Chapter 4 of Metagopolis

Chapter 4

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior of the store, where artificial white lights replaced the golden sunlight. He passed two workers, one a small, angular man with a razor-thin mustache and the other brown-haired and middle-aged, stress epitomized in his face and in his every movement. Each of these stood at the head of a long line of customers waiting to purchase their products. Like the atmosphere outside, the store was full and busy.

He was about to walk further into it when another hand suddenly gripped his arm and jerked him away. So sudden and fierce was the grip that Gregor thought it was Clooney again, but no, it was the stressed out man. This, as it said on his name badge, was Tom Basket himself.

“Hey look, it’s Gregor, everybody!” Tom announced to the line with a clearly and dutifully feigned cheeriness. “He’s going to be the one to help you now.” And then, in a subtle whisper laced with lethal aggravation, “When you get the lines down, come to my office. We need a word.”

Gregor stood there, frozen, as he took in the faces of the customers and the strained smile of Tom Basket. They were expecting him to take over the job Tom had just vacated. This is when Gregor realized in full force exactly who he was to these people and to this town — and it horrified him.

But just as Tom was pushing Gregor to where he had just been standing, a lucky thing happened. Tom Basket caught sight of another employee just a few aisles away, still within hearing range.

“Randolph!” he called out. The employee turned. “Come over here. I need you here.” And then to Gregor, in a low voice, “Let’s go back to the office right now.” And then, to the customers, with the cheerful grin: “Randolph’s actually gonna be the one to help you. Here he comes.”

As Randolph obeyed his boss, Tom began his walk to the back, Gregor right behind.

“How could a man with a name like ‘Tom Basket’ ever be so angry?” one customer whispered. “It’s such a cheerful name...”

Tom was already several steps ahead of Gregor, who found himself walking unusually fast to keep up. They soon arrived at the office in the back corner of the store; Tom sat behind a desk covered by papers and files and Gregor across from him.

In his mind right now Gregor was attempting to formulate his story of that morning, and in such a fashion as to be believed. But in this situation, he, too, was feeling overwhelmed by stress, not to mention nervousness, and he found that he was not terribly adept and thinking under so much pressure. And so he sat there, waiting for the lecture he assumed was coming, with no idea how to answer it or articulate his reasons for not doing whatever Tom Basket was expecting him to do and be.

Tom, upon sitting, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his lap. But with the opening of his mouth came the opening of his hands, and all manner of gestures animated the words he was saying.

“What do I say? What can I say? Gregor, do you understand the stress of frustrated expectations? I don’t think you do. I don’t think you realize what we go through up here when we expect a certain situation to be the case, and then it isn’t. And what I mean by that is that you are paid to be here, and then you aren’t actually here. And then, as a result, our own plans fall apart and we have to improvise. And you know the thing about improvisation — the customers don’t understand, and they don’t care, and then they suffer in silence, and then that glare! When they look at you as if all these long lines and lack of customer service — and that’s the most important thing, Gregor, remember customer service, always remember customer service — they can’t have the impression that we don’t care, that we aren’t doing our best to serve them. Because I am doing my best to serve them! And so is everybody else out there, and I appreciate their time and skills, and that’s why I pay them. So whose fault is it that the customers aren’t getting the best possible service? The service, by the way, that they deserve, for shopping at Tom Basket’s. Because that is who and what they blame: Tom Basket. It’s my name they drag through the dirt when they tell their friends and neighbors not to shop at Tom Basket’s. My name, my own self. This little store is who I am, and it is what I do. So when they knock the store they knock me. And thus I do my absolute best to make every aspect of this store the best it can possibly be, and that includes my employees, and that then includes you. So when we expect you to be here, Gregor, and you aren’t, or at least not at the allotted hour...what was your schedule for today, anyway?”

Gregor shrugged in silent apology. Tom Basket frowned, put on a pair of reading glasses, and picked up a piece of paper from the corner of his desk.

“It says here...oh.”

He looked up from the paper, his eyes peering over the glasses.

“Oh,” he said again. “Um... well you aren’t scheduled for today. You requested this day off. Why are you here then?”

Again, a shrug. “I didn’t know where else to go...”

It was then that both Tom and Gregor discovered that the door had not been closed all the way, because it opened a few inches without a turn of the knob. Gregor’s cat walked in — totally silently, as cats are prone — and jumped onto his lap.

“Who’s this?”

The cat leaped up to Gregor’s shoulder — “Uh — oh, this is Macata” — and then onto Tom Basket’s desk, and was now rubbing up against the latter’s outstretched hand, which then went on to pet him.

“I like cats, Gregor. I’ll let you keep him around. Maybe he’ll cheer up the customers, too.” Macata was purring now. Tom was softening. He rubbed his forehead as he scratched the back of the cat’s neck. His face looked pained. “It’s just the stress. I’m sorry for my manner. It’s the biggest sale day of the year, and when my employees don’t — well, again, that’s not your fault. You weren’t even scheduled today, and then you came in anyway.”

Tom stood up and Macata leaped back onto the table and then all the way back up to Gregor’s shoulder in one continuous bound. Tom held out his hand to Gregor, and they shook across the table.

“So thanks, and I apologize,” Tom said, and went to the door to see Gregor out. “Now go out there and do your job.”

Gregor, after two hesitant steps out the door, stopped and turned around.

“Do you have any more questions, Gregor?” Tom said with a sigh.

“Yes,” Gregor answered.

“Fire away.”

“What exactly is my job?”

Tom looked at him blankly and let forth another heavy sigh as he shut the door on Gregor without another word.

-----------------------

Gregor went home that night by the light of the moon, his cat at his feet and bird in the sky. He stared almost constantly at the black cloud in the sky. It hung there still, alone. No other clouds obscured the moonlight from illuminating the whole of the wide fields around him. When he entered his cottage he did not switch on the lamp, but instead withdrew his notebook from his satchel, flopped onto his bed next to the cat, and started writing by the moonlight pouring copiously through the strange window.

I’m a cashier. That’s who I am. I point a little orange scan gun at things people want to buy and take their money so they can leave with their products as honest people. That’s what I do. That’s all. And I wouldn’t even be qualified for that job if Daniel Clayton Clooney hadn’t told me about money.

It’s a job. It gets me money. Money so I can buy food and other things. Things that keep me alive. Alive so I can continue working as a cashier. So I continue to get more money.

I exist for a wise and glorious purpose. That’s what something in my head keeps telling me. Before it pounded. Now, after spending the whole day at the store, it’s just a whisper. I don’t understand its message. I feel very ordinary. I’m just a cashier. Just another cog that keeps the system running. I don’t change anything. I don’t make a difference. I have no special skills or talents or abilities. How could I have a wise and glorious purpose?

I still hear it, like a constant music in my mind, playing softly, very softly, and I wonder why. The words must be true, somehow. Or else I’m crazy. Then again, that could be it. Something made me lose my memory. Something made me forget everything. Maybe it was that same thing that makes me hear those words now.

I wonder if I could ever forget them. It’s them that really torture me, not just the job. If it were just the job then I could accept it. But I constantly feel like there’s something else. And all of today I just got little feelings that reinforced that. I felt it particularly powerful at the end of the day, when I saw the sunset through the entranceway of the store. It made me stop everything and just stare. The sky was hot pink. The sun was a bright, searing red. Blue clouds streaked across the sky, like from an artist’s brush. I felt something then, like the sun was calling to me. In that brief moment it confirmed to me the message of those words. But now that it’s over, it’s easy to doubt.

A cashier with a wise and glorious purpose. That’s what Gregor Townsend is, anyway. Am I Gregor Townsend? Everyone seems to think I am. Whatever, whoever, whyever I am, I’m not the Gregor Townsend that was employed at Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium. This is not a life I’d choose to live.

He looked at the one-word questions he had written at the start of the day, and wrote some answers next to them.

Who? — Gregor Townsend, a cashier

Where? — Middleton, Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium

Why? — to sleep and eat

After staring at them a while he scratched them out.

Those aren’t the real answers. I am not who I am right now. I want to know where I came from, the real me, and where I’m going, where I need to go. And above all, I want to know why. I want to know what that wise and glorious purpose is.

He glanced up from the notebook to the window. Then from the window to the wall with the lines of shadow. The tree outside his cottage hindered enough light to make them invisible. He made to turn on the lamp next to his bed —

And the new light illuminated something on his nightstand, something he had not noticed that morning. It was small and round like a ball, made of glass or some other transparent, light-refracting material. In its center floated a red orb, like an egg yolk. After examining it for another minute, he set it back down and stood to close the window shutters. Before shutting them all the way, however, he chanced to see Buzby, the little blue songbird, dancing in the tree.

--------------------

He woke up to his cat on his chest, its green eyes staring straight into his. He rolled his eyes to the right and found the glass ball. To his surprise the red orb had changed. Now encased in the ball were long, drooping petals of a red flower, the same color the orb had been, their ends touching and pointing in a single direction. He picked it up and found it warm to the touch. He also discovered something strange about it: no matter how he handled it — rolling it over and over in his hands, shaking it, tossing it gently onto the bed — the flower inside did not move; the petals remained fixed in their direction.

They pointed north.

When it was time, he took this ball with him to work. The whole time it continued to point him in the exact direction of Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium. Once there, the flower swirled into the red yolk again. And when it was time to go home, it pointed him back. He did not know what to make of this.

He lived simple but tiring days. He came by every day and did it all over again. And again and again and again. And after a time he started to learn and remember names.

“Hello, Mrs. Nebeker. How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Looks like we got some tape,” — BEEP — “some scissors,” — BEEP — “a couple of cleaning solutions,” — BEEP, BEEP — “and a bulb.” BEEP. “That’ll be all today?”

“Yes sir, it surely will.”

“There you go, and have a nice day.”

“Thanks, you too.”

“And here, looks like some sweet-smelling flowers for Mr. Williams’s garden. How are you today, Mr. Williams?”

“Fine, thanks.”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

“That’ll be all?”

“Yep.”

“There you go, and have a nice afternoon.”

“Take it easy.”

“Will do, thanks. Just the two buckets of paint today, ma’am?”

“Yes...”

“Long day?”

“Oh yes. The final errand of the evening.”

BEEP. BEEP.

“Well there you go, and have a good one. Get some rest. Mr. Willer, a magdrill this late at night?” BEEP, ka-thunk. The sound of security deactivation. “Have a good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

He scanned hammers, he scanned wrenches, he scanned saws — bricks, wood, concrete, nails, screws, dowels, more hammers, more wrenches, more saws, drills, screwdrivers...

Days passed. Weeks passed. Maybe months. The days became indistinguishable. After a time he could not remember how long it had been since he had first awoken. The futility of his life wearied him, nagged him. He was alone in a cold and dreary world.

I am a stranger here. I do not belong. I’ve known this from the first day, and the feeling has never changed. But this all raises a question: do I want to belong? Do I want to be satisfied by this kind of life?

I was at a store meeting this morning. Everyone had to attend. Tom was giving out awards. I see these people laughing with each other, clapping for the winners. They know each other. They like each other. I want that. I want to have friends. I want to be recognized for the work I do. But do I? Do I want to be accepted as one of them? Do I want to be a part of something as common as this? I do want to find acceptance. But I feel so removed from this world. Like an outcast, but worse: someone nobody knows or notices. Not an outcast but a nothing. A zero. I want to get out. I want to leave. I want to be someone higher and do something better. Something that matters. Something that’s important. I feel so lonely that I want to be a part of these people, I want to have friends. My pets are my only companions.

I’ve seen families come into the store. What they have makes me desperately envious. There is something in that image that speaks to me, calls to me, makes me want to be a part. Today I saw two young people, a father and mother, a little older than I figure I must be, holding hands, with a little boy running around, and a little girl looking around at the world with large, innocent eyes. I want to have that someday. I want connection. I want family. I want love.

Macata the cat and Buzby the bird provided the only true emotional connection he had. While not always in his immediate vicinity (cats being curious folk, and birds liable to explore the sky), they always came back, and joined him in his daily journeys to and from town. They slept when he slept, and awoke when he awoke. They played together, as best a cat and bird can. Macata would try to catch Buzby with a surprise pounce, and Buzby had a great time pretending to be unaware until the last possible moment, only to flutter away, just out of reach.

The work remained ordinary, faceless, nameless. He was trapped in the small talk he was required to give. He greeted the people with pleasantries, and waved them off with valedictions, always the same, never varying in structure or tone. It wasn’t long before he was burned out. He considered quitting, but he knew next to nothing of the outside world, and didn’t know where he could find anything more.

And still he kept his faith in the glass ball.

I don’t know why I keep following it. I don’t know what it is, or why it changes directions, but every time I follow it I get a tiny inkling of peace, really tiny, infinitesimal. But it’s there. I take it as a confirmation that this is right. And that’s the reason I haven’t gone anywhere else. It tells me to stay here, to keep going to work, and to keep going home again.

It pointed me in a different direction today, though. This morning I woke up late, or so I thought, and ran all the way to work to be on time. This I did on instinct, without thinking at all. If I had thought about it I would have either realized I wasn’t scheduled that day, or I would have wondered why I would be running to go to a place where I feel so dead and empty.

When I found out it was my day off, I didn’t know what to do. So I brought out the ball, and it pointed up north. I followed it to the waterfront beaches. On an impulse I went for a swim, something I could not ever remember doing. It was a new experience for me, but I found it soothing and even therapeutic. I think I’ll do it more often. And I’ll keep on following where this ball tells me to go.

He was never met with any awkward situations regarding his memory. Conversations at Tom Basket’s were never very deep, nor very personal, and he got along with an instinctually quiet, almost shy demeanor as he absorbed everything he heard said. This must have been how his former self behaved, because nobody ever asked any questions.

One time he overheard a conversation about amnesia, and speculation about what it would be like. A co-worker said it would have been “a waste of the first thirty years of my life. I would have lived all that time for nothin’.” His fellow said jokingly, “Would there be a difference? You still ended up here.”

The listeners laughed, but Gregor was unnerved, for he was thinking almost the exact same thing, but not jokingly. Then he chided himself, berated himself, because those people had real relationships, families and friends, people in their lives that made it all worthwhile, and he didn’t, and that, that was the key. Or at least part of it.

One night he witnessed an embarrassed couple dragging a screaming child out of the store. The scene struck him, and that night he wrote down his thoughts in his journal.

I don’t know what the kid was screaming about. Probably something trivial. Something that didn’t actually matter very much. But to him, it was everything. He was screaming his head off. That’s a sign of real pain. He couldn’t have what he wanted, what he felt he needed. So it really must have been a kind of torture for him. He doesn’t know better. But — his parents know he’ll be perfectly fine without it. They know he’ll get over it. They know he’ll forget about it. They know the pain will pass. Perhaps even within a few minutes afterward. And in the long run he’ll be better off for it. It won’t matter anymore and he’ll have learned discipline, and he’ll have learned patience.

When going through hell, the greatest lesson one can learn is graceful endurance. With this perspective, hell’s fires will not hurt or harm, but rather purge and refine. Though Gregor himself would not understand until much, much later, this experience of seemingly endless waiting, of day after day of drudgery, was very much the same thing, very much necessary. Because from it, he learned patience, in a way he could not have learned anywhere else, doing anything else. It is only in the times we are given opportunity to put our principles into practice that we actually acquire them. Thus was this.

I learned Tom Basket’s real name today. It was only about ten years ago that he changed it. He was in a garden shop and saw the words “Tomato Basket” on a label, but the first word was shortened to just “Tom.” That was his real first name shortened, so he decided right then and there to make that his name if ever he started over, career-wise. His full name is “Tomalion Nisonechte Maceta.” He said he doesn’t use it because “Tom Basket” is so much more catchy and casual, and it speaks more to the common folk. It just simplifies everything.

Gregor would remember this bit of trivia for a long time to come. A unique name exchanged for a common one. Heritage for mediocrity. Splendor for insignificance. Majesty for mundanity.

Chapter 3 of Metagopolis

Chapter 3

An enthusiastic mustache and a pair of wide-open crazy eyes invaded Gregor’s vision.

“We are going to glean what afflicts you,” the hearty voice said. “Oh yes...oh yes oh yes oh yes. Notice, Gregor Townsend — if that is who you truly are — those four ‘Oh yes’es. What could that mean, exactly? Does it have to mean something? Everything means something. The question is, however, how much does the underlying meaning actually matter? These questions must be answered, and that is what I do. I will help you in your quest free of charge.”

Gregor was at first quite startled, and then thoroughly nonplussed.

“I’m sorry...I don’t — ”

“You don’t recognize me?”

“N — ”

“Not even a little bit?”

“I — ”

“A smidgen?”

“ — ”

“A hair? One of your white hairs? You don’t recognize me even in the slightest?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then right-o, young man! My detecting skills have finally hit their stride. Clooney. Detective Daniel Clayton Clooney. I detect. I analyze. I solve. That is what I do.”

Detective Daniel Clayton Clooney wore a long, buttoned-up overcoat and a pair of dirty brown boots. His eyes were small, and changed color in differing degrees of light. His eyebrows matched his mustache; big bushy things that were either threateningly intense or unexpectedly disarming, depending on his mentality at any given time. Unkempt black hair adorned his very animated face. He was the kind of man whose mouth flung spittle with every other word. It made Gregor blink a lot and feel very uncomfortable.

He put his hand on Gregor’s back as if they were old friends and started leading him through the throngs. Macata jumped down from Gregor’s back and navigated the forest of feet, only straying from Gregor’s shoes long enough to sate his feline curiosity on various random smells and things.

“Notice, Gregor Townsend, how here, in the markets, there are no decorations for the festival. No posters or banners or statues or games for the little ones. All the Vanos stuff is way up over there, in the central town square and beyond.” He motioned in a northerly direction.

“The what stuff?”

“Vanos. The Great Bird. The point of this whole town. The purpose of this place and its people.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I am getting ahead of myself. Vanos, the Great Bird, blessed with four wings, a veritable god among men. Or a god among birds, really. Saved humanity by taking a man and woman from a plagued continent to a plague-free continent. Many celebrate the damned myth still, though as you can see there aren’t any of the outward showings of festivity here, down in the markets. Just plain and simple bartering. But notice the crowds! Notice the commerce, the trading, the business! And take note of this, young Townsend: they aren’t this busy at any other time of the year! The town uses Vanos to promote its own economic growth. So they have all the decorations and nice things in their own nice little places, but no one cares down here in the markets. The decorations don’t matter except for garnish. The garnish of the Great Bird. Unnecessary for the most part, unnecessary for economic growth, unnecessary for wealth and riches! Do you see what I mean about the town? It exists to continue its existence. And not only to do that, but to flourish! To expand its boundaries and to enlarge the wallet! And you can see how it does. That is the reason for this town: to compound itself. It works for the holiday. Vanos is the point of this town. All of these, the shops and stalls, your hardware store, all the vendors and all the soliciting that goes on down here — "

“Wait wait. My hardware store?”

“Yes, the one you work in. It too abuses the concept of growth. That Tom Basket is a nice enough fellow, but still nothing matters to him more than sales. Which would not be a terrible crime; people have to eat and people have to build, but that is what drives their life. That is why they exist. Material things! Some of us, though, know different things. Some of us understand that there is more. The call, Gregor, the call. The call to attain something greater, some other higher purpose, or at the very least something higher than making money and growing economically. I myself have not had much opportunity to go elsewhere, and so I stay here, honing my deduction skills and growing ever sharper, day by day. That is my purpose.”

Given the subject matter, these words made a great impression on Gregor Townsend, and he stood there contemplatively for some time. It was in that twinkling moment that something inside Gregor... changed.

“Thank the sky for them, though, huh?” Clooney went on. “Without all those characters who do real work for a living and don’t really care about the finer things in life, we wouldn’t have those finer things at all. Being an intellectually honest analyst, I must admit this.”

Gregor waited until he was sure Clooney was done before speaking.

“Okay, Mr. Clooney, uh, sir...I really have no idea who you are, or even at this point who I am, and while I appreciate what you’re saying, I don’t think you’re really following through on that analysis business of yours. I thought you were going to help me find who I was. I would really like to start figuring out this life that I was apparently living before I lost my memory, and I can’t — ”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend! Good heavens, we walked two paces and I was already off on another of my tangents. That’s what the detective does, though. Detect. Analyze. Solve. Look at every single thing from every possible perspective. The analyst’s mind will go where it pleases. But sometimes, I agree, it needs to be restrained.

“Now obviously the mission with you here is to bring you back to your senses. Although I would wonder what for. All you have to go back to is the hardware store. Aha!”

He took out a small pad of paper from one coat pocket and a pen from another and jotted something down, presumably the rhyme he had stumbled upon. This reminded Gregor of his own writing materials in the satchel hanging from his shoulder.

“Well then, Gregor,” said Clooney, tucking away his things, “Let’s get you going on this recovery process.”

“I do have a question, though.”

“Fire away.”

“How did you know — how did you know to come talk to me? What about me did you analyze — ”

“I first saw it in your movements,” Clooney answered, cutting Gregor off. “The way you were so shocked at the existence of Legole. The cat helping you get out of Legole’s path. A cat I haven’t seen before. Also in your hair. Your white hair is unusually messy today. And in your eyes. Detached, wondrous. You looked lost. It all happened very rapidly, and I acted on instinct. Now, explain your dilemma a bit further, please.”

“There really isn’t much to tell. I woke up this morning without any memory.”

“None?”

“Nothing.”

“No memory. What about memory of memory?”

The dream world came to Gregor’s mind. A dream he couldn’t remember one whit of, except for the process of awakening and trying to keep it from slipping through his figurative fingers.

“I remember having a dream. But I don’t know what happened in it.”

“Then we shall have to determine who you are, Gregor Townsend. I know who you were; I had spoken with you on occasion in yesterdays past, but I think it should be crystal clear that today is not yesterday. Today I’ll help as much as I can in the retrieval of your yesterdays, but you are going to have to make up the tomorrows yourself.”

They stopped by a shop called Vognettle’s Battle Wares. A big bald man stood behind the counter. Clooney pushed Gregor forward and presented him as if displaying a product he was trying to sell.

“Who do you think this young man is, Mr. Vognettle? What do you see in him? Check his eyes,” he said sagely. “Those are the most important.”

“I see Gregor Townsend,” said the man in a mean voice and a matching expression. “The white-haired kid. What of it, Clooney? Clooney loony?”

“Now there’s a man who does not know subtlety,” Clooney said, leaning in close to Gregor as if he were giving him valuable advice. “Best leave him out of our journey.”

The reference to his hair made Gregor glance around self-consciously. No one else in the entire crowd had hair like his.

The detective guided Gregor to a spot just a few yards away from a fruit seller, who was surrounded on three sides by carts and baskets full of apples, bananas, and cherries.

“Observe these times, Gregor. This fruit, that man....notice his hawk-like eyes over all of his produce. The eyes are the most important. Small, beady brown eyes. Hovering over, constant vigilance; the fruit is his and he will not let it be stolen. His hands, look at his hands: if not dealing directly with a customer then they are floating over the fruit. Almost like an extra pair of eyes, standing guard. Now, let’s see if we can shake things up a bit.”

He turned left and right, looking for something. Or someone.

“Ah, here we are. Perfect timing.” He reached out his hand to touch the shoulder of a small but belligerent-looking boy passing right by them. “Nicholas Halladio, stay here a moment.”

“My name’s Nick, Clooney,” snapped the boy.

Clooney knelt on one knee to speak at the boy’s level. “Nicholas, I want to make a deal with you. I will give you three coins —”

“What kind of coins are they?”

“Unimportant. I will give you three coins if you manage to snatch an apple without getting caught.” He indicated the barrel full of apples on the far side of the stand.

“Is the apple mine afterward?”

“Also unimportant. But yes.”

The boy went immediately about this business, and ducked into the crowd.

“Or no,” said Clooney as an afterthought. “Would it be his? The apple.... Gregor, tell me what you think.”

“I’m not sure — ”

“Would that imply relativity then? That the apple would be his if he stole it. I suppose by nature it is relative... If there is more than one opinion, more than one judgment, then, by logic and by Vanos, it would be a relative situation.”

Clooney drifted away, lost in thought. Gregor took the time to think back on Clooney’s words of purpose, of the existence of this town, and the words of his own awakening. He found them still repeating in the back of his mind, but much more softly now, like simmering cider.

Gregor only half-watched as the clever boy handed over one coin to the seller and picked up an apple at the same time. It took him a moment before he realized what he saw. The boy then drew back into the crowd for a moment before popping up right next to Gregor and Clooney.

“I have reached a conclusion,” stated the detective out of his stupor, looking down at Nicholas. “The apple would be yours.”

“Of course it’s mine. See?” He tossed it in the air and caught it again. “I want my three coins.”

“I’ll give them to you out of my good nature and intellectual honesty,” said Clooney.

He reached into his pocket, withdrew three of the same kind of coin the boy had paid one of to the fruit-seller, and dropped them one at a time into the boy’s open, waiting hand. Gregor, smiling, noted the boy’s cleverness but Clooney remained unaware.

“So how does that help me regain my mind, Mr. Clooney?” Gregor asked after Nicholas had run off.

“It helps you thus: that boy learned from his father those tricks of the trade we just witnessed. Slyness. Subtlety. Thievery.”

“And cleverness,” Gregor added.

“No doubt. So we can tell who that boy is and what he will one day become by looking at his parents. He will look like his father and act like his father. You wonder who you are. You wonder why you are here. Look to your progenitors, Gregor Townsend. It is they who you will be like, and thus who you are.”

“Progenitors?”

“Parents. Ancestors. Your heritage. Kittens grow up to be cats, and pups into dogs.” At this moment, Macata leaped up onto Gregor’s shoulder. “The offspring of a cat will always grow up to be a cat. You want to find your source? You want to know who you are? Look to your parents.”

“I wasn’t aware I had parents to look for. Don’t I live alone?”

“Well yes. I suppose you do.”

The conversation stalled for a moment. Gregor broke the silence.

“What are the coins?”

“Money,” said the detective.

“I sort of figured that out on my own.”

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about your forgetfulness. Anyway, those coins were rences. Five rences make up a lontai. Twenty lontais make a namenah. A hundred namenahs is a cenamenah. To put it in perspective, one rence could buy one apple.”

They walked on, Clooney still oblivious to what little Nicholas Halladio had done, despite his own words. They stopped at a little shop selling jewelry.

“And here, Gregor, we see a perfectly practical object lesson,” he said, opening the door for him.

“May I help you find something?” said the round and small jeweler behind the counter.

“No, we’re just looking,” said Clooney as he picked up a navy blue bracelet and showed it to Gregor.

The jeweler eyed them something fierce, Clooney in particular. He seemed, for whatever reason, to be on the verge of throwing them out of the store.

“See this ornament,” Clooney said, “decorated with this stone, this particular precious stone. To use the system of currency we just established, it’s worth about six or seven namenahs.”

“It’s worth — fifteen namenahs by my judgment, at least” said the jeweler in a blustery, upset, offended manner.

Clooney let forth a laugh. “No, I’m fairly certain this is worth seven. Eight is the highest I, or anybody else, would ever go.”

The jeweler’s face began to turn red, not in embarrassment but in a kind of barely-restrained rage.

Clooney continued on without care. “What makes it interesting, Gregor Townsend, is this gem. A sapphire suffused with zultaire, which is of course mined from the quarry on Mt. Oniz, just a few miles away to the east. You saw it on your way here. The quarry was originally for ordinary minerals, but just a few years ago they found zultaire in abundance underneath the mountain, and they’ve been mining underground ever since. This kind of gem was once most valuable, most precious. Now everybody has them, and what was once unique and beautiful has now become common and even vulgar to many’s tastes. To mine, certainly.”

The jeweler turned ever redder and his breathing became tense and short, puffing in and out, his blood pressure indubitably rising.

“But if you were to cross the sea, in any direction, to whatever land you so chose, and carried with you a sack full of these, it would profit you much. Sir,” Clooney said, turning to the jeweler, holding the bracelet. “May I suggest seeking employment across the sea? Over on the Ganothran continent, perhaps, or even Metagopolis, for instance — ”

Macata suddenly hissed at Clooney, interrupting him and making all three stare silently downwards. Seconds passed before Clooney brought them back by finishing his sentence.

“ — you could make a fine living. Much better than here.”

“No,” huffed the jeweler, red in the face, eyes bugged, and his whole person flustered with fury. “You may not suggest anything of the sort.”

Clooney set the bracelet down on the counter and once again put his arm around Gregor’s shoulders in a fatherly manner. “The stubbornness of some people is staggering,” he said as they walked out. “I give some business advice and get thrown out. How’s that for justice?”

Gregor tried to throw an apologetic look behind him at the jeweler, but the door swung shut too soon. A reasonable distance away, Daniel Clayton Clooney faced eastward and pointed.

“That is Mt. Oniz,” he said.

The image of Mt. Oniz, once a quarry, now a mine, struck Gregor and burned into his empty memory. No, it did not look familiar, but he was sure he would not forget it very soon. The greater part of the quarry was on the opposite side of the mountain, looking like a grand staircase of stone. But at the very top it curled partway around the summit, giving the inhabitants of Middleton a brief view of the silver-colored core of the mountain. From where Gregor and Clooney stood it dominated the landscape like a great behemoth craning its neck around to watch over the town.

“They are using tools and technology from lands across the sea to mine it. Very advanced. It helped make Middleton what it is. Which isn’t much, not yet, but with huge amounts of potential. On its way to much growth.

“And over there,” he said, pushing Gregor around and pointing westward, “is Mt. Oblaid. No mines, no quarries. Left in its natural state. Now it is merely a pleasant hike. Farmer Ajay’s vineyard is over there. A nice little tourist attraction. He makes green wine.”

A rather ordinary but pleasant mountain covered in trees. Much bigger than Oniz but much less visually striking.

“I find it interesting,” Gregor said, indicating Oniz with a jerk of his head, “that so much violence could lead to so much progress.”

“Violence! Who said anything about violence?”

At that moment they heard a loud BOOM from the distant quarry.

“Ah, violence to stone and ear,” said Clooney, nodding his head in understanding. “And I suppose yes, there have been a few injuries...and one or two deaths....”

“Then would you say it has been worth it?”

“Well, if one were to calculate how much better off the great majority of the town is, and that nothing worthwhile is ever without risk, even to life and limb, and to say that the greatest victories are the ones fought the fiercest, with the greatest rewards upon winning and the most hellish consequences upon losing...then sure, I would agree that it was worth it.”

A short pause as both contemplated.

“But there is more I think!” said Clooney with a start. “That mountain is being carved out, like a statue that was once a block of stone. The path to progress is paved with pain.”

They had reached the far end of the markets and were now rounding the path back to the point at which they had first met.

“So have I helped at all, Mr. Townsend?”

“Well, I don’t think we’ve ‘gleaned what afflicts me’. But you have given me a lot to think about in the meantime. And who knows, maybe it will lead to — ”

“Then we’re not finished. We must glean. We must!”

Clooney stopped a passing woman.

“Do you know who this young man is?” he asked with a heretofore unseen zeal that more matched a revolutionary than a poor, greasy literary detective.

“Sure, Danny, that’s Gregor from Tom Basket’s you’ve got there. I think Tom’s been asking about you...” she said to Gregor. And then, in somewhat of a whisper, “You’re a good boy to humor the detective. He’ll let up soon enough, you’ll see.”

Clooney, not having heard the aside, pulled Gregor in something of an overenthusiastic way over to a small group of conversing old men, all sitting on logs or stumps in the shade of a large tree off the main path. Like Clooney and Gregor, these men had apparently nothing better to do with their time than talk. Clooney, leaving Gregor slightly behind him, entered their circle without a word, and stared intensely at each of the men in turn as they spoke. All of them noticed the intrusion (and the intense glares), but did not show it (excepting, of course, the current speaker’s slight faltering of words, which was immediately followed by his quick hop back onto his train of thought). Otherwise, they didn’t react much to Clooney’s presence. The detective, following their conversation with both eyes and ears, did not breathe a word — not until one man used the phrase “worlds without end.”

“Worlds without end?” Clooney said in a strangely accusatory voice, as if he were chief prosecutor in a criminal trial. “What do you mean by that in your context, sir?”

“I mean the idea of lives,” said the man impatiently. “We are all each centers of perception, sense perception, and the viewpoint we see the world from is us, ourselves. Each of us is in a wholly different world from the other. The act of murder is to snuff out one of these worlds. Without a ‘me’ there is nothing. By ‘worlds without end’ is meant the idea of little worlds being created every day, and that we have the capacity to continue life on forever. Every time a child is born, a whole new world is created. And if one were to kill a person, and in so doing destroy a perceiver, you also destroy a world. A world that could have created more worlds. Worlds without end.”

“But that only holds true,” interjected one of the circle, “if every one of those centers of perception actually perceived.”

“What do you mean?” said another. Soon many were speaking.

“What I mean is this: How do we know that everybody else is as human as we are? What if, say, I was the only real being, and the rest are just soulless props?”

“Just random organic matter that could or could not have its own center of perception.”

“That’s a fairly egotistic philosophy.”

“Just an idea, and an interesting one.”

“Not to mention frightening. In that case, the only world that exists would be that which we perceive from moment to moment.”

“So it’s not whether the tree, falling alone in the forest, makes a sound, but if the tree exists at all, if there is nobody there to see it.”

“Do things only exist if they are perceived?”

“There’s no way to prove or disprove that idea. If we ever tried to measure such a thing it would be instantly self-defeating.”

Clooney pulled Gregor back to the path.

“Those men are totally pointless,” he said. “Their words are totally pointless. No, Gregor, you need something more material to go on. Come, let’s talk to this gentle lady here...”

As Clooney interrogated the poor woman, Gregor stood distantly to the side, pondering over everything he had seen and heard in the last few minutes with Daniel Clayton Clooney. As his ears heard the noise and bartering all around him, and as his eyes observed the frenzied peoples and their busy, self-continuing ways, he remembered the Awakening Words. At first they spoke softly to him, but as they repeated, it gradually grew to the power of thunder.

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.

And with that, Gregor knew that he was not and never would be a true part of this town. This was not where he belonged.

“Useless, again, useless!” Clooney cried in his energetic way, departing from the woman and again wrenching Gregor along by the arm. “These people can’t help us with anything. Who needs them! They know nothing. Funnily enough, the same goes for you. That was, most indubitably, another object lesson. And that’s proof that you belong here! They know nothing and you know nothing. Have we found a solution at last? Ah, here we are. We have finally found where you belong.”

The turtle-like structure of Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium stood before them.

“And so we arrive! Here is your place. Where you shall make your money and earn your bread.”

Gregor sighed with resigned regret at the sight of the bastion of his former self. But an incidental question popped up in his mind.

“Mr. Clooney,” Gregor said, “How do you make YOUR living?”

Clooney smiled. “Why, my boy, I beg. It is my place in the world to ask questions that nobody else does — ”

“Nor anyone else cares about,” interjected a passerby.

“Lovely,” said Clooney, looking a little tired.

“I have to ask, though...why did you try to help me so much?”

Clooney smiled sadly and gave a helpless shrug.

“You were the only one who listened to me before,” he said.

“Oh. I’m — I’m sorry. But, um, just one more question, then. What’s that dark thing up there in the sky?” Gregor pointed up at what he had called the black cloud. Clooney followed the direction his finger was pointing.

“A mountain, of course!” said the detective, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Gregor just stared at him, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

“Okay, thanks...” he said wearily as he walked away from Clooney into Tom Basket’s Hardware Emporium. He sighed, discouragement on his face. He had become even more confused than when he had first woken up. Nothing had been gleaned at all.

Chapter 2

Outside his cottage our white-haired young man found a world quite like that which he had seen through the window. It was indeed the same world, pleasant, but very much ordinary. He didn’t expect anything else. Flat, green, grassy fields divided by a dusty brown path leading out from his door. That’s all it was.

The brook he saw through the window ran parallel to this path. The path itself headed north, right in between two distant mountains. Before heading down this path he meandered over to the brook, right beneath the oak tree. He crouched down and dipped his hands into the water, feeling the current pass through and around his fingers. He stared into the brook, into his own white-haired reflection. The face that stared back was instantly familiar to him, but new at the same time. Like it had not existed until he saw it personally, and now it did and it made perfect sense. He couldn’t explain it any other way.

Certainly a storm was brewing inside that skull at the sight of himself. His attempts to explain any of what he had been experiencing were failing miserably. Nothing was holding, nothing was catching. He splashed water in his face a few times.

By chance he happened to look downstream. The sight he saw made him jump back in alarm, in horror. Right next to him, half submerged in clay, was a human skeleton.

But as longer he stared at the chilling sight, not moving a muscle, it seemed to him not made of actual bone, but of dust, the same brown dust that paved the path behind him. He continued to gape, transfixed, for another four minutes before doing anything. Then he crept tentatively closer, finally coming to kneel at its side. It looked so fragile, so ancient. His quivering fingers reached out to touch it...

And it dissolved, right before his eyes, crumbling into formless dust as if nothing had been there at all. He hurriedly backed away and set foot to the path, keeping his gaze forward. As he walked and left the cottage behind, the repeating Sentence came back to his mind’s forefront. After a while, he heard the song of the little blue bird, and realized that it was following him. Its simple melodies cheered his stricken heart.

The path curved, and then came to a fork. To the right it led further north, toward the mountains. To the left were just more fields. He chose right. And after a mere three long, buoyant steps forward, he was promptly pounced upon.

The thing that pounced turned out to be a cat, but he did not realize immediately. Totally overcome by surprise, our young man simply fell over. The cat, an autumn-colored calico, managed to hold onto his shoulder, where it had landed, by inserting its claws deep into the skin. In his pain and confusion, the young man wrenched the cat, and subsequently some of his own flesh, away from him.

He sat there absurdly in the dust, staring at the arrogant cat as it licked dust and human oil from its fur coat. Eventually it stopped its elitist bathing and stared back at him, calm and straight. It had green, unblinking eyes. The young man wondered what color his own eyes were. To the cat he said his first spoken words.

“So, what’s your explanation for all this?”

As to the reason he decided now was the best time to speak up? Perhaps it was because this was the first creature he had come across with which he could speak eye to eye, and he had formerly been so alone, and in such a vacuum of activity, that now all his thoughts and pent-up emotions came tumbling out without any restraint.

“Why did you jump on me? Why is this bird,” — he looked up at the bird gliding through the air, and motioned at it, frustrated — “why is this bird following me? Who am I? Where am I, where am I supposed to go? What am I doing? Why am I talking to you? Why am I anything at all? There’s just no reason for all this. I don’t know why I exist. Why do you exist? Is there any reason for anything? What is going on and why can’t I figure anything out? Why — ”

He cut himself short. His wandering eyes had found something strange in the sky. He squinted into the sunlight. Way high up in the middle of the blue was a lone black cloud. It did not bear the exact appearance of a cloud — it seemed to be stationary, solid, and solitary, no other clouds around it, completely out of place. Not quite a cloud, but some dark mass hanging there in the clear blue sky, watching over the world below.

The cat rubbed against his legs. Its purring quelled his anger.

“Don’t attack the bird, okay?” he said to the cat as his breathing calmed. “You can come along if you promise that.”

His journey continued, the cat at his feet, the bird overhead. The grassy fields grew thicker with foliage and shrubbery. He walked, then walked, and then continued to walk.

And soon a town entered his sights, nestled right between the mountains. This, as he would come to find out, was Middleton, northernmost town on the central island of the five-island city-state Pentasma. Cobblestone streets, quaint wooden homes, smoke pillowing out of forges, steam sighing from vents, a market based on shipping and minerals unearthed from nearby Mt. Oniz, all accented by the crisp salty air of the sea.

The town breathed, it laughed, it sang. Children gamboled about, chasing each other, playing games, getting in the way of their parents, who in turn went about casually doing their daily chores and discussing the latest gossip or news with friends and neighbors. Smiles greeted smiles and happy voices filled the air, creating a relaxed, carefree atmosphere for everybody. It almost made the young man want to smile, too. He had entered on a festival day.

Then a child bumped into him, and he heard words that made his ghost of a smile vanish:

“Sorry, Gregor!” and the little girl ran off, giggling.

Gregor Townsend. That was his name. The one who existed for a wise and glorious purpose. As he had suspected. As he feared. But at least now he had something. And he found that, just like when he had seen his reflection, he had always known his name, though it had not existed in his mind until this very moment.

Gregor continued passing through the homes and then finally into the commercial heart of the town, where the dusty road turned to cobblestones, where he found even more busy, bustling crowds. Some of the townspeople dragged carts around, others children; many, including Gregor, traveled to and fro with no particular goal in mind. Conversations of differing tones and volumes between seller and buyer or betwixt customers gave the town a happy, buzzing murmur. Most of the stores around him stood strong as relatively permanent structures. But today, being a festival day, shops and stalls of a more temporary nature sprang up, capitalizing on the crowds.

“Hey!” cried a young boy, pointing at Gregor. “You didn’t have him yesterday.”

It took Gregor a moment to realize that the boy wasn’t pointing to him exactly, but to the cat who had been perched on his shoulder this whole time.

“Didn’t I?” Gregor mumbled, confused.

This meant something important to Gregor Townsend. He had existed before this morning. He was a real person. But the cat had not been with him.

“One of Caroline’s?” asked the boy.

“Just a new addition,” Gregor said with a shrug and a helpless smile, unsure what the boy meant, and also unsure what he himself meant.

But the boy seemed satisfied with the answer and ran off with his friends. Gregor stared after him, wondering if he had friends, too.

Then something happened to make him realize the answer was Yes, he did indeed. The cat, out of nowhere, suddenly dug in its claws deep into his shoulder. He turned to face the cat to ask an irritated why? — but then he saw what the cat had been warning him of: about five feet away from his face, and covering ground fast, was some sort of giant reptile pulling a heavy, awkward cart behind it. One does not ordinarily stop in the way of a swiftly-trotting dragon, and the cat had reminded Gregor of this fact in case he had forgotten it along with everything else, because that’s what friends do.

Gregor jumped twice; the first in fright and the second to get the dickens out of its way. No driver directed the beast; it seemed to know its way around town. And, in fact, the rest of the townspeople stepped casually out of its way as if this were a normal occurrence. It was.

Now safely in the wake of the uncaring animal, Gregor had time to examine it more carefully, albeit from a rapidly-increasing distance. It was a dragon if he’d ever seen one. But compared to the dragons he knew (but could not remember ever seeing), it was like a lapdog to a wolf. The only remnants of wings were flaps of green skin hanging from its arms; the head was crowned by small, red, webbed fins and its claws looked filed off. Perhaps this dragon, if such it could be called, had had all its potentially dangerous qualities, both in disposition and in physicality, bred out.

As the “dragon” disappeared into the crowds Gregor gave the cat a pat on the head and a word of gratitude.

“Thanks,” he said. The cat purred graciously and nudged its head further into Gregor’s scratching fingers. Gregor turned to the sky to see if his other companion had remained with him. It certainly had. The little blue songbird landed on a rooftop corner and let out a tweet only Gregor could hear. It was then Gregor decided to name his animals.

“Macata,” he whispered, looking at his cat. And “Buzby” while looking at the bird.

Just then a loud, hearty voice rang out, and a hand gripped his shoulder.

“Gregor Townsend! Your head is in the stars, young man. We certainly have a job ahead of us today.”

Chapter 1 Rewritten

All comments welcome.

From the Fiery Depths to Starpara

Book One in the Metagopolis Tetralogy

Chapter 1

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.

With those words imprinted on his brain, the white-haired young man at the center of our story woke out of his dream and into a nightmare. He arrived in a panic, gasping and choking, as if he had just emerged from the sea after almost drowning. The world he found himself in contrasted harshly with his dream, as different as the depths of an ocean would be to a creature of the sky. Ironically this was not far from the truth.

He sat upright in a bed, naked and alone, the room lit a low, cool blue like just before dawn, or just after dusk. Behind him a mostly-closed shutter door let in that bluish light through the large window it protected. He had been drooling like a baby, though he did not know it.

The Sentence that accompanied him into this new reality held him in its clutches, repeating itself over and over again as consistently as the tide.

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.

He looked in consternation around the room, searching for answers, taking everything in as the overarching question of WHY? raged and slashed through him. No solution came as his eyes took in his surroundings. Ordinary household furnishings filled the room: a dresser, a fireplace, and a stove; a desk, a stool, and a closet; a sink, a few cupboards and a doorway to a bathroom. He knew what these were, but had no recollection of seeing or using any of them before.

Nor could he remember doing anything before. You see, he had lost his memory, forgotten everything before these first few waking minutes. All that populated his mind now was his memory of the dream world he had awoken from. But as second after second passed, the water of memory slipped through his careless fingers. And so a desperation to retain the sights and sounds he still remembered rose.

He blundered out of bed and over to the desk. There he found a pad of paper and a pen, which he took in his hands. He scribbled furiously the first three words that came to him.

soar

sky

light

That was it. Only those fragments remained. And soon, they had gone away too. He stared at the paper desperately, his mind totally empty —

Except for that Sentence, those words with which he had awoken.

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.

It continued to ring in his ears, the words clear as day. And so of course questions naturally sprang up in the vacuum of his mind. Questions as to the identity of this “Gregor Townsend.” He supposed it was probably him, as that would make the most sense. But how could he have purpose? He, being as innocent and ignorant as a newborn babe, didn’t even know who he was, nor where he had come from, nor where he was going. So of course the notion of ‘purpose’ seemed secondary to him. But he wrote down these questions anyway, right underneath the other words.

Who?

Where?

Why?

Curiously, he did not write down the Sentence. He didn’t feel he had to. Already it had taken permanent residence in his subconscious, able to be recalled at any time. It would not be forgotten easily, as had the dream world from which he had awoken.

His attention again turned to the rest of the room. He knew what all these things were. He knew language, and how to write. He knew laws of physics and everything like that. He just did not know himself. Our young man was lost in an inverted fog.

His eye caught the crack of light from the slightly open window shutter. The light it let through had changed from blue to red. The room had grown brighter since his awakening. Striding over to the window, he took the shutters in hand and pulled them open.

Light flooded the room, and the young man took a step back, startled by what he saw. It was not the scene outside that jolted his senses; that scene was rather ordinary: a green grassy field, a humble babbling brook, and a single tall oak tree, all warmed by the yellow light of a rising sun. No, it was not what lay beyond the window, but the window itself.

The window, clearly not an ordinary pane of glass, rippled like liquid, like a wind-kissed pond. It distorted the outside world like glass or water would, almost as if the grass and brook and tree were a painting, not yet dry. He reached up to touch it, entranced...

And as it looked, it felt. Like liquid, like a painting. Wet, but more so: his fingers, upon penetrating this strange matter, lost their material form and added their color to the world beyond. A puddle of pink mixed into the green field where he had touched. At first this frightened him, and he quickly drew his hand away. The alien color twirled back in to the point where he had entered, and his finger returned to its original form.

He looked back and forth between his hand and the window, or whatever it was. No harm had been done. Cautious, but very much curious, he again reached in, this time with his whole hand. The pinkish color his hand supplied swirled into the colors of the outside world, mixing with the green of the grass and blue of the sky, interrupting their place in this painting that had depth in addition to height and width. He moved his hand from the dark rocks of the brook across the grass, up the tree trunk, through its many leaves, into the blue sky, over the white clouds, and, with slight trepidation for a reason he did not understand and did not think about, into the very center of the blinding, rising sun.

But the darker colors never got that far. Instead, they faded away as they went higher, disappearing as the sun’s rays grew closer. Upon reaching the source of all light, the dark colors had gone completely, for light destroys darkness, banishes it.

The young man’s understanding of this, however, was currently very limited, and what he saw did not compute with his implicit understanding of pigment. But he took this in stride, for he admitted to himself that he didn’t understand what this window, this strange, beautiful, interactive painting of reality, was at all. There was no way he could at that time. And as fascinating as he found it, its mystery did not compare with his own.

Still — something about it, this window, felt right to him. As if it were another piece to his puzzle, and he had connected it with the piece he had woken up already possessing. Of course, the puzzle would surely take hundreds, perhaps thousands more pieces to complete, and what he had so far remained positively inconclusive, but this was a start, and as everybody knows, a journey has to start somewhere.

Lost in thought, or perhaps in feeling, the white-haired young man stared dreamily at the opposite wall, upon which the dawning sunlight from the window fell. In the background he heard a bird chirping, but did not actively register it. A vague, fuzzy peace was calming the distress with which he had awoken. It took him a good while for his mind to truly see what his eyes were already seeing. When he finally noticed it, some of that vague, fuzzy peace departed, and he took a few steps closer to get a better look.

A pattern of strange, dark lines had materialized, and were becoming sharper and more defined as the sun rose higher. A pattern of arcane symbols and mysterious drawings. It could have been a map, or a diagram, or even a language. To his surprise the lines began to disappear as he drew closer. But, he realized, only where his person blocked the sunlight and created shadow. He stepped to the side, allowing the light to touch the wall, and the lines and symbols reappeared. Lines of shadow, of material darkness, ablaze in the midst of light, impossible to be seen otherwise. Something mystical that our white-haired young man did not understand.

The song of the bird outside stole his stare back from the lines of shadow, and he glanced back out the window. Suddenly a feathery flash of blue swerved into his vision and the young man ducked. In through the window flew the tiny blue songbird, as if the window did not exist at all, and twice it circled overhead, finally coming to light on a bedpost. Next to the bird at the foot of the bed lay a stack of folded clothes. Sometimes the most strange and bizarre occurrences have a way of bringing simple and necessary things to our attention. Our young man, bemused by the bird, put on these clothes. And then, not knowing what else to do, he took the pen and notebook from the desk, walked to the doorway leading out, and pulled on the handle.

As he exited, the Sentence continued to reverberate against the walls of his brain, echoing back and forth, filling his otherwise empty mind.

Gregor Townsend exists for a wise and glorious purpose.