Penumbra - Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-One
Naufrage had arranged a hurried meeting with Jaithlym and now sat facing her on the third floor. There was no pretense that this was a social visit and the obligatory chaperones were carefully positioned within sight but out of hearing.
“I promised not to bother you and I have kept my word.” The Ombrios did not bother with his usual politician’s guile nor the conventions of courtesy; the matter was far too serious for games. “Now things are coming to a head and I must know the truth of what is happening here.”
Jaithlym smiled a little wryly, “You’ve been more scrupulous than I had expected. And I agree that something must be done to slow this juggernaut that threatens to crush us all. - Do you want me to ask Rispa to join us?”
“Maybe later. Are you willing to tell me what you know of Anjh's plans? Did he accept Caffolas’ invitation just to annoy me of does he have a purpose?”
“Oh, he has a purpose all right!” she burst out in angry hopelessness. “He has a very definite purpose. He’s going there to die. In that cave. Alone. And with full intent.”
Naufrage nodded, “That’s what I feared. I just lately learned that he is a Thanamant and had hoped my informant was mistaken. So he’s made his decision and that’s it? Can you do nothing to dissuade him?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve done everything I can think of to change his mind and persuade him to live. He’s so obsessed with the last words of his father and his perceived loss of honor that I can make no impression. It’s hopeless and Anjh says he’s leaving for the Feneralia in the morning. We have no time left.” She lowered her head to hide the tears of frustration that were springing to her eyes. “Oh God, Ombrios, he’s leaving tomorrow and I can’t stop him!”
“So soon? Then we must think harder.” Naufrage took her hand and patted it gently, his face crumpled with concern. He sat that way for a long time, holding her hand and considering what he might dare to say. “I have given this a great deal of thought, Lady Jaithlym, and I have come to a tentative theory that may surprise you. I am a priest and in spite of all that has occurred in my long life, I still believe, at least in part and at most times. Look back over the obstacles Anjh has encountered and overcome, including his return from the actuality of death. You know the rumors on the street. Can we be so sure that they are wrong? He may, in fact, be a god - the one sent us in our time of need. We are acting as though we are so certain that he cannot survive this latest adventure, that he has chosen to die and will succeed in that endeavor. Suppose, just for an instant, that we are all wrong, Anjh as well as the rest of us. Suppose he is an immortal; we can’t disprove it so we must not discount it. There is always room for hope.”
Jaithlym looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and numbly shook her head. “I am not a believer and neither is he. I thank you for your effort to comfort me, but I cannot accept this line of thought as true. He is bent upon his death and I must accept that he will do what he intends.”
Naufrage nodded and continued to hold her hand. Then he whispered, “Prayer can do no harm.”
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Rispa sat cross-legged on the floor and took the younger man’s head in his lap, placing his palms flat against the temples and directing his blocking and barrier skills directly into the appropriate parts of the brain. Anjh closed his eyes and, taking a deep breath like a man diving for undersea treasure, let his consciousness sink far into his body. He was hesitant to rush into the areas of greatest damage, dreading what he would find there, so he tentatively extended his mind first into the general cellular level, hoping to detect any irregularities by widely scanning from that point. Almost at once, he touched an alien presence - but where? He could not locate any single point large enough to account for the potency of the sensation. Suddenly he knew why... it was in every cell, not just a few but all of them. And then with equal immediacy he recognized the being - knew who it was. He started to call out but before he could name it, he was engulfed, consumed.
He was falling, falling through darkness and light and something that was both and neither. He fell forever, until he could remember nothing but falling. Layers of solid luminescence enclosed him as he was trapped in a spiraling chute and thrown from one side of time to the other. Then he was surrounded by folds of softness that slowed his plunge until he was disgorged on a tilted plane of misty shadow.
Anjh looked about him; there were curiously mutating shapes pressing against him and moving in the distance but no objects that he could identify - only a faint whisper that seemed to come from his left and almost formed words he could understand. He began walking toward the sound, easily, with a long stride. He looked down at himself. He was intact again; his arm and leg were as they had been! It had all been a dream - a nightmare - those months of incessant pain, of suffering the indignity of the mechart implants. He could walk and run and see! He was a predator again - he was Anjh! With an exultant shout, he launched himself across the surface of the meadow, above the turquoise grass and the glittering crystalline plants. He was a dragonfly skimming the face of a pond, a bird sporting in the air. An occasional touch of toe to ground was all he needed to stay aloft. He flew, tumbling and laughing in his freedom. Clear, brilliant blue light illuminated his stage as he leapt toward the sky and paused, hovering high over the scene rushing below.
He floated there as the world grew darker and the teasing whisper more distinct. Huge banks of clouds rose around him, amplifying sound, hammering at his ears. The words were almost tangible; he reached for them and found instead that he was touching sour, bitter. He could no longer sort out his senses - everything was confused as though the brain had lost its bearings. He was suddenly frightened as he tasted grey on his tongue, smelled the elusive words, saw the cool humming of the clouds. It was too much... Anjh tried to close his senses to the onslaught but could not. He was controlled, dominated by the being that had seized the strings of his self.
He knelt at the base of a pillar that gradually murmured from the darkness, singing with an internal sweetness like fireflies and stretched his mind to hear and understand the words that had become pearls lapping at his soul. His fingers traced the hymn of the pillar; sound became vision and touch was taste, then spun into other permutations until he could not make out what he was experiencing. As he had fallen, so he rose, through layers of cinnamon, through perfumes of white and crimson, passing through the candlelight whispers which filled him with the genesis of snow and blinded him with the intense fragrance of caresses until he was floated somehow into a cove of purring lemon. When he opened his eyes, he could read on the air before him the words he had tried to comprehend, but they were no longer words - only thoughts and tangles of emotion.
From among the chaotic confusion that billowed him, he detected the trail of the thing he pursued. With a frantic excitement he followed it - chase the green, feathery, mimosa song. And then he understood with a sudden blast of comprehension that momentarily rendered him mute and paralyzed, a creature of stone. This was Archaos was all! Without Archaos there was Aleo but nothing, no life, no creativity, no world, no Aleo - no Archaos. Archaos/Aleo was the life - the fraud - the enemy.
Anjh felt his mind enfolded into the center of the being he had sensed - the otherness that had possessed him. He lost the meaning of himself, the sense of his location, as he was spun into a kaleidoscopic world of incoherent images and concepts. Smothered in a heavy fog - a coiling miasma that left him blind and deaf to his surroundings, he was informed only by what was forced into his awareness in a manner he could not understand.
He was Archaos and Anjh and something else - something that partook of both... Mount Nothscar peak... the little humans daring ... threaten... must defend... must survive... cannot know... not to live... defend... survive... not.
Anjh felt the percussive force form within him... no, not him... the other... one figure flying above the peak... falling apart... broken...
The air was filled with parts of beings, broken or torn from their whole by the force of the blow and the actions of delivering and absorbing the blow. The scattered particles coalesced and became one, escaping from the mountain and that which was there. The Archaos/Anjh/What? creation swooped and soared so that the globe of Junonia spun beneath it before it plunged like a living, cognizant meteor into a stretch of wasteland and vanished from sight. And there remained only what had been...
Archaos ... not exultant... indifferent... no regret... surviving... Aleo other... rushing into breaks... make... hold... revive... repair... live... fail not...
“I AM I AM AM AM I ARCHAOS AM I ARCHAOS ARCHAOS I I AM ALEO AM AM I I I AM ALEO ARCHAOS AM AM I ALEO I ARCHAOS I AM AM JUNONIA!”
The voice that was not a voice pealed in his head, shaking him as with a fever even as he was released from the implacable grip of the entity and thrown aside. For an immeasurable while, he lay huddled, cold and lonely, not understanding what or where he was. Like a blind worm, he tried to burrow back into the vanishing warmth of the presence that had cradled him. Inchoate thoughts tumbled in his head.
“Don’t have to die... can stay here and... part of this... no honor, no atone... at one, stay here, stay here...”
He was a cripple again and he wept in despair and loss. If he could return to that place of dreams he would be whole, so he clutched after the fading shreds of what he had been until finally he was Anjh alone. His lungs choking, his heart pounding, he used what was left of his willpower to drag himself from the seductions that curled about him and clung like the adhesive webs of an army of spiders. So it was Archaos who had planted that seed of treason in his heart, that traitor urge to live. He understood it all now: the pains, the two conceptions, the dreams, the nightmares, the memories. In the place of questions, he found he had a feeling of muted comprehension, acceptance without acquiescence. Archaos was no enemy; it was unbridled creation and something so much greater that it was impossible for the human mind to grasp its meaning. He was dizzy and reeled drunkenly on the verge of madness, knowing he had to test his theory, make sure that he had not fallen over that edge. He also realized that if it were as he suspected, no one else must know. It was his nemesis alone to conquer; he was the one infected by this ungovernable virus of invention, this fabricator of all things. The thought of the coming battle terrified him and he welcomed the fear as some small proof that he remained sane. Repulsed and disgusted, with steadily increasing reluctance, he pressed on.
He saw the mechart heart and lung. There was no sign of damage or rejection; all was healthy and well. Then on to the shoulder - there! Thin white cords of nerve fiber, coiling and knotting- unsheathed, bare, exposed. They crossed one another, rubbing and fretting like fratricidal snakes. As he stood there, he could hear the sizzle of the neurons as they sent messages to his brain and tried to carry responses to muscles that were no longer there. He hurried on to the hip, seeking to outpace the pain that was surely coming. Again, the same sight - nerves unprotected from their fellows being frayed and cut; the same sound, the hiss of synapses’ futile firing. He was suddenly revolted by the image of his body attacking itself in so ruthless a manner, by this wanton regeneration without purpose. Then he was back in the external world, lying on the floor, looking up into the face of Rispa.
“You’re right. It’s the nerves; they’ve starting growing and there’s nowhere for them to go.” He did not meet his Elder’s questioning gaze. “The Ordmun had receptors for the somatic neurons but none for the sensory ones. They’re the ones growing out of control.”
“We should send for Alcina; she’s the best Healer we have.”
“No time. I leave in a matter of hours.” He was still somewhat numbed by his experience and spoke absently, his thoughts elsewhere.
“You can’t go in this condition. You wouldn’t be able to stand up by the time you got there and your mind would certainly be gone.”
“Then I must do what has to be done myself. Now let me think for a while and decide how to deal with this. Release your contact, please.”
“Can you control the pain well enough without my help for a little time?”
“I think so - if you see me battering my head against the floor - intervene,” he almost joked.
So Aleo was Archaos. He should not have been surprised; gods and demons have a way of echoing one another. And he was being consumed by the uncontrolled hunger of the melded force which was driven by nothing other than the mindless drive to create, to reproduce, to continue. It was that need which had infused his body so completely that all his remaining cells responded to the call - the nerves regenerating, the sperm retaining their potency when they should not, the brain producing its minutely recalled memories. At least he was not insane.
The knowledge of the cause of his symptoms, while a relief, offered no suggestion as to how to handle it. When he had first realized what he had encountered, his instinct had been to keep it totally to himself, to share it with no one. Now, he was undecided and wished he could consult with Rispa but, given the Brisevant's penchant for gossip, he knew that to tell him was to tell Junonia. That other old sage, the Ombrios, was also disqualified; he would probably seize on the information to further terrify the people of Junonia while he plotted how better to manipulate the newly found god/devil. No, it was far too dangerous to equip the head of government with any more power than he already had. There was no one to whom he could safely turn for counsel. The only reliable recipient of such a secret was one who would be dead soon. His first thought had been the proper one - he, alone, would have to carry this knowledge until his death, which thankfully was not far away.
Still, there was another reason for worry. He knew the Archaos virus inside his own body would be destroyed when he died but what about his sons...? With an internal groan, he considered those two radiant beings that had comforted him since he had witnessed their creation. If Archaos was in all his cells and was, in fact, responsible for the existence of the second embryo, then his progeny were also infected. Half of their substance was tainted with this vileness. If any others learned precisely what had happened on the Mountain, they could follow the same thread of reasoning and arrive at the same conclusion and his sons would become little more than objects of research even before their births. He would not visit that upon them, so he was trapped and compelled to silence whether he willed it or not. With the gift of hindsight, he realized that he would never have fathered the children had he known earlier what he had just learned. The logical alternative to the dilemma was to destroy the virus utterly even if that involved not permitting his sons to come to birth. With a shudder, he rejected that and admitted that he had no choice but to keep his secret and trust that Jaithlym's genes could offer some protection or that carrying the Archaos virus from their conception would mitigate its effect on his get. He would have to cling to that hope for he could not bear to kill them. Anjh turned his face away while he mastered his emotions so that Rispa would have no suspicion.
There remained one last question that must be explored. If he had been infected with the essence of Archaos during the attack on the Mountain, why had no other humans who had been subject to such onslaughts reported any condition like his? The only answer that made any sense to him was that the creature was only able to fuse with a dying victim and, thus, only a dead man, returned to life, could harbor the virus. It then followed that the technology that had salvaged him must be abandoned.
Satisfied that he was still rational and his conclusions defensible, he faced Rispa again and asked, “Can you come into my brain far enough to block the pain while I go back and cauterize the raw nerves?”
Rispa shook his head, “That won’t work. You can’t kill parts of your own body; you don’t have the tools or the skills. Oh, I can use my mind to reinforce yours to regulate what you can feel but...”
“Leave the killing to me. I’m the Warrior and I know I can do this.”
“It’ll be like ripping off your arm and leg again - you won’t be able to bear it and you’ll fail before you’ve half finished and it’ll only be worse. It’s amputating a major part of yourself; you can’t do it.”
“There isn’t any other way. You can’t go inside, not to that level and I don’t have the time to call for a healer - so I must at least try.” He was adamant.
“Then rest a little while and gather your strength. If you’re so positive that you can do this thing, come over here where your body can be as comfortable as possible while you try.” Rispa held out his arm.
With the support of the Brisevant and the hated cane, Anjh hobbled to the couch where he would be cushioned against any further injury in case of violent responses to the crude microsurgery he was determined to perform. At least, he assured himself, this entire experience should inoculate him against any temptation to survive the Pit of Archaos. He did not deceive himself that this operation would solve the problem of the pain or anything else. So long as he harbored the essence of Archaos, the nerves would continue to regenerate and this would happen again and again. He knew no way to rid a living body of an entity diffused through all its structures. Better to make an end in the cave.
The cave! The creature in the cave! Anjh saw again the combining of the particles shed in the massive cataclysm on Mount Nothscar. He was a part of the thing created by that union. And it had gone to the wasteland - the Feneralia! Everything shifted and suddenly fit; he knew without question what the being in the Pit of Archaos had to be and why it had appeared when it did. And how it killed as it did. With a deep sense of despondency, he recognized what he would face when he went there, realizing his mission was even more necessary than he had thought. Not only must he die soon in order to destroy the parts of Archaos that infested his body but he must also surely and totally destroy the inhabitant of the cave which he now knew to be his monstrous doppelganger. Like a paper barrier, the Prydain prohibition against suicide vanished in the flame of this epiphany - he could not chance returning from this mission to be rescued again - he must make certain of his death this time. With a fresh sense of dread, he wondered what other grotesque innovations might be emerging from that mindlessly creative thing in the cave. A spasm of horror passed over him when he grasped the full implications of what had happened and what must be done about it.
Rispa unfolded the fur rug that lay at the foot of the couch and spread it over the still shivering body of his kinsman. “Can you talk? Or do you want to stay quiet?”
“Better talk while I still can. If the next attack is a bad as the last, it’ll probably leave me a babbling idiot.” He was pleased and surprised that his voice had remained steady in spite of his new understanding.
“What do you intend to use to cauterize the nerves - concentrated heat? It’s been a long time since you learned to use that and I suspect you haven’t had much use for it for even longer so you had better test yourself before you start on this.”
Anjh forced a tired smile, “You’re right as usual. I never liked to use indirect methods when I had a sword to hand... Watch the hearth.” He turned his head and concentrated until a flame shot up from the wood stacked there. “Do you think that will be good enough?”
“Better than I had hoped. If you can tolerate it long enough, you just may be able to do this,” Rispa assured him.
“I can tolerate it - I’ve already tolerated it once today. I felt my arm and leg destroyed again just before you came in. Is there any brandy over there? I need a drink.”
Rispa poured a small amount in a glass and held it to Anjh's lips. “Not too much; you can’t afford to lose even the slightest edge. Your mind must remain as clear and focused as possible.”
“Then we’d better get started. The longer I delay the more chance another attack will come and I won’t even be able to try. Are you ready?”
“Yes. I shall move as deeply as I can into the sensory areas and reinforce the controls you already have without touching anything else. If you have to stop and make another attempt, do so. Don’t sacrifice your sanity to your pride. If necessary, we can postpone your departure a few days and get an Ordmun surgeon in here to do this.”
“I’ll be careful. And, Rispa, I don’t think I have any pride left. It has gone the way of my honor. Goodbye for now; I’ll speak to you again when this is over.”
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The meditation room became silent as the two men prepared for their respective tasks. Rispa drew one of the smaller chairs close beside the couch and taking his seat carefully positioned his hands, one on the forehead of his protégé, the other lightly clasping his right wrist. Anjh, stretched full-length on the couch, his head resting on the cushions, closed his eyes and began the exercises that would send not only his consciousness but also his skills into the labyrinth of his body.
He felt the firm comforting presence of the Brisevant at the center of his brain and, heartened, continued his trek. First to make sure of his skills; yes, they were there to hand. He was tempted to try a little spot of heat but feared it might arouse the so-far quiescent monster that inhabited him. Straight to the first objective, he ordered himself and flew immediately to the shoulder where the ghastly threads of the naked nerves twisted in ever-increasing complexity. Planting metaphoric feet, he raised his mental weapon and fired on the mass where it emerged from the implant location. As the first tendrils shriveled, Anjh heard an echoing scream. Startled, he did not know if it was his own voice or that of the dying fibers. He had felt nothing, but that meant only that Rispa was shielding him from his own awareness. He refocused his attention and fired again and again heard the cry, this time accompanied by a sharp pang in his left arm. Gritting his teeth, he set the weapon on automatic and swept the entire site of the regenerating nerves forcing himself to ignore the escalating pain.
He was satisfied as he surveyed the newly sterile area where his own bone and tissue gripped the structure of the implanted mechart, no longer obscured by the serpent’s nest he had seen before. That should divert the Other until he could finish the task in the Feneralia. Dimly, he heard Rispa chanting mantras to augment the Prydain controls and felt his Elder’s hands holding him ever more tightly. Now for the leg.
Anjh sensed his strength beginning to falter as he turned toward the hip. It was becoming harder to disregard the increasing spasms that threatened to break his concentration. Now no longer able to move quickly, he dragged himself toward the second implant location as though through a sucking bog. Finally he could see the loathsome tangle of raw nerve fibers groping toward the metal attachments of the leg and springing back when they touched it with a constant whipping movement. Summoning the last of his powers, he turned his weapon on the site and shrieked both inwardly and outwardly as the renegade threads blackened and died. Still screaming, he felt himself powerfully pulled back to the external world, drawn to the sound of a voice he thought he knew.
“Anjh, Anjh - get out at once! Your vital signs are dropping! Come back!” The Brisevant shook his kinsman’s body, fearing him dead; there was no movement of the chest, no response to sound or touch. Frantically, the older man delved deeper into the other’s brain, stimulating receptors, desperately trying to force a reaction.
From the pit of his consciousness, Anjh made an effort to answer but had no voice. He lay exhausted, nearly boneless in Rispa's grasp - his head lolling back against the cushions as though too heavy for the neck that supported it, his darkened eyes vacant, his skin a leaden grey, threads of blood trickling from his ears, his nostrils, his eyes and the corners of his slack mouth.
After what seemed an eternity, his chest heaved as his reflexes sluggishly aroused. His eyes began to focus and take note of his surroundings. As through a thick veil, he saw Rispa's face and the motions of his lips although no sound penetrated the capsule in which he felt himself sealed.
“Ah...” He whispered, barely more than a breath.
Rispa's grip on him tightened, “Is it done? Are you here?”
Anjh could not answer; his body was not yet fully his own. As he tried to emerge from the thick viscosity that tugged at him, he was aware of the gradual restoration of sensation and movement like blood flowing into badly cramped muscles and he moaned weakly as the returning feeling abraded his already overwhelmed senses. A tingling like that of a low electric current seemed to be passing through him with the slow wakening.
“Here, some brandy.” Rispa offered the glass.
His hand shaking too badly to hold it, Anjh mutely gestured for the drink to be brought closer. The brandy burned like the fire of an element gun as it slid down his raw gullet. “I... screaming? Throat...”
“Just at the end when you were so close to dying. Were you able to finish? Is it done?”
“Don’t know. The shoulder, yes - leg, don’t know.” It was hard to talk. He dropped back against the cushions shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering, eyelids drooping. “So sleepy - must...” His voice trailed off.
The Brisevant gently blotted Anjh's bloodied face and tucked the fur more closely about him, then pulled a chair near so that he could keep watch as the Warrior slept.