---------
Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx
Pars IV: Infernus
(i)
Saturday, May 12, 708 CR
The world whirled around him so that he could not
tell what bit of ground he saw spinning around
him was actually the ground and which was the
sky. Lush vegetation of so many colors that it
hurt to stare rushed past as he hurled aimlessly.
Trees with roots spread in every direction swam
past him with their leafy boughs like a man doing
the backstroke. Giant fish bounced along after
them, flapping their fins as if striking drums.
Streams of color like ribbons of light which
smelled like frying fat and decaying eggs bounced
between each and then spun around Charles,
sending him spinning on his side so that he had
to close his eyes to keep from throwing up.
Air grasped him from every direction. Things
struck him and pushed him along, slicing as they
went so he was sure half of his tail had been
chopped off. Something wet smacked him in the
face and chest and for a moment he thought it his
own blood. He screamed and flailed, hoping for
any purchase at all in the madness of his fall.
And then, for no apparent reason at all, the air
around him slowed and he felt something soft
gliding past his whiskers. Charles opened his
eyes. Little petals of bright yellow drifted in
the air as if a child had blown them there from a
flower picked on a lazy summer afternoon. He
stared for a moment in wonder, stretching out one
hand. The petals brushed against the pink flesh
of his fingers, broke and shattered like pollen into a scintillating dust.
After passing through the petals, Charles looked
around him to see where he was. There was no
where since there was no sense to be made of
anything he saw. But a seeming short distance to
his right he saw a broad field of wildflowers
that from his vantage looked normal. He waved his
arms as if swimming to angle himself in that
direction. And to his surprise it worked. A
moment later and he was setting his paws on the
ground. He grimaced as he felt hard stone where
he should have felt grass, but he would not risk listening to the music again.
He did not breathe too deeply on landing, rather
he glanced at his tail to make sure it was not
shorn in two. The pink flesh was whole without
any sign of injury. He gripped his tail, pressed
it to his snout, and was comforted by the
scraggly smoothness he always felt from it. At
least he was real and felt as he should. Charles
lowered his tail, sighed, and glanced around
wondering what might have happened to his guide.
The field he landed in was rich with wildflowers
of red, white, yellow, blue, and violet blossoms.
An eerie breeze of such gentleness flowed through
the meadow but its direction changed moment to
moment as if in a tempest. The meadow was framed
by trees whose roots were bushy with leaves and
whose branches were gnarled and coated in dirt,
as if they had grown upside down from the air and
were now burrowing into the meadow. Beneath one
of them a colorful awning had been built from
poles with red stripes down the sides. Sitting
under the awning was a dark-skinned man in a black robe.
Charles gaped in surprise as he stared at the man
in the robe not only because he was the first
person he'd seen here, but also because he was
familiar to him. Unlike Craig or Wessex, this was
a man he'd known from his life in Sondeshara
before he'd ever even heard of a place called
Metamor. How often he had dreaded standing in the
shaded market squares while this man asked them
question after question to force their minds.
Unlike most Sondeckis he had never been a
Follower and had been content with the
consolations of philosophy and abiding by the
call of justice he felt from his Sondeck. A
Master, a man of erudition, and one of Charles'
instructors, he had died from old age ere Charles fled the Order.
Now he seemed advanced in years but with a
renewed vitality. The skin of his cheeks and head
were smooth as if freshly shaven. Long ears
framed a wide face with wide-set, penetrating
eyes which remained closed. Hands with
spidery-long fingers covered his knees. The robe,
black, had upon the breast the familiar symbol of
upturned white sword in a palm inscribed in a red
shield. His posture appeared relaxed, but from it
the man could leap and cleave the air with a
thunderclap. Or so he had once shown many years ago.
Charles walked toward him and saw that the man's
eyes were closed. The rat took a deep breath and
stopped seven paces away. Master Hindemar, he
called, only to wince as his voice sounded like a
woman's voice again. Master Hindemar!
The face turned ever so slightly, but not quite
in his direction. Hindemar is merely a
collection of sounds to indicate that something
other than myself seeks the attention of my mind.
Or so its sounding would suggest if I paid any
trust to such things. Rather than the word of
some other whose existence cannot be proven, it
is more likely that I am, for the purpose of
testing ratiocination, imagining a vocal
emanation originating from outside myself. To
provide verisimilitude to this imagination, and,
concurrently though not primarily, allow for the
possibility that an actual other than myself is
participating, I shall provide my responses to
this apparently imagined inquiry with the use of
my tongue, or at least, what I imagine to be my tongue.
The voice, the scholarly enunciation, and
dizzying circumlocution were familiar to Charles,
and for a moment it was as if one of his teachers
had come back from the dead. And then, an upward
glance at the upside down trees recalled where he
was. The woman's voice resonated from his throat
as he said, I'm really here standing in front of
you, Master Hindemar. It is I, your old student,
Charles Matthias of the Sondeckis.
An identity to this emanation? If offered as
evidence of a separate existence it is
insufficient. The operation of thought is capable
of providing an identity to offer verisimilitude
to its imaginative construct. To borrow from the
vaults of memory is also possible, but the
Charles Matthias I recall was a man and did not
possess the aural characteristics suggested by
this apparent voice which has more of woman about
it. But neither is this proof of the existence of
the other for the mind is very capable of
engaging in error when presenting ideas to the self.
One of the man's hands lifted and a single long
finger was held up though not toward the rat, as
if to bid him silence a moment longer. Because
of the obviousness of the ploy, and its inherent
weakness, I would like to forestall the apparent
other from offering up recollections to
demonstrate its veracity. Any memory that it
could recall to convince me is a memory my own
mind will possess and so the assumption of my
imagination conjuring this conversation is also
satisfied. Nor would stating a memory that I do
not have because the mind is fully capable of
developing ideas in absence of sense perceptions.
Charles felt a bit flustered as he tried to
follow the chain of logic that was presented
before him in Hindemar's rapid Sondesh. His nose
tickled with an earthy scent as if somebody were
cooking some sort of meat nearby. He brushed his
paw over his whiskers and tried again. Then I
won't, Master. But I am who I say I am. Why not
open your eyes and see for yourself? He grimaced
a bit when he realized that he'd still been human
when his teacher had seen him last.
To what end should I open my eyes? They are a
tool of sense and as such cannot be trusted.
My eyes brought me to you, he squeaked in that
persistent female voice that was starting to bother him. I trust my eyes.
Then you, O murmuring thought who claims to be
my student, have much to learn. Perception is
fickle and cannot be relied upon to form our
thoughts. Our thoughts must be clear and reasoned
first through introspective ratiocination before
our senses can be tested for comportment with thought.
I do not understand your meaning, Master.
Please, speak words that I can understand.
A grimace touched the dark-skinned man's pink
lips. Clarity of thought requires clarity of
diction to express it. Imprecision in my words
will mar the purity of my thought. If you are
other, then you are capable of thought. Allow my
instruction to challenge your thought so that it
will be trained to understanding.
Charles grimaced at the rebuke. During his years
in Sondeshara he had often had to ask Master
Hindemar to speak with simpler words. Never
before had he been denied that request. Hindemar
had once prided himself on his ability to be
understood by everyone who came to ask. He always
began with exquisite and painstaking erudition,
but if no one could understand he would reach
down to their level and draw them up step by step.
What then did his rebuke mean? A possibility came
to the rat, and so Charles twitched his whiskers
and took a deep breath. You refuse to speak more
plainly not because you believe I can with
careful thought follow all that you say, but
because you do not believe I am here at all. You
believe I am just an imagination!
That is a perceptive observation and one I would
expect my imagination to note.
I am not part of your imagination!
To what end do you, O phantasm suggested by the
ears that claims to be an old student named
Charles yet who sounds the delicate tones of a
woman, proffer such a denial? The imagination is
equipped to test the acumen of intellect via
false claims. Without a logical chain of
reasoning to establish it a denial is of no substance.
He ground his teeth in frustration and narrowed
his eyes. If I were to touch you, you would know that I am real.
A sensation proves nothing. It is only in thought that truth occurs.
We learn truth by our senses; it is the only way
in which we are capable of having thoughts. If we
do not experience through our senses, then we have nothing to think about!
Thought shapes our ideas. What we experience
only conforms to our thoughts. It is only by
thought that we know we exist. All that we sense
must be doubted because the senses are not
reliable. The master's head tilted curiously
though his face did not bear toward Charles, as
if the man were lost in his own thoughts. You, a
noise in my ears that claims to be the voice a
woman's no less of my long ago student, trust
so keenly what your eyes offer, and your ears
provide from my own lips? Are the words that I
speak the words that reach your ears, if there
are truly ears to perceive them, for I can
discern only denial of wisdom and caution. Open
mine eyes, these utterances that touch mine ears
proclaim, trust that which cannot be trusted?
But our thoughts are reliable then? What we
conceive, through logic, is what is real?
Hindemar appeared to scoff at the suggestion.
Thought alone is incapable of verifying the
verisimilitude of the other. Only the self is
discernible through thought. Thought demonstrates
the existence of the self but not the other. No
amount of sensory perception can be employed to
demonstrate the existence of the other due to the
unreliability of sensory perception. It is
equally likely that the other is a conjuration of
the imagination as it is a distinct but unverifiable reality.
Charles blinked. He could faintly hear the
strange, wandering melody again. The scent of
cooking meat was stronger and tantalizing. He had
to fight to keep from panting in hunger. It made
clinging to the slippery threads of
epistemological pondering even more difficult
than it was to begin with. Still, one thing was
becoming clear and with a grating sigh, he
lamented, So you are saying that there is
absolutely no way that I can convince you that I
exist, Master. Will I always be just a figment of your imagination?
The senses are an unreliable means of
information outside the self being conveyed to
the self. In order for the other to demonstrate
its existence it must rely on some other means of providing proof of itself.
What else is there but our eyes, our ears, our
hands? Matthias stretched his arms wide, flexing
his fingers, and folding back his ears. The
melody was growing stronger and he could not
discern from whence it was coming. It seemed to
almost follow the strange lilt he heard in his own feminine voice.
The mind is all that there is, Hindemar
pronounced as if the matter were settled. There is no other.
Charles wrinkled his nose as the scent of refuse
mingled with the cooked meat, and with it he
thought he saw something dark at the edge of his
vision, as if for a moment his hands were black
instead of a fleshy pink. He glanced at them,
turning them over once but saw nothing untoward. Anxious, his tail wagged.
How could he argue that the senses could be
trusted when his own seemed to lie to him?
Charles swallowed and decided to attempt one last
time to convince this man whom he had once
admired. Master, you speak about the other and
ponder its existence. But if you are all that
exists, if there is nothing real except your
thought, then how could you have pondered the
other in the first place? If there is no other,
how could you have even conceived of it?
Hindemar's face tilted upward, though the eyes
remained firmly shut. The tight lips and cheeks
softened and a faint smile seemed to touch the
edge of each. Now that is the first intelligent
question that you have asked of me. How could I
conceive a you if I am all that there is? To
suppose I am all that exists and then to imagine
things that do not exist suggests that I am
insufficient. But if I am insufficient, I can
only be satisfied by something that must exist.
Therefore, even though I may not be correct, and
that my senses may indeed be suspect,
nevertheless, my ability to imagine something
beyond myself necessarily implies that something
beyond myself does indeed exist. There is an 'other'.
He lifted a finger and Charles fancied the melody
danced around it like angels on a pin.
Nevertheless, while this does demonstrate that
the other exists, it does not demonstrate it in a
given case. Therefore, I still cannot conclude
that you are anything other than a consciously derived phantasm.
Charles grabbed his ears in his paws and tugged,
claws digging through the fur at their tips. Why
can't you just open your eyes and look at me! I'm right here!
And now you sound like any other woman,
incapable of reason and prone to frustration.
He grimaced and tucked his tail between his legs.
Charles took a deep breath, fairly certain that
he would never learn anything useful from
Hindemar. Is this what this place did to the
souls captured here? Lied and lied and lied to
them until they finally sat with their eyes
closed, ears stopped, and mind running in circles
like a cat chasing its own tail?
All right, let me make one last challenge to
you, Master, and then I will leave. How do you imagine I look?
Hindemar's frown returned. I recall how Charles
Matthias appeared when last I saw him, and
despite the woman's voice I hear I have imagined
you, if there is a 'you', vaguely in his guise.
Though of late I suspect you really are, if you
really are, a woman and have lied to me about being Charles.
But you would not have suspected that I have
been transformed so that I have an animal guise and not a human one.
Hindemar opened his mouth and for a moment said
nothing. At last the dark-skinned philosopher
admitted. No, I had not imagined that. Perhaps
there is an other here speaking to me. Could it
be that my senses for once are not betraying me?
Take a chance and open your eyes. See for yourself.
Hindemar's face relaxed for a moment. The eyelids
trembled as if they had not been used for years
and were weighed down by more than just death.
Charles stood with hands on hips, snout turned a
little to the side so that his old teacher would
see him in quarter profile. His eyes opened,
white iris about a dark pupil filling with light.
The Sondecki leaped to his feet screaming.
Charles stumbled backward as his old instructor
shouted incoherently, his hands balling into
fists. Lies! Lies! Lies! Charles managed to
hear before the cries became strangled again.
Hindemar punched himself in the forehead and
temples again and again until the bones in his
face cracked and all of the flesh fell forward
like a pouch of broken pottery. His eyelids
opened once more and the eyes fell out, dangling
by syrupy red cords. They whipped against either
side of his temples leaving bloody smears as they bounced.
Even through the screaming Charles could hear the
melody without rhythm or repeat as if somebody
were whistling into his ears. He turned to try
and scramble away, but the ground beneath them
both buckled, collapsing inward. Chunks of earth
were sucked downward their vibrancy lost in a
smear of gray. Hindemar sank with the shattered
earth, hands wrapped about his retina cords to
try and rip them free from the inside of his skull.
Charles dug his claws into the earth but froze in
horror as his old Master sank into a huge
maelstrom laying just beneath the ground. The
dark-skinned man's flesh was bled of all hue as
it stretched outward, bent like taffy as a
thousand other wailing soul reached out and
clutched at his legs. Hindemar screamed and
laughed at the same time, his upper torso
remaining in view for several long seconds before
it too was whisked away into the spinning disc
and its dark vortex which howled with the roar of
a sea pouring down from the heavens. For one
moment before it was swallowed in the maelstrom,
Charles saw his mentor's face, eyes dangling
against his stout, dark cheeks, the lips creasing
in a rictus of insane laughter that had no end.
He felt something brushing against his legs and
Charles scrambled upward against the sinking
stones, trying to gain some purchase to keep from
falling into the same abyss. Their taunting
voices redoubled in his ears, and their touch
seemed to fill him with a fiery thrill. The only
other thing he knew was that strange song dancing
around over his head. With one last grasp he reached for it.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
_______________________________________________
MKGuild mailing list
[email protected]
http://lists.integral.org/listinfo/mkguild
