner wall.

  “Regard,” said the integrator. It had eliminated the sound, and now, as my former intuition looked directly into the percept that had captured his image, the picture froze and began to enlarge. The focus was on the pupil of my other self’s right eye and, as I was still somewhat disequilibriated from the whimsy-transit medications, I had to shake off the impression that I was falling toward an immense black pool.

  “Regard what?” I said.

  “A reflection,” said my assistant. “It will appear as I advance the sequence very slowly.”

  I peered at the huge expanse of darkness that was my other self’s eye. There had been little ambient light in the room—it was the study in the cottage again—and I could not be sure that I saw any reflection in Osk Rievor’s eye.

  “A brief flash of light comes from, I believe, outside the cottage,” the integrator said, then, “Here it is.”

  It must have been of very short duration, and not of much intensity. I had not noticed it when I saw the full message, and doubted that I would have caught it even if I had not been still under the impress of the drugs. But noticing details was what integrators were for, and I had designed and instructed mine well.

  So the flash came and, with it, a reflection appeared in Osk Rievor’s enlarged pupil. My assistant froze the image.

  “I’ll tell you what it looks like to me,” said Hespira. She had come to stand behind me. I could smell the odor of the punge she was sipping from one of the Gallivant’s fine china mugs. “It looks like some kind of animal. Maybe a cat, but with a more rounded skull. You can just see the ears, there.” She reached past me to point.

  She was both right and wrong. The silhouette did look somewhat like a cat. It also might have been the head of a small ape. Or it might have looked like a beast with attributes of both species.

  “It couldn’t be,” I said to my assistant, “could it?

  “It could be,” the integrator said, “though it shouldn’t.”

  “I think it is,” I said. “I don’t want to think so, but I think I have to.”

  “What?” said Hespira. “What is it?”

  “A grinnet,” I said. “My grinnet.”

  #

  I was not sure how it happened. It started with the woman’s obvious question—“What is a grinnet?”—and went on from there. Instead of diverting her attention to some other subject or simply falling back upon my old reliable “It would be premature to say,” I found myself telling her the entire tale from the beginning: the ugly business with Baxandall, the juvenile demon with prurient appetites, the confrontation with Turgut Therobar that had reified my intuition as a separate, though nameless, entity sharing my mental parlor. Then the sequence of murders that led to the assembly of a composite corpse that was intended to revivify the archmage Majestrum, and how that led in turn to my alter ego’s having taken the name Osk Rievor and our subseque
nt trip through the spiral labyrinth and into the future, returning with a trove of magical goods and knowledge. In passing, I told the tale of how my assistant sojourned for some months as a frugivorous apelike cat—or catlike ape—modeled on a wizard’s familiar from a bygone age, then chose to abandon that form and inhabit again the constellation of components installed in my workroom or, when we traveled, in the armature now hanging from its hook on the salon wall.

  It made for a longish telling, even with many subsidiary details left out. I did remember to mark the Gallivant’s brave shipliness in battling the fungal symbiote’s powerful avatar in Hember Forest, without whose intervention both Osk Rievor and I would have been returned to Bille and subjected to the entity’s detailed revenge. When I finished, several servings of punge later, Hespira sat in silence for an extended moment, her eyes focused on the empty air. Then she blinked and said, “This burden, of knowing that the whole cosmos must soon come crashing down, with all of us swept away in a deluge of unreason, you have carried this horrendous weight alone through an entire year?”

  “I am not the only one who knows,” I said. “The Archon surely does. I am sure there are others within his inner confidence. And, of course, there are several budding thaumaturges, like Baxandall and Therobar, who not only know what is to come but are actively preparing for it.”

  “It will be their time?”

  “Very much their time. They mean to rule the ruins.”

  “And your friend—no, your former intuitive faculty—Osk Rievor: what does he mean to do?”

  We had not discussed the issue at length. But I said I believed he would oppose the cruel and power-hungry, and would try to bring as much order as soon as he could, once the transition had been weathered.

  “He is like you,” she said, “a Calabrine.” She referred to one of the principal figures in the tale of Hespira: the righteous paladin who strives to bring justice to the land after Aubron, the rejected suitor, resolves to make the world pay for his own suffering. Their final confrontation is a poignant moment.