Galen nibbled on the quill’s tip.
“Trauma can certainly cause concussions and brief loss of consciousness. There would of course be a lack of recall in such a state.”
“Not unconsciousness,” Lakif said, correcting him. “I mean actual amnesia that persists in the awakened state.”
“Retrograde or anterograde?” the doctor asked.
“Pardon? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Is the issue a difficulty remembering the past or remembering new information?”
“The former.” Lakif fumed over the unnecessarily complex jargon of doctors. “Can a wound cause this type of amnesia?”
“Of course. Certain blocks of time may be erased.”
“I mean, forget everything—especially personal details,” Lakif interrupted the psychoanalyst. “Could such a person have absolutely no recall of his past life up to a given moment?”
“It’s possible,” the doctor mused.
“Possible?” Lakif longed for a one-handed doctor, for only such an individual could give her a straight answer and not the proverbial “on the one hand.”
“It could be a result of trauma causing organic brain injury, but a pervasive amnesia could be rooted in psychological issues as well.”
“Psychological? How so?” Lakif was enthused with the theme.
“There are certain dissociative states characterized by amnesia.”
“Dissociative?” Lakif could hardly pronounce the word and not without a spray of spit.
“Dissociation is a form of disconnection from oneself, where one literally loses one’s sense of identity. Perhaps you are familiar with hypnosis.”
“I’ve heard of it. I thought it was bunk.”
“Hypnosis is a form of induced dissociation. Another common example is daydreaming. Well, you should appreciate this more than most, for Acaanans are an encyclopedia of such disorders. In fact, my mentor studied the phenomenon with several volunteer Acaanan subjects…” He trailed off before Lakif’s blank look. The psychiatrist seemed to recognize that he was getting derailed. “In any event, trauma, or more appropriately a psychologically traumatic experience, can propel one into such a state.”
“The individual in question isn’t in a trance?”
“In effect, yes. But such a trance could not be appreciated by others. He would behave normally. In fact, in one such disorder, the dissociated individual adopts a new identity with no recall of his past. Sometimes this involves uprooting and traveling great distances, which seems to aid in the divorce process. Thus, the disorder is dubbed fugue, which means flight.”
“I see.” Lakif nodded. “That’s very interesting, even to a laywoman.”
“Of course, such instances are exceedingly rare. Much more commonly, the patient is malingering.”
“Malingering?” Another ungainly word confounded Lakif.
“That’s medical talk for faking it.” The doctor’s fingers danced in the air, as if he was speaking with them. “These people often have a very real reason to disappear.”
“Such as?”
“Escape for instance.”
“From?”
“A debtor, a spouse, a criminal record, a malfeasance—take your pick. The list is extensive.”
“How can you distinguish between the phonies and the ones with the true dissociation syndrome?”
“It can be challenging, to be sure. There is no cookie-cutter recipe.”
Lakif’s gaze drifted past the psychologist and toward the quadrivium. The speaker was orating fiercely, but his speech was lost amid the intervening intellectual babble. She began to tune the current topic out. As the Half-man was no longer in her life, the question of diagnosing his personal issues no longer held much appeal.
“The Laureates are certainly a no nonsense lot.” Lakif pointed out the sequestered forum.
“That circle has achieved the acme of learning. You are interested in hearing them?”
Lakif nodded eagerly.
“Go and catch an earful. But a word of caution: don’t interrupt them.”
Lakif thanked the psychiatrist for his insight and left, threading among the scholars toward the secluded enclave.
VIII
The Circle
LAKIF CREPT FORWARD AND HID BEHIND ONE OF THE ENCIRCLING STATUES. It was of a shapely female, but both arms were missing, as if they had been sawed off. Nevertheless, it shielded her approach so she could spy on the circle—unseen. Based on the praise heaved on them from the other scholars, Lakif knew that this cohort was held in the utmost regard and thus afforded the luxury of a semi-private auditorium to hold their theses.
She peered cautiously from behind the statue’s breast, like a child spying on her parents in lovemaking. Unlike the prattling philosophers in the Tabernacle proper, this was a subdued circle. Its constituents sat in silent deference before their orating colleague. The whole assembly was hoary, among the most aged men in the Tabernacle. Clearly, the Titan’s Toe was a veritable gerontocracy where advancement and prestige came with years. Of all in the Tabernacle, they uniquely wore gilded laurel wreaths as crowns. To the Acaanan, the golden bays represented the halos of a divine hierarchy.
Six cushions were set at equal distance around the circle. Five were occupied by Laureates—the sixth was empty. Its occupant stood center stage. The lecturer was an elderly man with a white, fine-trimmed beard. Lakif noted that his twinkling eyes were different colors. As she peeked around the chipped breast, she caught the tail end of the lecture.
“From his citadel in the pit of Nessus, the Trigeminal Lord mercilessly orchestrated the final annihilation of the allied army. As he was deaf and dumb, his orders were issued through his terrible vassal, Geriod. The Lord’s giant sentry, ever vigilant at the mouth of Nessus, orchestrated every minutia of the enemy’s stratagem. So loud was Geriod’s voice that it carried all the way to the Plains of Phlegra. He spoke in a hundred voices all at once, such that each and every one of his maligned minions could clearly hear no matter how clouded its own senses were with depraved malignity.”
He continued. “Thus, in the year 133 ante-tribunal on the fourth day of Mars, the remaining forces of the Minauros legion gathered on the plains of Phlegra. They were lead by the embattled general Grimpkin who had just returned from the failed expedition to the Typhon Fells. Later that day, they were joined by forces of the shattered Aerock Regime. Dispirited and leaderless, the clans readily rallied under the command of general Grimpkin.
“Shortly after sunrise on the fifth day of Mars, the army of the Trigeminal Lord crossed the river Acheron. Their juggernaut advance splintered the allied outposts camped there. At mid-morning, the bulk of the allied army had coalesced to oppose the advance. As providence would have it, the Cyclopes of Rime Isle arrived in the nick of time. They marched in from the great northern sea.
“By noon the final battle commenced, and tender Phlegra was rocked by its savagery. For five fateful hours, the battle waged unchecked. Smoke choked the sky, and Acheron flowed red. So many corpses clogged its course that the river overflowed its banks.
“The enemy numbered several times the allies in number. But Grimpkin’s forces fought against more than a vastly superior adversary; they waged struggle against the clock. The three toady spirits that had summoned the kings of the world had decreed that should Grimpkin’s flag speckle in the last rays of light, victory would be theirs.
“Geriod pressed his war machine, hoping to decimate the allied army as swiftly as possible. Such carnage the world has never seen, nor will ever see again. With still an ample span to sunset, the outlook was grim. The Aerock clans were utterly annihilated, slain to a man. Even the Cyclopes suffered grievous losses. Grimpkin’s own legion was razed to but a few hundred men. But they struggled on until their limbs cried out with pain. It looked as if doom was imminent.
“Finally, the last wink of light vanished, glinting off the general Grimpkin’s blood-speckled helm. In the steepening sky, a light appeared! Al
l eyes turned skyward, for that light smothered all hostilities with wonder. A blazing meteor arched through the heavens. It streaked across the firmament toward the east, its passage shredding the sky with a trumpeting squeal.
“Outside Nessus, Geriod watched as the burning mountain of rock plummeted earthward. He raised his war club, readying himself to smite the meteor back into the heavens.
“The smoking mountain impacted with unimaginable force. Geriod was instantly pulverized under the earth-drumming clout. The Trigeminal Lord was buried under the gargantuan rock, and the gates to Nessus sealed forever.
“The repercussions of that strike reached far outside Nessus. In that one earth-splitting stroke, the face of Maldiveria blistered wide. The heat from the impact vaporized whole seas, which vanished into thin air. The collision shattered the continent of Aerock. Maloria was drowned under a colossal wave.
“A deafening shockwave tore across the land. When it reached Phlegra, the very earth buckled under the combatant’s feet. Huge fissures split the battlefield, and the armies were dashed. The river Acheron drained into the earth, nevermore to bathe the surface world.
“When sense was made of the catastrophe, the Trigeminal armies reeled, bewildered. When no news came from Geriod, they panicked. Against the slim, yet unwavering, resistance of the allied forces, their ranks completely broke down. The minions fled for any haven, their morale deserting them as did Geriod’s commands. Some were slain in their haste to flee, but most escaped through the crevasses in the earth, hoping the darkness would save them.”
The speaker then paused. Based on the frivolity of Demetrius and Lysander, Lakif expected the circle of pedants to erupt into unbridled enthusiasm, applauding their colleague on a remarkable colloquy. To her surprise, a chilly silence ensued as the distinguished audience mulled over the account. Based on their silence, Lakif suspected they were barred from any displays of emotion, positive or negative.
The places the scholar had named were unfamiliar to the Acaanan—all except the Typhon Fells. This was a vast wasteland far to the west of Grimpkin. But to the best of her knowledge, the rest of the places were simply fantasy realms plucked from the pages of storybooks or mythology. They certainly didn’t have any role in a serious academic account. Furthermore, the dating system he had quoted was completely alien to what the Acaanan was familiar with.
Although she had missed the lion’s share of the tale, Lakif was intrigued by what she had heard. It was widely believed that a cataclysmic event had precipitously ended the Renaissance. She had never, however, heard anything of the participants in the world-changing clash. The tale forced her to recall the tapestry in the Goblin Knight, which seemingly depicted the meteor that had demolished the Trigeminal Lord and had annihilated his war machine.
Lakif’s attention was drawn to a curious tapestry that was hung behind the assembly. It seemed to be tattooed with small diagrams, but from this distance she wasn’t able to see more specific details.
“A ghost!” a hoarse voice shrieked. Due to its urgency, Lakif’s attention whirled back to the assembly. One of the planted pedants was gesturing in her direction. His eyes were dilated with fright.
All heads swung to confront the Acaanan lurking behind the statue. Her presence had interrupted the forthcoming discussion. With this crowd, that could be a stern affront, and she expected that a swift censure was at hand.
“Ghosts are white, dressed in the pale robes of the dead!” another corrected his partner’s observation.
“A doppelganger!” a third shrieked. “It has borrowed a shadow for camouflage!”
“Not so benign! It’s an Acaanan!” another shouted. An inspiratory gasp shook the seated enclave, as if that were the worst of the entities mentioned. Lakif feared that the agitation in the scholar’s tone would bring in all the members of the Titan’s Toe to gawk.
“That jinx brings a pox on this assembly. Oust it!” one pilgarlic ranted, and a disturbed murmur ruffled the group.
The Laureate who had pegged her as an Acaanan turned to his colleagues. “Do not dismiss this Acaanan so hastily. I believe it is the heretic.”
In response, a low hissing bubbled up from the scholars as they conferred with one another. That her presence could cause such a stir did not surprise the Acaanan, although she couldn’t fathom what was meant by a heretic. At length, all the heads eventually nodded in agreement.
With the consensus in her favor, her advocate beckoned the Acaanan out from her hiding place. Lakif felt compelled to comply.
As she skirted the row of statues, the seated committee scrutinized her through aged eyes and under furrowed brows. Her advocate stood to greet Lakif.
“Let me introduce the Laureates. I am Cicero, the incumbent chairman.” He then pointed to the former speaker. “Plutus has just regaled us with the dramatic close of the Renaissance and the fate of Acheron. There we have Titinius, Belefrom, Ovid, and, lastly, Eurphios.”
Lakif nodded to each in turn, but no sooner had Cicero’s voice trailed off than she had all but forgotten the names, which in themselves sounded scholarly. All the Laureates looked uncannily like old statues. Each had crowns illustrated with age spots that looked like ancient maps of the world.
Lakif noted that there was a seventh cushion outside the six, and it was also vacant. Needless to say, she felt more than a little uncomfortable standing alone before the highbrow congress. As an Acaanan, she was used to feeling out of place. If ever that feeling pained her, it was now.
As if on cue to break up the awkward introductions, a page arrived. The lad bore a tray with several goblets. He rapidly distributed them among the Laureates. The last goblet was delivered to Cicero, who stepped forward and graciously offered it to the Acaanan. Since entering the Tabernacle, Lakif had been adrift amid a sea of wine goblets, yet hadn’t tasted a drop. She accepted it eagerly, but could only wonder what would be the price for the drink.
“Please introduce yourself,” Cicero asked kindly.
“I am Lakif, a woman,” she cautiously replied, expecting a multitude of quips. Her own name sounded flat next to the classical sounding names of the Laureates.
“And it is your first time here?” Cicero followed up quickly.
Lakif nodded. “To the Tabernacle, as well as the Fourth Circle.”
“And what brings you out on this inclement day?”
Lakif’s look tumbled from one wizened visage to the next. She couldn’t possibly tell them the truth—that she was bearing a Rare Earth Stone to the Vulcan. They would probably not believe her, and if they did, they would probably have her stoned as a criminal. But she had a strong inkling that any lie would instantly register with these astute souls.
“I have come to see Talos,” she explained. It was such a commonplace answer that it couldn’t be doubted. People came from all across Grimpkin, and beyond, to marvel at the wonder of the world.
“Ah! The Colossus, in whose shadow we live and die,” Cicero stated with much gusto. Something about his words rang familiar to the Acaanan. They were words stolen from the obelisk in Dantillion’s Wares!
“Many come to marvel at the mighty Talos. But within this Tabernacle, reason is our titan. It is the warrior that cannot be defeated, the tower than cannot be toppled. Reason is the sacred underpinning of the Polemical Society,” he echoed Lysander’s sentiments. Lakif interpreted this moniker to mean the collective membership of the Tabernacle.
“They say this august circle stands on the parapets of that tower,” Lakif threw out the compliment to curry favor with the dignitaries.
“If we can see further than others, it is because we stand on the shoulders of giants,” Cicero gestured to the galaxy of flanking statues. Several of them were old men. Lakif couldn’t find much of a distinction between the current Laureates and the chipped relics. They were almost equally ossified.
“How much do I owe you for the drink?” Her pragmatic question clashed with the grandiose tone of the conversation.
“We won�
��t accept coin, missy,” Cicero replied.
“Well, thank you.” Lakif sipped her drink. As wine, it would never have been her first choice, but as it was complimentary, she couldn’t snub it.
Her attention was riveted to the ornate tapestry hanging beyond the Laureates. Now that she was closer, she could see that there was a large map woven into it. Grimpkin clearly was visible, occupying the map’s center. The path of the Leviathan was easily recognizable as a thread running from east to west, zigzagging from one Circle Station to the next. The other districts were depicted as well. The Covens lay to the west, while Thanatos loomed to the east. Toward the base of the tapestry was an ample expanse devoted to Mordakai. The fringe districts, little known to her, stretched to the fabric’s edge. Intricate lettering was woven into the fabric. In her role as a scribe, Lakif had copied legends to maps, but those places were invariably local parcels. She had never seen a map of the complete megalopolis illustrated so clearly. She would have liked to examine the tapestry in more detail, but the scholars demanded her attention.
“Ah, but I didn’t say the drink was free,” the chairman corrected the Acaanan with a waving finger.
“Pardon?” Sudden dread overcame Lakif.
“You, Lakif, are the heretic,” the chairman explained. “The price of the drink is a question.”
“I don’t understand,” the Acaanan felt that she was beginning to shrink in size before the sages.
“The heretic is the seventh speaker. He supplies a topic for discourse, Acaanan. You see, we all have our own favorite themes that we’re constantly prying. It gets rather boring hashing out the same tedious treaties. Therefore, every so often, we choose a layman, or laywoman, to propose the topic. It’s very thrilling, actually. You couldn’t imagine the sort of questions they’ve burped out. Having to organize an impromptu stance keeps us on our toes. And it affords us an opportunity to debate, thus bringing us back to our academic roots. It’s much more interesting this way, wouldn’t you agree?”
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