The island was a soul; a living, breathing heart. It was a consciousness, a determination, an idea unfettered toward the laws of the worlds. It went where it willed, and it did what was important, and nothing else. Young Lad was much the same. He was not confined by social graces, but observed them when necessary. He was not commanded to do only what was profitable, but was constructive only, for the most part. He did not try to change himself falsely to impress others, but strove toward perfection with willful determination that he might be accused of no wrong.
Of course, he sometimes slipped up. Whyll didn't really understand the concept of private property, and could often be found pilfering someone’s house in search for the answer to a mystery. He thought that the accusations brought against him in these situations were childish, but he observed the wishes of the “victim,” and usually remembered to not break into their house. He thought that their houses were silly, and that everyone should live either in a cathedral or in the earth, because neither of those abodes were meant to be shut.
Whyll’s Cathedral, as the building had come to be known, was a large chapel full of secrets. It went deep into the earth, and Young Lad claimed that it went to the very underbelly of their land, although this claim had not been verified by a “reliable source.” The cathedral was like a door. Not like the door of a house though, nothing so reliable, but like the door of a carriage drawn by mad horses. You couldn’t know what you would find when you went exploring in the cathedral. Whole lands were tucked away in cupboards, universes in the secret space between the walls. Young Lad could disappear for weeks at a time, and when questioned concerning his whereabouts, he would answer that he had been in the cathedral the whole time. Which he had. The cathedral was the longboat to the vessel of the Moving Island. Except that longboat could end up going anywhere.
Young Lad did not know how the cathedral had become so fantastic, but he did not question it. He acknowledged it as a gift from above and was content with that. However, he believed that the nuns had something to do with it, since their quarters seemed to be more reliable than the rest of the cathedral.
He felt at peace in the nun’s quarters. It was a kind of forbidden peace, like one feels when sitting and watching the sunset just out of reach of a ravenous tiger. One knows that only a small movement is required for one’s arm to be ripped off and eaten, but this steady adrenaline only adds to the tranquility of the moment. One knows that he cannot stay there forever since the wily tiger would likely find a way to consume one, but for a short while the glory of the Creator is shed upon the pulsating heart. The ears cry to the brain to run and the skin sweats in fear, but the closed eyes reflect only upon the gift of creation and the mind is at peace. One is attentive in this situation; the ears remain perked even if the eyes rest. This is why Young Lad did not sleep in the Nun’s Quarters any more. Although it may be assumed that Whyll could assert attentiveness even in sleep, this assumption is false. Whyll’s dreams demanded all of the attention he could give. His sleep was more productive than his waking hours.
He told the girl (whom he had christened Burglar) of his opinions on the Nun’s Quarters, and her eyes lit up.
“I want to see it!” She exclaimed excitedly. “But first, it really needs a different name, don’t you think? ‘The Nun’s Quarters’ is much too formal.”
“I suppose it is,” Replied Young Lad, whom the girl had christened Sprocket, by which he shall now be referred to. “What do you think we should call it?”
Burglar paused for a bit, then spoke.
“I don’t know.” She said, perplexed. She had never named a dorm which formerly housed cloistered women before. “It might come to us later. But now, let’s away!”
Whyll turned and led her to the organ, and she looked at him, confused.
“I thought we were going to the Nun’s Hall…” She said.
“We are.” Sprocket said, and pulled at the leg of the organ. The organ glided straight out, as if by magic (indeed, it was by magic; no hinge or track fettered this instrument), and the wall dissolved into the gaping mouth of a tunnel.
“Oh, secret passages!” Burglar exclaimed. “This is even better than Polly Plummer’s smuggler's cave!”
“And it leads to places much more astounding!” Sprocket replied. “The Pevensies may have had a Wardrobe, but we have an entire Cathedral!”
Sprocket stepped into the tunnel (he did not have to duck; the tunnel adjusted to his height), and Burglar followed him closely. She tried to run her hand along the wall, but whenever her hand got close, the tunnel got just a little bit bigger, so that her fingers never grazed the hard stone. When her hand receded, so did the wall.
“Beautiful!” She exclaimed.
“Yes, I suppose so.” The boy said, looking at the tunnel.
“Sprocket, may I ask you a question?” Burglar asked.
“By all means!” Sprocket replied, unused to having people along with him on adventures. Obviously he had before, but that had been a very long time ago.
“You told me last night about the townspeople getting frustrated with you because you broke into their homes while on adventures, and how silly it was of them, but when I took your shirt you pursued me. If you think that the idea of strictly private property is illogical, why did you run after your shirt?”
“Oh, I never said illogical.” Sprocket replied. “It’s precisely logical, but I haven’t been made to do things that make sense, but to do things that inspire greatness. Although self-interest is completely natural, no one is inspired when someone hangs on to their possessions like a greedy old miser. But people are inspired when one gives up everything for someone else. Innovation generally relies solely upon self-interest, but for us, the Exceptional, creativity is not just another step that will be forgotten once we have reached the top of the stairs, but a fruitful tree which will bear more beauty. That being considered, I think that it is purely right to have something which you are very much in love with, be it a haven among the trees which brings peace, or a book which returns to you memories of the ones you have loved.”
“So your shirt was given to you by someone who loved you very much?”
“My shirt?” Sprocket’s brow furrowed, trying to recall the original question. “Oh no, I took that from a possessed mannequin. No, I ran after my shirt because I did not think that you were human. It is safe to say that when I hear rustlings about the cathedral that it is not human. When I see something that looks human, that usually means that I am in great danger. When inhuman things look like humans, human things that look like humans are in great peril.”
“Are you talking about ghosts?” Burglar asked. The inflection of her voice did not imply nervousness, merely inquisitiveness.
“Ghosts, Unmen, that sort of thing.” Sprocket replied.
“But aren’t there good ghosts?”
“Of course not!” Sprocket said. “The ghosts of this land are souls cursed to roam the earth seeing the chaos which they have only added to. Ghosts are only remorseful or vengeful, never good. Lovely people don’t turn into ghosts, they go to Paradise.”
“So ghosts are only remorseful or vengeful?”
“Generally speaking, yes. The younger ones are the more vengeful type, with the bitter sting of their curse still ringing in their ears, and the older ones are more remorseful. And more dangerous. Oh look! We’re here!”
Burglar wished to know more, but decided on saving her questions for later. She was surrounded by the inside of an almost perfect sphere, incomplete only when it reached the absolutely flat floor of the cave. The arena was empty, which was more or less expected, but more surprising was that it seemed that no one had ever entered that place. For that matter, it seemed that nothing had entered that place; not the dust of the earth nor the gaze of a man. The arena was spotless, there was not a single scud-mark, dust particle, or footprint. It seemed like a useless place. However, when Burglar looked closer, she observed faint burn marks on the concave stone. But they were impossibly high up. No man could’ve made a fire so expansive so as to reach the atrocity which was the burn-marks.
“What is this?” Burglar asked.
“This is a prison.” Sprocket answered. His voice had turned serious. “Follow me.”
Sprocket walked abruptly into the seemingly sacred arena, and Burglar followed him without hesitation. She did not know what kind of prison this could be; the expansive entrances of this arena could hinder no creature that she knew of. But as she passed the threshold of the arena, a shock wave hit her. Where there had been nothing, there were now dozens and dozens of bioluminescent bodies, illuminating the dark hole with a faint gold light. Even though it was a prison, it seemed almost homey because of that welcoming light. Each and every figure of the space was female.
“Sprocket,” Burglar said quietly. “Are these ghosts?”
“No,” He replied. “These are the souls of saints.”
“But wouldn’t that mean that they’re ghosts?”
“Ghosts are bound to the Earth, but these souls are bound to this hole.”
“But aren’t they dead?”
“No. Their bodies have been swallowed up by Light, but they have not encountered their passage into the Heavenly Realms.”
“Why are they here?”
“Because of the fault of three.”
“These are the nuns, then?”
“Except for three.”
“You mean to say that those responsible for the imprisonment of these souls do not share in their torment?”
“Of course not; otherwise the torment of these souls would be unnecessary.”
“Why do they need to be tormented?”
“They have chosen it, on account of their fallen sisters.”
Burglar looked ahead. There were 45 souls in this place, all emitting a lovely light. She felt sorry for them, but the condemned did not seem sorrowful in the least. They were hopeful.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” Burglar asked.
“They think that we will set them free.”
“Are we?”
“Yes.”
“How will we go about doing that?”
“By bringing their sisters to redemption.”
“What did they do? The three?”
“They were witches.”
“They were witches.”
Burglar looked at Sprocket, alarmed.
“And yet there is still hope for them?”
“Grace is sufficient for the most horrific offense.”
“But how can their sins be ignored?”
“Though their sins may be a multitude, Love will cover more.”
“We are to go into battle against a triad of witches, and our only defense is love?”
“Of course not; love is our offensive weapon.”
“Then what’s our defense?”
Young Lad looked at Burglar, smiled, and kept walking.
“I say, what’s our defense?” Burglar cried out, then ran after Young Lad.
They exited the prison by means of a second tunnel. This tunnel was very different from the first; it was dark, dank, and otherwise horrid. It smelt of hydrogen peroxide on an infected wound with a hint of vinegar, only magnified greatly. The floor was sticky and slippery, and the walls were composed of angular rocks and thick spiderwebs. The ceiling of the tunnel was nowhere to be seen, but when one looked up, the sun could not be seen.
“How deep in the island are we?” Burglar asked.
“We’re not on the island anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been transported.”
“When?”
“Upon entering the first tunnel.”
“So how deep in the earth are we?”
“Strictly speaking, we’re not really on Earth either.”
“You mean to say we’re on another planet?”
“Another planet, no. Another world, yes.”
“Do you mean that we’re still on the planet called Earth, but not on the world we know?”
“No, we’re not on a planet at all.”
“How do you mean?”
“We’re not really in the same universe.”
“So how does this universe work?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do we know how to survive?”
“My dear Burglar, we don’t know how to survive on our own universe, yet we are still here. One doesn’t need to know how the universe works to survive in it. When you think about it, no one really knows how our universe works.”
“I suppose so.”
A silence ensued for a time as they walked, then;
“Sprocket, why did you say on our universe?”
“Pardon?”
“Shouldn’t it be in our universe? You said that we don’t know how to survive on our own universe, but we’re in our universe, not on it, right?”
“Oh no, Earth actually resides on the universe. The inside is much more interesting, but difficult to get to without breaking the whole thing. Like a balloon; Earth is a dot on the outside of the rubber, but the real interesting thing is on the inside. One would think that it would be impossible to get to the inside of the balloon, but upon further observation one would find that an entrance is provided in the tangled knot of the balloon.”
“So you have traveled through the knot of the universe to get to the inside?”
“Oh yes. And so has everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dreams. When one dreams, one effectively travels to the inside of the universe. More or less, that is. One has a view of the inside of the universe, like an observer standing on the inside rubber of the balloon, too afraid to jump into the mess.”
“So one can enter the inside of the universe via dreams?”
“Technically, yes. But only a very few have enough control to do this. But everyone can get to the middle by finding the knot, even in waking hours.”
“So where is the knot? Everest? The Grand Canyon?”
“Fairly close to another galaxy, which is light-years away.”
“So all of the galaxies are on the outside of the balloon?”
“Yes. They have things like galaxies on the inside as well, but they don’t call them that.”
“What’s it like?”
“The inside?”
“Yes.”
“Think of your dreams, and you’ll get a feel for it.”
“You mean to say that there’s no control? No absolutes?”
“Not in the least: you just have to get a feel for how the inside works. I am sure that life seems hopeless to a baby, but after awhile they learn how to use their legs, how to run, how to think, how to love, and things make sense to them. So basically, when you dream you see the inside of the universe from the perspective of an infant.”
“I see.”
The two friends eventually made it out of the tunnel, but found no fresh air to breathe. The air was even more stagnant in the aperture into which they had stumbled than in the dark, hopeless path from which they had come. The space above their heads again seemed endless, but had no celestial bodies. It felt as though there were a roof above their heads, but not for miles upon miles.
“Is this the coven?” Burglar asked.
“The coven is near.” Sprocket replied. “Despite the occasional fallacy in fairy tales, witches do tend to live in cottages. It is a tie to their former humanity.”
“So you wouldn’t call them human?”
“I wouldn’t call a lot of things human.” He said, and trod toward a small shack nestled into a cranny between two bulbous rocks. Mold and moss had multiplied on the morose mass of the lamentable lean-to. It was a formidable facade, a facade which led to what would surely be a more gruesome sight. Sprocket reached for the slick doorknob and turned it. It was not rounded like most doorknobs, but knobby in and of itself, as if some strong hand had crushed it to fit perfectly into its palm. Whyll pulled on the handle, and the whole splintery door disintegrated into a pile of wood chips, termites, and dust.
“Don’t breathe that in.” Sprocket said absent-mindedly. He stepped over the rubble, which was smoking like it was being eaten by acid, and entered the corridor. Burglar followed him. The corridor was filled with terrible pictures of disfigured faces whose eyes watched the intruders, as if begging for rescue. Some of the faces seemed to be melting, some were scarred and bloody, and some were so disproportionate and hairy that they didn’t even look human.
“Their victims.” Sprocket said, answering Burglar’s question before it was asked. “Don’t look in their eyes.”
Unlike foolish explorers who seemingly can’t control the urge to look at an idol or touch a relic when instructed not to, Burglar was extremely self-controlled and barely even noticed the pictures. The travelers passed a decaying man who was staring into the eyes of one of the pictures, a spiteful woman who looked less disfigured than the rest. The man was slumped, his eyes huge dark orbs, his hands hanging by his sides. No stench hailed from the body. In fact, it seemed that his entire essence was being sucked into the picture.
The travelers neared a lugubrious entrance to the interior of the cottage.
“Will we be alright?” Burglar asked. It was an inquisition, not a worry.
“God knows.” Sprocket replied, and entered.
The cottage was a cottage. That is to say, it was nothing out of the ordinary, as far as cottages go. One would have expected rotting things and tail of newt, but there was only knitting and rocking chairs. Where the reader might have imagined a wall hanging with instruments of torture, there were only old paintings, the corners curling in with age.
“Why is it so normal?” Burglar asked.
“It is their only link to their past life.”
“But I thought they were nuns. Nuns don’t have so many things.”
“These are things from their innocent years; their childhood. They entered the nunnery for the purpose of escaping evil things. What they did not know was that the evil was inside their very hearts. The evil grew, and their denial and doubt only fed it. They ignored their problems, blinded themselves to what they had done instead of confessing the sin, and the evil festered. It mutated. It burned them.”
“How did they ever fall so far?”
“How did they ever attain such seeming perfection with so great a burden? Humans are weak-willed creatures. The three climbed so high that when they fell they broke through the barrier of the earth. They plummeted down into the belly of the world, where Brimstone reigns.”
“And the others never suspected a thing?”
“Of course they did.”
“Then why didn’t they stop them? Why did they let their sisters sink deeper and deeper into the mire?”
“Because they thought that cowardice was love.”
“Do you condemn them?”
“I? I could not judge another. It is an easy thing to tempt humans to turn a blind eye. To not confront another over their evils, their demons. It is easy not to meditate on one’s decisions for the simple fact that they cause discomfort in their making, to regard the evil of others only when it is in eyesight. But we are not called to a road of ease.”
“But why witchcraft?”
“It was a complete revolution to what they had been trying to achieve.”
“So it was a human reaction to human limitations?”
“Yes.”
“So how do we know we won’t fall into the same trap? If we fail at being exceptional, to what degree will we fall?”
“We needn’t worry.”
“Why is that?”
“We aren’t human anymore.”
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