by Marc Mulero
Why was it so hard to breathe in here? The air was so thick it felt as though someone had wrapped his shirt around his face and tightened it.
“The Drigus,” his memory started to come back to him, “my arm!” He looked over to see a nasty burn of discolored flesh. His face pinched with a mix of disgust and worry. Slowly he tried to rotate it – nope. Pain, and lots of it.
“Not good.” His eyes began to wander; he tried to get a grasp on where he was and what to do.
The tunnel was sparsely lit thanks to thin spots of ice that must’ve let the suns in from somewhere far, far above him. Its walls were rigid and curved like the roof of a mouth. Again he asked himself, “How did I get here?”
“Did the room flood after I defeated the Drigus? Shit, I never got to record my instance in the octor. I already failed. On my first mission I already blew it. Mustae-damn!” His voice echoed all around him, the sound traveling beyond a hard right turn that was coming up and then back again.
“Whoa-” He held on tight when he noticed the shift, lips sealed as more water sprayed into his face. He was rocking back and forth now, the raft tilting more violently to follow the stream. Up it went onto the side of the wall, sliding all over the place, forcing Eres to lean hard if he wanted to keep from capsizing.
His knees became weak when he felt like he was about to fall.
And as he sped up after rounding the corner, he saw it. A drop-off, a waterfall… whatever it was meant the end of the line for him. Any sense of control he had fled instantly and was replaced by pure panic.
Closer. Faster. It was inevitable, the drop was coming, and that’s when he finally did it. He screamed loudly. He felt suspended in mid-air for a split-second, completely weightless, a sensation of butterflies in his belly.
“Ahh!” He dropped so steeply it was almost vertical, his body nearly flat back against the raft.
The crystal raft skidded nearly off of the water, over and over, like a plane trying to decide whether it wanted to fly or stay grounded. Eres prayed for the latter. But thankfully the slope gradually leveled off, the drop steadily tapering to a more manageable speed. Water kicked up all around him.
That’s when he smiled. Not the kind that he’d offer politely in conversation, nor one that felt forced. This was a smile that he couldn’t help from a feeling of excitement, adrenaline. It was from surviving something that he thought would kill him a second prior and realizing he’d lived through it. He screamed again, but this time with a different tune.
“Wooo!” He looked around, no longer groggy, wanting desperately to share the moment with someone. Anyone. But no, this was for him and him alone.
That smile was wiped away quickly when he was suddenly blasted forward as if shot out of a cannon. Wham. His butt slammed hard on the crystal raft when it landed an instant later.
The grotto opened up into a massive vast space that his mind couldn’t comprehend for the time being, for he was headed straight for yet another waterfall… one that he was certain would kill him.
He dove off of the raft immediately, hand gripped desperately around a black rock glowing with orange stripes. Where was he? He swallowed more water, choked, spit it up, and used every bit of his strength to get his other hand grounded too. The river was turning violent, making him flap like a flag in the wind.
“Not how I’m gonna die. Not how I’m gonna die,” he told himself, pulling harder to try and hug the rock. His joints were bruised, his burnt arm numb. The bag wrapped over his shoulder was strangling him as it begged to be taken by the waterfall. It felt like a hundred people were dangling off of a cliff and holding on to Eres’ legs for support.
Warm water burned hot as it rushed endlessly into his eyes. It stung. Rapids spraying up his nose kept traveling down the wrong pipes, scratching his throat and clogging it, making him feel like he was drowning without being submerged.
Then, with a desperate roar, he clapped a hand higher onto another rock – it was slick, but somehow, he managed to grab hold. He moaned through gritted teeth as he pulled himself halfway out of the water. Yes. Now he just needed his numb arm to find some strength… “C’mon, Mustae.” He whipped it like someone would a rope – like it wasn’t connected to him at all. But the tips of his fingers, while tingly, still had sensation. “Grab,” he told himself, “c’mon, Mustae, c’mon.”
“Eeeeyeh!” A desperate hurl got the last bit of him out. Finally. He rolled to the side, as far away from the river as possible, back and ribs pressing awkwardly over uneven rocks until he was able to just lay there.
A loud sigh was released after he caught his breath. At least he got one second of stillness. That was before a sudden convulsion forced him to spring upright like a reanimated corpse. Not one but three heaves caused him to projectile water and bile, a gurgling cough in between. More panic. He slammed a fist into his chest a handful of times to get it all out.
“Okay…” He breathed heavily. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Wow.” He surrendered, falling on his rump and patting himself down. Now that he was sure he was alive, he could assess the rest. Bag – check. Pants - check. No shirt, no blade.
“What kind of Skrol loses their weapon? Pfah,” he spat. “Screw that. I have a better question,” he was becoming angry with everything now, “what kind of person wants to be alone all the time? Being a Skrol sucks. There’s nothing to share!
“I know, I know what Ram would say, or Ooma, or Fata. They would say, ‘You have your esper. You have Gushda.’ Well… it’s not enough, is it? I could’ve used somebody’s help with that damn Drigus!” His last words echoed around. Then his mind zoomed back to the current situation.
Wait. How was he even able to see down there? He crawled forward, internalizing what could’ve been an entire ecosystem in front of him. The ceiling was as black as night. The brightness wasn’t coming from holes letting in sunlight, because the ceiling was flush and smooth. So then where?
Hm. It must be coming from - he looked around - the water itself? Yes, it’s glowing.
Eres was immediately mesmerized by this place. Obsidian-colored rocks with pulsing orange stripes made them appear as though they were alive. He wanted to know what was below…
He crawled until he was able to peer over the ledge, over the enormous waterfall, and then gulped. That’s a steep drop. Wait a minute, why are there… trees? Down here?
So odd. Their leaves weren’t falling like everywhere else he’d seen plant-life. They were static. Shiny? Crystallized in some sense? Too far away to tell, but one thing was for sure - he’d never read anything about nature behaving like this. The entire area had a strange glaze to it, like it’d been frozen over and preserved. But something told him the plant-life in here wasn’t at all dead. It was the smell – fresh cut greens, spring-like water. Hell, so few traveled to Verglas that those residing on the other sphere probably wouldn’t dream this was possible. An ecosystem underground? Life, here? No one would believe it if he told them.
Still, he wanted to share it, with Windel, Dee, Ilfrid… anyone. Even Crow.
“Pfah.” He spat again to let out some frustration. And then, after a sigh or two, forced himself into a cross-legged seat to inspect his bag. The outside was soaked, obviously, but what about its contents? His food?
He prayed with closed eyes as he unclipped it. Wetness. No. No. No. Wait, that’s just from his own dripping fingers. His octor was as dry as a bone. Hold on. He felt for a familiar touch of metal… its fan-like ridges. His impeller was there. “Yes! Guess I was smart enough to put it away before I burned myself like an idiot.” He dug more feverishly, past the three books he’d taken from the consortium to the packaged food. Still intact. Phew.
Things weren’t so bad now. It seemed it could have been worse.
Okay. I’m assuming that nothing is going to be conjured up and charge at me in here. He looked around. Seems peaceful enough… maybe this is where I rest until my arm is healed?
The next few hours were indeed peaceful. The wa
terfall became soothing white noise after a while, after the trauma from almost being killed by it subsided.
“Oh what I would do to be back in the springs with Kyta and Mudry right about now.” He tossed a random rock into the current and watched it launch out like a miniature cannonball.
Then, eventually, it came: the flood of thoughts that always did. His father, the reasons for his boundless existence, his death. It was dangerous for Eres to be alone. His mind always wandered too far.
Eres wasn’t sure, but he figured at least a week had passed in this underground forest judging by how many times he’d fallen asleep for long stretches of time. Traveling within his esper didn’t help to keep a grip on reality either since time moved more slowly in there… but what did it matter anyway? He had nowhere to go, really. Nowhere to be. And even though it was pretty clear that Ramillion had enchanted that first chamber, with the Drigus and all, this one seemed entirely devoid of a sorcerer’s touch. Just plain ol’ Verglas in all of its mystery.
Each section of the rocky ground had its own sense of obscurity – varying crystalized plant-life, currents swirling around these vast natural corkscrew-shaped drains like water slides, abnormalities in gravity in certain spots. Strange as it was, it still didn’t feel tampered with.
He’d been exploring very slowly, very carefully. There was no other way. For all he knew a spike could jut out from the ground and kill him at any second, or maybe there were Dawn-eating fish in the pond somewhere. So far nothing, though.
He used markers to avoid getting lost because he liked to think he’d learned his lesson back in Dundo-Ba. And also, here he would have to be extra careful with no companion. This time, he didn’t have Ohndee to keep him sane.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He laboriously climbed the thin ramp of rocks that led him back to his little hideout beside the waterfall. It was time to call it for the day. He had three different colors of shimmering hard grapes in his pocket to test this time – an outside source of nourishment, hopefully. And in truth, he couldn’t wait to get back to his book, The Third Scar, which was one of Ram’s picks.
“One day it’s all going to click,” Eres told himself. “I can’t just keep questioning endlessly; that’s a child’s game. And a Skrol cannot be a child. At some point I have to obtain answers, and if no one is going to hand them to me, I’ll discover them on my own. And you, Clas Modon,” he picked up the book that was sitting right where he left it, “are going to help me get there.”
He was in the midst of an excerpt about Clas’ reduction of the Skrol secret:
Well, clearly, it must have been something to do with the origin of our being, or how our society came to be, something found only in the Eternal. And reader, pay close attention -
Eres leaned forward in compliance.
We mustn’t take the Founder’s labels for granted. Think of them. ‘The Eternal’ – what a name for something that could represent a trillion years past, or five seconds ahead of our present. Such a concept is unfathomable, undirected. The same as raw, bleak nothingness. Unless the Founder, against all odds, discovered something relevant within it.
What a concept to wonder, I know. But first, let’s get the technics out of the way: I have my esper, and it is likely that you, reader, do not. So, in that light I must ask that if you’re going to continue on this journey with me here and now, that you take a leap of faith on my behalf. In what sense, you ask? Well, easy, understanding that the Eternal shows us snippets of time how we perceive it, but also, that there is an infinite amount of such snippets in Gushda.
Isn’t that right?
We must be careful. We must think: The Founder could’ve discovered anything, but it is more than likely that if he felt the need to conceal it, it was relevant to us, to ulmanity as a whole.
Why else would this discovery be hidden? Because it is pertinent and terrible within the vast cosmos of infinity. That’s why. There is no other truth unless the Founder is some selfish ghoul trying to horde all of his belongings in the afterlife. That is quite more unlikely.
See? Think of how much we have just ruled out within the span of eternity! The feat in and of itself is extraordinary.
Now that we are not totally hopeless in an endless realm, we must dare to be abstract. Though I have no evidence – yet, that is – I have a feeling, a hunch, that the Founder found some living memory that did not include any of us. No uemon, no Dagos, no Swul nor Eplon. None of us. What I surmise - again, call it just a hunch - is that he found interactions between gods.
Eres’ eyes bulged. “Gods? Like a glimpse into Mustae herself? How would the Founder even know if he had found gods? Where would Clas even get this hunch?
Where did I get this hunch? Yes, that’s what you’re wondering, reader, I know. I wonder that myself. But do your research as I have. Any text of someone speaking of the Founder: The Five Hearts, Okabin locals – few and far between as they were – others who claimed to glimpse him on his travels. No one ever speaks to a youthful man. He is always described as old. In every text. True, some believe he had a family that was left behind, but there is no real evidence of that, is there? Perhaps you, reader, have found some within the span of time that we are connecting. But as of now, no evidence. So what, I ask you, happened to this man’s youth?
“Why would Ramillion give me a book that’s in direct contrast with his play?” Eres flipped the page.
Well, I’ll tell you my reasoning – I believe that this ‘living memory’ took all the Founder had in exchange for him witnessing it. It took his youth in Rudo, his family – if he ever even had one – his health. And I think that deep down, he knew someone would discover the secret independently again. So instead of ignoring this curse and leaving Rudo peacefully, he did something more heroic in my opinion. He spent his last and final years dispersing this secret into enough parts where its pain would not be felt. Five, or so the legend goes.
As beautiful as an eye into Gushda is, reader, and it is beautiful, it must also contain curses. Of course it must. It is infinity!
Eres leaned back and dropped the book on his lap. “That’s why the Skrols fought so hard for all of these years… not just for fear of knowing something terrible could be upon them, but for what it might do physically to ulmanity.” He spoke these words as he looked to the rushing waterfall, thinking how naturally Ingora operated on its own, what it would be like without him, without others. “That’s the risk of the secret, isn’t it? That it could destroy everything.”
Please, reader, entertain me further. As an esper wielder, my eye into Gushda always starts out in the same spot, like a home, some would say. It is organized within the confinements of our perception, our doing, the doing of my ancestors who wielded this ring before me. They hung bright lights to decorate this home in the form of living memories. Yes, they learned how to transfer their experiences unto Gushda. A beautiful feat. A skill taught by none other than the Founder himself. Contemplate with me, reader. The Founder taught this skill…
“Why would he be suspicious of that? It’s just deeper interaction with the Eternal, like hanging pictures, or staking a flag, announcing that we were here. I want to do that. It’s important. Teach me.”
Maybe, just maybe… the Founder taught us how to build walls, bright, distracting walls, to protect something from getting in? No, that couldn’t be, this is the Eternal, right? Infinite cosmos, surely there is no interaction between beings here, is there?
I don’t know that answer. That is something we must ask ourselves to find solace.
Allow me to go further. What if there is a dual purpose? So something cannot get in, and we, the wielders, cannot get out. We are distracted by times past, absorbed like brainless beings watching an endless octor reel.
“I think Clas Modon may have been a crazy person,” Eres considered. “He’s basing his hypotheses not on any sort of evidence, but more on paranoia. I’ve traveled pretty far in my esper, and not once have I felt the presence of another. Mustae,”
he shook his head, “am I talking to myself? Maybe we all become crazy going through these trials.
“Wait…” a recollection pierced his brain like a javelin, “oh my… th-that time I watched my fata duel Seren. I couldn’t phase into him. I bounced off like he was a brick wall. Could it be that he was there too? Watching? Maybe that’s why the whole memory collapsed. Holy shit Clas, you’re a genius! Ramillion said that Seren would never attempt to enter here. But Ram doesn’t have an esper. He doesn’t know. If Seren was to get a hold of me, it would be through Gushda.”
This went on for hours more. The Third Scar wasn’t like reading Illiad’s Octor, where one could get so engrossed that they would forget time was passing. This was more like a textbook. After every paragraph he had to put the tome down and connect to it in some form or another to fully grasp the concept. But this is what he wanted – a book that directly addressed the confines of an esper. One that really delved into what it meant to be a Skrol. What’s more – he wasn’t in the comfort of a library, or a consortium, or his room. He was there, lost somewhere in the Northern Grottos, where his next meal depended on the contents of some crystalized grape. These circumstances changed the way he absorbed information. There was more immediacy to it.
Eventually though, his stomach was growling so loudly that it affected his concentration. It was time to eat. And when he finally tore away from the book for good, it felt like he was pulling off a layer of skin to let it go – it was tough. He wanted more. But his eyes hurt… every time he blinked it felt like sandpaper was attached to the inside of his eyelids. His brain weighed heavily in his head, as though too much went in too fast.
