by Max Frei
Actually, I get used to things very quickly. If I move my belongings to a new home in the morning, by evening I feel I have lived there my whole life. It even occurred to me that in a few days I’d grow so used to Xolomi that I’d “remember” why they had thrown me in prison. And then I’d repent, and try to reform with all my might!
And so I sat in my cell and gazed at the ceiling. The marvelous Lonli-Lokli lived some sort of ineffable life between my thumb and the index finger of my left hand. I was terribly curious—what was he feeling about all of this? In any case, the fellow had taken his “work diary” with him. How he could comfortably pass the time away with that notebook is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.
Finally, I decided it was time to go to sleep. I’d have to rest, since the most interesting things would happen at night, I assumed, if they were to happen at all.
I was still afraid that nothing untoward would happen. I wondered how much time I would have to spend in Xolomi before I realized that seven deaths in the space of three years was very sad and awkward, if not idiotic—but finally, that it was just a coincidence after all. Would I be here a year? Two? More? Well, never mind. The gentlemen Secret Investigators would be able to survive for about twelve days without us, after which they’d be the ones raising hue and cry to get us released themselves. Sir Juffin would no doubt be the first to decide that our business trip had dragged on too long.
I slept remarkably well. When I woke up, it was already dark. I received a prisoner’s meal, which tasted curiously like the recent festive breakfast. Why do Juffin and I always eat at the Glutton Bunba? The food is great there, of course, but prison fare seemed to be more refined. We’d have to introduce the tradition of carousing at Xolomi: purely out of professional considerations, of course. Or perhaps we could spend Days of Freedom from Care on the premises—it’s quiet, cozy, and there’s nobody to bother you.
Night was coming on. So as not to waste precious time, I tried to do what I truly know how to do well (and it wasn’t much): to chat with the objects around me, and to see that part of the past that they “remembered.”
It was hopeless. All the prison flotsam and jetsam that surrounded me answered my appeals with surging waves of fear. We had seen that before!—in Makluk’s bedchamber, where the little balsam box had sent out the same currents of terror. There was no doubt about it. I had stumbled upon a real story, not a chain of awkward coincidences.
Just then a guard appeared to “convoy” me to a business meeting. One of my guards, by the name of Xaned Janira, had been dying to meet me since morning, but the good commander had tried to preserve my peace and quiet, and ordered him to wait until I woke up.
Mr. Janira bears the title of Master Comforter of Sufferers. As I came to understand it, he was a sort of psychotherapist. He visits the prisoners regularly, asks them how they slept, what they are anxious or worried about, and what messages they want to send home. In Echo, prisoners are treated very humanely. It is thought that if a person has landed in Xolomi, he has no farther to fall, and to subject a prisoner to further discomfort and inconvenience is senseless and cruel. The psychological and emotional comfort of a prisoner is a matter of great concern, and this is, of course, only proper.
“I thought you’d be interested, Sir Max, in some information I possess,” Xaned Janira said, after the ritual greeting was over.
He turned out to be an exceedingly youthful fellow, with a round face and a melodic voice, and narrow green eyes that settled on me with a penetrating gaze.
“Strange things have been happening here recently,” he said. “I suppose this is the reason for your stay. It seemed only right that before investigations get underway you should hear me out. I’ve been waiting all day for you to call me, but I finally could wait no longer. At the risk of being importunate, I decided to take the initiative.”
“I ate too much for breakfast, Sir Janira! So much that I just couldn’t think straight,” I said, trying to excuse my behavior. “I should have turned to you as soon as I crossed the threshold, but I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I just collapsed in my cell right after breakfast. Forgive me. Thank you for inviting me to talk with you.”
From the expression on Xaned Janira’s face, I understood that at that moment he was prepared to go through hell and high water for me.
I don’t know what it was in me that won him over—the respectful “sir,” a form of address not warranted by the station of junior psychotherapist, or my willingness to admit my mistakes. Somehow or other, though, I had traversed the path to his heart without much trouble.
“Not at all, Sir Max! You had every right to rest before getting down to work. I just wanted to explain to you the reasons for my own persistence—I thought I might be able to assist you. Maybe my information will prove useless, but . . . well, just listen to what I have to say, and then you decide. Two days ago the prisoners from cells 5-Soya-Ra, 5-Tot-Xun, and 5-Sha-Pui, which are adjacent to cell 5-Ow-Nox, complained to me about bad dreams. Strangely enough, the content of all their dreams was very similar.”
“I can only sympathize with them, poor fellows! And what did they dream?”
“All three of them dreamed about a ‘small, transparent man,’ as they described it. He came out of the wall, and they all experienced inconceivable horror. From then on their versions of the dreams diverged. Malesh Patu claims that the transparent man wanted to poke his eyes out, and Sir Alarak Vass complained that he ‘was groping for his heart.’ The third case is rather amusing,” Janira related with downcast eyes. “The prisoner insists that he tried to plug up his backside. His biggest fear is that his next dream will see the attempt succeed.”
“Goodness! I wouldn’t want to be in his place.”
It sounded to me as though the prisoners’ nightmares had been an eccentric combination of real dangers and individual phobias. This transparent fellow had most likely done something wicked to all of them, but each of them had a personal interpretation of the events. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was where this creature who haunted all their dreams had come from in the first place. Sorcery was not supposed to be possible in Xolomi; that’s why it had become a prison for those who had a penchant for forbidden magic.
“How is their overall health?” I asked. “Have you shown them to the wiseman?”
“Yes, of course. We cannot just ignore complaints like that, all the more since the trouble began simultaneously with three prisoners. These gentlemen hadn’t been acquainted before, and here in Xolomi, you understand, they couldn’t organize any kind of conspiracy. And why should they? It turns out that the health of all three of them is hardly anything to brag about, but the organs that the transparent ‘dream man’ allegedly targeted are in perfect condition.”
I noted with pleasure that my theory about the influence of personal phobias on the interpretation of nightmares wasn’t so far from the mark. Not bad for a dilettante like myself.
“What could be wrong with them, then?”
“All three of them are gradually losing the Spark,” Janira said in a portentous whisper. Then he went quiet, waiting for the significance of what he had just said to sink in.
I let out a low whistle. To lose the Spark means to suddenly lose the life force, becoming so weak that death comes like sleep after a hard day, when you cannot resist it and don’t even want to. According to my competent colleagues, this mysterious condition is the most dangerous thing that can befall a person born in this World.
“What’s strange is that these unfortunates are getting weaker only gradually, whereas a person usually loses the Spark suddenly, without any alarming symptoms,” said Janira. “In spite of that, our wisemen are absolutely sure of the diagnosis. They say that they can still save them, but medicines don’t seem to be helping.”
“Well, why don’t you try this: move the poor souls to other cells—the farther from cell 5-Ow-Nox the better—and let their cells remain empty until I can discover the cause of this misf
ortune. You can manage that, I hope?”
“Yes, certainly,” said the Comforter of Sufferers, nodding. Then he added apprehensively, “Are you certain it will help?”
“Almost certain. But that’s always how it is. I can never be completely sure of anything. In any case, give it a try. And do it right now. We may still be able to save them. I don’t know what they did before that landed them in Xolomi, but not a single person deserves such a terrible punishment as sleep filled with nightmares. I’m speaking as a longtime expert in this field.”
“Do you know how to prevent nightmares, Sir Max?”
“I do,” I said, and grinned. “My own, anyway.”
I went back to my cell. It looks like I’ll have my fill of bad dreams here, I mumbled to myself.
I had hardly returned to my senses after the nightmares from the house next door had paid a call, when I was treated to another round in Xolomi, where prisoners are tormented by bad dreams. A plugged up backside, for instance . . .
Nevertheless, I had slept excellently during the day myself. Perhaps it was because it had really been daytime? The heavy cell door closed behind me and . . . disappeared. Here in Xolomi every door exists only for the person in the corridor. From the vantage point of the prisoner, it isn’t there at all. Amazing!
Now I was burning with impatience. Would the “transparent man” appear tonight—and what would he do if I didn’t fall asleep? I was absolutely sure that I wouldn’t. I had slept too soundly and well during the day. What would you have done?
I began waiting for events to unfold, which, in their turn, they didn’t exactly hasten to do. The night brought no answers to my questions. On the other hand, it was generous with strange experiences and sensations.
I felt neither fear nor anxiety, but I constantly sensed I was being scrutinized by somebody’s gaze. And it was so intense it tickled. The tickling irritated me like a caterpillar that had crawled under the covers. I grumbled and scratched and ran to take a bath three times—but it was no use.
At dawn, everything stopped, and I tumbled into sleep. During the night, however, I had a bright idea—though putting it into practice could wait until dinner. (Putting things off until later is a hobby of mine. From morning to evening all I do is put things off.)
I woke up from the rumble of the cell door. My food was brought in to me. Tasting the cheese soup, I started seriously contemplating what kind of crime against the state I should commit. Being held captive for twenty years in these conditions—not a single Royal Honor could compete with “punishment” like this!
When I had finished my soup, I asked to go for a “walk” to Mr. Commander’s office. The time had come to consult Juffin. That night I had realized that the part of the story of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox I knew about only went back to the first of the seven deaths. Since then three years had passed. What had happened there before? Who had been kept in the cell? That was what I meant to find out. In Echo you have to be on top of things like that. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that a few thousand years ago, some shady Grand Magician or other had been held here, and that today’s misfortunes were a logical consequence of that.
I didn’t doubt that Sir Juffin knew every detail of the history of this little place. But in sending me to Xolomi he kept as quiet as a fish—either out of perversity, or because he was just waiting for me to ask the right questions. (In the interests of professional training, of course!)
But look at me! Instead of pedantically collecting information, I wasted time and energy on gathering personal amorous experience. It’s my own fault! I concluded, and settled myself more comfortably in the commander’s chair. After beating myself up like this for a while, I sent a call to Juffin.
Now tell me how it all started, I demanded. What happened here before the 114th day of the 112th year? One of your mutinous Grand Magicians was held in the cell, I’m guessing?
Very good, Max! Juffin was ecstatic about my knack for putting two and two together.
I have no idea why you’re praising me, I grumbled. Well, yes, I asked the question that I should have started with only today, and not a year later. For an idiot like me, that’s probably an achievement.
I have any number of acquaintances who would have needed not one, but two hundred years, if they needed a day. You’re angry at me; but you’re even angrier at yourself. But I meant it when I said “very good.”
I don’t recognize you, Juffin. Such compliments! You must miss me or something.
I had already forgiven him, of course. I was as happy as a pig in a puddle. Praising me is definitely the right strategy. Someone who praises me in good conscience can twist me around any number of little fingers.
In any case, I received an exhaustive answer to my question, and a half hour later I was home. In Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox, that is. I sat sprawled out in a soft arrestee’s chair. I was trying to digest the information I had received. Naturally, you couldn’t get around the requisite crazy Magician—that was as clear as day. Maxlilgl Annox, Grand Magician of the Order of the Sepulchral Dog, and one of the fiercest opponents of the reform, served a prison term in Xolomi during the height of the Troubled Times. According to Juffin, the combined efforts of a dozen of the best practitioners of the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover were needed to imprison his person, remarkable in all respects. At the same time, even the Grand Magicians of other Orders, who had long ago lost any capacity for fear, trembled before him.
He wasn’t such a madman, though, this head of the Order of the Sepulchral Dog. Of course, he had traveled a strange and winding road. But if you believed the historical chronicles, which I devoured by the dozens in my spare time, you’d discover that few of the Grand Magicians were guilty of banality and lack of imagination in their chosen paths.
And so, Mister Annox was deeply preoccupied with the problem of life after death. Not only there, where I was born, but here in the World, as well, no one really knows the answer to the question of what awaits us after death. There are myriad hypotheses—murky, frightening, and seductive—but not a single one of them has much value for someone who isn’t inclined to take a stranger’s word on faith alone.
Of course, the interest in immortality wasn’t solely theoretical for the prisoner of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox. Those Magicians of yore, one must realize, were serious fellows and didn’t waste their precious time.
As far as I could understand, Sir Annox expended unimaginable effort trying to continue ordinary earthly existence, even after death, in the human body so dear to his heart. In simple terms, he wanted to be resurrected. I didn’t doubt that this old geezer had discovered a sneaky way of returning to the land of the living. But then he died. In this very Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox.
The victors never meant to kill him. It seems they very reluctantly killed their enemies, supposing that every death was an irreversible event. And the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover maintains the belief that an irreversible event should occur as seldom as possible. This so that the World can become stronger—or something like that . . . I hadn’t yet had time to figure out all the fine points of the local eschatology.
Nevertheless, the Grand Magician Maxlilgl Annox had died. It wasn’t a suicide in the ordinary sense of the word; I think this death was some sort of “laboratory experiment” essential to his research.
The fact that the walls of Xolomi were the most impenetrable barrier for magic of any degree did not infuse me with optimism. On the contrary, it forced me to think that the posthumous existence of Sir Annox was limited to the walls of his cell. It was evident that proximity to the dead Magician didn’t have a beneficial effect on his latter-day cellmates. Being condemned to life in this cell was a kind of death sentence. That was no good, I decided. Unjust. In this sense, prisoners are far more vulnerable than ordinary citizens. They can’t change their place of domicile, even when they feel it is urgent to do so. I wouldn’t want to be in their place . . . but, in fact, I already was.
I whiled away the night reading the next
volume of Manga Melifaro’s Encyclopedia, which I was able to find, to my delight, in the prison library. Nothing supernatural happened, except that I again felt someone’s attentive eyes prickling me. They were even more ticklish this night than they had been the night before. Several times I heard a quiet, dry coughing, which seemed more like an auditory hallucination than the real thing.
Toward morning I got another strange sensation—I felt as if my body hardened like the shell of a nut. So much so that the tickling, to which I was already accustomed, felt not like something touching my skin, but like a slight trembling of the air around me. This wasn’t very pleasant, but I felt that the invisible being who monitored my every move all night long was even less pleased. His displeasure translated itself in part to me. Soon I would start berating myself for not letting the possessor of the powerful gaze tickle me to his heart’s content. What spiritual callousness and disrespect for a stranger’s desires, I would say to myself in reproach!
I couldn’t explain these events with any originality. Maybe I’m just imagining it? Or maybe Juffin put a protective spell on me, without my knowing it? He very well could have. And what if the true explanation was that I was a creature from another World—almost like a space alien?
I was so tired from all these conjectures that I went to sleep before dawn. I wonder how poor Lonli-Lokli is spending his time, I thought when I was dozing off. He’s probably bored. And hungry. What a jam he’s in!
But I had no opportunity to be bored. I had no opportunity to sleep, either. I woke up at noon from the familiar tickling sensation. I was amazed. Was this creature, whoever he might be, really able to operate during the day? On the other hand, why not? All of the most terrible things I had witnessed during my sojourn in Echo had happened in broad daylight. It’s possible that assuming nightmares lie in wait for us only at night is the most foolish of superstitions, born in that long-distant past when our forebears finally lost the ability to see in the dark.
