I can see how you might conclude that I am ‘16’. But I am not.
I had already determined this statement to be true. Perhaps (I hypothesised freely) the Prophet believed that the fifteen people who inhabited my Halls should be counted as one set of People, while in the Far Distant Halls there lived another set and he ought to be counted as one of them. Perhaps among his own People he was the Third Person or the Tenth. Perhaps he was even some dizzyingly high number like the Seventy-Fifth Person!
But I digress into what is surely fantasy.
I came here and I sent others here.
Could the Prophet have sent some of my own Dead to these Halls? The Fish-Leather Man or the Folded-Up Child? This was pure speculation. Like so many of the Prophet’s statements, it remained, for the time being, impenetrable.
We all paid a terrible price in the end. Mine was prison.
I could make nothing of this.
… that dishy young Italian … Stan Ovenden… Sylvia D’Agostino … poor James Ritter …
The Prophet mentioned four names. Or, to be more accurate, three names and a designation (‘that dishy young Italian’). This was a great addition to my knowledge of the World. If the Prophet had said no more than this, then his words would still have been priceless. The Prophet indicated that three of the names belonged to the Dead (Stan Ovenden, Sylvia D’Agostino and ‘that dishy young Italian’). The status of ‘poor James Ritter’ was unclear to me. Did the Prophet mean that he was to be counted among the Dead too? Or was he one of the Prophet’s own people in the Far Distant Halls? I could not tell.
So many questions! So many things I wished that I had asked him. But I did not reproach Myself. His appearance had been so sudden. I had been completely unprepared for it. Only now, in solitude and peace, could I process the information he had given me.
… does Ketterley still think that the wisdom of the ancients is here? … He’ll never find it. It’s not here. It doesn’t exist.
I was delighted to have this confirmation that I was right. Perhaps it was a little conceited of me, but I could not help it. The consequences for my future work and collaboration with the Other I have yet to decide.
It was clear from many things the Prophet said that he and the Other had known each other at one time. The Prophet called the Other ‘Ketterley’ and said he was his student. Yet the Other has never spoken of the Prophet. I have talked to him on several occasions about the fifteen people the World contains, but he has never said to me, ‘Fifteen is an incorrect number! I know of one more!’ Which is strange (especially when you consider how much he likes to contradict me whenever an opportunity arises). But the Other has never been interested in finding out the number of people who have lived. It is one of the areas where our scientific interests diverge.
The closer 16 gets, the more dangerous Ketterley will become.
I have never known the Other show the least predisposition to violence.
You might like to head off the danger by killing him or something.
The Prophet, on the other hand, was clearly a violent person.
You know I don’t regret refusing to see you when you asked me before. That letter you wrote to me. I thought you sounded an arrogant little shit. You probably were then.
This was the most baffling of all the Prophet’s utterances. I never wrote him a letter. How could I when I only discovered yesterday that he existed? Perhaps one of the Dead wrote him a letter – Stan Ovenden or poor James Ritter – and the Prophet is confusing me with that person. Or perhaps prophets perceive Time differently from other people. Perhaps I will write him a letter in the future.
The Other describes the circumstances under which it will be right to kill me
entry for the twenty-fourth day of the seventh month in the year the albatross came to the south-western halls
Naturally I was anxious to tell the Other all about my meeting with the Prophet. It was vital that he know as soon as possible of the Prophet’s intention to tell 16 the way to our Halls. Between Friday (the day I met the Prophet) and today (the day I was due to meet the Other) I looked everywhere for the Other, but I did not find him.
This morning I entered the Second South-Western Hall. The Other was already there and I saw immediately that he was in a state of some agitation. His hands were thrust into his pockets, he was pacing up and down and his face was dark with suppressed anger.
‘I have something important to tell you,’ I said.
He made a motion with his hand to brush away my utterance. ‘It’ll have to wait,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you. There’s something I haven’t told you about 22.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘My enemy,’ said the Other. ‘The one who is coming here.’
‘You mean 16?’
A pause.
‘Oh, yes. Right. 16. I can’t keep them straight, the bizarre names you give things. Well, there’s something I haven’t told you about 16. It’s you that 16 is really interested in.’
‘Yes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Strangely enough I already know. You see …’
But the Other interrupted me. ‘If 16 comes here,’ he said, ‘and I’m beginning to think now that it’s a real possibility – then it’ll be you that 16 will be looking for.’
‘Yes, I know. But …’
The Other shook his head. ‘Piranesi! Listen to me! 16 will want to say things to you – things that you will not understand, but if you allow this to happen, if you allow 16 to speak to you, then those words will have a terrible effect. If you listen to what 16 says then the consequences will be awful. Madness. Terror. I’ve seen it happen before. 16 can unravel your thoughts just by speaking to you. 16 can make you doubt everything you see. 16 can make you doubt me.’
I was appalled. This was a level of wickedness that I had never imagined. It was frightening. ‘How can I protect Myself?’ I asked.
‘By doing what I’ve already told you. By hiding. By not letting 16 see you. Above all by not listening to 16’s words. I can’t stress enough how absolutely vital that is. You have to understand that you’re particularly vulnerable to this … this power that 16 has, because you’re already mentally unstable.’
‘Mentally unstable?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
A flicker of annoyance crossed the Other’s face. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘You forget things. You repeat yourself. We spoke about it a week ago. Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten already.’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I have not forgotten.’ I wondered whether to tell him my theory that it was he, not me, whose memory was at fault, but, what with one thing and another, now did not seem the time.
‘Well, then,’ said the Other. He sighed. ‘There’s more. There’s something else I need to say and I want you to understand that this is as painful for me as it is for you. If I find that you’ve listened to 16 and that 16 has infected you with this madness, then that puts me at risk. You see that, don’t you? There’s a danger you might attack me. In fact it’s very likely that you would. 16 will almost certainly try to manipulate you into hurting me.’
‘Hurting you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How terrible.’
‘Quite. And then there’s the whole question of your dignity as a human being. You would be in this degraded, mad condition. It would be very humiliating for you. I can’t imagine that you would want to go on like that, would you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I do not think that I would.’
‘Well,’ he said and took a deep breath. ‘In those circumstances, if I find you are mad, then I think it’s best if I kill you. For both our sakes.’
‘Oh!’ I said. This was rather unexpected.
There was a short silence.
‘But perhaps, given time and help, I might recover?’ I suggested.
‘It’s unlikely,’ said the Other. ‘And in any case I really couldn’t take the chance.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
There was a longer silence.
&nb
sp; ‘How will you kill me?’ I asked.
‘You don’t want to know that,’ he said.
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘Don’t think like that, Piranesi. Do what I’ve told you. Avoid 16 at all costs, then we won’t have a problem.’
‘Why have you not gone mad?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘You have spoken to 16. Why have you not gone mad?’
‘I told you before. I have certain ways to protect myself. Besides,’ he said with a rueful screwing up of his mouth, ‘it’s not as if I’m completely immune to it. God knows I feel half-mad with everything at the moment.’
We fell into silence again. We were both in a state of shock, I think. Then the Other put on a slightly forced smile and made an effort to appear more normal. A thought struck him. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I thought you said … You seemed to be saying that you already knew that 16 was looking for you. You in particular. But how could you? How could you know that?’ I could see by his face that he was trying to work it out.
Now was the time to tell him about the Prophet. It was on the tip of my tongue to do so. I hesitated. I said, ‘It was revealed to me. By the House. You know how I have these revelations?’
‘Oh. Right. That. And what was it that you wanted to say to me? You said you had something important to tell me.’
Another short pause.
‘I saw an octopus swimming in the Lower Halls that are reached from the Eighteenth Vestibule,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said the Other. ‘Did you? That’s nice.’
‘It was nice,’ I agreed.
The Other took a deep breath. ‘So! Keep away from 16! And don’t go mad!’ He smiled at me.
‘You may be certain that I will keep away from 16,’ I said. ‘And I will not go mad.’
The Other clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excellent,’ he said.
My reaction to the Other’s declaration that he may, under certain circumstances, kill me
entry for the twenty-fifth day of the seventh month in the year the albatross came to the south-western halls
I had had a lucky escape! I had almost told the Other about the Prophet! And then he (the Other) would have said, ‘Why did you speak to an Unknown Person when you promised me you would not? Did you not think that it might be 16?’
And what would I have answered? Because I did think that he was 16 when I spoke to him. I did break my promise to the Other. There is no excuse for it. Thank the House I had not told him! At best he would have thought me an untrustworthy person. At worst it would have inclined him all the more to kill me.
And yet I cannot help thinking that if the situation was reversed and if it were the Other’s sanity that was threatened by 16, I would not resort to killing him quite so quickly. To be honest I do not think that I would ever want to kill him – the idea of it is abhorrent to me. Certainly I would try other things first, like finding a cure for his madness. But the Other is rather inflexible in his character. I would not go so far as to say it is a fault, but it is a definite tendency.
I change my appearance in anticipation of the coming of 16
entry for the first day of the eighth month in the year the albatross came to the south-western halls
Just now I am practising hiding from 16.
Imagine, (I say to Myself) that you have just seen someone – 16! – in the Twenty-Third South-Eastern Hall. Now hide Yourself!
Then I run swiftly and silently to a Wall and I spring into the Gap between two Statues. I press Myself into it and remain still and silent. Yesterday a buzzard flew into the Hall where I was hiding, looking for smaller birds to eat. He circled the Hall and perched on the Statue of a Man and a Boy mapping Stars. He remained there for half an hour but did not perceive me.
My clothes are perfect for camouflage. When I was younger my shirts and trousers were different colours: blue, black, white, grey, olive brown. One shirt was a very nice cherry red colour. But they have all faded to mere ghosts of colours. All are now an undistinguished and indistinguishable grey, which fades into the greys and whites of the marble Statues.
However my hair is a different matter. Over the years, as it has grown longer, I have interlaced it with pretty things that I have found or made: seashells, coral beads, pearls, tiny pebbles and interesting fishbones. Many of these little ornaments are bright, shiny and have eye-catching colours. All of them rattle when I walk or run. So last week I spent an afternoon extricating them all. It was not easy and sometimes it was painful. I have placed my ornaments in the beautiful box with the octopus on it, which previously contained my shoes. When 16 returns to his own Halls, I shall put them back – I feel oddly naked without them.
The Index
entry for the eighth day of the eighth month in the year the albatross came to the south-western halls
It is my practice to index my Journal entries every other week or so. I find that this is more efficient than indexing them straight away. After some time has passed it is easier to separate the important from the ephemeral.
This morning I sat down cross-legged on the Pavement of the Second Northern Hall with my Journal and Index. A great deal has happened since I last performed this task.
I made an entry in the Index:
Prophet, appearance of: Journal no. 10, pages 148–152
I made another entry:
Prophecies concerning the coming of 16: Journal no. 10, pages 151–152
Then I read over what the Prophet had said concerning the identities of the Dead and made an entry:
Dead, the, some tentative names for: Journal no. 10, pages 149, 152
I began to make entries for the individual names. Under the letter ‘I’, I wrote:
Italian, dishy, young: Journal no. 10, page 149
I was halfway through writing Stan Ovenden’s name (under the letter O) when my eye was caught by an entry higher up.
Ovenden, Stanley, student of Laurence Arne-Sayles: Journal no. 21, page 154. See also The disappearance of Maurizio Giussani, Journal no. 21, pages 186–7
I was stunned. Here he was. Stanley Ovenden. Already in the Index. Yet his name, when the Prophet spoke it, had not been in the least familiar.
I read the index entry again.
I paused. I knew as I looked at it that there was something very strange here. But the strange thing was so strange, so entirely incomprehensible that I found it difficult to form coherent thoughts about it. I could see the strangeness with my eyes, but I could not think it with my mind.
Journal no. 21.
I had written Journal no. 21. Why in the World had I done that? It made no sense whatsoever. The Journal I am writing in now is (as I have already explained) Journal no. 10. There is no Journal no. 21. There never could have been a Journal no. 21. What did it mean?
I cast my eyes over the rest of the page. Most of the entries under O were about the Other. There were a great many of those, which is only to be expected seeing as he is the only other human being apart from Myself – and, of course, the Prophet and 16, but about them I know very little. I saw that there were earlier entries for other subjects. These were as strange as the entry for Stanley Ovenden. As I focussed on them, I experienced the same reluctance to register what my eyes saw. Nevertheless, I forced my eyes to see it; I forced my mind to think it.
Orkney, planning for summer 2002: Journal no. 3, pages 11–15, 20–28
Orkney, archaeological dig: Journal no. 3, pages 30–39, 47–51
Orkney, Ness of Brodgar: Journal no. 3, pages 40–47
Observational uncertainty: Journal no. 5, pages 134–35
O’Keeffe, Georgia, exhibition: Journal no. 11, pages 91–95
Outsider psychiatry, see R. D. Laing
Outsider philosophy: Journal no. 17, pages 19–32; see also J. W. Dunne (Serialism), Owen Barfield, Rudolf Steiner
Outsider ideas, how different systems of knowledge and belief treat them: Journal no. 18,
pages 42–57
Outsider literature, see Fan fiction
Outsider, The, Colin Wilson: Journal no. 20, pages 46–51
Outsider mathematics: Journal no. 21, pages 40–44; see also Srinivasa Ramanujan
Outsider art: Journal no. 21, pages 79–86
Here were references to more Journals that did not exist! Journals 11, 17, 18 and 20. Journals 3 and 5 did exist of course, so those entries were sound. Except … except … The more I looked at them, the more I suspected that these entries did not refer to my Journals 3 and 5, but to different ones. The entries were written with a pen I did not recognise. The ink was thinner and more fluid and the nib of the pen was broader than any pen I possess. Added to this was the writing itself. It was my handwriting – no doubt about that – but it was subtly different from the writing I currently employ. It was slightly rounder and fatter – in a word, younger.
I went to the North-Eastern Corner and climbed up to the Statue of an Angel caught on a Rose Bush. I fetched out my brown leather messenger bag. I took all my Journals out of it. There were nine of them. Just nine. I did not find twenty others that I had inexplicably overlooked until this moment.
I examined the Journals carefully, paying particular attention to the covers and the numbers written on them. My Journals are black and I number each one with a white gel pen at the bottom of its spine. To my astonishment I discovered that the first three Journals had originally been numbered differently. They had been numbered 21, 22 and 23, but someone had scratched out the initial numeral ‘2’, transforming them into 1, 2 and 3. The scratching out had not been done perfectly (gel ink is difficult to remove) and I could still make out the ghostly form of the ‘2’.
I sat for a while, trying to comprehend this, but I could make nothing of it.
If Journal no. 1 (my Journal no. 1) had originally been Journal no. 21, then it ought to contain the two entries on Stanley Ovenden. I picked it up, opened it and turned to page 154. There he was. The entry was dated 22 January 2012. It was titled: Biography of Stanley Ovenden.
Stanley Ovenden. Born 1958, Nottingham, England. Father, Edward Francis Ovenden, owned a sweet shop. Mother’s name and occupation unknown. Studied mathematics at the University of Birmingham. Began postgraduate research in 1981. The same year he attended one of Laurence Arne-Sayles’s famous lectures: The Forgotten, the Liminal, the Transgressive and the Divine. Shortly afterwards Ovenden abandoned mathematics and began a PhD in anthropology at the University of Manchester under Arne-Sayles’s supervision.
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