He dripped his way along to the door. Blood flowed in tears down his left arm, leaving a trail any shark could follow. He winced with every step, but he would not fail now. He was too close to his goal, so near the solution.
The door was locked, but it had a little key pad next to it. A small screen was above the pad. It read: PLEASE ENTER CODE, and had five spaces for an answer.
Conscience paused at the keyboard; he had no idea what the code was. He slumped and his moist forehead touched the wall. So close—just beyond the door would be the answer and his salvation.
He was bone tired. Sweat still ran down his face in clear tears and blood dripped from his numbing arm. A cold chill spread from his shoulder wound. He gritted his teeth.
There had to be a logical answer to opening the door. Lucy was a logical person, so any code she thought up would be predictable. It was like the box’s riddle, the riddle she couldn’t solve. It had to have a sensible answer.
He looked at the keyboard. All the letters of the alphabet were there, just as on any normal keyboard. Letters—all the letters—and just five spaces.
The box’s riddle popped into his mind. All of us are little creatures, all of us have different features. Jet, glass, tin, boxed and you. Something deep within him said those were the important words. So, what did they mean?
Conscience smiled. He knew the answer. It was obvious, really. The box had three riddles, and Lucy couldn’t decide which one of three realities she was in. One of the possibilities was: she was in a book. And what made up a book—words. And what were words made up of—letters.
He typed the five letters into the pad. The door bung-ssssshhhht-whiiiiped open, and he sighed in relief. If only he could get back in touch with Lucy, he could have told her the answer to the first riddle.
He staggered into the room. It was heptagonal, with large white crystal triangles that met at the centre of the floor. Each face of the room had sizeable, full, book shelves covering them. Above the shelves were the titles of the secret memories they housed. RAVI: stated one. DAD: said another. EMBARRASSING MOMENTS, REVENGE PLOTS, BEAUTIFUL MOMENTS, GRANDPA WILL and MUM: said the other shelves.
At the room’s centre was a clear glass box. Ice crystals formed around its edges as if it had just been rescued from a glacier. Inside the box was a large chest of a deep, rich mahogany. It looked old and slightly careworn, like a well-loved, but ultimately neglected, family heirloom. Etched on the case’s glass, were the words: ANSWERS—EVEN IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES DO NOT BREAK.
Conscience was severely tempted to go and look at the bookcase called RAVI, but he didn’t think he had the time to waste. He lumbered forward to the glass case, his ridiculous Cuban heels clattering on the crystal floor. He pulled off his right boot and brought the heel down sharply on the glass. It smashed and shards fell like a deadly waterfall into the case. He reached in with his right hand, his left one still hung useless by his side, and pulled out the wooden chest.
It was large and creaked as he hoisted it out. He set it down on the floor and brought the heel of his boot to bear on the locking mechanism. The lock didn’t budge, and the chest didn’t open. He tried again, this time bringing all his weight down on the lock. It still wouldn’t open.
Flip-it! he screamed in rage.
He wanted to rest. He wanted to sleep. He had never slept in his whole existence, but now he could feel the bone weariness creep over him. His shoulder was a ball of icy pain, sweat stung his eyes and all his muscles yelled at him to stop, to just give up. It didn’t matter. Who cared about this stupid box? Hide, go somewhere and hide and recuperate. Then, when he was strong again, he could take back the ship from Intuition.
No, he said in defiance, I need to open this box. I need to know the answers. How do I open you?
Fiery letters burned their way across the chest’s top forming three questions which spun in a lazy circle.
CAN YOU ENTER THE SAME STREAM TWICE?
WHAT IS AN ATOM MADE OF?
WHO ARE YOU?
What? asked Conscience. More riddles? Why can’t you just have a key?
The chest stood resolute with its riddles spinning on its lid.
Which one do I have to answer first?
The lid shifted, and new words appeared on it.
CONSCIENCE, THEY ARE THE SAME ANSWER.
Then, the three riddles returned, spinning in their lazy circle.
How can that be? A stream is a stream. You can always get into it. An atom is made up of electrons and neutrons and protons. I am Conscience. How can the answers all be the same?
The chest remained stoically silent.
Desperation grew in him. He had to get this box open. It was his only chance, and he had to take it.
All right, think logically. Can you get into a stream twice? Well, let’s start with definitions: what is a stream? It’s water. Streams are found everywhere. They are how water gets from mountains to the sea. Fish live in them. They have banks, and they flow.
He was interrupted by a bung-ssssshhhht-whiiiip noise behind him and closed his eyes in resignation.
I should have seen this coming, he said, as Intuition stepped into the room. The cling-spuzz of Intuition’s spurs rattled on the metal flooring.
Conscience wobbled to his feet. He couldn’t run anymore, mainly, because he only had one of his ridiculous high-heeled boots on. He sighed. He really should have put his boot back on.
Intuition drew and casually pointed his six-shooter at Conscience, a broad smile split across his face.
Look, can we talk about this? Conscience asked.
Intuition shook his head, cocking the gun with his thumb like a born cowboy. He fired. The bullet seared into Conscience’s right shoulder, and pain leapt through him in a fiery wave. He screwed his eyes closed and gritted his teeth against the injury. There was nowhere for him to flee. He had run out of warren, and now he had to stand.
Are you really going to kill me? Conscience asked. He just couldn’t imagine someone killing him.
“Yes. I am,” replied Intuition, without pity.
Why? Why kill me? What have I done to you? he asked.
The pain was an icy fire in both of his shoulders. The burning puffed and guttered with every heartbeat, frosty tendrils stabbed down his arms.
“Done? You have done nothing. It is what you will do that has me worried,” said Intuition.
You’re going to kill me for something I’m about to do?
“Yes,” smiled the stranger, “in a few moments you are going to solve the riddle which opens that box. I will help you in this endeavour. Then you will know the answer. If I allowed you to live you would tell Lucy what you know, and I cannot allow that to happen, and so you must die. Understand?”
But you can’t kill me. I’m…I’m…I’m not ready to die. It would be murder, he almost cried.
“It cannot be that, Conscience. You are just a spell—and a broken spell at that. You do not even function as you were intended. Therefore, killing you will hardly be murder, any more than deleting a corrupted computer program.”
But, I’m alive. I’ve evolved since then, I have experiences and memories, he pleaded, the tears welling in his eyes.
“Then, who is Conscience? Is it the spell at the beginning, or the thing bleeding and crying at the end?”
I don’t understand, said Conscience, utterly confused.
“If you are an ever-changing thing, always evolving, then how can we pin a name to you? How can you be Conscience at all? You change so much that you are not the same as when you started. There can be no such person as Conscience. Do you understand now?”
Conscience shook his head.
“Very well, let us try this more simply.”
Intuition cocked his gun and fired a shot into Conscience’s left thigh. Conscience buckled, dropping to one knee. The fire burned through his thigh, and coarse, red blood seeped through his trousers. He screamed and his teeth bit down on the scream. Tears rolled over his cheeks, and
he whimpered.
“Now, then,” said Intuition, smiling as warm as a glacier, “who is it that feels that pain?”
Conscience tried to raise himself, but his leg refused to move. Blood pumped in a steady thrum from the hole in it. The pain was off the scale. His nerves no longer registered anything, just a cold numb finger of ice, which kept crawling ever further down.
He was almost certain he was about to die. Intuition simply couldn’t be reasoned with, but still he had to try. He just couldn’t accept that he wouldn’t be able to convince the stranger that he should live.
I am Conscience, he said, in defiance.
“Very well, but that is only a tag. Who are you? Can you point to anything else that is you?”
He had to keep Intuition talking. Maybe the crew would become unfrozen, and then they could help save his life.
I am a guiding spell, but I became broken.
“No, no,” tutted Intuition, “that is what you do, your job, not who you are. Once you failed to be a guiding spell, did you cease to exist?”
I am a spell inside Lucy’s head? he tried.
“No. That is just your relationship to another person. It is your social label; it is not who you are. So, who are you? Who are you?”
Please. I, I, he said, I don’t want to die. You don’t have to do this.
“We are all going to die, Conscience,” said Intuition, with patience. “But, at least you will die enlightened. Now, who are you? If, you are not your name, or your job—who are you?”
I don’t know, he sobbed, falling forward onto his face.
His arms were numb and useless. His right leg was an icicle. He spooled on the floor, crying in pain and resignation. He didn’t know the answer.
“You do know. You just will not admit it to yourself. Who are you?” said Intuition, cocking his six-shooter again.
There was only one answer Conscience could think of. It was horrible. He couldn’t say it, but Intuition literally had a gun to his head. If, he wasn’t his name, or his job, or a spell in Lucy’s head, then he was…
I am nothing, he spat onto the floor. I am the summation of all my experience, but I am nothing you could point at. There can be nothing called Conscience because each moment I am made new by the previous moment. I am like a stream; the water molecules flow by, but they are not the stream. The stream is just a name for an ephemeral thing. I cannot get into the same stream twice because the river has moved the water onwards down the hill. An atom is made up of electrons and protons and neutrons, but mainly it is made up of the space in between those things. Since atoms make up everything, then everything is made up of nothing. It is all just swirling together because of an invisible force called gravity.
There was a loud click and Conscience realised that the box, in which Lucy had hidden her secrets, had unlocked.
“Well done,” said Intuition, with a slow clap, “you got there eventually. You may go and collect your reward.”
Conscience couldn’t stand, and his arms refused to move. Painfully, he crawled using his forearms and his one good leg. Each centimetre was a mile. A vast wasteland of gunmetal grey flooring stretched out before him, unending, like a desert. Conscience gritted his teeth. He had paid for the mysteries inside the box with his blood; he had to see what the answer was. What was Lucy hiding from him? What was it that Intuition would kill him for knowing? What did he have to die for?
He slithered inch by desperate inch across the floor. All the while, he could hear the cling-spuzz of the spurs behind him, keeping pace with his slow progress.
At the foot of the chest, he reached up, through the burning pain of his destroyed shoulder, and pawed at the lid. There was a loud bang and Conscience felt more pain, this time in his left leg. He sensed the bullet enter and smash into his femur, grinding against the bone. Blood flowed out from the wound like a red river, but Conscience had no more pain left in him. He was at the limit of his senses and his endurance. There was only one thing he needed to do. He found his body didn’t hurt anymore: it was all coming to an end, but he would know the answer, and that gave him comfort.
He reached up again and flipped the lid open like an oyster revealing its pearl. Stark bright light leapt from within, blinding him. He shied away as three figures stepped out of the box and stood before him. They shimmered, fading in an out like a badly tuned television. When one was fully present, the other two were just shadowy hazes.
Conscience recognised them all. The first was a black cowled figure, its long flowing robes hiding its face. He knew who it was straight away. The Dimn. The second figure was Lucy in a straight-jacket. She looked sad to see him in such pain, but also at peace as if she knew the pain would soon be over for him. In addition, Conscience recognised the third figure. The third figure was an old man wearing a hospital gown, his wizened legs knocking together. His beard was grizzled, but his eyes seemed sharper than Conscience remembered.
“There, you have the answers. Pick which ever one you like.” Intuition lackadaisically used his gun to point.
Conscience sighed and rolled over to face his final destiny. His arms lolled out on either side of him, making his body into a cross.
He was tired, so very tired. He was tired of being afraid. He was tired of running, and he was tired of being in pain. Death might even be a relief. All his weary burdens could be laid to rest, and he could finally sleep.
His uniform was soaked with his own blood, turning it from captain gold to ensign red.
You’re a manifestation of the Dimn, aren’t you? said Conscience, to the ship’s new captain.
Intuition smiled. “Very good. You begin to understand.”
You do realise that this is only real in one version of reality?
“That is very true. Even so, the question is: are we in that reality? And from the look on your face, you have made your decision on that question. I think it is time for you to die, Conscience,” said Intuition.
Lucy will beat you. You know that too, don’t you?
“Your faith is misplaced,” said the new captain. “She will choose, just as you have chosen and, from my point of view, in two out of three she will choose incorrectly. Those, are pretty good odds for me.”
I believe in her.
“Yes, I know you do,” said Intuition, as if it were a benediction.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be. I wonder, what comes after death?
“A coward to the last?” laughed Intuition. “Still hoping that there is a final escape in heaven? But, you are wrong. For you there will be only blackness. The world will carry on. However, it will be a bit less colourful, like oil washed away in rain. Time to say goodnight.”
They say the owl was once a baker’s daughter, Conscience quipped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s worth about as much as your blackness. You’ve got no more idea than I have. All right, I’m ready now, he said, steadying himself for the final adventure.
Intuition pulled the hammer back on his six-shooter for the last time and fired. The hammer fell. The bullet fired. It travelled through Conscience’s forehead obliterating his brain. Blackness, like the wings of a raven, folded slowly around him.
Then, Conscience died.
Chapter 23 The Tin Woodsman
Ticking and tocking on the edge of forever,
the old man waits for the stars to fall.
Not knowing his mind,
he waits throughout time,
to see all the stars that fall.
From the poem “The old man and the stars”
By Yerux Xandu,
Year After Ice 17848
“She must have three helpers—one a fool, one a coward and one without a soul.”
From the Prophecy of the Cheshire Cat
Lucy trudged down the dirt path as it wound its way through the forest. Shards of dying sunlight lit the ground in front in a patchwork of light and shade. The weak, cold sunlight also picked out the red and blac
k of the berries, which shouldn’t have been present during this time of the year. The brambles were touched with gold leaves, giving the wood the look of a burning coal.
The unconscious girl was strung between the travellers, an arm thrown over each shoulder, her square-toed shoes dragging along the ground. Lucy tried not to complain about the weight. She reasoned that no matter how much it hurt her, it must be doubly painful for Talbot. He had dried blood everywhere on his arms and hands. They needed to get to Poppy’s grandmother’s house and soon. Lucy thought an old woman who lived alone in a forest must know all kinds of herbal law. She would need some of that law to stop Talbot getting an infection or something worse. The faun’s hand brushed softly against her neck as they carried the unconscious girl. She looked over and saw that the four gaping tooth marks were just four white and puckered scars—that couldn’t be a good sign. Those had been a mess of mashed flesh, blood and pus only an hour ago, and now they were neat, healed scars. Normal wounds shouldn’t heal so quickly.
You do realise all his wounds are infected. said Intuition.
Be quiet, she thought, trying to ignore the conclusion the spell was hinting at.
Those are werewolf-bites, he said, in a voice that made her think of a snake waiting in a hole for unsuspecting prey. You know what happens to people bitten by that night-breed.
She tried to move her mind to other subjects. How far had they come in an hour’s worth of dragging the girl? How much further was it to Grandma’s house? Just what did tears and tears mean?
Her traitorous mind kept coming back to the bite marks. She could not stop thinking about the awful conclusion Intuition’s line of reasoning would bring her to.
“Lucy?” said Talbot, in a voice tinged with resignation.
He didn’t face her. He kept his head pointing forward as if looking at her were too difficult.
“Shut up, Talbot, all right—just shut up,” she answered, already knowing the path this conversation would take. “Everything will be fine. We just have to get to Grandma’s house, and then we can sort this whole mess out. Don’t you go making rash decisions.”
Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy Page 29