by Kim White
“Look into the web and you will see it,” Sybil says.
With my feet soaking in the tea water and the taste of apple on my tongue, I look up into the endless stacks connected by the web, whose pattern can be seen against the darkness. For a split second I catch a glimpse of it—the meaning of being human—shimmering there in the interwoven stories. It all adds up, and the meaning flickers in my peripheral vision like a fragile ray of light, then it’s gone. Sybil smiles at me, knowing what I’ve seen. Then she goes to fetch a towel. When her back is turned, I pick up the apple seed lying on the plate and wedge it into the hem of my dress for safekeeping.
Sybil dries my feet with the towel and takes away the dirty water. I notice that the cuts and bruises have healed and all the pain is gone. It must be strong medicine she carries in that flask of hers.
I stare at the charred remains of my book, now just a pile of ash on the hearth. “Why did Minotaur try to steal it?” I ask.
Sybil smiles gently. “That is a mystery you have to unravel on your own. But I can offer these words of advice—keep them in mind during your journey with Minotaur: Never trust a machine. It is an agent of somebody else’s dream.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling a twinge of annoyance at Sybil’s mysterious, preachy tone. “What dream?” Sybil extends her hand and helps me out of the chair. I stand up reluctantly.
“Minotaur was built to carry out his master’s plan. That’s really all I can tell you,” she says. Although Sybil glows like a good witch, I hate her riddles.
“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on and what it has to do with me?”
“Cora,” Sybil says, smiling, “it is all to do with you. You are the only the second living person ever to enter the land of the dead. You are the only one who can help Minotaur and his creator.”
“Help him?” I echo, now completely annoyed. Sybil’s cheerful but indecipherable advice is frustrating, and things seem to be getting more complicated by the minute.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Sybil continues. “They will be coming for us soon. You must return to the river and follow Minotaur. You can’t trust him, but he’s the only one who can help you get through the City.”
“Who is coming for us?” I ask. But Sybil ignores the question. She is at her desk, collecting all the pens. She holds them like a bouquet of golden branches and squeezes with both hands until they merge into a single pen again, which she hands me.
I hesitate, then take it. “What am I supposed to do with it?” I say.
“Try it,” she says.
I remember seeing Sybil moisten the tip in her mouth to make the nib emerge, so I try that. As soon as I put the twig between my lips, it shrinks and slips inside my mouth, wrapping itself around one of my teeth like a gold cap. I try to pull it off, but it won’t budge.
“Good thinking,” Sybil says, laughing. “Minotaur will never look there.”
I’m not sure whether she’s talking to the pen or me. “Why do I have to hide it?” I ask.
“Minotaur will kill you for it,” she answers matter-of-factly.
“Oh. Thanks for giving me something that could get me killed,” I say, sarcastically. What I don’t tell Sybil is that I’ve fallen instantly in love with this weird pen. I can feel it vibrating in my mouth, and when I look up, I understand the threads of light even better. They move toward me, like tentacles seeking me out; they surround my head and try to enter my mouth to connect to the pen.
“What’s happening?” I say, marveling at the light that surrounds me.
“I don’t mean to be mysterious, but I can’t tell you very much about this,” Sybil answers. “You are at the center of a very long story, my dear. I have been writing it, but now that your book is destroyed, that task has become yours.”
“What do you mean?” I say, trying to control a wave of panic. “I’m not a writer. I can’t do any of this”—I gesture toward the stacks and to the manuscripts spread out on Sybil’s desk. I reach into my mouth and try to pull the golden pen out, my terror of writing overwhelming my love for it. Unfortunately, no amount of prying can detach it from the molar it wrapped itself around.
“Don’t worry,” Sybil reassures me. “You will write your story by living it. The pen will help you. It’s important that you do this well because all of these stories depend on yours.”
“Right—no pressure,” I say, running my tongue over the bump on my tooth and trying to understand Sybil’s meaning. “How is a pen going to help me live my life?”
“The pen—” Sybil begins; she hesitates, looking at me for a minute as if deciding whether to divulge her secret. “It has powers,” she finally says.
“What kind of powers?” I say slowly, hoping to sound trustworthy. I know she won’t tell me what’s going on unless I seem very calm and mature. I stand up straight and put on a serious, contemplative expression.
“What you write with it”—Sybil hesitates again, giving me a wary look—”comes into being.” She watches me carefully as I take it in. I think she knows what I’m going to do next.
“Where is Lucas’s book?” I ask, rushing over to Sybil’s desk to examine the works in progress. She looks at me disapprovingly, but I ignore her. If there is a chance to get my brother back, I don’t care what it costs. She watches me in silence as I rummage through the work on her desk, messing up her piles and throwing all the manuscripts not about Lucas onto the floor. It doesn’t matter if they’re ruined; there is no one to finish writing them anyway. I’m certainly not going to.
Sybil steps up behind me and puts a hand gently on my shoulder. “His book has been shelved,” she says.
I freeze, gripping the table for support. “He’s dead,” I whisper.
Sybil squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says.
I feel all the air go out of my body, and everything grows dark inside me, as though a door has slammed shut in my soul. Lucas was my best friend—my only real ally. He can’t be gone.
“Your brother is dead, but that means that he is here in the underworld—looking for you,” Sybil says. “You must find him. He won’t be able to get to his final resting place without your help.”
The thought of Lucas stranded in this terrible underworld for eternity breaks my heart. I turn to look at Sybil. “Tell me how to find him,” I demand.
Minotaur Reports to Minos
“I have failed you, father.” Minotaur’s image flutters meekly in Minos’s darkened office. He is reporting back after his aborted mission to obtain Cora’s book of life. The office is quiet, except for the surveillance monitors on the wall, carrying live feeds from various locations in the underworld. Minos has hidden cameras everywhere.
“Tell me how this happened,” Minos says. His voice is stern and angry.
Minotaur is nervous. He puts aside his favored personas of knights and robots to search for one that will placate Minos. He flickers through several different ideas—Minos’s wife, his mother, his lover—but the obviousness of his intent might anger Minos. He finally settles into Cora’s persona—the older version of Cora that he activated on the plains of Asphodel.
“Do not be angry with Minotaur,” the persona says. “He fought Sybil for my book, and he tried to save it from the fire.”
“The book was destroyed?” Minos asks.
“Completely destroyed,” she answers.
“Then how are you still here?” Minos looks both surprised and pleased. “You should have perished along with the record of your life and the design of your destiny.”
“I know, sir,” the persona replies. “I cannot explain my continued existence.”
The old man leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Perhaps you are even more powerful than we had hoped,” he says.
The persona smiles slyly. Minotaur is filled with relief.
“Now tell me,” Minos continues. “What did Sybil do when your book was burning? Did she try to rescue it?”
A smile spreads slowly across Minos’s face as he considers the implication. “So she allowed it,” he says.
“Yes,” the Cora persona replies. “She allowed it.” The persona flickers and begins to break up as it changes back to one of Minotaur’s more usual versions.
Minos turns and types furiously at his computer, bringing up a screen full of code. “What happened when she wrote in my book?” he asks.
“She must have rerouted me, father,” Minotaur answers, now brave enough to abandon the Cora persona. “She wrote a few words and I found myself here, in your office.”
Minos scans his monitor, occasionally scrolling to view more information. He stares at the monitor for so long that Minotaur wonders if he’s finished with him. “Sir,” he whispers, “should I leave you to . . . ”
“Stay right there,” Minos says sternly. He continues to stare at the monitor. Then he taps a button on his desk, and the data on his monitor are displayed on the wall-mounted surveillance screens. He starts typing again, searching through the code base for recent changes and examining them. “Brilliant,” he mutters, “just brilliant.”
Minotaur hovers in front of the desk awkwardly, waiting for Minos to give him something to do.
“I wrote you. You’re part of my life story,” Minos explains. “When she revised my book, she revised your code. Look here,” he points to a line of code. “And right here,” he points to another. Minotaur examines the revisions but doesn’t know what they mean. The code is his essence, but he doesn’t understand it any more than most people understand their DNA.
“I had no idea her pen was so powerful,” Minos mutters as he stares at the code. “This is the perfect hack,” he says with admiration. “It gives her a little bit of control over you, but not enough to make you utterly useless to me,” Minos explains.
“She has some control over me!” Minotaur shudders at the implication. He lives in fear of falling out of favor with Minos and being shut down, decommissioned. “Can the master builder debug me?” Minotaur pleads.
Minos leans back in his leather chair and folds his hands behind his head. “She didn’t introduce a bug—she upgraded you, gave you some organic qualities, which puts you partially in her realm. Now you aren’t just a program—you’re a virus. It allows Sybil to spy on us, but it also gives me some clues about her plan. From what I see here,” he says, gesturing to the code on the screens, “it appears that Sybil and I have some common goals. Her interference could be very useful.” Minos pauses for a few moments to scroll through the code, shaking his head with appreciation. Then he looks up at Minotaur as though just remembering he is in the room. “Find the girl and bring her to me,” he orders.
“Sir?” Minotaur begins, “She isn’t going to trust me.”
“Sybil will tell her to go with you,” Minos replies without looking up from his work. “She will instruct Cora to rely on your help.” He stares intently at his computer monitor as he types in new code, revising his plan.
“As you wish, sir,” Minotaur says.
“One more thing,” Minos says. “Find Cora’s dead brother and bring him here as well.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Minotaur says. Fetching the dead brother seems much easier to him than contending with Cora. He disappears from Minos’s office and reappears on the banks of Tartarus.
Intercepting the Ship of the Dead
“You will find your brother as you journey to the City,” Sybil says, as she escorts me out of the tree house. “Minotaur will guide you, but stay on your guard. The pen will help, but you must keep it secret.”
She hangs the little silver flask around my neck. “There isn’t much left,” she says. “Save it for an emergency.”
“Isn’t much left of what?” I ask, as my hand closes around the pendant. Sybil seems rushed now. She is practically pushing me out the door, but I still have a lot of questions: Where do I look for Lucas, what happened to the rest of my family, how do I get out of this place, and what does she know about the voice?
“Water from the river Lethe,” Sybil says. “It erases wounds and memories of pain, but it’s very difficult to get to Lethe. If you make it that far, remember to refill the flask.”
“How many rivers are there and what do you mean if I make it?” I try to suppress the worry that’s bubbling up inside. The flask feels cool and leaden against my chest. It’s about the size of my pinkie finger. The front is decorated with rubies, and there is an inscription on the back, written in a language I’ve never seen before.
“What does this mean?” I ask. But Sybil is not listening. She is motioning to the Simurgh circling above us. Their bright orange feathers shine like paillettes as they glide through the murky air, four enormous wings propelling them fast as lightning.
Sybil signals to the largest bird, and he swoops down to hover above us. His top wings move faster than a hummingbird’s; the other set flaps more slowly. His face is unusually fierce and intelligent.
“Take this girl to the ferry,” Sybil orders. The Simurgh looks at me curiously. Then Sybil turns to me and says, “Now listen to me carefully,” and she proceeds to give me detailed instructions for finding the coin and boarding the ferry. She makes me repeat the information to be sure I understand and remember.
The Simurgh is waiting for me, but I hesitate. I need Sybil to explain the voice. “I have to know who was reading my story,” I say. “That voice has been talking to me for years.”
“I know,” Sybil replies.
“How do you know? Did you make it up?” I ask, desperately hoping she didn’t.
Sybil looks at me quietly, carefully considering her response. “No,” she says. “That voice belongs to someone very close to you. You haven’t met him yet, and it’s important that you stay alive until you do.”
“Tell me more about him,” I say, feeling my heart constrict with excitement, as it does whenever I hear the voice. “What’s his name? Tell me that at least.”
She shakes her head. “There isn’t time. They are probably on their way to get us now. If you stay here, it will be the end of both of us.”
“Who are they, and what is going on?” I ask, so frustrated that I barely keep the whine out of my voice.
Sybil gives me a motherly hug. She smells like linen and wild thyme, and her arms are muscular and reassuring. When she squeezes me, I feel that I’m absorbing some of her strength. She is everything I wish my own mother had been. “You must go now,” she says, releasing me. “The Simurgh will take you to the ferry,”
Reluctantly, I let go of her, and the Simurgh grabs me and lifts me up. A brigade of six more Simurgh fly with us, to ensure our safety. I am pressed against the creature’s chest as we glide above the landscape of the underworld. The soft feathers don’t offer much comfort. Under them, his torso is like iron. Squeezed against his armored body, I struggle to breathe.
From the air, Asphodel looks like a vast parking lot bordered by two rivers, and its inhabitants glow in the dim light. On my right, I can see the levee and the river that brought me here; on my left, the inky waters of Tartarus flowing sluggishly between Asphodel’s shore and the vast dome of the City.
When the ferry comes into view, I see the crowd of souls waiting to board. The line is half a mile long. The ghosts are corralled into narrow metal chutes arranged in switchbacks. They shuffle like cattle until they get to the front of the line, where two men inspect the human cargo before allowing it to board.
Minotaur swoops through the air to meet us. “You can’t let the ferryman see you with the Simurgh,” he says. “Follow me.” He shoots up into the sky like a streak of light. The Simurgh follow as he races toward a huge black ship that’s cruising through the air like a blimp. We hover above it as Minotaur shrinks to a small flash of light and goes down to investigate. The vessel moves slowly underneath us. It’s like a pirate’s ship, made of ancient, dusty
black wood, and it’s creaking under its load of nervous passengers. Minotaur signals to us that it’s okay to board. The Simurgh set me gently on the deck, and without a backward glance the brigade flies away. I watch the orange sparks disappear into the charcoal sky.
The deck is crowded with ghostly people who seem lost and confused. “These are the souls of the newly dead,” Minotaur whispers. As the ship descends, passengers push past me to look over the gunwales at the plains of Asphodel, exclaiming as if they were only tourists here. They don’t seem to understand that they are dead. Those who do stand silently, grim expressions on their faces, like soldiers about to walk out onto the battlefield.
As we descend, the sailors turn the bars of a giant capstan, and metal buttresses emerge from the sides of the ship—landing gear that creaks slowly into place to stabilize the craft. As the ship touches down, a great cloud of black ash billows up from Asphodel’s surface. A long ramp emerges from the bow of the ship and extends to the ground.
The gangway is roped off. Two sailors duck beneath it and walk down. They take positions at the bottom of the ramp, then nod to the sailors on board, who remove the rope. The passengers who still don’t realize what’s happening here step onto the gangplank eagerly; the wise ones are more cautious. When the passengers reach the bottom, they proceed one at a time as the sailors examine them. The first three passengers have a gold coin under their tongue, and they are directed to the ferry. I watch them walk toward the long line of waiting souls. They are still smiling and chatting.
The fourth passenger has no coin. The sailors move back as she steps off the plank. The moment her feet touch Asphodel’s dust, her ghostly body begins to quiver and shake. A broken mobile phone falls to the ground. The vibrations become so extreme that her features blur and she begins to disintegrate. The violent movement shatters her body, until she is nothing more than a cloud of fog hovering above Asphodel’s dust, a curl of steam above a teacup. I watch as the cloud slowly turns blue in the cold air, lingers for a moment and quivers in a way that suggests weeping. Then, like a gust of wind carrying a leaf, an invisible force sweeps her to a cell in the parking lot of Asphodel. She immediately begins to move methodically about, like all the other specters, retracing the futile routine she had clung to in life and now cannot escape in death.
