by Sean Platt
CHAPTER 28
TUNNELING THROUGH WORLDS
Edward was the ambassador by default. It sickened him.
But the way Cerberus explained things rang true, and as furious as Edward was at the Unicorn Blessing (in general) and Cerberus (in particular) for keeping the entire issue from him until the situation was a possibly unsalvageable mess, the matter’s gravity slapped him hard. Cerberus described the Dark Forest exactly as Edward had seen it — the shadowy, moody little village, the mansion with the beanstalk out front, the house of an old witch found in disarray as if ransacked by greedy little children. He described the path and the clearing at the other end. He’d also visited other places that sounded familiar to Edward, including what sounded like the path he’d walked with Saul the piper and a land that had recently been flooded. All had been empty. There were houses, and the detritus of lives — possibly interrupted in the middle of meals or daily living. But the creatures were gone.
The vacancy of those other worlds bothered Edward to his core. He’d felt a reluctant kinship with the people and things he had met, despite their differences, and wondered where they might have gone — or if they’d been stolen away.
“Where did they go, Cerberus?” Edward asked his friend later, after the Blessing concluded on an indecisive note. Edward knew only that he was the only unicorn who had managed any degree of connection with the humans and that he, therefore, was the one who would be forced to reach out now. The prospect was uncomfortable. The humans hadn’t been honest or open with Edward for over fifty years, and it wasn’t long before that that they’d been openly hostile. They seemed past the capacity for honesty. They were like sponges, not intelligent beings. Edward felt that he could conquer them simply by walking into The Realm and donning the crown, as long as he could keep them amused and entertained as he did so.
“Those in the other worlds?” said Cerberus.
“Yar. Do you think they were … dried up?” The two unicorns were sitting outside Cerberus’s haven, drinking apple brew. Edward took a sip.
“Dried up?”
“Used. Like the humans sucked them dry.”
Cerberus shook his head. “How would that happen?”
“They’re stories, right?”
“Just because something exists somewhere else doesn’t make it unreal,” said Cerberus. He lowered his head and took a drink. “No, they’re beings, like us. I don’t know where they are, but their absence isn’t good. Ideally, according to what the elders say, worlds shouldn’t know of each other. The Cataclysm changed that, and if they’ve gone, it means it never returned to normal. Something was leaking from their world into ours, and they noticed. I imagine it was like being robbed, over and over again.”
“Wouldn’t they fight back?”
Cerberus nodded. “Yar, I think they would.” There was a beat, then he corrected himself: “I think they will. But for now, I think they’ve backed away.”
“Why?”
“If you were being robbed, wouldn’t you back away? Put up your defenses? Mayhap move somewhere farther from the crime?”
It didn’t quite make sense to Edward. From what he’d seen, the people in the Dark Forest were proud, but he’d seen no indication that they were being robbed — other than by the town kids. If there was one thing to protect and move away from in the Dark Forest, it seemed to be children.
Edward said nothing. Instead, he looked out at the range of hills he’d once crossed when walking to Grammy and Grappy’s haven, between Mead and The Realm. In those days, The Realm had been nothing more than a cluster of huts. Back then, according to the elders, the humans had just begun using their minds to invent things. Magic had gotten in the way by making them comfortable. Their comfort had made them start thinking less. Then the Grand Cataclysm had occurred, and afterward the humans had rebuilt. By then, the magic had broken open and spread everywhere. The fallen border between the worlds had given humans direct access to stories and tales, allegories and inspiration. If that door had stayed open, the human dream would indeed have come true: they’d be well on their way to an early Mead paradise, where everything was easy — where nobody wanted, nobody struggled, and nobody got bored … but where life meant almost nothing.
“I don’t want to go back, Cerberus,” Edward said.
“You don’t need to do much. Just sell the idea to the humans. We’ll do the rest.”
“Do you think they’ll let us do it?”
Cerberus laughed. “Let us? They’ll beg us. The people of the other worlds can’t run dry, but The Realm’s connection to the stories already has. This would open those worlds back up.”
Edward shook his head. He didn’t understand the plan or why Cerberus had proposed it to the Blessing. He didn’t know why the Blessing had accepted, and didn’t like it. It flew in the face of good sense. Cerberus wanted to use the elders’ magic to prop open many doors into other worlds, not just one. They knew their world touched many others (Edward remembered the cat’s idea that the Mead and Realm were in the “axial world,” which stayed in the center), and they wanted to build permanent connections between their world and as many of the others as possible. They’d give The Realm access to stories from other worlds — and, supposedly, diffuse what was quickly becoming an escalating situation.
“It’s a bad idea,” said Edward. “You build a network of inter-world tunnels and machines under The Realm, and the humans will take over. They’ll ferry people back and forth. Story worlds will become vacation spots. The royalty will see to it because there is money to be made.”
“They’ll do it anyway,” said Cerberus. “But if we don’t get involved and guide them, they will do it like humans. They will dig and bore and rip. They’ve already opened at least three holes in the vein, and we cannot close them without invasion. Even if we do that, we’ll never discover the truth, or recover elements The Realm may have stolen from those other worlds. If we do, and get everything back where it belongs, the humans will still continue to plunder. It is not in their nature to be and let be. The Realm is one settlement. There are others, and there will one day be more. We have marched on The Realm three times in your absence, Edward, and our time has meant nothing. We take things away, and they evolve with new ways to steal. It’s astonishing the effort they place in their theft. They have created a society where no one needs to think or tax themselves, yet they could only form that society through acts of genius. Every time we set them back, they find a new way. There was discussion about the veins in the past, and everyone said that the humans would never be able to tap them. And of course they have. What will come next if we don’t intervene? Will they rip veins along their length? Learn to harvest magic and transport it in tanks? Will their pipes drain the veins until there’s nothing left, leaving the flow of magic into the far reaches to diminish to a trickle? No, this is the way it has to be if we are going to allow them to live.”
Edward took a long look at Cerberus. He doubted the unicorn would have any problem simply eliminating the humans. Cerberus was practical above all else, with a frightening pragmatism. There was no morality or remorse in matters of pragmatism. He didn’t have colts and fillies of his own, but if he did and famine came, it was easy to imagine him letting them go hungry if the more important members of unicorn society required food in order be strong and govern. Cerberus had the kind of mind that believed in triage, in acceptable losses, in the ends always outweighing the means. There had never been anything special about their friendship. Edward had always been an asset to Cerberus and had never been in his way. If that changed, Edward would have to watch out.
If he was willing to meet the humans halfway — which was decidedly more difficult and less ideal than killing them off — then there had to be a logical reason for not killing them off. Mercy was never part of Cerberus’s decisions.
“What are they to us, Cerberus?” Edward said. “Why aren’t you arguing for us to destroy The Realm?”
“I’m afraid it’s too la
te,” said Cerberus without a note of shock. “Eliminating them now won’t solve our problem. There are also those who feel we need them. We are light; they are half-dark — you know the argument because Adam made it. They need to live. And if they live, they will do damage. They are like colts and fillies running through a field of eggs. They are going to destroy things by the clumsy stomping of their hooves. So the only thing that makes sense is for us to minimize that damage. How can we keep them from ripping the veins entirely open? How can we keep them from sundering the worlds again? And the answer is that we must settle. We have to help them, so that we can control them.”
Edward met with King William the next day, and William readily agreed to Cerberus’s plan. He offered his men to help with construction, but the unicorns declined. Edward had thought the humans would insist that they be involved in the process because the first tunnels would need to be built directly beneath the city, but instead the king just waved good-naturedly and thanked the unicorns for their help. Edward was shocked enough to try again, offering regular tours and updates. Cerberus butted his head into Edward’s side when he suggested it, but it was unnecessary. William declined again, saying that the unicorns knew best because they were magical, and asked them to please let him know when they were all finished. Then the king left, practically prancing, to host a dinner and grand ball.
With permission granted, the unicorns began building a network of massive tunnels under The Realm, carved out of the rock core beneath the soil. Cerberus and the elders explained that they needed only to pierce the worlds under The Realm, and that the tunnels themselves wouldn’t exist in this world or in any of the others. Each “station” would poke through a different part of a different world (or a different part of the axial world), but the space between them would exist solely within the magic.
The tunnels, when Edward toured them, nonetheless looked like tunnels. They were plainer than plain, with no decorations or adornments. They looked like featureless gray rock, perfectly circular after being hollowed by unicorn magic. There were magic means of conveyance intended to shuttle users from one station to another through smaller, darker passages, but the place felt like a beehive. Edward was supposed to be the human liaison, so Fiona the Elder told him to say nothing of what he saw in the rock warren that appeared to be underground — but which, apparently, existed nowhere. She explained that he should tell the humans only that the tunnels were “tunnels” and that they had “means of transportation” at the stations. The humans would take it from there, impressing themselves upon them.
“What do you mean ‘impress themselves upon them?’” Edward asked.
“After enough hooves have trod across any area,” said Fiona, “they will wear a groove in solid rock. That’s the nature of this magic as well. The humans will shape this place through their expectations. Each mind that comes through will add a little more, and soon it will become a place like theirs. It will change over time, subject to the expectations of the majority of people who use them, and will remain that way until their collective will shifts it into something else.”
It made little sense to Edward, but he was much younger than Fiona and the other elders and, as far as he himself was concerned, much younger than even Cerberus, whom he’d grown up with. He’d had a bit over a human lifetime to learn the nature and shape of his own unicorn magic, but Cerberus had lived through countless human generations while Edward was away.
So he trusted Fiona, and Cerberus, and the unicorns traveled into The Realm and entered the tunnels and made the tunnel system larger. The humans let them go, always throwing them dumb smiles and acquiescing nods but never asking questions or wanting to enter the tunnels themselves. Yet.
Piercing worlds was delicate. Fiona explained it in terms that sounded similar to Eve describing her reason for eating the peach.
“Pressure will build if we don’t give them a way to vent it,” she told him. Cerberus walked on ahead down the tunnels. Edward and the elder held back. “The humans have been infected as if by a disease. They cannot unlearn of the magic they felt from the other places. If we do not give them a way to reach into those other places and draw inspiration — though it is not actually inspiration — they will grow more twisted. They have tapped the veins already. They will tap more. Humans are creatures of unintentional spite. If they are frustrated in one way, they will take their anger out on something else. They want to be comfortable and pacified more than anything. If we do not provide that, they will tap more magic in search of new ways to be entertained. That entertainment will have no substance, so they’ll tap it further. And further.”
Edward shook his head in the dimly lit tunnel. “I still don’t see what one has to do with the other. The other worlds with the magic, the magic with the other worlds.”
“Humans are strong, Edward. Not always physically, but in will. It is a trait that I could admire if it weren’t so dangerous. They simply do not give up. They have had a taste of inspiration yet haven’t learned the trick of using it themselves. They’ve enjoyed comfort without effort, and want more. If they cannot be sated by their picture shows, bound books, and melodies, they will turn to the only other thing they have discovered that makes life simpler. They will stop working entirely. They will use magic to try and make their pictures worth watching again. But the veins hold power true, not inspiration. The attributes of the deeper mind come from the Wellspring, not from veins below the ground. Magic has intention, and can make images dance on their wall. It makes them think the images come from the magic, but they don’t. Magic responds to the images as it responds to everything else.”
“But the other worlds,” said Edward. “They won’t want the invasion. They won’t want the doors open. They won’t want to be stolen from.”
Fiona looked toward Cerberus then resumed walking.
“They’re already being stolen from. We think it’s why they’ve retreated.” She looked over. “The humans will think they control this place. It will mold itself to them. Their will and intention will decorate the walls and floors. The shuttles we’re building to move between stations will begin to look like human shuttles — probably carts like they use in The Realm. But we made these tunnels, so they will require the presence of a unicorn to function. They will never be able to use them without us.”
Edward paused. Fiona walked a few steps farther down the corridor before stopping. Something clicked. Edward had thought they were simply building the tunnels because they wanted to control the doors, but really they wanted to control the humans.
“You want to make them dependent on us,” he said.
Fiona turned back to look at him. “Just like your grappy wanted, Edward.”
“Adam didn’t want this.”
Fiona tossed her head, from the tunnel’s one end to its other. “Not this specifically, nar, but he wanted partnership between humans and unicorns, and that’s what this must be.”
“Why?”
“Because they bear watching, Edward. They are too unpredictable. If we do not shepherd their access to magic and other worlds, they will use their tenacity to take what they want anyway. We can either stand back and let it happen, as we have so far, or find ways to become a part of it. It will happen either way. But slipping our hand inside the glove committing the crime will allow us to steer it. Yar, the other worlds will be angry if they know. But they won’t know because the theft is now crafted with care. The humans will fumble and make a mess, but we can break in without being seen. We can help them get what they want, in a controlled way. They want to be lazy? Fine. They want to take their tales from the lives of others? Fine. They will find a way, so that way must be our way. They will not open doors without us.”
“They will grow soft. They will be unable to function without us.”
“They are soft already. There will always be something they cannot function without. Don’t you see? That ‘something’ must be us, Edward. Only we can guide this race. They are necessary. They carry se
eds of nobility and seeds of darkness in equal measure. But it makes them their own worst enemy. We must guide the hand that holds their most dangerous weapons.”
Edward was shaking his head slowly. He wasn’t disagreeing with Fiona. What she was saying seemed to make sense, and it did seem to reflect what Grappy and Grammy had asked of him in its own backward, twisted way. But still there was something about it that bothered him. It was indeed like playing with a weapon, and could destroy them as easily as it could save them.
“It’s a gamble,” he said.
The old unicorn looked at him. “Exactly, Edward. And that’s something the humans have yet to learn. Forward progress is made through gambles and risks. If all paths are safe, there is reason for none. I am told you walked through the Dark Forest while wandering. Is that true?”
Edward looked up. He hadn’t told anyone other than Cerberus the intimate details of his journey. He felt briefly betrayed, but slowly nodded.
“I know the place,” said Fiona. “Coming through means you chose to. Am I right?”
Edward thought of the clearing and the forking paths. He had indeed chosen it. The path into the Dark Forest had been terrifying, and the other path — sunlit and beautiful — had seemed perfectly safe. Even as he’d made his choice, he hadn’t understood why.
Edward nodded.
“Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea. Darkness, for a unicorn, is a choice — like creating this tunnel system.”
“I wanted to go home.”
“So why didn’t you choose to avoid the dark places and stay on the path that looked more like home?”
“I don’t know.”
Fiona smiled slightly. Her look said that even if Edward claimed not to know why he’d chosen the harder, riskier, more frightening path, he truly did. So did she.
“There will come a time when you will face darkness again,” she said. “Now you know what it is. You know it is not truly your opposite. You know that it is just another facet of the magic. You know that it is opposite but not evil. You know that it is different, not reprehensible. You know that the truest way to face darkness is to stare it in the eye and head into it, not to turn your back. You took a risk, Edward. You took a gamble, relying solely on your gut — and this as a mere colt. You can’t know how unique that makes you. It was a spectacularly intuitive act of bravery. And in the coming days, we will need that bravery again.”
