PART 1
PIRANESI
When the Moon rose in the Third Northern Hall I went to the Ninth Vestibule
ENTRY FOR THE FIRST DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
When the Moon rose in the Third Northern Hall I went to the Ninth
Vestibule to witness the joining of three Tides. This is something that
happens only once every eight years.
The Ninth Vestibule is remarkable for the three great Staircases it
contains. Its Walls are lined with marble Statues, hundreds upon hundreds
of them, Tier upon Tier, rising into the distant heights.
I climbed up the Western Wall until I reached the Statue of a Woman
carrying a Beehive, fifteen metres above the Pavement. The Woman is two
or three times my own height and the Beehive is covered with marble Bees
the size of my thumb. One Bee – this always gives me a slight sensation of
queasiness – crawls over her left Eye. I squeezed Myself into the Woman’s
Niche and waited until I heard the Tides roaring in the Lower Halls and felt
the Walls vibrating with the force of what was about to happen.
First came the Tide from the Far Eastern Halls. This Tide ascended the
Easternmost Staircase without violence. It had no colour to speak of and its
Waters were no more than ankle deep. It spread a grey mirror across the
Pavement, the surface of which was marbled with streaks of milky Foam.
Next came the Tide from the Western Halls. This Tide thundered up
the Westernmost Staircase and hit the Eastern Wall with a great Clap,
making all the Statues tremble. Its Foam was the white of old fish-bones,
and its churning depths were pewter. Within seconds its Waters were as
high as the Waists of the First Tier of Statues.
Last came the Tide from the Northern Halls. It hurled itself up the
middle Staircase, filling the Vestibule with an explosion of glittering, ice-white Foam. I was drenched and blinded. When I could see again Waters
were cascading down the Statues. It was then that I realised I had made a
mistake in calculating the volumes of the Second and Third Tides. A
towering Peak of Water swept up to where I crouched. A great Hand of
Water reached out to pluck me from the Wall. I flung my arms around the
Legs of the Woman carrying a Beehive and prayed to the House to protect
me. The Waters covered me and for a moment I was surrounded by the
strange silence that comes when the Sea sweeps over you and drowns its
own sounds. I thought that I was going to die; or else that I would be swept
away to Unknown Halls, far from the rush and thrum of Familiar Tides. I
clung on.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The Joined Tides swept
on into the surrounding Halls. I heard the thunder and crack as the Tides
struck the Walls. The Waters in the Ninth Vestibule sank rapidly down until
they barely covered the Plinths of the First Tier of Statues.
I realised that I was holding on to something. I opened my hand and
found a marble Finger from some Faraway Statue that the Tides had placed
there.
The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite.
A description of the World
ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I am determined to explore as much of the World as I can in
my lifetime. To this end I have travelled as far as the Nine-Hundred-and-Sixtieth Hall to the West, the Eight-Hundred-and-Ninetieth Hall to the
North and the Seven-Hundred-and-Sixty-Eighth Hall to the South. I have
climbed up to the Upper Halls where Clouds move in slow procession and
Statues appear suddenly out of the Mists. I have explored the Drowned
Halls where the Dark Waters are carpeted with white water lilies. I have
seen the Derelict Halls of the East where Ceilings, Floors – sometimes even
Walls! – have collapsed and the dimness is split by shafts of grey Light.
In all these places I have stood in Doorways and looked ahead. I have
never seen any indication that the World was coming to an End, but only
the regular progression of Halls and Passageways into the Far Distance.
No Hall, no Vestibule, no Staircase, no Passage is without its Statues.
In most Halls they cover all the available space, though here and there you
will find an Empty Plinth, Niche or Apse, or even a blank space on a Wall
otherwise encrusted with Statues. These Absences are as mysterious in their
way as the Statues themselves.
I have observed that, while the Statues of a particular Hall are more or
less uniform in size, there is considerable variation between Halls. In some
places the figures are two or three times the height of a Human Being, in
others more or less life-size and in yet others, only reach as high as my
shoulder. The Drowned Halls contain Statues that are gigantic – fifteen to
twenty metres high – but they are the exception.
I have begun a Catalogue in which I intend to record the Position, Size
and Subject of each Statue, and any other points of interest. So far I have
completed the First and Second South-Western Halls and am engaged on
the Third. The enormity of this task sometimes makes me feel a little dizzy,
but as a scientist and an explorer I have a duty to bear witness to the
Splendours of the World.
The Windows of the House look out upon Great Courtyards; barren,
empty places paved with stone. The Courtyards are generally four-sided,
although now and then you will come upon one with six sides, or eight, or
even – these are rather strange and gloomy – only three.
Outside the House there are only the Celestial Objects: Sun, Moon and
Stars.
The House has three Levels. The Lower Halls are the Domain of the
Tides; their Windows – when seen from across a Courtyard – are grey-green
with the restless Waters and white with the spatter of Foam. The Lower
Halls provide nourishment in the form of fish, crustaceans and sea
vegetation.
The Upper Halls are, as I have said, the Domain of the Clouds; their
Windows are grey-white and misty. Sometimes you will see a whole line of
Windows suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning. The Upper Halls
give Fresh Water, which is shed in the Vestibules in the form of Rain and
flows in Streams down Walls and Staircases.
Between these two (largely uninhabitable) Levels are the Middle Halls,
which are the Domain of birds and of men. The Beautiful Orderliness of the
House is what gives us Life.
This morning I looked out of a Window in the Eighteenth South-Eastern Hall. On the other side of the Courtyard I saw the Other looking out
of a Window. The Window was tall and dark; the Other’s noble head with
its high forehead and neatly trimmed beard was framed in one Corner. He
was lost in thought as he so often is. I waved to him. He did not see me. I
waved more extravagantly. I jumped up and down with great energy. But
the Windows of the House are many and he did not see me.
A list of all the people who have ever lived and what is known of them
ENTRY FOR THE TENTH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Since the World began it is certain that there have existed fifteen
people. Possibly there have been more; but I am a scientist and must
proceed according to the evidence. Of the fifteen people whose existence is
verifiable, only Myself and the Other are now living.
I will now name the fifteen people and give, where relevant, their
positions.
First Person: Myself
I believe that I am between thirty and thirty-five years of age. I am
approximately 1.83 metres tall and of a slender build.
Second Person: The Other
I estimate the Other’s age to be between fifty and sixty. He is
approximately 1.88 metres tall and, like me, of a slender build. He is strong
and fit for his age. His skin is a pale olive colour. His short hair and
moustache are dark brown. He has a beard that is greying, almost white; it
is neatly trimmed and slightly pointed. The bones of his skull are
particularly fine with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a tall, impressive
forehead. The overall impression he gives is of a friendly but slightly
austere person devoted to the life of the intellect.
He is a scientist like me and the only other living human being, so
naturally I value his friendship highly.
The Other believes that there is a Great and Secret Knowledge hidden
somewhere in the World that will grant us enormous powers once we have
discovered it. What this Knowledge consists of he is not entirely sure, but at
various times he has suggested that it might include the following:
1. vanquishing Death and becoming immortal
2. learning by a process of telepathy what other people are
thinking
3. transforming ourselves into eagles and flying through the Air
4. transforming ourselves into fish and swimming through the
Tides
5. moving objects using only our thoughts
6. snuffing out and reigniting the Sun and Stars
7. dominating lesser intellects and bending them to our will
The Other and I are searching diligently for this Knowledge. We meet
twice a week (on Tuesdays and Fridays) to discuss our work. The Other
organises his time meticulously and never permits our meetings to last
longer than one hour.
If he requires my presence at other times, he calls out ‘Piranesi!’ until I
come.
Piranesi. It is what he calls me.
Which is strange because as far as I remember it is not my name.
Third Person: The Biscuit-Box Man
The Biscuit-Box Man is a skeleton that resides in an Empty Niche in
the Third North-Western Hall. The bones have been ordered in a particular
way: long ones of a similar size have been collected and tied together with
twine made from seaweed. To the right is placed the skull and to the left is a
biscuit box containing all the small bones – finger bones, toe bones,
vertebrae etc. The biscuit box is red. It has a picture of biscuits and bears
the legend, Huntley Palmers and Family Circle.
When I first discovered the Biscuit-Box Man, the seaweed twine had
dried up and fallen apart and he had become rather untidy. I made new
twine from fish leather and tied up his bundles of bones again. Now he is in
good order once more.
Fourth Person: The Concealed Person
One day three years ago I climbed the Staircase in the
Thirteenth Vestibule. Finding that the Clouds had departed from that Region
of the Upper Halls and that they were bright, clear and filled with Sunlight,
I determined to explore further. In one of the Halls (the one positioned
directly above the Eighteenth North-Eastern Hall) I found a half-collapsed
skeleton wedged in a narrow space between a Plinth and the Wall. From the
current disposition of the bones I believe it was originally in a sitting
position with the knees drawn up to the chin. I have been unable to learn the
gender. If I took the bones out to examine them, I could never get them
back in again.
Persons Five to Fourteen: The People of the
Alcove
The People of the Alcove are all skeletal. Their bones are laid side by
side on an Empty Plinth in the Northernmost Alcove of the Fourteenth
South-Western Hall.
I have tentatively identified three skeletons as female and three as
male, and there are four whose gender I cannot determine with any
certainty. One of these I have named the Fish-Leather Man. The skeleton of
the Fish-Leather Man is incomplete and many of the bones are much worn
away by the Tides. Some are scarcely more than little pebbles of bone.
There are small holes bored in the ends of some of them and fragments of
fish leather. From this I draw several conclusions:
1. The skeleton of the Fish-Leather Man is older than the others
2. The skeleton of the Fish-Leather Man was once displayed
differently, its bones threaded together with thongs of fish leather, but
over time the leather decayed
3. The people who came after the Fish-Leather Man (presumably
the People of the Alcove) held human life in such reverence that they
patiently collected his bones and laid him with their own dead
Question: when I feel myself about to die, ought I to go and lie down
with the People of the Alcove? There is, I estimate, space for four more
adults. Though I am a young man and the day of my Death is (I hope) some
way off, I have given this matter some thought.
Another skeleton lies next to the People of the Alcove (though this
does not count as one of the people who have lived). It is the remains of a
creature approximately 50 centimetres long and with a tail the same length
as its body. I have compared the bones to the different kinds of Creatures
that are portrayed in the Statues and believe them to belong to a monkey. I
have never seen a live monkey in the House.
The Fifteenth Person: The Folded-Up Child
The Folded-Up Child is a skeleton. I believe it to be female and
approximately seven years of age. She is posed on an Empty Plinth in the
Sixth South-Eastern Hall. Her knees are drawn up to her chin, her arms
clasp her knees, her head is bowed down. There is a necklace of coral beads
and fish-bones around her neck.
I have given a great deal of thought to this child’s relationship to me.
There are living in the World (as I have already explained) only Myself and
the Other; and we are both male. How will the World have an Inhabitant
when we are dead? It is my belief that the World (or, if you will, the House,
since the two are for all practical purposes identical) wishes an Inhabitant
for Itself to be a witness to its Beauty and the recipient of its Mercies. I
have postulated that the House intended the Folded-Up Child to be my
Wife, only something happened to prevent it. Ever since I had this thought
it has seemed only right to share with her what I have.
I visit all the Dead, but particularly the Folded-Up Child. I bring them
food, water and water lilies from the Drowned Halls. I speak to them,
telling them what I have been doing and I describe any Wonders that I have
seen in the House. In this way they know that they are not alone.
Only I do this. The Other does not. As far as I know he has no
religious practices.
The Sixteenth Person
And You. Who are You? Who is it that I am writing for? Are You a
traveller who has cheated Tides and crossed Broken Floors and Derelict
Stairs to reach these Halls? Or are You perhaps someone who inhabits my
own Halls long after I am dead?
My Journals
ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I write down what I observe in my notebooks. I do this for two
reasons. The first is that Writing inculcates habits of precision and
carefulness. The second is to preserve whatever knowledge I possess for
you, the Sixteenth Person. I keep my notebooks in a brown leather
messenger bag; the bag is generally stored in a hollow place behind the
Statue of an Angel caught on a Rose Bush in the North-Eastern Corner of
the Second Northern Hall. This is also where I keep my watch, which I
need on Tuesdays and Fridays when I go to meet the Other at 10 o’clock.
(On other days I try not to carry my watch for fear that Sea Water will get
inside and damage the mechanism.)
One of my notebooks is my Table of Tides. In it I set down the Times
and Volumes of High and Low Tides and make calculations of the Tides to
come. Another notebook is my Catalogue of Statues. In the others I keep
my Journal in which I write my thoughts and memories and make a record
of my days. So far my Journal has filled nine notebooks; this is the tenth.
All are numbered and most are labelled with the dates to which they refer.
No. 1 is labelled December 2011 to June 2012
No. 2 is labelled June 2012 to November 2012
No. 3 was originally labelled November 2012, but this has been
crossed out at some point and re-labelled Thirtieth Day in the Twelfth
Month in the Year of Weeping and Wailing, to the Fourth Day of the
Seventh Month in the Year I discovered the Coral Halls
Both No. 2 and No. 3 have gaps where pages have been violently
removed. I have puzzled over the reason for this and tried to imagine who
might have done it, but as yet have reached no conclusion.
No. 4 is labelled Tenth Day of the Seventh Month in the Year I
discovered the Coral Halls, to the Ninth Day of the Fourth Month in
the Year I named the Constellations
No. 5 is labelled Fifteenth Day of the Fourth Month in the Year I
named the Constellations, to the Thirtieth Day of the Ninth Month in
the Year I counted and named the Dead
No. 6 is labelled First Day of the Tenth Month in the Year I
counted and named the Dead, to the Fourteenth Day of the Second
Month in the Year that the Ceilings in the Twentieth and Twenty-First
North-Eastern Halls collapsed
No. 7 is labelled Seventeenth Day of the Second Month in the
Year that the Ceilings in the Twentieth and Twenty-First North-Eastern
Halls collapsed, to the last Day of the same Year
No. 8 is labelled First Day of the Year I travelled to the Nine-Hundred-and-Sixtieth Western Hall, to the Fifteenth Day of the Tenth
Month of the same Year
No. 9 is labelled Sixteenth Day of the Tenth Month in the Year I
travelled to the Nine-Hundred-and-Sixtieth Western Hall, to the Fourth
Day of the Fifth Month in the Year the Albatross came to the South-Western Halls
This Journal (No. 10) was begun on the Fifth Day of the Fifth Month
in the Year the Albatross came to the South-Western Halls.
One of the drawbacks of keeping a journal is the difficulty of finding
important entries again and so it is my practice to use one notebook as an
index to all the others. In this notebook I have allocated a certain number of
pages to each letter of the alphabet (more pages for common letters, such as
A and C; fewer for letters that occur less frequently, for example Q and X).
Under each letter I list entries by subject and where in my Journals they are
to be found.
Reading over what I have just written, I have realised something. I
have used two systems to number the years. How could I not have noticed
this before?
I am guilty of bad practice. Only one system of numbering is needed.
Two introduces confusion, uncertainty, doubt and muddle. (And is
aesthetically unpleasing.)
In accordance with the first system I have named two years 2011 and
2012. This strikes me as deeply pedestrian. Also I cannot remember what
happened two thousand years ago which made me think that year a good
starting point. According to the second system I have given the years names
like ‘The Year I named the Constellations’ and ‘The Year I counted and
named the Dead’. I like this much more. It gives each year a character of its
own. This is the system I shall use going forward.
Statues
ENTRY FOR THE EIGHTEENTH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
There are some Statues that I love more than the rest. The Woman
carrying a Beehive is one.
Another – perhaps the Statue that I love above all others – stands at a
Door between the Fifth and Fourth North-Western Halls. It is the Statue of a
Faun, a creature half-man and half-goat, with a head of exuberant curls. He
smiles slightly and presses his forefinger to his lips. I have always felt that
he meant to tell me something or perhaps to warn me of something: Quiet!
he seems to say. Be careful! But what danger there could possibly be I have
never known. I dreamt of him once; he was standing in a snowy forest and
speaking to a female child.
The Statue of a Gorilla that stands in the Fifth Northern Hall always
catches my eye. He is depicted squatting on his Lower Limbs, leaning
forward and propping himself up on his Powerful Arms and Fists. His Face
fascinates me. His Great Brow overshadows his Eyes and in a human
person this expression would be called a scowl, but in the Gorilla it seems
to mean the exact opposite. He represents many things, among them Peace,
Tranquillity, Strength and Endurance.
There are many others that I love – the Young Boy playing the
Cymbals, the Elephant carrying a Castle, the Two Kings playing Chess. The
last I will mention is not exactly a favourite. Rather it is a Statue, or, to be
more exact, a pair of Statues, that never fails to arrest my attention
whenever I see it. The two Statues flank the Eastern Door of the First
Western Hall. They are approximately six metres tall and have two unusual
features: firstly, they are much larger than the other Statues in the First
Western Hall; secondly, they are incomplete. Their Trunks emerge from the
Wall at their Waists; their Arms reach back to push mightily; their Muscles
swell with the effort and their Faces are contorted. They are not comfortable
to contemplate. They seem to be in pain, struggling to be born; the struggle
may be fruitless and yet they do not give up. Their Heads are extravagantly
horned and so I have named them the Horned Giants. They represent
Endeavour and the Struggle against a Wretched Fate.
Is it disrespectful to the House to love some Statues more than others?
I sometimes ask Myself this question. It is my belief that the House itself
loves and blesses equally everything that it has created. Should I try to do
the same? Yet, at the same time, I can see that it is in the nature of men to
prefer one thing to another, to find one thing more meaningful than another.
Do trees exist?
ENTRY FOR THE NINETEENTH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Many things are unknown. Once – it was about six or seven months ago – I saw a bright yellow speck floating on a gentle Tide beneath the Fourth Western Hall. Not understanding what it could be, I waded out into the Waters and caught it. It was a leaf, very beautiful, with two sides curving to a point at each end. Of course it is possible that it was part of a type of sea vegetation that I have never seen, but I am doubtful. The texture seemed wrong. Its surface repelled Water, like something meant to live in Air.
PART 2
THE OTHER
Batter-Sea
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-NINTH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning at ten o’clock I went to the Second South-Western Hall
to meet the Other. When I entered the Hall he was already there, leaning on
an Empty Plinth, tapping at one of his shining devices. He wore a well-cut
suit of charcoal wool and a bright white shirt that contrasted pleasingly with
the olive tones of his skin.
Without looking up from his device he said, ‘I need some data.’
He is often like this: so intent on what he is doing that he forgets to say
Hello or Goodbye or to ask me how I am. I do not mind. I admire his
dedication to his scientific work.
‘What data?’ I asked. ‘Can I assist you?’
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘In fact, I won’t get far if you don’t. Today the
subject of my research is’ – at this point he looked up from what he was
doing and smiled at me – ‘you.’ He has a most charming smile when he
remembers to use it.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘What are you trying to find out? Do you have a
hypothesis about me?’
‘I do.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that. It might influence the data.’
‘Oh! Yes. That is true. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s natural to be curious.’ He placed his shining
device on the Empty Plinth and turned around. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
I sat on the Pavement, cross-legged, and waited for his questions.
‘Comfortable?’ he said. ‘Good. Now tell me. What do you remember?’
‘What do I remember?’ I asked, confused.
‘Yes.’
‘As a question it lacks specificity,’ I said.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said. ‘Try to answer it.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I suppose the answer is everything. I remember
everything.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s rather a large claim. Are you sure?’
‘I think so.’
‘Give me some examples of the things you remember.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘suppose you were to name a Hall many days journey
from here. Providing that I had visited it before, I could immediately tell
you how to get there. I could name every Hall you would need to travel
through. I could describe the notable Statues you would see on the Walls,
and, with a reasonable degree of accuracy, I could tell you their positions –
which Wall they stood against, whether North, South, East or West – and
how far along the Wall they stood. I could also enumerate all the …’
‘What about Batter-Sea?’ asked the Other.
‘Um … What?’
‘Batter-Sea. Do you remember Batter-Sea?’
‘No … I … Batter-Sea?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do not understand …’
I waited for the Other to explain, but he said nothing. I could see that
he was observing me closely and I was sure that this question was crucial to
whatever research he was conducting, but as to how I was supposed to
answer it, I had not the least idea.
‘Batter-Sea is not a word,’ I said at last. ‘It has no referent. There is
nothing in the World corresponding to that combination of sounds.’
Still the Other said nothing. He continued to gaze at me intently. I
gazed back, troubled.
Then: ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, light suddenly dawning. ‘I see what you are
doing!’ I started to laugh.
‘What am I doing?’ asked the Other, smiling.
‘You need to find out if I am telling the truth. I just said that I can
describe the way to any Hall that I have previously visited. But you have no
way of judging the truth of my claim. For example, if I were to describe the
Path to the Ninety-Sixth Northern Hall, you would not know if my
directions were accurate because you have never been there. So you have
asked me a question with a nonsense word in it – Batter-Sea. Very
cunningly you have chosen a word that sounds like a place. A place that is
battered by the Sea. Now if I were to say that I remembered Batter-Sea and
then described the way there, you would know I was lying. You would
know I was simply boasting. You have put this in as a control question.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I am doing.’
We both laughed.
‘Have you more questions for me?’ I asked.
‘No. All done.’ He was about to turn away to enter the data in his
shining device, but something about me caught his attention and he gave me
a puzzled sort of look.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Your glasses. What happened to them?’
‘My glasses?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They look slightly … odd.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The arms are wrapped round and round with strips of something,’ he
said. ‘And the ends hang down at the sides.’
‘Oh! I see,’ I said. ‘Yes! The arms of my glasses keep breaking off.
First the left. And then the right. The salt-laden Air corrodes the plastic. I
am experimenting with different methods of mending them. On the left arm
I have used strips of fish leather and fish glue and on the right arm I have
used seaweed. That is less successful.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I imagine it would be.’
In the Halls beneath us the incoming Tide struck a Wall. Boom. It
withdrew, surged forward through the Doors and struck the Wall of the Next
Chamber. Boom. Boom. Boom. Withdrew again; surged forward again.
Boom. The Second South-Western Hall thrummed like the plucked string of
an instrument.
The Other looked anxious. ‘That sounded really close,’ he said.
‘Oughtn’t we to be getting out of here?’ He does not understand the Tides.
‘There is no need,’ I said.
‘OK,’ he said. But he was not reassured. His eyes widened and his
breathing became more shallow and rapid. He kept glancing from Door to
Door as though expecting to see Water pouring in at any second.
‘I don’t want to get caught,’ he said.
Once the Other was in the Eighth Northern Hall. A strong Tide from
the Northern Halls rose in the Tenth Vestibule, followed moments later by
an equally strong Tide from the Eastern Halls in the Twelfth Vestibule. Vast
quantities of Water poured into the surrounding Halls, including the one
where the Other was. The Waters plucked him up and carried him away,
sweeping him through Doors and battering him against Walls and Statues.
Several times he was completely immersed, and he expected to drown.
Eventually the Tides cast him up on the Pavement of the Third Western Hall
(a distance of seven Halls from where he began). That is where I found him.
I fetched him a blanket and hot soup made of seaweed and mussels. As
soon as he was able to walk, he took himself off without a word. I do not
know where he went. (I never really know.) This happened in the Sixth
Month of the Year I named the Constellations. Since then the Other has
been afraid of the Tides.
‘There is no danger,’ I told him.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
Boom. Boom.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In five minutes, the Tide will reach the Sixth Vestibule
and mount the Staircase. The Second Southern Hall – two Halls east of here
– will be flooded for an hour. But the Water will be no more than ankle
deep and it will not reach us.’
He nodded, but his anxiety levels remained high and he left a short
while after.
In the early evening I went to the Eighth Vestibule to fish. I was not
thinking about my conversation with the Other; I was thinking of my supper
and of the beauty of the Statues in the Evening Light. But as I stood, casting
my net into the Waters of the Lower Staircase, an image rose up before me.
I saw a black scribble against a grey Sky and a flicker of bright red; words
drifted towards me – white words on a black background. At the same time,
there was a sudden blare of noise and a metallic taste on my tongue. And all
of the images – no more than fragments or ghosts of images really – seemed
to coalesce around the strange word, ‘Batter-Sea’. I tried to get hold of
them, to bring them into sharper focus, but like a dream they faded and
were gone.
A white cross
ENTRY FOR THE THIRTIETH DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
If you examine my previous Journal (Journal no. 9) you will see that I
wrote very little in the final month of last year and the first month and a half
of this one. (This sometimes happens for a reason that I will explain below.)
During this period an event took place, which I have been meaning to write
about. I shall do so now.
It was the very depths of Winter. Snow was piled on the Steps of the
Staircases. Every Statue in the Vestibules wore a cloak or shroud or hat of
snow. Every Statue with an outstretched Arm (of which there are many)
held an icicle like a dangling sword or else a line of icicles hung from the
Arm as if it were sprouting feathers.
There is a thing that I know but always forget: Winter is hard. The cold
goes on and on and it is only with difficulty and effort that a person keeps
himself warm. Every year, as Winter approaches, I congratulate Myself on
having a plentiful supply of dry seaweed to use as fuel, but as the days,
weeks and months stretch out I become less certain that I have sufficient. I
wear as many of my clothes as I can cram onto my body. Every Friday I
take stock of my fuel and I calculate how much I can permit Myself each
day in order to make it last until Spring.
In the Twelfth Month of last year the Other suspended his work on the
Great and Secret Knowledge and cancelled our meetings because he said it
was too cold to stand about talking. My fingers were numb with cold –
which caused my handwriting to deteriorate. Eventually I stopped writing in
my Journal altogether.
About the middle of the First Month a Wind came up from the South.
It blew for days without ceasing and though I tried hard not to complain
about it, I found it something of a trial. It blew stinging Snow into the Halls.
It blew on me at night in my bed in the Third Northern Hall. It howled in
the Vestibules, catching up handfuls of loose snow and making them into
little ghosts.
Not everything about the Wind was bad. Sometimes it blew through
the little voids and crevices of the Statues and caused them to sing and
whistle in surprising ways; I had never known the Statues to have voices
before and it made me laugh for sheer delight.
One day I rose early and went to the Forty-Third Vestibule. The Halls
that I passed through were grey and dim, with just a suggestion of Light in
the Windows – the idea of Light, more than Light itself.
My intention was to gather seaweed, both for food and fuel. Normally
I must wait until Spring, Summer and Autumn to dry seaweed. Winter is
too cold and wet. But it had occurred to me that if I could hang the seaweed
up (perhaps across a Doorway) then the Wind would dry it quickly. The
only difficulty would be in securing the seaweed so that it did not blow
away. I had thought of three different ways to do this and was eager to try
all of them to see which would prove the most efficient.
As I crossed the Eleventh Western Hall, the Wind knocked me from
one Paving Stone to another as if I were a chess piece on a board. (I made
some highly original moves!)
I descended the Staircase in the Forty-Third Vestibule and entered the
Lower Hall, the one that lies directly beneath the Thirty-Seventh SouthWestern Hall. One effect of the Wind was that the High Tides were much
higher and more violent than usual; the Low Tides were conversely lower.
It was Low Tide just then and the Sea had drawn back so far that the Hall
was entirely empty of Water (which hardly ever happens). It was strewn
with remnants of the Tide: seaweed, which streamed in the Wind like little
banners, and pebbles, starfish and shells, which rattled across the Stone
Pavement as the Wind chased them.
It was early, a handful of moments after Dawn. I could see the pale
golden Sky reflected in some of the Windows in the Courtyard. Ahead of
me the grey, restless Waters were framed in the Doorway that led to the
next Hall. The wildness of the Water contrasted with the severity of the
lines of the Doorway.
I bent down and began to gather the cold, wet seaweed. Even this
simple task was made more difficult by the Wind, since so much of my
energy had to be expended on staying in the same place. The Wind also
caught the strands of seaweed; they lashed my hands and made them cold
and sore.
After a while I straightened Myself to ease my back. Once again, I
raised my eyes to the Doorway that led to the next Hall.
I saw a vision! In the dim Air above the grey Waves hung a white,
shining cross. Its whiteness was a blazing whiteness; it far outshone the
Wall of Statues behind it. It was beautiful but I did not understand it. The
next moment brought enlightenment of a sort: it was not a cross at all but
something vast and white, which glided rapidly towards me on the Wind.
What could it be? It must be a bird, but if I could see it at such a great
distance, then it must be a bird of much greater size than the birds I was
accustomed to. It swept on, coming directly towards me. I spread my arms
in answer to its spread wings, as if I was going to embrace it. I spoke out
loud. Welcome! Welcome! Welcome! was what I think I meant to say, but the
Wind took my breath from me and all I could manage was: ‘Come! Come!
Come!’
The bird sailed across the heaving Waves, never once beating its
wings. With great skill and ease it tipped itself slightly sideways to pass
through the Doorway that separated us. Its wingspan surpassed even the
width of the Door. I knew what it was! An albatross!
Still it continued, straight towards me, and the strangest thought came
to me: perhaps the albatross and I were destined to merge and the two of us
would become another order of being entirely: an Angel! This thought both
excited and frightened me, but still I remained, arms outstretched, mirroring
the albatross’s flight. (I thought how surprised the Other would be when I
flew into the Second South-Western Hall on my Angel Wings, bringing him
messages of Peace and Joy!) My heart beat rapidly.
The moment that he reached me – the moment that I thought we would
collide like Planets and become one! – I gave out a sort of gasping cry –
Aahhhh! In the same instant, I felt some sort of pent-up tension go out of
me, a tension I did not know I had until that moment. Vast, white wings
passed over me. I felt and smelt the Air those wings brought with them, the
sharp, salty, wild tang of Faraway Tides and Winds that had roamed vast
distances, through Halls I would never see.
At the last moment the albatross swung over my left shoulder. I fell to
the Pavement. He flapped his wings in a frantic, panicked sort of way, stuck
out his wiry pink legs and tumbled out of the Air into a sort of heap on the
Pavement. In the Air he was a miraculous being – a Heavenly Being – but
on the Stones of the Pavement he was mortal and subject to the same
embarrassments and clumsiness as other mortals.
We picked ourselves up. Now that he was on the dry Pavement he
seemed bigger than ever: his head reached almost to my breastbone.
‘I am very glad to see you,’ I said. ‘Welcome. I am the Inhabitant of
these Halls. One of the Inhabitants. There is another, but he is not fond of
birds and so you will probably not see him.’
The albatross spread his wings wide and stretched out his throat
towards the Ceiling. He made a sort of clacking, whirring sound in his
throat, which I took to be his way of greeting me. The backs of his wings
were dark, almost black, with a white shape like a star on each one.
I returned to my work of gathering seaweed. The albatross walked
about the Hall. His greyish-pinkish feet made loud slapping sounds on the
Pavement. From time to time he came and looked at what I was doing as if
it interested him.
The next day I returned. The albatross had come up the Staircase and
was examining the Forty-Third Vestibule. But more than that: imagine my
joy when I found that the Vestibule now sheltered two albatrosses! His wife
had joined him! (Or perhaps the original albatross was female and this was
her husband. I did not have enough information to be certain on this point.)
The new albatross had a different patterning on the back of her (or possibly
his) wings: a patterning of white flecks, like a silver rain falling. The two
albatrosses spread their wings; they danced around each other; they pointed
their beaks at the Ceiling and made a joyful shrieking, screeching sound;
they tapped their long pink beaks together to express their happiness.
A few days later I visited them again. This time they seemed quieter
and there was an air of despondency and discouragement in the Vestibule.
The albatross that I thought of as male (the one with stars on his wings) had
fetched up a quantity of seaweed from the Lower Hall. He picked up lumps
of it in his beak and made a heap of them. A few minutes later he became
dissatisfied with this arrangement and collected the lumps of seaweed again
and tried them in a different spot. He performed this action perhaps a dozen
times.
‘I think I see your problem,’ I said. ‘You have come here to build a
nest. But you cannot find the materials you need. There is only cold, wet
seaweed and you need something drier to make a cosy nest for your egg. Do
not worry. I will help you. I have a supply of dry seaweed. Speaking as a
non-avian, I feel sure that this would be a highly suitable building material.
I will go and fetch it immediately.’
The starred albatross spread his wings and stretched his neck; he
pointed his beak at the Ceiling and made the raucous clacking sound. This, I
thought, was an expression of enthusiasm.
I returned to the Third Northern Hall. I lined a fishing net with heavygauge plastic. Inside I placed what I thought was the right amount of
nesting material for two such enormous birds. It approximated to three
days’ fuel. This was no insignificant amount and I knew that I might be
colder because I had given it away. But what is a few days of feeling cold
compared to a new albatross in the World? I made two other additions to the
pile of seaweed: some clean, white feathers that I had found and kept for no
better reason than because I liked them, and an old woollen jumper that was
in so many holes it was of scarcely any use as a garment, but which might
do very well as a lining for a precious egg.
I dragged the fishing net to the Forty-Third Vestibule. I was
immediately rewarded by the interest which the male albatross showed in
the contents; he seized a beakful of dry seaweed and began trying it out in
different places.
Shortly thereafter the albatrosses built a tall nest approximately a
metre wide at its base and laid an egg in it. They are excellent parents; they
were devoted to their egg and are now equally diligent in caring for their
chick. The chick grows slowly and has shown no sign of being ready to
fledge.
I have named this year the Year the Albatross came to the South-Western Halls.
The birds sit silent in the Sixth Western Hall
ENTRY FOR THE THIRTY-FIRST DAY OF THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Ever since the Ceilings of the Twentieth and Twenty-First North-Eastern Halls collapsed two years ago, the Weather in this Region of the
House has changed. Clouds drift down through the Broken Ceilings and
into the Middle Halls where normally they would not go. It makes the
World chill and grey.
This morning I awoke cold and shivering. A Cloud had penetrated the
Third Northern Hall where I sleep. The Statues were delicate white images
painted on white Mist.
I rose quickly and busied Myself with my daily tasks. I gathered
seaweed in the Ninth Vestibule and made Myself a breakfast of nourishing,
warming soup; then I set off for the Third South-Western Hall to continue
my work on the Catalogue of Statues.
The House was peculiarly silent. No birds flew; no birds sang. Where
had they all gone? It seemed they found the Cloud-haunted World as
oppressive as I did. In the Sixth Western Hall I found them at last. They
were gathered there, perched on the Shoulders and Heads of every Statue,
on Plinths and on Columns, sitting silently, waiting.
The Drowned Halls
ENTRY FOR THE EIGHTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
East of the First Vestibule the House is Derelict. Masonry and Statues
from the Upper Halls have fallen through Broken Floors into the Middle
and Lower Halls, blocking Doorways. There is an Area covering perhaps as
many as forty or fifty Halls where the Tides cannot penetrate. Over time the
Sea Water has drained away and these Halls have filled up with Rain,
making dark, still, freshwater Lakes. Their Windows are half-submerged in
Water or blocked by Masonry, making them dim and shadowy. Cut off from
the Tides, they are unusually silent.
These are the Drowned Halls.
On the Periphery of this Region the Waters are shallow, tranquil and
covered with water lilies, but in the centre they are deep and treacherous,
full of broken Masonry and drowned Statues. The majority of the Drowned
Halls are inaccessible, but some can be entered from the Upper Level.
They contain giant Statues of Men with curly Heads and Beards that
strain and struggle out of the confines of the Walls, extending their Upper
Bodies over the Dark Waters. There is one in particular who leans out so far
that his broad, muscular Back forms an almost horizontal platform half a
metre or so above the level of the Water, making an excellent place from
which to fish.
Night fishing is best, when the fish are drawn to play in spots of bright
Moonlight and are easy to see.
The Clouds above the Nineteenth Eastern Hall
ENTRY FOR THE TENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
It used to be that I dared not live too close to the Tides. When I heard
their Thunder, I ran and hid Myself. In my ignorance, I feared to be caught
in their Waters and drowned.
As far as possible I kept to the Dry Halls where the Statues are not
clothed in rags of seaweed or armoured with encrustations of shellfish,
where the Air is not scented with the Tides: Halls, in other words, that have
not been flooded in recent Times. Water was not a problem; most Halls
contain Falls of Fresh Water (sometimes you will see a Statue almost
bisected by the Water that has splashed onto it for centuries). Food was a
different matter; for that I had to brave the Tides. I would go to the
Vestibules and descend the Staircases to the Lower Halls, to the Rim of the
Ocean. But the Force of the Waves frightened me.
Even then I knew that the Tides were not random. I saw that if I could
record and document them, I might be able to predict their appearance. That
was the beginning of my Table. But, though I grasped certain things about
the movements of the Tides, I had no understanding of their Natures. I
thought one Tide was pretty much the same as all the others. It astonished
me when I went to meet a Tide expecting plentiful fish and sea vegetation,
only to find it bright, clean, empty.
I was often hungry.
Fear and hunger forced me to explore the House and I discovered that
fish were plentiful in the Drowned Halls. Their Waters were still and I was
not so afraid. The difficulty here was that the Drowned Halls were
surrounded by Dereliction on all sides. To reach them it was necessary to go
up to the Upper Halls and then descend by means of the Wreckage through
the great Rents and Gashes in the Floor.
Once, when I had not eaten for two days, I determined to go to the
Drowned Halls to find some food. I ascended to the Upper Halls. This in
itself was not easy for someone in my enfeebled condition. The Staircases,
though they vary in size, are mostly built on the same noble scale as the rest
of the House and each Step is almost twice the height that is comfortable
for me. (It is as though God had originally built the House intending to
people it with Giants before inexplicably changing His Mind.)
I passed into one of the Upper Halls, the one that stands directly above
the Nineteenth Eastern Hall. From there I intended to descend to the
Drowned Halls, but to my dismay I found that the Hall was full of Clouds: a
chill, grey, wet blank.
I had my Journal with me. Consulting it, I discovered that I had been
in this Vicinity once before and had in fact made detailed notes of the Hall
beyond this one; the Hall above the Twentieth Eastern Hall. I had described
the character and condition of the Statues and had even made a sketch of
one of them. But of this Hall – the Hall on whose Threshold I now stood,
the Hall that was full of Clouds – of this Hall I had recorded nothing
whatsoever.
Today I would consider it madness to journey through a Hall I cannot
see properly and of which I have no record, but today I do not allow Myself
to get as hungry as I was then.
Adjoining Halls usually share some characteristics. The Hall
immediately to my rear was approximately 200 metres in length and 120
metres wide and so the chances were good that the Hall before me was the
same. It did not seem an impossible distance; I was more concerned about
the Statues. From what I could see, these depicted Human or Demi-Human
figures, all two or three times my own stature and all in the throes of violent
action: Men fighting, Women and Men being carried off by Centaurs or
Satyrs, Octopuses tearing People apart. In most Regions of the House the
expressions of the Statues are joyful or tranquil or possessed of a distant
calm; but here the Faces were distorted in screams of rage or anguish.
I resolved to go carefully. To bash oneself on an outstretched marble
limb is painful.
I entered the Cloud and slowly made my way along the Northern Side
of the Hall. Statues appeared, one by one, out of the pale Cloud. They
covered the Walls so thickly and were twisted into such tortuous forms that
it was like walking under the dripping branches of a great forest of Arms
and Bodies.
One Statue had toppled from the Wall and was lying shattered on the
Floor. This ought to have been a warning to me.
I came to a place where a Statue thrust itself a long way out from the
Wall. It depicted a Man, his vast Body flailing backwards, stretched over
the Pavement, his Arms thrown over his Head as a Centaur trampled on
him. The Palms of his great Hands faced upwards and his Fingers were
curled in agony. I took a step away from the Wall to circumvent him and my
foot met with …
… nothing.
No Floor! No Stone Pavement beneath me! I was falling! I lunged in
terror towards the Wall. Immediately, I was caught! I lay suspended over
the Empty Air, too terrified to move, my mind deadened by fear and shock.
By some miracle I had fallen into the Trampled Man’s Hands. The Hands
were dripping with wet and horribly slippery; any movement on my part
threatened to loose his hold on me and send me tumbling into the Void.
Whimpering with fear and clinging to the Trampled Man with every atom
of my strength, I inched up his Arms to his Head; from his Head to his
Chest and so to his Lap where I wedged myself in. The Body of the
Attacking Centaur formed a sort of Ceiling two or three centimetres over
my head. The Cloud was so dense that I could not see where the Floor
began again.
I stayed there all day and all night, hungry, almost dead from cold but
deeply grateful to the Trampled Man for saving me. In the morning the
Wind came and carried the Cloud westwards. I peered out at the great Gash
in the Floor and I saw the dizzying drop – 30 metres or more – to the still
Waters of the Drowned Hall beneath.
A conversation
ENTRY FOR THE ELEVENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
As well as my regular meetings with the Other and the quiet,
consolatory presence of the Dead, there are the birds. Birds are not difficult
to understand. Their behaviour tells me what they are thinking. Generally it
runs along the lines of: Is this food? Is this? What about this? This might be
food. I am almost certain that this is. Or occasionally: It is raining. I do not
like it.
While ample for a brief neighbourly exchange, such remarks do not
suggest a broad or deep intelligence. Yet it has occurred to me that there
may be more wisdom in birds than appears at first sight, a wisdom that
reveals itself only obliquely and intermittently.
Once – it was an evening in Autumn – I came to the Doorway of the
Twelfth South-Eastern Hall intending to pass through the Seventeenth
Vestibule. I found that I was unable to enter it; the Vestibule was full of
birds and the birds were all aflight. They circled and spiralled, creating a
whirling dance. They filled the Vestibule like a column of smoke, which
grew darker and denser in places and the next moment lighter and airier. I
have witnessed this dance on several occasions, always in the evening and
in the later months of the year.
Another time I entered the Ninth Vestibule and found it full of little
birds. They were of different kinds, but mostly sparrows. I had not taken
more than a few steps into the Vestibule when a large group of them took to
the Air. They flew together in one great swoop up to the Eastern Wall, then
in another swoop to the Southern Wall and then they turned and flew
around me in a loose spiral.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I hope that you are well?’
Most of the birds scattered to different perches, but a handful – maybe
as many as ten – flew to the Statue of a Gardener in the North-West Corner.
They remained there for perhaps thirty seconds and then, still together, they
ascended to a higher Statue on the Western Wall: the Woman carrying a
Beehive. The birds remained on the Statue of the Woman carrying a
Beehive for a minute or so and then they flew away.
I wondered why out of the thousand or so Statues in the Vestibule the
little birds had chosen these two to perch on. It occurred to me – it was no
more than an idle thought – that both these Statues might be said to
represent Industriousness. The Gardener is old and bent, and yet he digs
faithfully in his garden. The Woman is pursuing her profession of
beekeeping and the Beehive that she carries is full of bees who are also
patiently carrying out their tasks. Were the birds telling me that I ought to
be industrious too? That seemed unlikely. After all I was already
industrious! I was at that very moment on my way to the Eighth Vestibule
to fish. I carried fishing nets over my shoulder and a lobster trap made from
an old bucket.
The warning of the birds – if that was what it was – seemed on the face
of it nonsensical, but I decided nonetheless to follow this unusual line of
reasoning and see where it took me. That day I caught seven fish and four
lobsters. I threw none of them back.
That night a Wind came from the West, bringing an unexpected Storm.
The Tides were made turbulent and the fish were driven away from their
customary Halls far out to Sea. For the next two days there were no fish at
all and if I had not attended to the birds’ warning I would have had hardly
anything to eat.
This experience led me to form a hypothesis: perhaps the wisdom of
birds resides, not in the individual, but in the flock, the congregation. I have
tried to think of an experiment that would test this theory. The problem, as I
see it, is that it is impossible to know in advance when such events will
occur; and so the only viable course of action is months – more likely years
– of careful observation and meticulous record keeping. Unfortunately, this
is not possible just now since so much of my time is taken up by my work
with the Other (I refer of course to our search for the Great and Secret
Knowledge).
However, it is with this hypothesis in mind that I record something
which happened this morning.
I entered the Second North-Eastern Hall and, as had happened in the
Ninth Vestibule, I found it full of small birds of different sorts. I called a
cheerful Good morning! to them.
Immediately twenty or so flew in a great rush to the Northern Wall and
alighted on the High Statues. Then they flew in a swoop to the Western
Wall.
I recalled that on the previous occasion this behaviour had been the
preface to a message.
‘I am paying attention!’ I called to them. ‘What is it that you wish to
say to me?’
I watched very carefully what they did next.
The birds separated into two groups. One group flew to the Statue of
an Angel blowing a Trumpet; the other group flew to the Statue of a Ship
that travels on little Waves.
‘An angel with a trumpet and a ship,’ I said. ‘Very well.’
The first group flew to a Statue of a Man reading from a large Book;
the second group flew to a Statue of a Woman displaying a large Dish or
Shield; upon the Shield is a representation of Clouds.
‘A book and clouds,’ I said. ‘Yes.’
Finally the first group flew to the Statue of a little Child bowing its
Head to gaze at a Flower, which it holds in its Hand; the Child’s Head is
covered with such exuberant Curls they are themselves like the petals of a
flower; the second group of birds flew to a Statue of a Sack of Grain being
devoured by a Horde of Mice.
‘A child and mice,’ I said. ‘Very good. I see.’
The birds dispersed to different places in the Hall.
‘Thank you!’ I called to them. ‘Thank you!’
Supposing my hypothesis to be correct, this is certainly the most
elaborate communication that the birds have offered me. What is the
meaning?
An angel with a trumpet and a ship. An angel with a trumpet suggests
a message. A joyful message? Perhaps. But an angel might also bring a
stern or solemn message. Therefore the character of the message, whether
good or bad, remains uncertain. The ship suggests travelling long distances.
A message coming from afar.
A book and clouds. A book contains Writing. Clouds hide what is
there. Writing that is somehow obscure.
A child and mice. The child represents the quality of Innocence. The
mice are devouring the grain. Little by little it is diminished. Innocence that
is worn down or eroded.
So this, as far as I can tell, is what the birds told me. A message from
afar. Obscure Writing. Innocence eroded.
Interesting.
I will allow some time to elapse – say a few months – and then I will
examine this communication again to see if the intervening events can shed
any light upon it (and vice versa).
Addy Domarus
ENTRY FOR THE FIFTEENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning in the Second South-Western Hall the Other said, ‘I’m
going to be working on the ritual today so you may not want to stick
around.’
The Ritual is a piece of ceremonial magic by which the Other intends
to free the Great and Secret Knowledge from whatever holds it captive in
the World and to transfer it to ourselves. So far, we have performed it four
times, each time in a slightly different version.
‘I’ve made some changes,’ he continued, ‘and I want to hear how they
sound, in situ as it were.’
‘I will help you,’ I said, eagerly.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just as long as you don’t get too chatty. I need focus.
Clarity.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
Today the Other was wearing a suit of mid-grey with a white shirt and
black shoes. He laid his shining device upon the Empty Plinth. ‘This is a
summoning, and in summonings, the seer ought to face east,’ he said. ‘Which way’s east?’
I pointed.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Where shall I stand?’
‘Wherever you like. It doesn’t matter.’
I took up a position two metres South of the place where he was
standing and decided that I would face North – that is, towards him. I have
no real insight or knowledge concerning rituals, but this seemed to me an
appropriate position for an acolyte, subservient yet connected to the
Interpreter of Mysteries.
‘What shall I do?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. Just keep quiet like I told you.’
‘I will concentrate on lending you the strength of my Spirit,’ I said.
‘Fine. Good. You do that.’ He returned briefly to his shining device to
check something. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘This first part of the ritual is where I’ve
made most changes. Up to now I’ve been simply invoking the knowledge
and asking it to come to me and bestow itself upon me. That doesn’t seem
to have got me anywhere so instead I’m going to summon the spirit of
Addy Domarus.’
‘Who or what is Addy Domarus?’ I asked.
‘A king. Long dead. Someone who possessed the knowledge. Or some
of it at any rate. I’ve had success calling on him for aid in other rituals,
notably for …’ He stopped abruptly and for a brief moment looked
confused. ‘I’ve had success calling on him in the past,’ he finished.
The Other assumed the noble posture of an Interpreter of Mysteries.
He straightened his back, pulled back his shoulders and lifted up his head.
He put me in mind of the Statue of a Hierophant in the Nineteenth Southern
Hall.
Suddenly the significance of what he had said struck me.
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘You have never said before that you knew one of
the names of the Dead! Do you know which one he is? Please tell me if you
do! I would very much like to call him by his name when I take him
offerings of food and drink!’
The Other stopped what he was doing and frowned. ‘What?’ he said.
‘The Dead,’ I went on, eagerly. ‘If you do indeed know one of their
names, then please tell me to which of them it belongs.’
‘Sorry? You’ve lost me. Which of the what was what?’
‘You said that in times gone by one or more of the Dead possessed the
Knowledge. Then they lost it. So I wanted to know which of them it was.
The Biscuit-Box Man? The Concealed Person? Or was it one of the People
of the Alcove?’
The Other gazed at me blankly. ‘Biscuit box … What are you talking
about? Oh, wait. Is this something to do with those bones you found? No.
No-no-no-no-no. Those aren’t … That’s not … Oh, for God’s sake! Didn’t I
just say that I need to focus? Didn’t I just say that? Can we not do this now?
I’m trying to get this ritual sorted.’
Immediately I felt ashamed. I was impeding the Other’s important
work. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
‘I don’t have time to answer irrelevant questions,’ he snapped.
‘Sorry.’
‘If you could just be quiet, that would be wonderful.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
‘Fine. Good. OK. Where was I?’ said the Other. He took a deep breath
and stood very erect again, rearing up his head. He raised his arms and in
sonorous tones he called on Addy Domarus several times and in several
different ways to Come! Come!
In the ensuing silence he gradually let his arms fall to his sides, and
relaxed. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘For the real thing I’ll maybe have a brazier. Some
incense burning. We’ll see. Then after the invocation comes the
enumeration. I name the powers I seek: the vanquishing of Death, the
penetration of lesser minds, invisibility etc., etc. It’s important to visualise
each power and so, as I name them, I imagine myself living forever, reading
someone else’s thoughts, becoming invisible and so on.’
I raised my hand politely. (I did not want to be accused of asking
irrelevant questions again.)
‘Yes?’ he said, sharply.
‘Shall I do that too?’
‘Yes. If you like.’
In the same sonorous voice the Other recited the list of powers that the
Knowledge bestows, and when he intoned, I name the power of flight!, I
pictured Myself transformed into an osprey, flying with the other ospreys
over the Surging Tides. (Of all the powers that the Other talks about, this is
my favourite. To be perfectly honest, I am largely indifferent to the rest.
What use would invisibility be to me? Most days there is no one here to see
me except the birds. Nor do I have any desire to live forever. The House
ordains a certain span for birds and another for men. With this I am
content.)
The Other reached the end of his list. I could see that he was thinking
about the parts of the ritual he had just performed and that he was not
satisfied with them. There was a scowl on his face, and he stared off into
the distance. ‘I feel like I should be addressing all this to some sort of –
some kind of energy, something vital and alive. It is power that I seek and
therefore I should be speaking these words to something that is already
powerful. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘But there isn’t anything powerful. There isn’t even anything alive.
Just endless dreary rooms all the same, full of decaying figures covered
with bird shit.’ He fell into an unhappy silence.
I have known for many years that the Other does not revere the House
in the same way I do, but it still shocks me when he talks like this. How can
a man as intelligent as him say there is nothing alive in the House? The
Lower Halls are full of sea creatures and vegetation, many of them very
beautiful and very strange. The Tides themselves are full of movement and
power so that, while they may not exactly be alive, neither are they notalive. In the Middle Halls are birds and men. The droppings (of which he
complains) are signs of Life! Nor is he correct to say that the Halls are all
the same. They vary a great deal in the style of their Columns, Pilasters,
Niches, Apses, Pediments etc., as well as in the number of their Doors and
Windows. Every Hall has its Statues and all the Statues are unique, or if
there are any repetitions they must occur at vast distances as I have yet to
see one.
There was, however, no point in saying any of this. I knew that it
would only irritate him further.
‘What about a Star?’ I said. ‘If we perform the Ritual at night, you can
address the Invocation to a Star. A Star is a source of power and energy.’
A moment’s silence, then: ‘That’s true,’ he said. He sounded surprised.
‘A star. That’s actually not a bad idea.’ He thought some more. ‘A fixed star
would be better than a wandering one. And it would need to be bright –
appreciably brighter than the surrounding stars. What would be best would
be to find somewhere in the labyrinth, some point or place that’s unique –
and to perform the ritual there, facing the brightest star!’ For a moment he
was full of excitement. Then he sighed and all the energy seemed to drain
out of him again. ‘But that’s not very likely, is it?’ Then he said again that
every Hall was exactly like every other Hall, except that he called them
‘rooms’ and used an epithet meant to denigrate them.
I felt a surge of anger and for a moment I thought I would not tell him
what I knew. But then I thought that it was unkind to punish him for
something he cannot help. It is not his fault that he does not see things the
way I do.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘there is one Hall different from the others.’
‘Oh?’ he said. ‘You never said anything about it. In what way is it
different?’
‘It has only one Doorway and no Windows. I only saw it once. It has a
strange atmosphere that is difficult to describe precisely. It is majestic,
mysterious and at the same time, full of Presence.’
‘You mean like a temple?’ he said.
‘Yes. Like a temple.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ he demanded, his anger
and irritation rising again.
‘Well, it is some distance from here. I thought that you were unlikely
to …’
But he was not interested in my explanation. ‘I need to see this place.
Can you take me? How far is it?’
‘It is the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall and it is 20
kilometres from the First Vestibule,’ I said. ‘It takes 3.76 hours to reach it,
not including rest periods.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
I knew that I could scarcely have said anything more discouraging to
him (though that was not my intention). He has no desire to explore the
World. I do not believe that he has ever travelled more than the length of
four or five Halls from the First Vestibule.
He said, ‘What I need to know is what stars can be seen from the door
of this room. Have you any idea?’
I thought. Had the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall
been oriented along an East/West axis? Or was it a South-East/North-West
axis? I shook my head. ‘I do not know. I cannot remember.’
‘Well, can’t you go back and find out?’ he demanded.
‘Go to the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall?’
‘Yes.’
I hesitated.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.
‘The Path to the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall lies
through the Seventy-Eighth Vestibule, a Region subject to frequent
flooding. Just now it will be dry, but the Tides bring up Debris from the
Lower Halls and scatter it throughout the surrounding Halls. Some of the
Debris has jagged edges, which can cut a person’s feet. It is not good to
have bleeding feet. There is a danger of infection. A person must pick their
way carefully through the Broken Marble. It is possible, but laborious. It
will take time.’
‘OK,’ said the Other. ‘So there’s debris. But I’m still not really
understanding what the problem is. You must have passed through this
place where the debris is before and you didn’t come to any harm then.
What’s changed?’
A blush rose to my face. I fixed my eyes on the Pavement. The Other
was so neat, so elegant in his suit and his shining shoes. I, on the other
hand, was not neat. My clothes were ragged and faded, rotten with the Sea
Water I fished in. I hated drawing his attention to this contrast between us,
but nevertheless he had asked me and so I must answer. I said, ‘What
changed was that I used to have shoes. Now I have none.’
The Other gazed in astonishment at my naked brown feet. ‘When did
this happen?’
‘About a year ago. My shoes fell apart.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I did not want to trouble you. I thought I could make some shoes out
of fish leather. But I have not found the time to do it. I have only myself to
blame.’
‘Honestly, Piranesi,’ said the Other. ‘What an idiot you are! If that’s all
that’s preventing you going to the … the … whatever you call this room …’
‘The One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall,’ I interjected.
‘Yes. Whatever. If that’s all it is, I’ll get you the shoes tomorrow.’
‘Oh! That would be …’ I began, but the Other put up his hand.
‘No need to thank me. Just get me the information I need. That’s all I
ask.’
‘Oh, I will!’ I promised. ‘Once I have shoes there will be no problem. I
will reach the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall in three-anda-half hours. Four at the most.’
Shoes
ENTRY FOR THE SIXTEENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
On the way to the Third South-Western Hall this morning I passed
through the Second South-Western Hall. On top of the Empty Plinth where
the Other leans was a small cardboard box. It was a deep grey colour. On
the lid was a picture of an octopus in a paler shade of grey and some orange
writing. The writing said: AQUARIUM.
I opened it. At first sight it appeared to contain nothing except thin
white paper, but when I lifted the paper I found a pair of shoes. They were
made of canvas of a blue-green colour that reminded me of the Tides of the
Southern Halls. The rubber soles were thick and white and they had white
laces. I removed them from the box and put them on. They fitted perfectly. I
tried walking about in them. My feet felt beautifully cushioned and
bouncible.
All day long I have been running and dancing for the sheer pleasure of
feeling my feet in their new shoes.
‘Look!’ I said to the crows in the First Northern Hall when they flew
down from the High Statues to see what I was doing, ‘I have new shoes!’
But the crows only cawed and flew back to their perches.
A list of things the Other has given me
ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
- a sleeping bag
- a pillow
- 2 blankets
- 2 fishing nets made of a synthetic polymer
- 4 large sheets of heavy-gauge plastic
- a torch. I have never used this and cannot now remember where I put it.
- 6 boxes of matches
- 2 bottles of multivitamins
- a cheese and ham sandwich
- 6 plastic bowls. I use them to catch Fresh Water as it flows through Cracks in the Ceilings and down the Faces of the Statues. One of the bowls is blue, two are red and three are cloud coloured. The cloud-coloured ones are troublesome. They are almost exactly the same whitey-grey colour as the Statues. Whenever I put them somewhere to catch Water they immediately fade into their surroundings and I lose sight of them. One disappeared last year and I have yet to find it.
- 4 pairs of socks. For two Winters my feet have been warm and cosy, but now the socks are all in holes. Unfortunately, it has not occurred to the Other to give me new ones.
- a fishing rod and line
- an orange
- a slice of Christmas cake
- 8 bottles of multivitamins
- 4 boxes of matches
- a new battery for my watch
- 10 new notebooks
- various assorted items of stationery, including 12 large sheets of paper to make Star Maps, envelopes, pencils, a ruler and some rubbers
- 47 pens
- more multivitamins and matches
- 3 more plastic bowls. These are the best ones, being brightly coloured and therefore easy to see. One is orange and two are different shades of green.
- 4 boxes of matches
- 3 bottles of vitamins
- a pair of new shoes!
None of the Dead claim the name Addy Domarus
ENTRY FOR THE EIGHTEENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
It has been some weeks since I visited the Dead and so today I did so.
It is no small undertaking to visit them all in the space of one day since they
lie several kilometres distant from each other. I brought each one an
offering of water and food, and water lilies that I had gathered in the
Drowned Halls.
At each of the Niches and Plinths I whispered the name Addy
Domarus. I hoped that one of them – the one to whom the name belongs –
would somehow communicate his acceptance of it. But that did not happen.
Rather, as I knelt at each Niche or Plinth, I felt a faint sense of repudiation,
as if the name were being pushed away.
A journey
ENTRY FOR THE NINETEENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I spent today working at my usual tasks: fishing, gathering seaweed,
working on my Catalogue of Statues. In the late afternoon I gathered some
supplies and set out to walk to the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second
Western Hall.
On the way the House showed me many wonders.
In the Forty-Fifth Vestibule I saw a Staircase that had become one vast
bed of mussels. One of the Statues that lined the Wall of the Staircase was
all but engulfed in a blue-black carapace of mussels with only half a staring
Face and one white, out-flung Arm left free. I made a sketch of it in my
Journal.
In the Fifty-Second Western Hall I came upon a Wall ablaze with so
much golden Light that the Statues appeared to be dissolving into it. From
there I passed into a little Antechamber with few Windows, where it was
cool and shadowy. I saw the Statue of a Woman holding out a wide, flat
Dish so that a Bear Cub could drink from it.
As I approached the Seventy-Eighth Vestibule, the Pavements were
strewn with Rubble. At first, I saw only a scattering here and there, but by
the time I drew close to the Vestibule I was walking over an uneven and
treacherous Floor of Jagged Stones. In the Vestibule itself a thin sheet of
Water still ran beneath the Rubble. Broken Statues were heaped in the
Corners
I walked on. In the Eighty-Eighth Western Hall the Pavement was free
from Debris, but I found another problem. A colony of herring gulls had
built their nests in this Hall and my intrusion among them was met with
fury. They squawked indignantly and flew at me, beating their wings and
attempting to peck at me with their beaks. I waved my arms and shouted to
ward them off.
I reached the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall. I stood
at the Single Door and peered inside. The surrounding Halls were full of a
soft blue Twilight but this particular Hall – which, as I have already said,
has no Windows – was dark, its Statues invisible. A faint draught – like a
cold breath – emanated from it.
I am not accustomed to Absolute Darkness. There are very few Dark
Places in the House; perhaps here and there you will find the Shadowy
Corner of an Antechamber or an Angle of the Derelict Halls where the
Light is blocked by Debris; but generally, the House is not dark. Even at
night the Stars blaze down through the Windows.
I had imagined that all I would need to do to answer the Other’s
question – What Stars can be seen from the door of the Hall? – was to
ascertain the exact orientation of the Hall and then consult my Star Maps.
But now that I was actually at the Door, I realised that this plan was wildly
optimistic. The Door was approximately four metres wide and eleven
metres high, which is huge for a Door but minuscule when compared to the
vastness of the Sky. I would not be able to tell which Stars would be framed
in the Doorway unless I spent the night in the Hall and saw for Myself.
I did not find this prospect appealing.
I remembered how I climbed a Staircase to the Upper Hall above the
Nineteenth Eastern Hall and found it filled with Cloud. I remembered how
that Hall was full of gigantic Figures in the throes of violent action, how
every Face was distorted by screams of rage or anguish.
Suppose (I thought) this happened again? Suppose I went into the
Darkness of the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall and I lay
down to sleep, only to wake and find Myself surrounded by horrors?
I became angry at Myself, disgusted at my own timidity. This was no
way to think! Had I walked for four hours to reach this Hall only to be too
afraid to go in? How ridiculous! I told Myself that the fear I had
experienced in that Upper Hall was highly unlikely to be repeated anywhere
else. I had, after all, entered the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western
Hall before. If the Statues had been particularly violent or frightening, I
would surely have remembered. Besides, I had an obligation to the Other.
He needed to know what Stars were visible from the Door.
But still the Darkness unnerved me. I put off entering it for a while. I
sat down outside and ate and drank and wrote this entry in my Journal.
The One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTIETH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Having completed the previous entry in my Journal I entered the OneHundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall. Dark and Cold enveloped me. A
little way in (I estimate about twenty metres) I turned to face the Single
Door that aligned perfectly with a Window in the Corridor outside. I sat
down and wrapped Myself in my blanket.
At first I was acutely conscious of the Darkness at my back and the
stares of the Unknown Statues. It was very quiet. The Hall where I usually
sleep – the Third Northern Hall – is full of birds and at night I hear the little
sounds as they shift and flutter on their perches; but as far as I could tell
there were no birds in the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall.
They apparently found it as unsettling as I did.
I made Myself focus on the one thing familiar to me: the sound of the
Sea in the Lower Halls, the Water lapping the Walls in a thousand, thousand
Chambers. It is a sound that accompanies me all my days. I fall asleep to it
every night, just as a child might fall asleep, safe on its mother’s breast,
listening to her heartbeat. And indeed, this is what must have happened
now, because the next thing I knew was that I was waking suddenly out of
sleep.
A Full Moon stood in the centre of the Single Doorway, flooding the
Hall with Light. The Statues on the Walls were all posed as if they had just
turned to face the Doorway, their marble Eyes fixed on the Moon. They
were different from the Statues in other Halls; they were not isolated
individuals, but the representation of a Crowd. Here were two with their
Arms about each other; here one had his Hand on the Shoulder of one in
front, the better to pull himself forward to see the Moon; here a Child held
on to its Father’s Hand. There was even a Dog that – having no interest in
the Moon – stood on its Hind Legs, its Front Paws on its Master’s Chest,
pleading for attention. The Rear Wall was a mass of Statues – not neatly
arranged in Tiers, but a jumbled, chaotic Crowd. Foremost among them was
a Young Man, who stood bathed in the Moonlight, elation in his Face, a
Banner in his Hand.
I almost forgot to breathe. For a moment I had an inkling of what it
might be like if instead of two people in the World there were thousands.
The Eighty-Eighth Western Hall
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE TWENTIETH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
The Full Moon declined westwards, the Light in the Hall diminished
and the Constellations grew brighter in the Window opposite the Doorway.
I made notes of what Constellations and Stars I saw. At Dawn I slept for a
few hours and then I began the journey home.
As I walked, I was thinking about the Great and Secret Knowledge,
which the Other says will grant us strange new powers. And I realised
something. I realised that I no longer believed in it. Or perhaps that is not
quite accurate. I thought it was possible that the Knowledge existed.
Equally I thought that it was possible it did not. Either way it no longer
mattered to me. I did not intend to waste my time looking for it any more.
This realisation – the realisation of the Insignificance of the
Knowledge – came to me in the form of a Revelation. What I mean by this
is that I knew it to be true before I understood why or what steps had led me
there. When I tried to retrace those steps my mind kept returning to the
image of the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall in the
Moonlight, to its Beauty, to its deep sense of Calm, to the reverent looks on
the Faces of the Statues as they turned (or seemed to turn) towards the
Moon. I realised that the search for the Knowledge has encouraged us to
think of the House as if it were a sort of riddle to be unravelled, a text to be
interpreted, and that if ever we discover the Knowledge, then it will be as if
the Value has been wrested from the House and all that remains will be
mere scenery.
The sight of the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall in the
Moonlight made me see how ridiculous that is. The House is valuable
because it is the House. It is enough in and of Itself. It is not the means to
an end.
This thought led on to another. I realised that the Other’s description of
the powers that the Knowledge will grant has always made me uneasy. For
example: he says that we will have the power to control lesser minds. Well,
to begin with there are no lesser minds; there are only him and me and we
both have keen and lively intellects. But, supposing for a moment that a
lesser mind existed, why would I want to control it?
Abandoning the search for the Knowledge would free us to pursue a
new sort of science. We could follow any path that the data suggested to us.
The thought of all this made me excited and happy. I was eager to return to
the Other and explain it to him.
I was walking through the Halls, thinking of these things, when I heard
the raucous cries of birds and I remembered that the Eighty-Eighth Western
Hall was full of herring gulls. I wondered whether or not to take a different
Path, but, estimating that any diversion would add seven or eight Halls (1.7
kilometres) to my journey, I decided against it.
I had got halfway across the Hall when I noticed a scattering of white
shapes lying on the Pavement. I picked them up. They were pieces of torn
paper with writing on them. They were crumpled and so I smoothed them
out and tried putting them together. Two – no, three – of the scraps fitted
perfectly, forming part of a small sheet of paper with one jagged side. It
appeared to be a page torn from a notebook.
I could see that, even when reconstructed, the page would be difficult
to decipher. The writing was atrocious – like a tangle of seaweed. After
some minutes of peering at it I thought I could make out the word
‘minotaur’. A line or two above I thought I saw the word ‘slave’ and a line
or two below the phrase ‘kill him’. The rest was completely impenetrable.
But the reference to a ‘minotaur’ intrigued me. The First Vestibule contains
eight massive Statues of Minotaurs, each one different from the others.
Perhaps the person who had written this had visited my own Halls?
I wondered whose writing it could be. Not the Other’s. Aside from the
fact that I was sure he had never ventured as far as the Eighty-Eighth
Western Hall, I knew his writing to be neat and precise. One of the Dead
then. The Fish-Leather Man? The Biscuit-Box Man? The Concealed
Person? Potentially this was a discovery of great historical importance.
Now that I knew what I was looking for I could see more white shapes
lying on the Pavement. I set about gathering them up. Beginning in the
South-Western Corner I worked my way systematically over the Pavement
of the entire Hall, covering every part of it. At first the herring gulls made
raucous objection to my doing this, but when they saw that I did not come
near their eggs or young, they lost interest. I found forty-seven pieces of
paper, but when I knelt and tried to fit them all together it became clear that
many more were still missing.
I looked around. Herring gull nests were perched on the Shoulders of
Statues and crammed onto Plinths; there was one tucked between the Legs
of the Statue of an Elephant and another balanced in the Crown of an
Elderly King. Peeking out of the nest in the Crown I could see two white
fragments. Cautiously I approached and climbed up a neighbouring Statue
to examine it. Immediately two gulls attacked me, screaming their
indignation and dashing at me with wings and beaks. But I was equally
determined. With one arm I hauled Myself up the Statue and with the other
I beat back the birds.
The nest was a ramshackle, untidy thing built of dry seaweed and
fishbones; woven into its structure were five or six scraps of paper with
writing on them. I dismounted and retreated to the middle of the Hall away
from the Walls, the nests and the attacking gulls.
I considered what I ought to do. There was no possibility of retrieving
the missing pieces now. The herring gulls would never permit me to
dismantle their nests – nor did I want to. No, I must wait until late summer
– or, even better, early autumn – when the gulls had abandoned the nests
and the young were grown. Then I could come back and get all the missing
pieces.
I placed the forty-seven pieces carefully in my pack and continued my
journey home.
The Other explains that he has said all this before
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning I took my Star Maps to the Second South-Western Hall.
I found the Other leaning back against the Empty Plinth, his ankles
crossed and his elbows resting on the Plinth. He looked relaxed. He wore an
immaculate suit of a dark navy colour and a brilliant white shirt. He gave
me a friendly smile. ‘How’re the shoes?’ he asked.
‘Excellent!’ I said. ‘Brilliant! Thank you! But what I value even more
than the shoes themselves is the proof they give of our friendship! I
consider the possession of such a friend as you to be one of the greatest
happinesses of my Life!’
‘I do my best,’ said the Other. ‘So tell me. How have you been getting
on? Now that you’ve got the shoes.’
‘I have already visited the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western
Hall!’
‘OK. And did you see what stars there were? Did you make notes?’
‘I did make notes,’ I said. ‘But I have not brought them with me since I
remember everything I have to tell you.’
Then I told him what I had seen in the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall. ‘The Statues are its most remarkable feature. I mean
other than the Single Door and the No-Windows. The Moonlight picked out
one Statue in particular – the image of a Young Man. He seemed to me to
represent the Virtues of—’
‘Don’t bother with all that. You know I’m not interested in statues. Tell
me about the stars,’ said the Other. ‘What could you see?’
‘I will show you.’ I opened one of my Star Maps and placed it on the
top of the Empty Plinth. He came and stood by me. ‘I saw the Rose, the
Good Mother and the Lamp-post. Towards morning these were followed by
the Shoemaker and the Iron Snake.’ (These were some of the names I had
given the Constellations.)
The Other examined the Map carefully. Then he picked up his shining
device and made some notes.
‘Are any of these stars particularly bright?’ he asked.
‘Yes. This Star here. It forms part of the Good Mother. It is the tip of
her extended arm, so to speak. It is one of the brightest Stars in the Sky.’
‘Perfect,’ said the Other. ‘The brightest star to symbolise the greatest
knowledge. Well, while you’ve been doing all that I’ve come to a decision.
I’ve decided that I will go to this room and perform the ritual there.
Obviously it’s much further into the labyrinth than I’ve ever been before, so
there are risks …’ He paused for a moment and looked very determined, as
if steeling himself to something. ‘ … but balancing the risks against the
rewards – well, the rewards are potentially immense. This information
you’ve brought me is invaluable and what I need you to do now is to go
back there and establish what constellations can be seen at different times of
year.’
Now was the time for me to explain my Revelation concerning the
Great and Secret Knowledge.
‘As to that,’ I said, ‘I too have something to say. Something has been
revealed to me that I must now share with you, something that has
farreaching implications for all our future research. We must cease our
search for the Knowledge! When we began, we believed that it was a
worthy endeavour, deserving all our attention, but it turns out that it is not.
We should abandon it straightaway and, in its place, establish a new
programme of scientific research!’
The Other was not paying attention. He was making notes on his
shining device. ‘Mmm? What?’ he said.
‘I am speaking of our search for the Knowledge,’ I said, ‘and of how
the House has revealed to me that we should abandon it.’
The Other stopped tapping. He took a moment to process what I had
just said. Then he put the device down on the Empty Plinth, covered his
face with his hands, made a sort of groaning noise and massaged his eyes.
‘Oh, God! Not this again,’ he said.
He uncovered his eyes. He turned away and stared off into the
distance. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he said (though I had not uttered another
word). ‘I need to think.’
There was a long silence at the end of which he seemed to come to a
decision. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
We sat down together on the Pavement of the Hall. I sat cross-legged
and he sat with his knees bent, his back against the Empty Plinth.
There was a sort of glowering darkness in his face. He seemed to be
finding it difficult to look at me. By these signs I knew that he was angry
but struggling not to show it.
He coughed. ‘OK,’ he said in a controlled voice. ‘There are three
reasons – three – why you shouldn’t stop looking for the knowledge. I’m
going to go through all of them now and at the end, I think you’ll see I’m
right. I just need you to listen to me. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Tell me the three reasons.’
‘OK, the first reason is this. It may seem to you that what I’m doing is
rather selfish – trying to get the knowledge for myself. But the reality is
quite different. This search that you and I are embarked on, it’s a truly great
project. Momentous. One of the most important in humanity’s history. The
knowledge we seek isn’t something new. It’s old. Really old. Once upon a
time people possessed it and they used it to do great things, miraculous
things. They should have held on to it. They should have respected it. But
they didn’t. They abandoned it for the sake of something they called
progress. And it’s up to us to get it back. We’re not doing this for ourselves;
we’re doing it for humanity. To get back something humanity has foolishly
lost.’
‘I see,’ I said. (This did indeed put things in a slightly different light.)
‘And personally,’ continued the Other, ‘I think that this search is so
important, so absolutely vital that I have to keep going. No matter what. I
don’t have any choice. If your decision is to stop looking – well, in that case
I suppose we’d no longer be colleagues. Our meetings on Tuesdays and
Fridays – we’d no longer have them. Because what would be the point? I’d
be pursuing my researches and you’d be off’ – he gestured vaguely –‘doing
whatever it is that you do. This isn’t what I want of course, let me be very
clear about that, but it is the way things would have to be. So that’s the
second reason.’
‘Oh!’ I said. It had never occurred to me that he and I would cease to
be colleagues. ‘But working with you is one of the great pleasures of my
life!’
‘I know,’ said the Other. ‘And of course, I feel the same way.’ He
paused. ‘Now I need to tell you the third reason. But before I do that, I need
you to hear something else.’ He gazed intently and searchingly into my
face. ‘This is the most vital thing I have to say. Piranesi, this isn’t the first
time you’ve told me that you want to stop the search for the knowledge.
This isn’t the first time I’ve explained why that’s not the right course of
action. Everything we’ve just said? We’ve said it all before.’
‘I … What?’ I said. I blinked at him in astonishment. ‘What? … No.
No. That is not correct.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. You see, the labyrinth plays tricks on the mind. It
makes people forget things. If you’re not careful it can unpick your entire
personality.’
I sat dumbfounded. ‘How many times have we said it?’ I said at last.
He thought for a moment. ‘This is the third time. There’s a pattern.
The idea of stopping the search for the knowledge seems to occur to you
roughly once every eighteen months.’ He glanced at my face. ‘I know. I
know,’ he said, sympathetically. ‘It’s hard to take in.’
‘But I do not understand,’ I protested. ‘I have an excellent memory. I
remember every Hall I have ever visited. There are seven thousand, six
hundred and seventy-eight of them.’
‘You never forget anything about the labyrinth. That is why your
contribution to my work is so valuable. But you do forget other things. And,
of course, you lose time.’
‘What?’ I said, startled.
‘Time. You’re always losing it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. You get days and dates wrong.’
‘I do not,’ I said, indignant.
‘Yes, you do. It’s a bit of a pain, to be honest. My schedule’s always so
packed. I come to meet you and you’re nowhere to be seen because you’ve
lost a day again. I’ve had to put you right numerous times when your
perception of time has got out of sync.’
‘Out of sync with what?’
‘With me. With everyone else.’
I was astonished. I did not believe him. But neither did I disbelieve
him. I did not know what to think. But in all my uncertainty one thing was
clear, one thing remained that I could absolutely rely on: the Other was
honest, noble and industrious. He would not lie. ‘But why do you not
forget?’ I asked.
The Other hesitated for a moment. ‘I take precautions,’ he said
carefully.
‘Could I not take them too?’
‘No. No. That wouldn’t work. Sorry. I can’t go into the whys and
wherefores. It’s complicated. I’ll explain it to you one day.’
This was not very satisfactory but just then I did not have the energy or
mental capacity to pursue it. I was too busy thinking about what I might
have forgotten.
‘From my point of view this is very worrying,’ I said. ‘Suppose I
forget something important, like the Times and Patterns of the Tides? I
might drown.’
‘No, no, no,’ said the Other, soothingly. ‘There’s no need to worry
about that. You never forget anything like that. I wouldn’t let you go
wandering about if I thought you were in the slightest danger. We’ve known
each other for years now and in that time your knowledge of the labyrinth
has grown exponentially. It’s extraordinary, really. And as for the rest,
anything important you forget, I can remind you. But the fact that you
forget while I remember – that’s why it’s so vital that I set our objectives.
Me. Not you. That’s the third reason we should stick to our search for the
knowledge. Do you see?’
‘Yes. Yes. At least …’ I was silent a moment. ‘I need time to think,’ I
said.
‘Of course. Of course,’ said the Other. He patted me consolingly on the
shoulder. ‘We’ll discuss it again on Tuesday.’
He rose to his feet and went over to the Empty Plinth and examined
the little shining device lying there. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘I need to get
going. I’ve been here almost fifty-five minutes.’ Without another word he
turned and set off in the direction of the First Vestibule.
The World does not bear out the Other’s claim that there are gaps in my memory
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-THIRD DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
The World (so far as I can tell) does not bear out the Other’s claim that
there are gaps in my memory.
While he was explaining it to me – and for some time afterwards – I
did not know what to think. At several points I experienced a feeling akin to
panic. Could it really be the case that I had forgotten whole conversations?
But as the day went on, I could find no evidence of memory loss to
support the Other’s claim. I busied Myself with my ordinary, everyday
tasks. I mended one of my fishing nets and worked on my Catalogue of
Statues. In the early evening I went to the Eighth Vestibule to fish in the
Waters of the Lower Staircase. The Beams of the Declining Sun shone
through the Windows of the Lower Halls, striking the Surface of the Waves
and making ripples of golden Light flow across the Ceiling of the Staircase
and over the Faces of the Statues. When night fell, I listened to the Songs
that the Moon and Stars were singing and I sang with them.
The World feels Complete and Whole, and I, its Child, fit into it
seamlessly. Nowhere is there any disjuncture where I ought to remember
something but do not, where I ought to understand something but do not.
The only part of my existence in which I experience any sense of
fragmentation is in that last strange conversation with the Other. And so I
have to ask Myself: whose memory is at fault? Mine or his? Might he in
fact be remembering conversations that never happened?
Two memories. Two bright minds which remember past events
differently. It is an awkward situation. There exists no third person to say
which of us is correct. (If only the Sixteenth Person were here!)
As for the Other’s claim that I lose time and muddle days, I do not see
how this can possibly be true. I invented the calendar I use, so how could it
get ‘out of sync’ as he put it? There is nothing for it to get out of sync with.
I wonder now if this is why he asked me that strange question three
and a half weeks ago? I mean the question with a strange word in it.
Turning back the pages of my Journal I see that the strange word was
‘Batter-Sea’.
And then, in an instant, the solution presents itself! All I have to do is
read through my Journals and discover if there are any discrepancies, any
events recorded there that I no longer recall. Yes! This will certainly decide
the matter. In fact, the only drawback with this idea is that it will take a
substantial amount of time – my writings being lengthy – which I cannot
just now spare from other projects.
I am resolved to read through my Journals at some point in the coming
months and in the meantime shall proceed on the assumption that it is the
Other’s memory, and not mine, which is incorrect.
I write a letter
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FOURTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
The following is a transcript of the letter that I inscribed in chalk on
the Pavement of the Second South-Western Hall.
DEAR OTHER
ALTHOUGH I CANNOT ANY LONGER REGARD THE
SEARCH FOR THE GREAT AND SECRET KNOWLEDGE AS A
LEGITIMATE SCIENTIFIC ENDEAVOUR, I HAVE DETERMINED
THAT THE CORRECT COURSE OF ACTION IS TO CONTINUE
TO HELP YOU AND GATHER ANY DATA YOU REQUIRE. IT IS
NOT RIGHT THAT YOUR SCIENTIFIC WORK SHOULD SUFFER
SIMPLY BECAUSE I HAVE LOST CONFIDENCE IN THE
HYPOTHESIS. I HOPE THAT THIS IS ACCEPTABLE TO YOU.
YOUR FRIEND
The Other warns me about 16
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SIXTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning I went to the Second South-Western Hall to meet the
Other. I confess that I was a little anxious about how the meeting would go.
Sometimes when I am anxious, I talk a lot, and so I immediately launched
on a long speech, elaborating quite unnecessarily on the letter I had chalked
on the Pavement.
It did not matter. Halfway through I realised that the Other was not
listening. His head was bent in thought and he was absent-mindedly turning
over some small metallic objects in the pocket of his jacket. Today he wore
a suit of a dark charcoal colour and a black shirt.
‘You haven’t seen anyone else in the labyrinth, have you?’ he said
suddenly.
‘Someone else?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Someone new?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said.
He studied my face intently as though for some reason he doubted the
truth of what I had just said. Then he relaxed and said, ‘No. No. How could
you? There’s only us.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘There is only us.’
A short silence.
‘Unless,’ I added, ‘there are other people in other Parts of the House.
In Far Distant Places that you and I have not seen. I have often wondered
about that. As a hypothesis it is impossible to prove one way or the other –
unless one day I come across signs of human activity, signs that cannot
reasonably be attributed to our own Dead.’
‘Mmmmm,’ he said. He was deep in thought again.
Another silence.
It occurred to me that I might already have come across such signs.
The fragments of paper with writing on them that I had found in the EightyEighth Western Hall! They might belong to our own Dead or they might
belong to Someone as yet unknown to us. I was about to tell the Other all
about it when he began speaking again.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I want you to promise me something.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘If you ever see someone in the labyrinth – someone you don’t know –
I want you to promise me that you won’t try to speak to them. Instead you
must hide. Keep out of their way. Don’t let them see you.’
‘Oh, but think what an opportunity will be lost if I do that!’ I said.
‘The Sixteenth Person will almost certainly possess knowledge that we do
not. He will be able to tell us about the Distant Regions of the World.’
The Other looked blank. ‘What? What are you talking about? The
sixteenth person?’
I explained about the Thirteen Dead and the Two Living, and how
someone new would be the Sixteenth Person. (I have explained this many
times. The Other can never seem to keep this important information in his
head.)
‘I agree that “the Sixteenth Person” is rather a cumbersome
designation,’ I said. ‘We could, if you prefer, call him “16” for short. My
point is that 16 has information about the World that we do not and
therefore …’
‘No-no-no-no-no,’ said the Other. ‘You don’t understand. It’s really
important that we keep as far away from this person as we can.’ He paused
and then said, ‘You see, Piranesi, I’ve met this person. This person you call
“16”.’
‘What? No!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then there really is a Sixteenth Person in
the World? Why did you never tell me this before? This is wonderful! This
is a cause for celebration!’
‘No.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘No, Piranesi. I know that this
means a great deal to you and I’m sorry to have to break it to you. But this
is not a cause for celebration. It’s entirely the reverse. This person – 16 –
means me harm. 16 is my enemy. And so, by extension, yours too.’
‘Oh!’ I said and fell silent.
What terrible news. Of course I understand the concept of enmity:
there are many Statues in which one Figure struggles with Another. But I
had never experienced it at first hand before. A random thought came to me
– the phrase kill him on one of the scraps of paper from the Eighty-Eighth
Western Hall. The person who had written that had had an enemy.
‘Is there any possibility that you are mistaken?’ I said. ‘Perhaps it is all
a misunderstanding. When 16 arrives, I can talk to him and explain that you
are a Good Person with many Admirable Qualities. I can demonstrate to
him that the attitude of hostility he holds towards you has no reasonable
foundation.’
The Other smiled. ‘How like you, Piranesi, to try and find the good in
the situation. Unfortunately in this case it can’t be done. This is why I didn’t
want to tell you about 16. You imagine that 16 can be reasoned with. But
unfortunately, that’s not the case. 16 is opposed to everything we are,
everything you and I think is valuable and precious. And that includes
reason. Reason is one of the things that 16 wants to tear down.’
‘How dreadful!’ I said.
‘Yes.’
We lapsed into silence again. There seemed nothing more to say. I was
shocked by his description of 16’s wickedness. To be opposed to Reason
itself!
After a moment the Other continued. ‘But I’m probably stressing us
both out for no reason. There’s really only a very small likelihood of 16
coming here.’
‘Why is the likelihood small?’ I asked.
‘16 doesn’t know the way,’ said the Other. He smiled at me. ‘Try not to
let it worry you.’
‘I will try,’ I said. A new thought struck me. ‘When did you meet 16?’
‘Mmm? Oh, the day before yesterday.’
‘You have visited the Far-off Places where 16 lives? You never said so
before. Tell me about them!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said you met 16. But you also said 16 does not know the way
here. Meaning that you must have met him in his own Halls or, at any rate,
in some Remote Region. This surprises me because I do not believe that
you have undertaken any long journeys since I have known you.’
I smiled at the Other, awaiting his answer, which I fully expected
would be very interesting.
He looked blank. Blank and slightly horrified.
A long silence.
‘Actually …’ he began, then seemed to change his mind about what he
was going to say. ‘Actually, it’s not important where we met. And I don’t
have time to go into all that now. I’m needed … I mean I can’t stay today. I
just wanted to warn you. You know, about 16.’ Then he nodded briskly at
me, picked up his shining devices and walked away towards the First
Vestibule.
‘Goodbye!’ I called to his retreating back. ‘Goodbye!’
I update my information about 16
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SEVENTH DAY OF THE SIXTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I am very interested in the fact that the Other has met 16 and it is a
great pity that he is so disinclined to say anything about it. I would like to
know much more about the circumstances and location. But I suppose that
the Other does not wish to dwell on a meeting with a wicked person.
The entry which I made in my Journal six weeks ago (See A list of all
the people who have ever lived and what is known of them) is now outdated,
so this morning I appended a note there directing the reader to this page.
The Sixteenth Person
The Sixteenth Person resides in a Far-off Region of the House,
possibly in the North or South. I have never seen him, but the Other reports
that he is a malevolent person, hostile to Reason, Science and Happiness.
The Other believes that 16 may attempt to come here in order to disrupt our
Peaceful Existence and he has warned me that if I should ever see 16 in
these Halls, I should hide Myself.
The First Vestibule
ENTRY FOR THE FIRST DAY OF THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Today I decided to visit the First Vestibule. It is, oddly enough, a place
I hardly ever go. I say ‘oddly’ because when I set up my System of
Numbering the Halls several years ago I chose this Vestibule as the starting
point, the place from which everything else is reckoned. Knowing Myself
as I do, I do not think I would have chosen it had I not felt some sort of
strong connection with it; yet I no longer remember what that connection
was. (Is the Other right? Am I forgetting things? It is an unpleasant thought
and I push it away.)
The First Vestibule is an impressive place, larger than the majority of
Vestibules and more gloomy. It is dominated by eight massive Statues of
Minotaurs, each one approximately nine metres high. They loom over the
Pavement, darkening the Vestibule with their Bulk, their Massive Horns
jutting into the Empty Air, their Animal Expressions solemn, inscrutable.
The temperature of the First Vestibule is different from that of the
surrounding Halls. It is several degrees colder and there is a draught that
blows from somewhere, bringing with it a smell of rain, metal and petrol. I
have noticed this many times before, but somehow I always seem to forget
about it immediately afterwards. Today I concentrated my attention on the
scent. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but extremely interesting. I
followed its path. I passed along the Southern Wall of the Vestibule until I
came to the two Minotaurs that flank the South-Eastern Corner. Here I
noticed something. The Shadows between the two Statues were producing a
sort of optical illusion. I could almost imagine that they extended
backwards a long way and that I was in fact gazing into a corridor leading
to a distant point where there was a patch of misty light. This patch of light
contained other lights that seemed to flicker and move. It was from there
that both the draught and the scent seemed to emanate. I could hear faint
sounds – a sort of vibration and a dashing noise, like the Waves but less
regular.
Suddenly I heard footsteps, followed by a voice, loud and indignant: ‘
… not what I was hired to do and I said to him, “You have to be joking. You
have to be fucking joking, mate.”’
Another, glummer voice said: ‘People have no shame. I mean what
goes through their heads when …’ The footsteps died away.
I leapt back from the South-Eastern Corner as if I had been stung.
What had just happened? Cautiously, I approached the Statues again
and peered between them. The Shadows now looked unremarkable. I could
sort of see how they might suggest the shape of a corridor, but that was all.
The cold draught played around my ankles and I could still smell rain,
metal and petrol, but the lights and the noises had vanished.
As I stood thinking of these things, four old crisp packets blew along
the Pavement, one after the other. I made a sound of exasperation; this was
a problem I thought I had dealt with. At one time I was forever finding crisp
packets scattered about the First Vestibule. I also found old fish finger
packets and sausage-roll wrappings. I gathered them up and burnt them so
that they did not mar the Beauty of the House. (I do not know who it was
that ate all the crisps and the fish fingers and the sausage rolls, but I cannot
help wishing that he or she had been more tidy!) I also found a sleeping bag
under the marble Sweep of the Staircase. It was very dirty and evil-smelling, but I washed it thoroughly and it has served me well.
I ran after the four crisp packets and picked them up. The fourth crisp
packet was not a crisp packet at all. It was a crumpled-up piece of paper. I
smoothed it out. On it was written the following:
All I am asking you to do is to give me directions to the statue you
were telling me about – the one of an elderly fox teaching some young
squirrels and other creatures. I would like to see it for myself. This task
is not difficult and should be well within your capabilities. Write the
directions in the space below. I have left a biro next to your lunch.
Eat it while it is hot – the lunch, not the biro.
Laurence
P.S. Please try to remember to take your multivitamin.
Underneath the message there was a large blank space for the recipient
to write in but as it was still blank, I deduced that he or she had not given
the writer the information they requested.
I would have liked to have kept the paper. It was evidence of two of
the People who have lived: firstly, a person called Laurence and secondly, a
person to whom Laurence had written and whose lunch and multivitamin he
had provided. But who were they? I considered and immediately discounted
the possibility that either of them was 16. The Other had said that 16 did not
know the way here and clearly both Laurence and his friend had been
familiar with these Halls at one time. They might well belong to my own
Dead. But there was another possibility: that they were inhabitants of the
Far-Distant Halls. If Laurence was still alive and waiting for the
information about the Statue, then it would be wrong to take the paper.
I got out my own pen and wrote the following in the empty space.
Dear Laurence
The Statue of the Dog-Fox teaching two Squirrels and two Satyrs
is in the Fourth Western Hall. From this Place go through the Western
Door. In the next Hall go through the Third Door on the right. You will
be in the First North-Western Hall. Follow the Southern (left-hand)
Wall and again take the Third Door you come to. You will find yourself
in a Corridor at the end of which is the Fourth Western Hall. The
Statue is in the North-Western Corner. It is one of my favourites too!
1. If you are alive then my hope is that you will find this letter and
that the information I have given will be useful to you. Perhaps one
day we will meet. You may find me in any of the Halls North, West
and South of here. The Halls to the East are derelict.
2. If you are one of my own Dead (and if your Spirit passes
through this Vestibule and reads this paper) then I hope you already
know that I visit your Niche or Plinth regularly to talk with you and
bring you offerings of food and drink.
3. If you are dead – but not one of my own Dead – then please
know that I travel far and wide in the World. If ever I find your remains
I will bring you offerings of food and drink. If it seems to me that no
one living is caring for you then I will gather up your bones and bring
them to my own Halls. I will put you in good order and lay you with
my own Dead. Then you will not be alone.
May the House in its Beauty shelter us both.
Your Friend
I placed the paper at the foot of one of the Minotaurs – the one nearest
to the South-Eastern Corner of the Vestibule – and I weighted it down with
a small pebble.
PART 3
THE PROPHET
The Prophet
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTIETH DAY OF THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
From the Windows of the First North-Eastern Hall great shafts of
Light descended. Within one of the shafts a man was standing with his back
to me. He was perfectly still. He was gazing up at the Wall of Statues.
It was not the Other. He was thinner, and not quite so tall.
16!
I had come on him so suddenly. I had entered by one of the Western
Doors and there he was.
He turned to look at me. He did not move. He said nothing.
I did not run away. Instead I approached him. (Perhaps I was wrong to
do this, but it was already too late to hide, too late to keep my promise to
the Other.)
I walked slowly round him, taking him in. He was an old man. His
skin was dry and papery, and the veins were thick and clotted in his hands.
His eyes were large, dark and liquid, with magnificently hooded eyelids and
arched eyebrows. His mouth was long and mobile, red and oddly wet. He
wore a suit in a Prince of Wales check. He must have been thin for a long
time because, although it was an old suit, it fitted him perfectly – which is
to say that it was wrinkled and saggy because the fabric was old and worn,
not because the cut was wrong.
I felt oddly disappointed; I had imagined that 16 would be young like
me.
‘Hello,’ I said. I was curious to hear what his voice sounded like.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘If, in fact, it is afternoon where we are. I
never know.’ He had a haughty, drawling, old-fashioned way of speaking.
‘You are 16,’ I said. ‘You are the Sixteenth Person.’
‘I don’t follow you, young man,’ he said.
‘There exist in the World two Living, thirteen Dead and now you,’ I
explained.
‘Thirteen dead? How fascinating! No one ever told me there were
human remains here. Who are they, I wonder?’
I described the Biscuit-Box Man, the Fish-Leather Man, the Concealed
Person, the People of the Alcove and the Folded-Up Child.
‘You know, it’s the most extraordinary thing,’ he said. ‘But I remember
that biscuit box. It used to stand on a little table next to the mugs in the
corner of my study at the university. I wonder how it got here? Well, I can
tell you this. One of your thirteen dead is almost certainly that dishy young
Italian that Stan Ovenden was so keen on. What was his name?’ He looked
away, thought for a moment, shrugged. ‘No, it’s gone. And I imagine that
another is Ovenden himself. He kept coming here to see the Italian. I told
him he was asking for trouble, but he wouldn’t listen. You know, guilt and
so forth. And I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the others is Sylvia
D’Agostino. I never heard anything of her after the early nineties. As to
who I am, young man, I can see how you might conclude that I am “16”.
But I am not. Charming as it is here …’ He glanced round. ‘ … I do not
intend to stay. I am only passing through. Someone told me you were here.
No,’ He checked himself. ‘That is not quite right. Someone told me what
they thought had happened to you and I concluded you were here. This
person showed me a photograph of you and since you were clearly a bit of a
dish, I thought I would come and take a look at you. I’m glad I did. You
must have been well worth looking at before, you know … before
everything happened. Ah, well! Old age happened to me. And this
happened to you. And now look at us! But to return to the matter in hand.
You mentioned two people living. I suppose the other one is Ketterley?’
‘Ketterley?’
‘Val Ketterley. Taller than you. Dark hair and eyes. Beard. Dark
complexion. His mother was Spanish, you see.’
‘You mean the Other?’ I said.
‘The other what?’
‘The Other. The Not-Me.’
‘Ha! Yes! I see what you mean. What an excellent name for him! The
other. No matter what the situation he is only ever “the other”. Someone
else always takes precedence. He is always second fiddle. And he knows it.
It eats him up. He was one of my students, you know. Oh, yes. Complete
charlatan, of course. For all the grand intellectual manner and the dark,
penetrating stare, he hasn’t an original thought in his head. All his ideas are
second-hand.’ He paused a moment and then added, ‘Actually all his ideas
are mine. I was the greatest scholar of my generation. Perhaps of any
generation. I theorised that this …’ He opened his hands in a gesture
intended to indicate the Hall, the House, Everything. ‘ … existed. And it
does. I theorised that there was a way to get here. And there is. And I came
here and I sent others here. I kept everything secret. And I swore the others
to secrecy too. I’ve never been very interested in what you might call
morality, but I drew the line at bringing about the collapse of civilisation.
Perhaps that was wrong. I don’t know. I do have a rather sentimental
streak.’
He fixed one bright, hooded, malevolent eye on me.
‘We all paid a terrible price in the end. Mine was prison. Oh, yes. That
shocks you, I imagine. I wish I could say that it was all due to a
misunderstanding, but I did all the things they said I did. To be perfectly
honest I did quite a lot more that they never knew about. Although – do you
know? – I rather liked prison. One met such fascinating people.’ He paused
for a moment. ‘Did Ketterley tell you how this world was made?’ he asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Would you like to know?’
‘Very much, sir,’ I said.
He looked gratified by my interest. ‘Then I will tell you. It began when
I was young, you see. I was always so much more brilliant than my peers.
My first great insight happened when I realised how much humankind had
lost. Once, men and women were able to turn themselves into eagles and fly
immense distances. They communed with rivers and mountains and
received wisdom from them. They felt the turning of the stars inside their
own minds. My contemporaries did not understand this. They were all
enamoured with the idea of progress and believed that whatever was new
must be superior to what was old. As if merit was a function of chronology!
But it seemed to me that the wisdom of the ancients could not have simply
vanished. Nothing simply vanishes. It’s not actually possible. I pictured it as
a sort of energy flowing out of the world and I thought that this energy must
be going somewhere. That was when I realised that there must be other
places, other worlds. And so I set myself to find them.’
‘And did you find any, sir?’ I asked.
‘I did. I found this one. This is what I call a Distributary World – it was
created by ideas flowing out of another world. This world could not have
existed unless that other world had existed first. Whether this world is still
dependent on the continued existence of the first one, I don’t know. It’s all
in the book I wrote. I don’t suppose you happen to have read it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Pity. It’s terribly good. You’d like it.’
All the time that the old man was speaking, I was listening with great
attention and trying to understand who he was. He had said that he was not
16, but I was not so naive as to believe him without further evidence. The
Other had said that 16 was wicked, so it was possible that 16 would lie
about who he was. But as the old man talked, I became more and more
certain that he was telling the truth. He was not 16. My reasoning was this:
the Other had described 16 as being opposed to Reason and to Scientific
Discovery. This description did not fit the old man. The old man was as
passionately fond of science as we were. He knew how the World was made
and was eager to pass that knowledge on to me.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘does Ketterley still think that the wisdom of the
ancients is here?’
‘Do you mean the Great and Secret Knowledge, sir?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘Yes.’
‘And is he still searching for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How amusing,’ he said. ‘He’ll never find it. It’s not here. It doesn’t
exist.’
‘I was beginning to wonder if that might be the case,’ I said.
‘Then you are a good deal brighter than him. The idea that it’s hidden
here – I’m afraid he got that from me too. Before I had seen this world, I
thought that the knowledge that created it would somehow still be here,
lying about, ready to be picked up and claimed. Of course, as soon as I got
here, I realised how ridiculous that was. Imagine water flowing
underground. It flows through the same cracks year after year and it wears
away at the stone. Millennia later you have a cave system. But what you
don’t have is the water that originally created it. That’s long gone. Seeped
away into the earth. Same thing here. But Ketterley is an egotist. He always
thinks in terms of utility. He cannot imagine why anything should exist if he
cannot make use of it.’
‘Is that why there are Statues?’ I asked.
‘Is what why there are Statues?’
‘Do the Statues exist because they embody the Ideas and Knowledge
that flowed out of the other World into this one?’
‘Oh! I never thought of that!’ he said, pleased. ‘What an intelligent
observation. Yes, yes! I think that highly likely! Perhaps in some remote
area of the labyrinth, statues of obsolete computers are coming into being as
we speak!’ He paused. ‘I must not stay long. I am all too well aware of the
consequences of lingering in this place: amnesia, total mental collapse,
etcetera, etcetera. Though I must say that you are surprisingly coherent.
Poor James Ritter could barely string a sentence together by the end and he
wasn’t here half as long as you. No, what I really came here to tell you is
this.’ He wrapped his cold, bony, papery hand round my hand; then he
jerked me sharply towards him. He smelt of paper and ink, of a finely
balanced perfume of violet and aniseed, and, beneath these scents, a faint
but unmistakeable trace of something unclean, almost faecal. ‘Someone is
looking for you,’ he said.
‘16?’ I asked.
‘Remind me what you mean by that.’
‘The Sixteenth Person.’
He put his head on one side to consider. ‘Yeh-e-es … Yes. Why not?
Let us say that it is, in fact, “16”.’
‘But I thought that 16 was looking for the Other,’ I said. ‘16 is the
Other’s enemy. That was what the Other said.’
‘The other …? Ah, yes, Ketterley! No, no! 16 is not looking for
Ketterley. You see what I mean about him being an egotist? Thinks
everything’s about him. No, it’s you 16 is looking for. 16 has asked me how
to find you. Now while I have no particular wish to oblige 16 – I have no
particular wish to oblige anybody – I’m all in favour of doing Ketterley an
ill turn. I hate him. He’s spent the last twenty-five years slandering me to
anyone who would listen. So I shall give 16 copious directions to get here.
Minute instructions.’
‘Sir, please do not do that,’ I said. ‘The Other says that 16 is a
malevolent person.’
‘Malevolent? I wouldn’t say so. No more than most people. No, I’m
sorry, but I simply must tell 16 the way. I want to put the cat among the
pigeons and there’s no better way to do it than to send 16 here. Of course,
there’s always the possibility – a very strong possibility really – that 16 will
never get here. Very few people can come here unless someone shows them
the way. In fact, the only person I ever knew who managed it – apart from
myself – was Sylvia D’Agostino. She seemed to have a talent for slipping
in between, if you follow me. Ketterley was absolutely dreadful at it, even
after I had shown him numerous times. He could never get here without
equipment – candles and uprights to represent a door and a ritual and all
sorts of nonsense. Well, you saw all that when he brought you here, I
suppose. Sylvia on the other hand could just slip away at any moment. Now
you see her. Now you don’t. Some animals have the facility. Cats. Birds.
And I had a capuchin monkey in the early eighties who could find the way
any time. I shall tell 16 the way and after that it all depends on how talented
16 is. What you need to remember is that Ketterley is afraid of 16. The
closer 16 gets, the more dangerous Ketterley will become. In fact I
shouldn’t be at all surprised if he doesn’t resort to violence of some kind.
You might like to head off the danger by killing him or something.’ (He
pronounced ‘off’ as ‘orrf’.) He smiled at me. ‘I’m going now,’ he said. ‘We
shan’t meet again.’
‘Then, sir, may your Paths be safe,’ I said, ‘your Floors unbroken and
may the House fill your eyes with Beauty.’
He was silent for a moment. He seemed to contemplate my face and as
he did so, a last thought occurred to him. ‘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. But
now … Charming. Quite charming.’
He picked up a raincoat that was lying in a heap on the Pavement.
Then he walked in an unhurried manner to the Doorway leading to the
Second Eastern Hall.
I consider the words of the Prophet
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Naturally I was very excited about this unexpected meeting. I went
immediately and fetched this Journal and wrote it all down. I titled the entry
The Prophet, because that is what he must have been. He explained the
Creation of the World and told me other things that only a Prophet could
have known.
I took time to study his words carefully. There was a great deal I did
not understand though this, I expect, is usual with prophets, their minds
being very great and their thoughts following strange paths.
I do not intend to stay. I am only passing through.
From this I understood that he inhabited Far Distant Halls and intended
to return there immediately.
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.
‘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.’
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?’The Other clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Excellent,’ he said.
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.
The first entry finished here, so next I turned to page 186, to the entry
entitled: The disappearance of Maurizio Giussani.
In the summer of 1987 Laurence Arne-Sayles rented a farmhouse
called the Casale del Pino, twenty kilometres from Perugia. His most
favoured students (the inner circle) went with him: Ovenden,
Bannerman, Hughes, Ketterley and D’Agostino.
Tensions had begun to appear within the group. Arne-Sayles had
become highly sensitive to any remark or question that showed the
speaker was insufficiently committed to his ‘great experiment’. Anyone
who dared to question him was subjected to a savage raking-over of
all their failings, personal and academic. Consequently most of the
group maintained a diplomatic silence, but Stanley Ovenden, who had
a sort of tone-deafness when it came to other people’s personalities,
continued to express doubts about what they were doing. When Tali
Hughes defended Ovenden to Arne-Sayles she also came in for a
generous share of his spleen. The atmosphere at Casale del Pino
became increasingly tense and, as a result, Ovenden and Hughes
began spending more and more time away from the others. They
became friendly with a young man, Maurizio Giussani, a philosophy
student at the University of Perugia. This new friendship seems to have
seriously alarmed Arne-Sayles.
On the evening of 26 July, Arne-Sayles invited Giussani and his
fiancée, Elena Marietti, to a dinner party at Casale del Pino. During
dinner Arne-Sayles talked about the other world (a place where
architecture and oceans were muddled together) and how it was
possible to get there. Elena Marietti thought that Arne-Sayles was
talking metaphorically or else that he was describing some sort of
Huxleyan psychedelic experience.
Marietti had to work the following day. (Like Giussani she was a
postgrad student, but during the summer she worked as a paralegal in
her father’s law firm in Perugia.) At about 11 o’clock she said
goodnight and got into her car and drove home and went to bed. The
others were still talking. The English party had promised that one of
them would drive Giussani home.
Maurizio Giussani was never seen again. Arne-Sayles claimed
that he had gone to bed shortly after Marietti left and knew nothing
about what had happened. The others (Ovenden, Bannerman, Hughes,
Ketterley, D’Agostino) said that Giussani had refused the offer of a lift
and that he had begun to walk home a little after midnight. (The night
was moonlit and warm; Giussani lived about 3 kilometres away.)
Ten years later when Arne-Sayles was convicted of kidnapping
another young man, the Italian police reopened the case of the missing
Giussani, however …
I stopped reading and stood up, breathing hard. I had a strong urge to
fling the Journal away from me. The words on the page – (in my own
writing!) – looked like words, but at the same time I knew they were
meaningless. It was nonsense, gibberish! What meaning could words such
as ‘Birmingham’ and ‘Perugia’ possibly have? None. There is nothing in
the World that corresponds to them.
The Other was right after all. I had forgotten many things! Worse still,
at the very point at which the Other has declared he will kill me if I become
mad, I have discovered that I am mad already! Or, if not mad now, then
certainly I have been mad in the past. I was mad when I wrote those entries!
I did not fling the Journal away. I dropped it on the Pavement and
walked away. I wanted to put some physical distance between Myself and
these evidences of my madness. The nonsense words – Perugia,
Nottingham, university – echoed in my mind. I felt a great pressure there as
if a whole host of half-formed ideas were about to break through into my
consciousness, bringing with them more madness or else understanding.
I walked rapidly through several Halls, not knowing or caring where I
went. Suddenly I saw in front of me the Statue of the Faun, the Statue that I
love above all others. There was his calm, faintly smiling face; there was
his forefinger gently pressed to his lips. In the past I have always thought he
meant to warn me of something with that gesture: Be careful! But today it
seemed to mean something quite different: Hush! Be comforted! I climbed
up on to his Plinth and flung Myself into his Arms, wrapping my arm
around his Neck, intertwining my fingers with his Fingers. Safe in his
embrace, I wept for my lost Sanity. Great, heaving sobs rose up, almost
painfully, from my chest.
Hush! he told me. Be comforted!
I resolve to take better care of Myself
ENTRY FOR THE NINTH DAY OF THE EIGHTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I left the Embrace of the Faun and wandered miserably through the
House. I believed that I was mad – or that I had been mad – or else that I
was becoming mad now. Whichever way it was, it was a terrifying prospect.
After a while I decided that this way of going on did no good at all.
I forced Myself to return to the Third Northern Hall where I ate a little
fish and drank some water. Then I revisited all my favourite Statues: the
Gorilla, the Young Boy playing the Cymbals, the Woman carrying a
Beehive, the Elephant carrying a Castle, the Faun, the Two Kings playing
Chess. Their Beauty soothed me and took me out of Myself; their noble
expressions reminded me of all that is good in the World.
This morning I am able to reflect more calmly on what has happened.
I accept that I have been very ill in the past. I must have been ill when
I wrote those entries in my Journal or else I would not have filled them with
outlandish words such as ‘Birmingham’ and ‘Perugia’. (Even now, as I
write the words, I begin to feel anxious again. A crowd of images stirs in
my mind – strange, nightmarish, but at the same time oddly familiar. The
word ‘Birmingham’, for example, brings with it a blare of noise, a flash of
movement and colour and the fleeting image of towers and spires against a
heavy grey sky. I try to catch hold of these impressions, to examine them
further, but instantly they fade.)
Despite all this I believe that I was precipitate to dismiss these two
entries as gibberish. Some of the words – ‘university’ is an example – do
seem to possess meaning of a sort. I believe that if I set my mind to it, I
could write a clear definition of ‘university’. I have given some thought as
to what might be the explanation of this. I understand ‘scholar’ because
scattered around the House are Statues of Scholars with books and papers in
their hands. Perhaps I extrapolated the idea of a ‘university’ (a place where
scholars congregate) from these? This does not seem a very satisfactory
hypothesis, but it is the best I can do for the moment.
The entries also include the names of people whose existence is
confirmed by other evidence. The Prophet spoke about Stanley Ovenden, so
clearly this was a real person. The Prophet also tried to think of the name of
the dishy young Italian but could not do so. Perhaps it was Maurizio
Giussani. Lastly both entries mentioned someone called ‘Laurence ArneSayles’ and I found a letter from ‘Laurence’ in the First Vestibule.
In other words, mixed in with the nonsense of these entries there does
seem to be actual information. In my quest to learn all I can about the
people who have lived I would be wrong to ignore this important source.
It has become clear that I have forgotten many things and – it is best to
face these things squarely – I now have evidence of periods of serious
mental derangement. My first and most important task is to hide these
defects from the Other. (While I do not think he would go so far as to kill
me because of them, he would certainly regard me with even more
suspicion than he already does.) Almost as important is the need to guard
Myself against the return of illness. To this end I have resolved to take
better care of Myself. I must not become so absorbed in my scientific work
that I forget to fish and end up with nothing to eat. (The House provides
much food for the active and enterprising person. There is no excuse for
going hungry!) I must devote more of my energies to mending my clothes
and making coverings for my feet, which are often cold. (Question: is it
possible to knit socks from seaweed? Doubtful.)
I have considered the renumbering of my Journals and have concluded
that I must have done it Myself. Which means that twenty Journals
(twenty!) are missing – a highly alarming thought! And yet, at the same
time, it makes sense that there are missing Journals. I am (as I have
previously stated) approximately thirty-five years of age. The ten Journals I
possess cover a period of five years. Where are the Journals of my earlier
life? And what did I do in those years?
Yesterday I thought that I never wanted to read or look up entries in
my Journals again. I pictured Myself throwing all ten Journals and the
Index into a raging Tide, and I imagined how relieved I would feel to be
free of them. But today I am calmer. I am less at the mercy of fear and
panic. Today I can see that there are sound reasons for studying my Journals
carefully, even the mad parts – perhaps especially the mad parts. First, I
have always longed to know more about the people who have lived and,
incomprehensible as it is, the Journals do seem to contain actual
information about them, however bizarrely presented. Second, I need to
learn as much as I can about my own madness, specifically what triggers it
and how I can guard against it in the future.
Perhaps by studying the past in the pages of my Journal I will be able
to make sense of these things. In the meantime it is important to recognise
that reading the Journal is in itself a triggering activity, giving rise to many
painful emotions and nightmarish thoughts. I must proceed cautiously and
only read small portions at a time.
The Other and the Prophet have both stated that the House itself is a
source of madness and forgetfulness. They are scientists and men of
intellect. When two such impeccable authorities are in agreement then I
believe I must accept their conclusions. The House is the cause of my
forgetting.
Do you trust the House? I ask Myself.
Yes, I answer Myself.
And if the House has made you forget, then it has done so for good
reason.
But I do not understand the reason.
It does not matter that you do not understand the reason. You are the
Beloved Child of the House. Be comforted.
And I am comforted.
Sylvia D’Agostino
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTIETH DAY OF THE EIGHTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I am very curious about the other people that the Prophet mentioned,
so I decided to begin my study with Sylvia D’Agostino and poor James
Ritter, but I did not look them up straightaway. In accordance with my plan
of looking after Myself, I allowed a week and a half to elapse before I read
the Journal again. I passed the intervening time in ordinary, soothing
activities. I fished; I made soup; I washed clothes; I composed music on the
flute that I made from the bone of a swan. Then this morning I brought my
Journals and the Index to the Fifth Northern Hall. This Hall contains the
Statue of the Gorilla and I thought the sight of Him would lend me
Strength.
I sat down, cross-legged on the Pavement opposite the Gorilla. I turned
to the letter D in my Index. There she was.
D’Agostino, Sylvia, student of Arne-Sayles: Journal no. 22, pages
6–9
I turned to page 6 of Journal no. 22 (which was my Journal no. 2).
Biography of Sylvia D’Agostino
Born 1958 in Leith, Scotland, the daughter of Eduardo
D’Agostino, the poet.
Photographs show a woman of a slightly androgynous
appearance, attractive, even beautiful, with thick dark brows, dark
eyes, a strong nose and emphatic jawline. She had a mass of dark hair
usually tied back. According to Angharad Scott, D’Agostino made no
concessions to conventional ideas of femininity and only intermittently
cared what she wore.
When she was a teenager D’Agostino told a friend that she
wanted to go to university to study Death, Stars and Mathematics.
Inexplicably the University of Manchester didn’t offer such a course,
so she settled for Mathematics. At the university she quickly stumbled
upon Laurence Arne-Sayles and his lectures; that encounter shaped
the remainder of her life.
Arne-Sayles’s talk of communing with ancient minds and glimpses
into other worlds answered all her cosmic longings – the ‘Death and
Stars’ part of her. As soon as her Mathematics degree had concluded,
she switched to Anthropology with Arne-Sayles as her supervisor.
Of all Arne-Sayles’s students and acolytes D’Agostino was by far
the most devoted. He assigned her a room in his house in Whalley
Range where she became his unpaid housekeeper and secretary. She
had a car (Arne-Sayles did not drive) and part of her duties consisted
of driving him wherever he wanted to go, including to Canal Street on
Saturday nights to pick up young men.
In 1984 she gained her doctorate. She did not seek out academic
or teaching work, but stayed at Arne-Sayles’s side, taking a string of
menial jobs to support herself.
She was an only child and had always been very close to her
parents, particularly her father. At some point in the mid-80s ArneSayles instructed her to quarrel with her parents. According to
Angharad Scott, this was a test of loyalty. D’Agostino cut off all
contact with her parents and they never saw her again.
Scott describes her as a poet, an artist and a film-maker and lists
the magazines in which her poems were published: Arcturus, Torn
Asunder and Grasshopper. (To date I haven’t been able to find any
copies of these magazines.) The editor of Grasshopper – a man called
Tom Titchwell – was also a friend of Eduardo D’Agostino. He
(Titchwell) kept in touch with Sylvia and relayed news of her back to
her parents.
Two of her films survive: Moon/Wood and The Castle.
Moon/Wood is a unique and atmospheric piece of film-making
admired by critics and fans outside the usual circle of Arne-Sayles
conspiracy theorists. It is 25 minutes long and was filmed on moors
and in woods around Manchester. It was shot on Super 8 in colour, but
the feel of it is almost entirely monochrome – black woods, white snow,
grey sky etc. – with occasional splashes of blood-red. In the film a
hierophant of ancient times holds a small community in thrall. He
dispenses cruelty to the men and abuses the women. One woman
opposes him. To show his power and to punish her, the hierophant
casts a spell. The woman crosses a stream. She takes a step and her
foot comes down in the moon’s reflection. She is caught in the stream;
she cannot move from the moon’s reflection. The hierophant comes and
beats her where she stands helpless. Still she cannot move. Left alone,
she asks a wood of birch trees to help her. As the hierophant passes
through the wood, he becomes caught in the tangle of birch trees; they
bind him and pierce him. He cannot move and eventually dies. The
woman is released from the moon’s reflection. Moon/Wood contains
very little speech and what there is is incomprehensible. The woman
and the hierophant speak their own language which has nothing to do
with ours. The true language of Moon/Wood is simple, stark imagery:
moon, darkness, water, trees.
D’Agostino’s other surviving film is even odder. It is untitled, but
usually referred to as The Castle. It is shot on Betamax and the quality
is very poor. The camera meanders around various enormous rooms,
presumably in different castles or palaces (we cannot be seeing one
building; it is simply too vast). The walls are lined with statues and
puddles of water crowd the floor. According to the people who believe
such things, this is a record of one of Arne-Sayles’s other worlds,
possibly the one described in his 2000 book, The Labyrinth. Other
people have tried to establish the locations in order to prove that it is
not a film of another world, but to date none of them has been
conclusively identified. Notes in D’Agostino’s handwriting were found
with The Castle, but these are in the same peculiar code as her last
diary and remain impenetrable.
D’Agostino seems to have kept a diary most of her adult life. The
early volumes (1973–1980) were kept at her parents’ house in Leith;
these are written in English. Another diary, current at the time of her
disappearance (spring 1990) was found in the doctor’s surgery where
she worked. This diary employs a weird mixture of hieroglyphs and
descriptions of images (possibly dream imagery?) in English.
Angharad Scott made several attempts to decipher it but got nowhere.
In early 1990 D’Agostino was working as a receptionist in a
doctor’s surgery in Whalley Range. She struck up a friendship with one
of the doctors there, a man about her own age called Robert Allstead.
At this point she seems to have been distinctly less enamoured of
Laurence Arne-Sayles than before. She told Allstead that her life was
one of drudgery, but that she would always be grateful to Arne-Sayles
because he had opened the way to a more beautiful world and she was
happy there. Allstead did not know what to make of this. He later told
police that he was certain she was not on drugs. If she had been, he
would never have allowed her to work in the surgery.
When Arne-Sayles learnt about her friendship with Allstead he
threw one of his peculiar jealous fits and demanded that she leave the
job. This time D’Agostino refused.
In the first week of April she failed to turn up for work. After she
had been missing for two days Dr Allstead called the police. She was
never seen again.
Poor James Ritter
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE TWENTIETH DAY OF THE EIGHTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
There were two entries for James Ritter both in Journal no. 21: page 46
and page 122. The first one was titled: The disgrace of Laurence Arne-Sayles.
Arne-Sayles’s career, always controversial, ended abruptly in
April 1997, when a woman employed to clean his house found
something: a brown liquid that seemed to ooze out from beneath a wall
in one of the rooms. The room was a bedroom and, according to ArneSayles, not used. But the cleaner could see that it was being used,
hence her cleaning it. She sponged up the liquid. Then she smelt it.
Urine and faeces. A little more liquid seeped out from under the wall.
She pushed the wall, it gave slightly. She put her ear to it. Then she
called the police. Behind the wall – the fake wall – the police found a
room in which was a young man, very ill and entirely incoherent.
Arne-Sayles’s academic career was over. Following a trial
(widely reported) he was sent to prison initially for three years;
however, while in prison he was convicted of inciting other inmates to
violence and riots. In the end he served four and a half years and was
released in 2002.
Arne-Sayles did not testify at his trial and never offered any
explanation as to why he’d imprisoned James Ritter.
I found this entry to be disappointing; there was very little information
as to who poor James Ritter was. I turned to the second entry. This looked
more promising.
Biography of James Ritter
Born 1967 in London. In his youth Ritter was very good-looking.
He worked as a model, a waiter, a barman, an actor and occasionally
as a prostitute. Throughout his adult life he suffered prolonged periods
of mental illness. He was sectioned at least twice between 1987 and
1994, once in London, once in Wakefield. He was sometimes homeless.
After he was found behind the fake wall in Arne-Sayles’s house he
was taken to hospital where he was treated for pneumonia,
malnutrition, dehydration and bipolar disorder. The police tried to
discover how long Arne-Sayles had kept him prisoner, but Ritter was
incapable of giving any sort of coherent answer. So the police talked to
people who knew him – drug addicts, social workers, people who ran
hostels for the homeless. All that they (the police) were able to
establish was that Ritter had been seen in and around Manchester in
the early part of 1995, so it was possible – though by no means definite
– that he had been imprisoned for as long as two years.
Ritter’s own story, as he gradually became able to tell it, served to
make matters more obscure. He insisted that he had only been at ArneSayles’s house in Whalley Range for brief periods; most of the time he
had been at a different house, a house that contained statues and
where many of the rooms were flooded by the sea. Most of the time he
appeared to think that he was still there. On several occasions while he
was in hospital he became very agitated, saying that he needed to go
back to the minotaurs because the minotaurs would have his dinner.
Despite being put on medication to control his delusions, he continued
to insist on this story of a house with a flooded basement and statues.
Quite what Arne-Sayles was trying to achieve by keeping Ritter
prisoner is still a matter for debate. Two theories have been put
forward.
The first is that Arne-Sayles brainwashed Ritter in order to lend
credence to his claims that other worlds not only existed, but that he
and other people had been there. Certainly, Ritter’s description of the
house is similar to the vast, empty rooms in Sylvia D’Agostino’s film,
The Castle; it is also similar to Arne-Sayles’s own description of the
other world in the book he wrote in prison: The Labyrinth. (Of course,
it is perfectly possible that Arne-Sayles simply elaborated on Ritter’s
hallucinations.) But if that was Arne-Sayles’s aim – to manufacture
evidence of another world – then why did he choose a man with a
history of delusional illness as his witness?
The second theory was that the kidnapping had less to do with
Arne-Sayles’s Other World theories than with his outré sexual tastes.
(This was the line the prosecution took at the trial in October 1997.)
But in that case why was Ritter babbling about houses with seas in the
basement?
Angharad Scott attempted to interview Ritter for her biography of
Arne-Sayles, but Ritter had taken offence that no one believed him
about the house with the ocean imprisoned in it and he refused to
speak to her. In 2010 a Guardian journalist – Lysander Weeks –
tracked him down for a retrospective piece on the Arne-Sayles scandal.
At this point Ritter was working as a caretaker for Manchester Town
Hall. Weeks described him as calm, self-possessed, almost Zen-like.
Ritter claimed to have been drug-free for a decade. Nevertheless the
story he told Weeks was the same one he had told the police: that for
about eighteen months between 1995 and 1997 he had inhabited a
large house where the sea flooded the basement and sometimes rose up
to the ground floor. Ritter said he had slept in a sort of white,
translucent cave beneath the marble sweep of a great staircase. Ritter
said that working at Manchester Town Hall was what had saved him;
it too was a vast building with great rooms and statues and staircases.
The resemblance to the other house – the one Arne-Sayles had taken
him to – calmed him.
Journal entries on Sylvia D’Agostino and poor James Ritter: some initial thoughts
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE EIGHTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
The last entry on poor James Ritter was the one I found the most
intriguing. It was just as full of nonsense words as the others, but the part
about the Minotaurs was a clear reference to the First Vestibule. I also
recognised Ritter’s description of the white, translucent cave beneath a
Staircase. The First Vestibule contains just such a Staircase with just such a
cave-like space beneath it. And it was in that cave-like space that I had
found much of the rubbish that had so annoyed me. James Ritter was
clearly the person who had eaten crisps and fish fingers in the First
Vestibule. (This insight alone justifies my decision to continue reading my
Journal!)
Sylvia D’Agostino’s entry was less informative, but judging by the
description of her film, The Castle, she too had visited these Halls.
The word ‘university’ occurs three times in the entry about Sylvia
D’Agostino and three times in the entries about Stanley Ovenden. Two
weeks ago I hypothesised that I was able to ascribe a meaning to this
seemingly nonsense word because I have seen Statues of Scholars in the
House. At the time I was inclined to dismiss this theory as weak, but it
seems more plausible now. It occurs to me that there are many other ideas
that I understand perfectly, even though no such things exist in the World.
For example I know that a garden is a place where one can refresh oneself
with the sight of plants and trees. But a garden is not a thing that exists in
the World nor is there any Statue representing that particular idea. (Indeed I
cannot quite imagine what a Statue of a garden would look like.) Instead,
scattered about the House are Statues in which People or Gods or Beasts are
surrounded by Roses or Strands of Ivy, or shelter under the Canopies of
Trees. In the Ninth Vestibule there is the Statue of a Gardener digging and
in the Nineteenth South-Eastern Hall there is a Statue of a different
Gardener pruning a Rose Bush. It is from these things that I deduce the idea
of a garden. I do not believe this happens by accident. This is how the
House places new ideas gently and naturally in the Minds of Men. This is
how the House increases my understanding.
This realisation is very encouraging and I no longer feel quite so
alarmed when a nonsensical word in my Journal gives rise to a mental
image that I cannot account for. Do not be anxious, I tell Myself. It is the
House. It is the House enlarging your understanding.
All the Journal entries contain names. I have made a list of those I
have found so far. There are fifteen of them. Assuming that ‘Ketterley’
belongs to the Other and that another belongs to the Prophet, then thirteen
remain. This is the exact number of the Dead in my Halls. A coincidence?
After careful consideration I am inclined to think it might be. While fifteen
people are named, several more seem to be implied in the text: people such
as the friend to whom D’Agostino said that she wished to study ‘Death,
Stars and Mathematics’; ‘the police’ (who are mentioned in all the texts);
the woman who cleaned Laurence Arne-Sayles’s house; and the young men
whom Laurence Arne-Sayles picked up on Saturday nights. It is impossible
to say at this juncture how many of these people there are.
PART 4
16
I retrieve the scraps of paper from the Eighty-Eighth Western Hall
ENTRY FOR THE FIRST DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I had not forgotten the scraps of paper that I found in the EightyEighth Western Hall, nor the ones that remained there, woven into herring
gull nests.
Two days ago I gathered together supplies for the journey: food,
blankets, a small saucepan in which to heat water and some rags. I set off
and reached the Eighty-Eighth Western Hall about the middle of the
afternoon. The gulls must have been out searching for food because there
were none in the Hall, though fresh deposits of excrement on the Statues
showed that it was still their roosting place.
Immediately I began work extricating the scraps of paper from the
nests. The ease with which this could be accomplished varied. In some
nests the seaweed was dry and fell apart at the first tug, but in others the
paper scraps were cemented to the seaweed by the gulls’ droppings. I made
a fire using dry seaweed from the old nests; I heated water in the saucepan;
then I dipped a rag into the water and applied it gently to the paper that was
stuck in the nests. It was delicate work: too little hot water and the hard
droppings would not soften; too much and the paper itself would dissolve. It
took me many hours of labour, but by the evening of the second day I had
recovered seventy-nine scraps from thirty-five nests. I examined every nest
again and satisfied Myself that no more remained.
This morning I returned to my own Halls.
I spent some time trying to assemble the writing. Eventually, after an
hour, I had part of a page – perhaps as much as half – and a few smaller
sections of other pages.
The writing was very bad, full of crossings out. I read:
… that he has done to me. How could I have been so stupid? I
will die here. There is no one coming to save me. I will die here. The
silence [piece missing] no sound, only the pounding of the sea in the
rooms below. There is nothing to eat. I rely on him to bring me food
and water – which only underlines my status as a prisoner, a slave. He
leaves the food in the room with the minotaur statues. I indulge myself
in long fantasies of killing him. In one of the destroyed rooms I found a
jagged piece of marble about the size of a roof tile. I have thought
about crushing his head with it. This would give me great satisfaction
…
This was the writing of a very angry and unhappy person. I wondered
who it had been? I wished that I could reach through his writing to comfort
him, to show him the fish that abounds in every Vestibule, the beds of
shellfish just waiting to be gathered, how with only a little foresight he need
never go hungry, how the House provides for and protects its Children. I
wondered about his persecutor, the man who had made him a slave. I felt
very sad to think that there had existed such antagonism between two
human beings, perhaps even between two of my own Dead. Had the
Concealed Person tormented the Biscuit-Box Man? Or the other way
round?
Very carefully I turned over the scraps and examined the reverse. The
writing here was even worse.
I forget. I forget. Yesterday I could not think of the word for lamppost. This morning I thought that one of the statues spoke to me. I
passed some time (about half an hour I think) talking to it. I am
LOSING MY MIND. How horrible, how terrible to be in this dreadful
place and MAD. I am DETERMINED TO KILL him before this
happens. Before I forget why I HATE HIM.
I sighed when I unravelled this. I took three envelopes the Other gave
me once. In the first I placed the scraps that I had succeeded in putting
together. On the outside of the envelope I carefully wrote a copy of the two
transcriptions. In the second envelope I placed some scraps that fitted
together, making fragments of sentences. In the third envelope I placed the
scraps I had not managed to fit to any others.
A problem
ENTRY FOR THE SECOND DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
One overriding problem concerns me at the moment: whether or not to
ask the Other about Stanley Ovenden, Sylvia D’Agostino, poor James Ritter
and Maurizio Giussani. The Prophet called the Other ‘Ketterley’. In the
entry about the disappearance of Maurizio Giussani the name ‘Ketterley’
appears in close proximity to the names D’Agostino and Ovenden, and to
Giussani itself. From this I conclude that the Other knew these people. I
long to know more of them and several times it has been on the tip of my
tongue to ask him. But always at the last moment I have hesitated.
Supposing he said: Where did you hear of these people? Who told you?, I
would not know what to say. He must not know that I have spoken to the
Prophet. He must not know about the entries in my Journal.
He is full of suspicion. He thinks of nothing but the approach of 16.
Two months ago he declared his intention to go to the One-Hundred-andNinety-Second Western Hall and perform the ritual, which he believes will
summon the Great and Secret Knowledge, but at present all that is
forgotten.
Lemon
ENTRY FOR THE FIFTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning I was on my way from the Third Northern Hall to the
Sixteenth Vestibule. I passed out of the First Northern Hall and into the
First Vestibule. I took a step or two, then stopped.
Something had just happened. What was it? What had just happened?
I took a couple of steps back into the Doorway and breathed in. There
it was again! A scent. A perfume of lemons, geranium leaves, hyacinths and
narcissi.
It was quite strong in this one spot. Someone – a person wearing a
beautiful perfume – had stood for a while in the Doorway, perhaps looking
out at the Long Vista of Receding Halls. I returned to the First Northern
Hall but could find no trace of it there. I went back to the First Vestibule
and passed southwards along the Wall under the looming Statue of a
Minotaur. Yes, the scent was discernible here too. I traced the person’s path
as far as a point between the Doorway to the First Western Hall and the
Doorway to the Corridor leading to the First South-Western Hall. There I
lost it.
Who was the person who had passed this way? Not the Other. I knew
the perfume he wore: a spicy scent of coriander, rose and sandalwood. The
Prophet? I remembered his perfume very well. Again, quite different –
violet had been the dominant note, with hints of cloves, blackcurrant and
rose.
No, this was someone new.
16 had come. 16 was here.
My heart started beating faster. I looked around the Vestibule. The
great space was darkened by the velvet Shadows of the Minotaurs with
splinters of golden Light between. 16 did not step out from a hiding place to
begin making me mad. Yet he had been there and perhaps no more than an
hour before.
It was surprising to me that someone like 16, someone so wedded to
Destruction and Madness, should wear a perfume so lovely, so redolent of
Sunshine and Happiness. But then I told Myself that I was foolish to think
like that. Treat this as a warning, I said. Be on your guard. 16 will not wear
his ill intentions in his face. It is very likely he will be pleasing to the eyes.
His manners will be friendly and insinuating. That is how he intends to
destroy you.
More people to kill
ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning I told the Other about the perfume in the First Vestibule.
To my surprise he took the news quite calmly.
‘Yes, well, I’m beginning to think that it’s better to get it over with,’ he
said, ‘rather than hanging about, waiting for it to happen. And besides,
perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing after all.’
‘But I thought you said that 16 is a great threat to us,’ I said. ‘I thought
you said that he threatens your safety and my sanity?’
‘That’s true.’
‘Then how can it possibly be good if he comes here?’
‘Because the threat to us is so great that our only option is to eliminate
16 entirely.’
‘How do we do that?’
For an answer, the Other put two fingers to his head in imitation of a
gun and made the sound: Boom!
I was stunned. ‘I do not think that I could kill someone however
wicked they are,’ I said. ‘Even the wicked deserve Life. Or if they do not,
then let the House take it from them. Not me.’
‘You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I could kill someone
with my hands.’ He examined his own thoughtfully, spreading the fingers
and turning them over. ‘Though it would be interesting to try. Tell you what.
I’ll get a gun. That’ll make it easier, whichever of us has to do it. Which
reminds me, there’s a possibility – a small possibility – that someone else
might come here. If you ever see an old man …’
‘ … an old man?’ I said, startled.
‘ … yes, an old man. If you see him, tell me straightaway. He’s not
quite so tall as me. Very thin. Pale. With hooded eyes and a red, wet
mouth.’ The Other gave an involuntary shudder, then said, ‘I don’t know
why I’m describing him to you. It’s not as if hordes of old men are going to
start turning up.’
‘Why? Are you going to kill him as well?’ I asked anxiously. I had no
doubt that the Other was talking about the Prophet.
‘Well, no,’ he said. He paused. ‘Although now that you mention it, it’s
about time that somebody did. It was always amazing to me that no one
killed him while he was in prison. Anyway, tell me if you see him.’
I nodded in as non-committal a manner as I could manage. The Other
had asked me to tell him if I saw the Prophet in the future, not if I had seen
him in the past, so I was not exactly lying. The one good thing about this
new development is that the Prophet has gone back to his own Halls and he
said quite definitely that he did not intend to return.
I find writing made by 16
ENTRY FOR THE THIRTEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
For five days a steady, grey, drenching rain fell in all the Vestibules.
The World was damp and chill and puddles formed on the Stone Pavements
at the Doors to the Vestibules. The Halls were full of the chatter of birds
who came there to shelter.
I kept as busy as I could. I mended my fishing nets and practised my
music. But all the while at the back of my mind was the thought that 16 was
here and intended to make me mad. I had no idea when the crisis would
come, and it was not a pleasant feeling.
Today it stopped raining. The World became light of Heart again.
I made my way to the Sixth North-Western Hall, which is home to a
flock of rooks. The moment they saw me they descended from their perches
on the High Statues, wheeling and flapping and calling to each other. I
scattered scraps of fish to feed them. Two alighted on my shoulders. One
pecked at my ear, hoping to discover if I was good to eat. It made me laugh.
Standing in the middle of the rattle and whirl of black wings, I was not
paying attention to my surroundings and I did not at first see that on a Door
to my right, there was a mark, a slash of bright yellow chalk. Then I did see
it. I shrugged the birds away and went to look.
Long ago I used to mark Doors and Floors with chalk in this manner
because I was afraid of losing my way. I had not done it for years, but as I
looked at this yellow mark I thought at first that it must be one of my
marks, which had somehow survived Flood, Tide, Wind, Rain, Mist. Yet at
the same time I knew that I have never possessed any yellow chalk. I have
some white chalk, some blue chalk and a small amount of pink chalk. But
yellow chalk? No, I have never had such a thing.
Then I saw that on the Pavement by the Door were more chalk marks,
this time in white.
Words! Not the Other’s words. He rarely ventures this far from the
First Vestibule. No, these were someone else’s words. 16! I stood for a
moment trying to take this in. This had never occurred to me: that 16 might
leave written words to make people mad! (I had to applaud his ingenuity. I
am not sure it would have occurred to me.)
But would they in fact make me mad? All the Other’s warnings had
been against my speaking to 16, against my listening to him. Was it not
probable that the danger resided in some quality of 16’s voice? Perhaps the
written word was safe? (I realised that the Other had been annoyingly
unspecific.)
My eyes turned cautiously downwards. I read:
13TH ROOM FROM THE ENTRANCE. THE WAY BACK IS
AS FOLLOWS. GO THROUGH THIS DOOR AND TURN LEFT
IMMEDIATELY. GO THROUGH THE DOOR IN FRONT OF YOU
AND THEN TURN RIGHT. KEEP TO THE RIGHT WALL. MISS
TWO DOORS AND THEN …
Directions. It was only directions.
This did not seem too dangerous. I paused and examined Myself for
signs of imminent madness or tendencies to self-destruction. Finding none,
I read further.
They were directions from the Sixth North-Western Hall to the First
Vestibule. Although the Path itself was somewhat meandering, the
directions were clear, precise, efficient and the letters themselves square,
upright and pleasing.
Using these directions, I traced 16’s path back as far as the First
Vestibule. Each Doorway I passed through was carefully marked with
yellow chalk. The marks were somewhat below my eye-level. (I estimate
that 16 is between 12 and 15 centimetres shorter than me.) Beneath each
Doorframe he had written his directions again so that if any were destroyed
by a Tide or a mishap, he would still have the others. How methodical he
was!
I went to the Second Northern Hall and got some blue chalk. Then I
returned to the Sixth North-Western Hall where I had first seen 16’s
directions. (This seemed to be as far as he had gone.) Underneath his
writing I wrote:
DEAR 16
THE OTHER HAS WARNED ME OF HOW YOU INTEND TO
MAKE ME MAD. BUT IN ORDER TO MAKE ME MAD, YOU
MUST FIRST FIND ME AND HOW WILL YOU DO THAT? THE
ANSWER IS YOU WILL NOT. I KNOW EVERY NICHE OF
THESE HALLS, EVERY APSE, EVERY PLACE TO HIDE.
RETURN TO YOUR OWN HALLS, 16, AND REFLECT ON YOUR
WICKEDNESS.
Writing this letter lessened the hunted feeling I had been experiencing.
I felt much more in control of the situation – almost as much as 16. My only
difficulty was that I did not know how to sign the letter. I could not write
‘YOUR FRIEND’ as I did when I wrote to the Other or to Laurence (the
person who had wanted to see the Statue of an Elderly Fox teaching some
Squirrels). 16 and I were not friends. I tried putting ‘your enemy’ but this
seemed unnecessarily confrontational. I considered ‘the one who will never
submit to being driven mad by you’ but that was rather long (and not a little
pompous). In the end, I simply put:
PIRANESI
This being what the Other calls me.
(But I do not think that it is my name.)
I ask the Other about 16’s writing
ENTRY FOR THE FOURTEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I met the Other this morning in the Second South-Western Hall. He
was wearing a suit of medium-grey wool and an impeccable shirt of a
darker grey. His mood was calm, serious and focussed. When I told him
about the words that I had found chalked on the Pavement of the Sixth
North-Western Hall, he simply nodded.
‘Can 16 impart madness through the medium of the written word?’ I
asked. ‘Ought I not to have read it?’
‘16’s words are dangerous whatever form they take,’ he said. ‘It
would’ve been better not to read it. But I don’t blame you. It took you by
surprise. You weren’t expecting a written message. Quite frankly that hadn’t
occurred to me as a possibility either. But this is a critical time. We need to
be more careful.’
‘I will be. I promise,’ I said.
He gave my shoulder a couple of encouraging pats. ‘There’s good
news too,’ he said, ‘well, sort of. I’ve managed to get hold of a gun. It was
nowhere near as difficult as I thought it would be. But – and this I suppose
is the bad news …’ He made a rueful face. ‘ … it turns out I’m a dreadful
shot. I just don’t seem to be able to hit anything at all. I’ll have to practice, I
suppose. Not quite sure how I’ll manage that, but anyway … The thing is,
Piranesi, try not to worry. One way or another this nightmare will soon be
over.’
‘Oh, please!’ I begged. ‘Let us not kill 16!’
He laughed. ‘And what’s the alternative? To allow ourselves to be
driven mad? I don’t think so.’
I said, ‘But when 16 sees his plan does not work, when he sees how we
avoid him, he may return to his own Halls.’
The Other shook his head. ‘There’s not a chance of it, Piranesi. I know
this person. 16 is relentless. 16 will keep on coming.’
Light in the Darkness
ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Three days passed. I kept watch for signs that 16 had been in our
Halls, but I found none. Then in the middle of the third night I awoke
suddenly. Something had woken me, but I did not know what it was.
I sat up. I looked around. The Stars blazed bright in all the Windows.
The Thousand Statues of the Third Northern Hall, faintly lit by the Stars,
looked out upon the Hall as if they blessed it. Everything was as it always
was; and yet I could not rid Myself of the feeling that something was
happening.
It was very cold. I put on my shoes and a woollen jumper, and I
walked to the Second North-Western Hall. All was empty; all was quiet; all
was peaceful.
I passed through a Door on my right into another Hall. Here I heard a
faint sound. The sound repeated at irregular intervals and, as I walked on, it
grew louder. It was like the distant bellow of an animal.
A faint blossoming of light emanated from a Door at the other end of
the Hall. I had only just observed this when the light changed and
brightened until it became a beam that sliced through the Darkness and
illuminated the Statues on the Opposite Wall! Then, just as suddenly, it
faded again.
I walked to the Door and peered inside.
There was someone in the next Hall – someone with a torch who was
rapidly casting the beam from Wall to Wall, from Corner to Corner,
searching the Darkness for something or someone. (This was the reason that
the light had suddenly grown stronger and faded again.) The person was
shouting: ‘Raphael! Raphael! I know you’re here!’
It was the Other.
‘Raphael!’ he shouted again.
Silence.
‘You should never have come here!’ he shouted.
Silence.
‘I know every inch of this place! You can’t escape! I’ll find you in the
end!’
Silence.
I slipped into the Hall, an action I performed with the utmost economy
of movement. Nevertheless the Other must have glimpsed it out of the
corner of his eye because he swung around and shone the torch on the Door
I had just passed through, but he moved too suddenly, the torch jerked out
of his hand and skittered across the Pavement. The light extinguished itself.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed the Other.
Darkness returned to the Hall. The Tides moved in the Halls below.
The Other cast about, searching for his torch, muttering to himself.
My eyes, which had seen little when dazzled by the torch, began to
adjust to the Starlight again. At first, I saw nothing but the quiet Hall, but
then a flicker of movement passed along the Southern Wall, East to West. It
was the merest suggestion of a grey shadow against the faintly gleaming
Statues and I could almost have believed that I was imagining it. But I was
not. It passed through a Door leading to the Fifth North-Western Hall.
16!
The Other had found the torch. He made it give out its beam again.
Then he exited the Hall by one of the Northern Doors.
I waited until he had gone and then I ran rapidly, silently, after 16. I hid
Myself in the Door to the Fifth North-Western Hall.
16 was standing in the Hall. Like the Other, he had a beam of light; but
unlike the Other, he was not casting it around aimlessly. He shone it steadily
on the Walls of the Hall. The strong, silvery white light illuminated the
beautiful Statues and gave to each one a strange new shadow, so that the
Walls appeared to be thickly covered in immense black feathers. 16 moved
the torch slowly, making the feather-shadows elongate, shrink, swoop and
spin. But as for 16 himself, I could see nothing of him. He was a mere blot
behind the dazzle of the light.
16 contemplated the Statues for several minutes. Then he turned the
light away from the Walls and walked to a Door that led to the Sixth NorthWestern Hall. He checked the Jamb to reassure himself that the chalk mark
he had made was still there and he passed through. I followed and hid
Myself in the next Doorway.
In the Sixth North-Western Hall, 16 was shining his torch on the
message that I had written. He stood motionless for a long moment. I had
told him to reflect on his wickedness. Was that what he was doing?
Suddenly he knelt and began to write rapidly.
No one has ever written to me before.
16 wrote for a long time, which in some obscure way pleased me. But
then I thought: Why are you pleased? Why does it matter if the message is
long or short? You know you may not read it. If you read it, you will go
mad. Part of me (a very foolish part) felt that it would almost be worth
going mad in order to read the message.
The Darkness in front of 16 coalesced into two wild black shapes that
flapped and beat the Air. Startled, 16 leapt up with a cry of alarm.
It was only two rooks who had been awakened by the unusual activity
and had come to see what was happening.
‘Piss off!’ cried 16. ‘Piss off! Go away! I’m busy!’
16’s voice was not at all what I was expecting.
I departed as silently as I had come. I made my way back to the Third
Northern Hall and lay down on my bed. But my mind was too full for sleep.
I erase a message from 16
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
As soon as the Sun rose I fetched my Index and my Journals. I opened
the Index at R, but there was no entry for ‘Raphael’.
I quickly ate some food and thanked the House for its Beneficence. I
had a question that I needed to put to the Other but today was not one of the
days when the Other and I meet, so I knew my question must wait.
I set off for the Sixth North-Western Hall. The rooks greeted me
noisily, but I had no time to talk to them today. 16’s message covered an
area of the Pavement approximately 60 centimetres by 80 centimetres.
My heart beat fast in my chest. I glanced down:
I saw the words:
MY NAME IS …
I saw the words:
… LAURENCE ARNE-SAYLES …
I saw the words:
… ROOM WITH THE STATUES OF MINOTAURS …
What should I do? I knew that as long as the message existed I would
experience a strong urge to read it. I decided that my only option was to
destroy it.
I ran back to the Third Northern Hall and fetched an old shirt and some
chalk. I say ‘shirt’; in fact, the garment was so ragged that it scarcely
deserved the name. I tore it in two. Then I ran back to the Sixth NorthWestern Hall. I tied one half of the shirt around my eyes as a blindfold.
Holding the other half in my hand, I knelt down and began to sweep it over
the surface of the Pavement, erasing 16’s words.
After a couple of minutes, I removed the blindfold and looked. Bits of
the message remained here and there.
LICE OFFI
KETTER
A DISCIPLE OF THE OCCULTIST LAURENCE
ARNE-SAY
NK HE KNOWS THAT I HAVE PENETRATED TH
I question the Other
ENTRY FOR THE EIGHTEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Today at ten o’clock I went to the Second South-Western Hall to meet
the Other.
He was standing by the Empty Plinth. He wore a suit of dark brown
wool and a shirt of dark olive. His gleaming shoes were a chestnut colour.
‘I want to ask you something,’ I said.
‘OK.’
‘Why have you not been honest with me?’
The Other put on a cold look. ‘I am always honest with you,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You are not. Why did you not tell me that 16 is a
woman?’
The expression on the Other’s face flickered from haughty denial, to
irritation, to reluctant acquiescence in the space of about half a second.
‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose that’s fair enough. But I never said that she
wasn’t a woman.’
I rolled my eyes at this extraordinarily weak defence. ‘I have been
referring to 16 as “he” for months,’ I said, ‘and you have not corrected me –
not once. Why not?’
The Other sighed. ‘OK. The reason I didn’t say anything is that I know
you, Piranesi. You’re a romantic. Oh, you talk about being a scientist and a
disciple of reason – and most of the time you are. But you’re also a
romantic. I knew it was going to be hard enough as it was to convince you
of the threat that 16 poses. But I thought it would be even harder once you
knew she was a woman. You would be so much more interested in a
woman. I thought you might even fall in love with her. I certainly didn’t
think you’d be able to stop yourself from talking to her. I know you may
find this difficult to believe but I was actually looking out for you. It was so
important that you didn’t trust 16, because 16 is fundamentally
untrustworthy. Do you see?’
There was a pause.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Thank you for looking out for me. I do not believe I
would be so easily swayed in favour of a woman as you seem to suggest.
Please do not keep things from me in future.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the Other. He frowned. ‘Anyway, how did you
know?’ His voice became sharp with alarm. ‘You haven’t spoken to her,
have you?’
‘No. I saw her in the Sixth North-Western Hall and I heard her voice.
She did not see me.’
‘You heard her?’ The Other was even more alarmed. ‘Who was she
speaking to?’
‘The rooks.’
‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘How bizarre.’
I decide to look up Laurence Arne-Sayles in the Index
ENTRY FOR THE NINETEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
The Other is right about one thing. I am not as rational as I thought. I
used to smile (secretly) at the Other whenever I saw him acting out of selflove or arrogance or pride. My own actions were, I was sure, guided solely
by Reason. But I was only deceiving Myself. A rational person would never
have spoken to the Prophet in the First North-Eastern Hall. A rational
person would have kept on cleaning the Pavement of the Sixth NorthWestern Hall until every trace of 16’s message was erased.
It is not the fact 16 is a woman that fascinates and excites me – or at
least, not entirely; it is the fact that she is another human being. I want to
learn everything I can about her – or as much as I can learn without going
mad. (That is the tricky part.)
I have not told the Other about the message that 16 wrote. Nor have I
told him that after I erased it there were little half phrases and sentences
remaining and that I left these untouched.
… IS VALENTINE KETTER(LEY) … This refers to the Other. The
Prophet said that the Other’s name is Val Ketterley. It is not surprising that
16 writes about the Other since, according to the Other, 16 is obsessed with
him and wants to destroy him.
… (CE)RTAINLY GROOMED OTHER POTENTIAL VICTIMS
AND I … Is 16 boasting of her victims? Of the harm she has done and
intends to do? Unclear.
… A DISCIPLE OF THE OCCULTIST LAURENCE ARNESAY(LES) … Everything keeps leading back to this one same person,
Laurence Arne-Sayles, who I believe is identical with the Prophet.
… (BE)EN HERE FOR ALMOST SIX YEARS, DID YO(U) …
Unclear what this refers to.
WAY OUT IS LOCATE(D) … A puzzling fragment. 16 appears to
want to tell me about an exit. But I know these Halls, all their entrances and
exits. She does not.
I have looked up 16 in my Index, using the name the Other called her.
She is not there. So I shall look up Laurence Arne-Sayles.
Laurence Arne-Sayles
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE NINETEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Once again I took my Index and Journals to the Fifth Northern Hall
and sat down opposite the Statue of the Gorilla. May his Strength and
Resolution give me courage! I opened the Index at A.
There were twenty-nine entries for Laurence Arne-Sayles. Some of
these were only a line or two; others ran to several pages. I skim-read about
half of them, but was no wiser. The information they contained varied
wildly: lists of publications, biography, quotations, descriptions of people
Arne-Sayles had met in prison. I came across one entitled: Laurence ArneSayles: pros and cons of writing a book, and, since the idea of writing a
book appeals to me strongly, I read this with interest.
Possible project: a book about Arne-Sayles, exploring the idea of
transgressive thinkers – people whose ideas go beyond what is thought
acceptable within a discipline (or even possible). Heretics.
Not sure whether this is a good use of my time or not. Pros and
cons.
- Angharad Scott did a passable job with her book, A Long Spoon: Laurence Arne-Sayles and His Circle. (Con)
- That said, Scott’s strength is biography, not analysis. She would be the first to admit this. (Pro? Neutral?)
- Scott herself is gracious, encouraging, willing to help. She would like to see another book written. Gave me quite a lot of background information and has indicated that there’s more to come. See notes of phone call with Angharad Scott, page 153. (Pro)
- Arne-Sayles is quite a sexy subject? Major scandal, trial, prison sentence etc. (Pro)
- Arne-Sayles is the perfect example of a transgressive thinker – transgressive in more ways than one – morally, intellectually, sexually, criminally. (Pro)
- The extraordinary effect he had on his followers, getting them to believe that they had seen other worlds etc. (Pro)
- Arne-Sayles refuses to speak to academics/writers/journalists. (Con)
- His close associates – the people who knew him at the time he claimed to be passing to and fro between this world and others – are few. Of that number several have disappeared and most of the others won’t talk to journalists. (Con)
- Tali Hughes was the only student of Arne-Sayles’s who was willing to talk to Angharad Scott. According to Scott, Hughes is emotionally unstable and possibly delusional. James Ritter spoke to a journalist (Lysander Weeks) in 2010. Might be worth a conversation? According to Weeks, Ritter works as a caretaker in Manchester Town Hall. Worth checking if Weeks himself is working on a book? (Neither pro nor con – neutral)
- Mystery of the people connected to Arne-Sayles who disappeared: Maurizio Giussani, Stanley Ovenden, Sylvia D’Agostino. (This is a strong pull for readers and therefore a definite pro. Unless I disappear myself, in which case, con.)
- Spending a long time writing about a deeply unpleasant man could be emotionally taxing. It’s universally agreed that Arne-Sayles is malicious, vindictive, manipulative, spiteful, arrogant, a complete and utter prick. (Con)
- Marepool I (a headless body)
- Marepool II (a complete body)
- Marepool III (a head, but not one that belonged to Marepool I)
- and Marepool IV (a second complete body).
I remain calm
THIRD ENTRY FOR THE NINETEENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
The description of Laurence Arne-Sayles’s theories contained in my
Journals corresponds closely to what the Prophet himself said. (More
evidence that they are one and the same person!) I was pleased to
rediscover the name Addedomarus, and to have its correct spelling. This
was the name that the Other called on in his ritual three months ago! I feel
certain that the Other learnt of Addedomarus from Laurence Arne-Sayles.
(‘All his ideas are mine,’ the Prophet said.)
One sentence puzzles me: The world was constantly speaking to
Ancient Man. I do not understand why this sentence is in the past tense. The
World still speaks to me every day.
I believe I am better at reading these Journal entries than I was at first.
I remain calm even when faced with the most obscure language. Words and
phrases that pulsate with mysterious energy – words such as ‘Manchester’
and ‘police station’ – no longer discompose me. I seem, almost
unconsciously, to have fallen into a habit of treating these entries as if they
were the writings of an oracle or seer, someone in a frenzied or inspired
state who imparts knowledge, albeit in a strange and not easily processed
form.
Perhaps I was indeed in an altered state of consciousness when I wrote
them? I find this theory persuasive, but it leaves several questions
unanswered. What did I do to achieve this altered state? And why, when I
have always thought of Myself as a scientist, did I begin this practice in the
first place?
There will be a Great Flood
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
One of my regular tasks is to maintain a Table of Tides. In order to do
this I rely on my observations and on a set of equations that I have invented.
Every few months I perform my calculations and make sure that there are
no Extraordinary Occurrences in the coming weeks. I have been so
occupied recently that I have rather neglected this work. This morning I sat
down to apply Myself to it and immediately discovered something Highly
Alarming – a Conjunction of Four Tides in less than a week’s time!
I was shocked to think how close I had come to missing this event
altogether! My last set of calculations were for a period that ended more
than two weeks ago. I had neglected my duties and put Myself and the
Other in mortal danger!
In my agitation I leapt up and walked rapidly up and down the Hall.
Oh, fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I muttered to Myself. Fuck! Fuck!
Fuck! Fuck! After a minute or two of walking uselessly to and fro, I spoke
to Myself sternly, telling Myself that it was no good bewailing the Past;
what was needed now was to plan for the Future.
I sat down again and set Myself to doing further calculations in order
to understand more accurately what was likely to happen. Depending on the
Force and Volume of the Waters – which are difficult to predict with
exactness – between forty and a hundred Halls will be flooded.
Fortunately today was a Friday, one of the days when I have my
regular meetings with the Other. I arrived in the Second South-Western Hall
almost half an hour early, so anxious was I to speak with him.
The moment he appeared I said, ‘I have something to tell you.’
He frowned and opened his mouth to protest; he does not like me to
take charge of the meeting but on this occasion I overrode him. ‘There will
be a Great Flood!’ I declared. ‘If we do not prepare ourselves properly,
there is a very real danger that we will be swept away and drowned.’
Immediately he was all attention. ‘Drowned? When?’
‘In six days’ time. On Thursday. The Flood will begin to rise
approximately half an hour before midday. A High Tide from the Eastern
Halls will be followed by …’
‘Thursday?’ He relaxed again. ‘Oh, that’s OK. I won’t be here on
Thursday.’
‘Where will you be?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Somewhere else,’ he said. ‘It’s not important. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, that is good. The Flood will be centred
around a point 0.8 kilometres to the North-West of the First Vestibule. It is
vital that you are out of the Path of the Waters.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said the Other. ‘Will you be OK?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks for asking. I shall walk to the Southern
Halls.’
‘That’s good.’
‘That only leaves 16,’ I said without thinking. ‘I need to …’ I stopped.
‘That is …’ I began and stopped again.
There was a pause.
‘What?’ said the Other, sharply. ‘What are you talking about? What’s
any of this got to do with 16?’
‘I only mean that 16 is not a native of these Halls,’ I said. ‘She will not
know that a Great Flood is coming.’
‘No, I suppose not. So what?’
‘I do not want her to drown,’ I said.
‘Trust me, Piranesi. That would solve all sorts of problems. But, in any
case, it doesn’t really matter one way or the other. You’ve no way of getting
in contact with 16 and so you couldn’t warn her even if you wanted to.’
There was a silence.
‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ said the Other. ‘You haven’t spoken to her?’ He
gave me a sharp, appraising look.
‘I have not,’ I said.
‘Not now? Not in the past?’
‘Not now. Not in the past.’
‘Well, there you are then. Whatever happens it’s not your
responsibility. I wouldn’t worry about it.’
Another pause.
‘Well,’ said the Other at last. ‘I expect you’ve got things to do.’
‘Many things to do.’
‘Preparing for this inundation and so forth.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then.’ He turned and walked towards the First
Vestibule.
‘Goodbye,’ I called. ‘Goodbye!’
ARE YOU MATTHEW ROSE SORENSEN?
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
My course of action was clear. I must go immediately to the Sixth
North-Western Hall and write a message to 16 warning her of the coming
Flood!
As I walked I thought about the last message I had left her – the one
begging her to leave these Halls. Perhaps in the intervening time she had
replied. Perhaps the reply would be something like:
Dear Piranesi
You are right. Today I will return to my own Halls.
Sincerely
16
If that was the case I could stop worrying about her drowning in the
Flood.
But deep down I hoped that she had not gone back to her own Halls.
Strange as it may seem, I knew that I would miss her if she had. Other than
16, there is only Myself and the Other in the World and (it may surprise you
to read this) the Other is not always the best of company. I was looking
forward to seeing if 16 had written me another message, even though I
would not dare read it. I suppose that what I really hoped for was that she
would write something like:
Dear Piranesi
Reading your useful and informative messages, I have come to
realise that if only I were to cast off my wickedness then we could be
friends. Let us meet and talk. I promise not to make you mad. In return
will you teach me how to be not-wicked?
Hopefully
16
I arrived at the Sixth North-Western Hall. The rooks greeted me
noisily. On the Pavement I found the remnants of 16’s last message and my
own message. But there was nothing new. 16 had not written to me. I was
disappointed, but I told Myself that this was only to be expected; if I kept
erasing 16’s messages without reading them it was hardly likely that she
would keep writing.
I got out my chalk and knelt down. Beneath my last message I wrote:
DEAR 16
IN SIX DAYS’ TIME A GREAT FLOOD WILL RISE IN
THESE HALLS. EVERYWHERE WILL BE UNDER WATER TO A
DEPTH GREATER THAN YOUR HEIGHT OR MINE.
ACCORDING TO MY ESTIMATIONS THE PERILOUS
REGION WILL STRETCH AS FAR AS:
SIX HALLS WEST OF HERE
FOUR HALLS NORTH OF HERE
FIVE HALLS EAST OF HERE
SIX HALLS SOUTH OF HERE
THE FLOOD WILL LAST THREE TO FOUR HOURS AFTER
WHICH IT WILL BEGIN TO SUBSIDE.
PLEASE ABSENT YOURSELF FROM THESE HALLS AT
THIS TIME OR YOU WILL BE IN DANGER. THERE WILL BE
STRONG CURRENTS. SHOULD YOU FIND YOURSELF
CAUGHT BY THE FLOOD, THEN CLIMB QUICKLY! THE
STATUES ARE GRACIOUS AND WILL PROTECT YOU.
PIRANESI
I considered the message carefully. It was as clear as I could make it
except for one thing. ‘In six days’ time’ was only meaningful if 16 knew the
day on which I had written the message and how would she know that?
I could write today’s date, but that was according to a calendar of my
own invention and it seemed unlikely that 16 had invented the same
calendar as me.
POSTSCRIPT: TODAY IS THE SECOND DAY OF THE NEW
MOON. THE DAY OF THE FLOOD WILL BE THE FIRST DAY OF
THE QUARTER MOON.
All I could hope for was that 16 had not stopped visiting this Hall
altogether and that she saw this warning.
Before the Flood comes I need to gather up all my plastic bowls – the
ones I use to collect Fresh Water – so that they are not carried off by the
Waters. I knew that there were two not far from the Sixth North-Western
Hall, in the Eighteenth North-Western Hall on the other side of the TwentyFourth Vestibule. I thought I might as well get them now as I was in the
Vicinity.
I walked to the Twenty-Fourth Vestibule. This Vestibule is notable for
a shallow, sloping bank of white marble pebbles, which partially blocks the
Mouth of the Staircase leading to the Lower Halls. The pebbles have been
deposited here over time by the Tides. They have smooth, rounded shapes,
delightful to the touch; they are a pure white colour with a beautiful,
glowing translucency. I have climbed over this bank many times to fish and
gather shellfish. Always I dislodge a few pebbles, but never so many that it
alters the overall shape of the bank.
The first thing that I saw today was that some of the pebbles had been
removed. There was a hollow in the side of the bank where no hollow had
been before. I was astonished by this. Who could have done it? I have seen
rooks and crows take small stones to break open shellfish, but birds do not
move a great number of stones for no reason.
I looked around. Something white was scattered over the Pavement in
the North-Eastern Corner of the Vestibule.
I approached. Too late I realised that the pebbles formed shapes.
Words! Words made by 16! Before I had time to tear my eyes away I had
read the entire message! In letters approximately 25 centimetres high it
said:
ARE YOU MATTHEW ROSE SORENSEN?
Matthew Rose Sorensen. A name. Three words that make up a name.
Matthew Rose Sorensen …
An image rose up in front of me, like a memory or a vision.
… I seemed to be standing at the junction of many streets in a city.
Dark rain poured down on me from a dark sky. Lights, lights, lights
sparkled everywhere! The lights were many coloured and all were mirrored
in the wet tarmac. Buildings rose up on every side. Cars rushed past. Words
and images were inscribed on the buildings. Dark forms filled the streets; I
thought at first that they were statues, but they moved and I saw they were
people. Thousands upon thousands of people. More people than I had ever
conceived of before. Too many people. The mind could not contain the
thought of so many. And everything smelt of rain, and metal, and staleness.
This vision had a name and its name was …
But, just as the word trembled on the brink of conscious thought, it
vanished and so too did the image. I was in the Real World again.
I staggered and almost fell. I felt dizzy, parched, breathless.
I looked up at the Statues on the Walls of the Vestibule. ‘I need water,’
I told them hoarsely. ‘Bring me a drink of water.’
But they were only Statues and they could not bring me water. They
could only look down on me with Calm Nobility.
I am …
THIRD ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
16 had found a way to fulfil her dark purpose and make me mad! I had
erased her last message and what happened? She had constructed a message
I could not possibly erase without reading it!
Are you Matthew Rose Sorensen?
I am … I stuttered. I am …
At first I could get no further than this.
I am … I am the Beloved Child of the House.
Yes.
Immediately I felt calmer. Was any other identity even necessary? I did
not think that it was. Another thought struck me.
I am Piranesi.
But I knew that I did not really believe this. Piranesi is not my name. (I
am almost certain that Piranesi is not my name.)
I once asked the Other why he called me Piranesi.
He laughed in a slightly embarrassed way. Oh, that (he said). Well,
originally it was a sort of joke I suppose. I have to call you something. And
it suits you. It’s a name associated with labyrinths. You don’t mind, do you?
I’ll stop if you don’t like it.
I do not mind, I said. And, as you say, you have to call me something.
The Silence of the House feels charged with expectation as I write
these words. It seems to be waiting for something extraordinary to happen.
Are you Matthew Rose Sorensen?
How could I possibly answer this question when I had no idea who
Matthew Rose Sorensen was? Perhaps the thing to do was to look up
Matthew Rose Sorensen in the Index?
I went to the Eighteenth North-Western Hall and had a long drink of
water. It was delicious and refreshing (it had been a Cloud only hours
before). I rested a moment. Then I made my way to the Second Northern
Hall where I fetched out my Index and Journals.
Are you Matthew Rose Sorensen?
The fact that Matthew Rose Sorensen had three names made him
tricky to locate in the Index. I looked for him first under S. Nothing. I
looked for him under R. There were three entries.
Rose Sorensen, Matthew: publications 2006–2010, Journal no.
21, page 6
Rose Sorensen, Matthew: publications 2011–12, Journal no. 22,
pages 144–45
Rose Sorensen, Matthew, bio for Torn and Blinded: Journal no.
22, page 200
The last entry looked most promising.
Matthew Rose Sorensen is the English son of a half-Danish, halfScottish father and a Ghanaian mother. He originally studied
mathematics, but his interest soon migrated (via the philosophy of
mathematics and the history of ideas) to his current field of study:
transgressive thinking. He is writing a book about Laurence ArneSayles, a man who transgressed against science, against reason and
against law.
I found it interesting that Matthew Rose Sorensen believed that
Laurence Arne-Sayles had denied Science and Reason. In this he was not
correct. The Prophet was a scientist and a lover of Reason. I spoke out loud
to the Empty Air.
‘I do not agree with you,’ I said.
I was trying to summon up Matthew Rose Sorensen, to trick him into
revealing himself. If he really was some forgotten part of Myself, then he
would not like to be contradicted; he would argue his position.
But it did not work. He did not rise up from some shadowy recess of
my mind. He remained an emptiness, a silence, an absence.
I turned to the other two entries.
The first was simply a list.
‘“Now, here, now, always”: J. B. Priestley’s Time Plays’, Tempus,
Volume 6: 85–92
Embrace/Tolerate/Vilify/Destroy: How Academia treats Outsider
Ideas, Manchester University Press, 2008
‘Sources of outsider mathematics: Srinivasa Ramanujan and the
Goddess’, Intellectual History Quarterly, Volume 25: 204–238,
Manchester University Press
The second entry was just more of the same.
‘Timey-Wimey: Steven Moffat, Blink and J. W. Dunne’s theories of
Time’, Journal of Space, Time and Everything, Volume 64: 42–68,
University of Minnesota Press
‘“The circles that you find in the windmills of your mind”: The
Importance of Labyrinths in Laurence Arne-Sayles’s Exploitation of
his Adherents’, Review of Psychedelia and the Counterculture, Volume
35, issue 4
The Gargoyle on the Cathedral Roof: Laurence Arne-Sayles and
Academia’, Intellectual History Quarterly, Volume 28: 119–152,
Manchester University Press
Outsider Thinking: A Very Short Introduction, OUP, pub. 31 May
2012
‘Time-travelling Architecture’: article on Paul Enoch and
Bradford for the Guardian, 28 July 2012
I let out a long snort of frustration. This was utterly useless! Other than
the fact that Matthew Rose Sorensen was interested in Laurence Arne-Sayles (which in no way differentiated him from everyone else in the
World) I had learnt nothing. I felt a strong urge to shake my Journal, as if I
could somehow shake more information out of it.
I sat for a long time thinking.
There was one person that I had not yet looked up in the Index and that
was the Other. I had not thought of it until now. But perhaps if I read about
the Other and found Matthew Rose Sorensen mentioned there, then … I
paused. Then what? Then perhaps I would be able to judge whether the
Other knew Matthew Rose Sorensen, and ultimately whether Matthew Rose
Sorensen was me.
There did not seem to be any harm in trying. In fact, of all the names
in the World that I might look up, the Other seemed the safest. He and I had
been friends for years. I opened the Index under O. I counted seventy-four
entries for the Other. I had written far more about the Other than about any
other subject. In fact, I had already been obliged to reallocate two pages
from the letter P to accommodate them all.
I found:
Other, the, Rituals performed by
Other, the, Discourses on the Great and Secret Knowledge
Other, the, lends me a camera so that I can take pictures of the
Drowned Halls
Other, the, asks me to make him a map of the Stars
Other, the, asks me to draw a map of the Halls immediately
surrounding the First Vestibule
Other, the, proposes that the Statues form a sort of code, which
we might be able to decipher
and on and on and on. Until I reached the most recent entries:
Other, the, uses the nonsense word ‘Batter-Sea’ to test my
memory
Other, the, gives me a present of shoes
I skim-read a few entries. I read how the Other had performed various
Rituals at which I had assisted. I read how clever the Other was, how
scientific, how insightful, how handsome. I read detailed descriptions of his
clothes. This was mildly interesting, but in no way helped me with my
present problem. Unlike the entries on Stanley Ovenden, Maurizio
Giussani, Sylvia D’Agostino and Laurence Arne-Sayles, none of the entries
on the Other was new to me. They contained no arcane words or phrases
that seemed to pulsate with hidden meaning (words such as ‘Whalley
Range’ and ‘doctor’s surgery’). All the events were ones I remembered
clearly. And nowhere did the name Matthew Rose Sorensen appear.
I remembered that the Prophet had called the Other, Ketterley. So I
turned to K.
There were eight entries. The first was on page 187 of Journal no. 2
(previously Journal no. 22).
Dr Valentine Andrew Ketterley. Born 1955 in Barcelona. Brought
up in Poole, Dorset. (The Ketterleys are an old Dorsetshire family.)
Son of Colonel Ranulph Andrew Ketterley, soldier and occultist.
Valentine Ketterley was a student of Laurence Arne-Sayles and
afterwards a research fellow in Social Anthropology at Manchester.
Married Clémence Hubert 1985. Divorced 1991. Two children. In
1992 Ketterley left Manchester and took up a teaching post at UCL. In
June of the same year he wrote a letter to The Times in which he
publicly repudiated Arne-Sayles, accusing him of deliberately
misleading and manipulating students, feeding them pseudo-mysticism
and stories of other worlds. Ketterley called on the University of
Manchester to dismiss Arne-Sayles. (The university did not do so until
1997 when Arne-Sayles was arrested for false imprisonment.)
In recent years Ketterley has refused to answer any questions
about Arne-Sayles.
Question: is it worth getting in touch with Ketterley to see if he
will talk to me? Lives somewhere near Battersea Park.
Action point: make a list of questions for Dr Ketterley.
I was back on familiar ground. The entry was the usual mish-mash of
words that held a clear meaning and words whose meaning was obscure –
always presuming that they meant anything at all. I noted with interest the
re-emergence of the mysterious word ‘Battersea’ (and saw that it ought not
to be hyphenated).
I returned to the Index to find the location of the next entry and it was
then that I noticed something rather strange. The remaining entries – there
were seven of them – were all on consecutive pages. The last ten pages of
Journal no. 22 and the first thirty-two pages of Journal no. 23 were all about
Ketterley.
I opened Journal no. 2 (previously Journal no. 22). The last ten pages –
the very pages that I wanted – were missing; just a few torn edges remained
in the spine. I opened Journal no. 3 (previously Journal no. 23) and found
the same thing. The thirty-two pages with information about Ketterley were
gone.
I sat back, mystified.
Who could have done this? Could it have been the Prophet? I knew
that he detested Ketterley. Perhaps his hatred would cause him to destroy
writing about his enemy? Or could it have been 16? 16 hated Reason.
Perhaps she also hated Writing, a medium by which Reason can pass from
one Person to another. But that made no sense. 16 had employed Writing to
leave me a long message. And in any case how could the Prophet or 16 find
my Journals? They are kept (as I have explained) in my messenger bag,
which is hidden behind the Statue of an Angel caught on a Rose Bush in the
North-Eastern Corner of the Second Northern Hall. It is one Statue among
thousands, among millions. How would either of them know where to look?
I sat for a long time and thought. I had no recollection of tearing out
the pages. But realistically who else could have done it? And I have known
for some time that many things have happened of which I have no
recollection. I have done many things of which I have no recollection (such
as write these mysterious entries). Which meant I could have torn out the
pages.
But if I had torn out the pages, what had happened to them? Where had
they gone?
I fetched the scraps of paper that I found in the Eighty-Eighth Western
Hall. I took out a few and spread them out so that I could examine them.
One – a corner piece – bore the numeral 231. It was a page number from
Journal no. 2.
Quickly – almost feverishly – I began to put the pieces together. There
were approximately thirty entries covering a period that I had designated 15
November 2012 to 20 December 2012. The longest entry was titled: The
events of 15 November 2012.
PART 5
VALENTINE KETTERLEY
The events of 15 November 2012
I visited him in mid-November. It was just after four, a cold blue
twilight. The afternoon had been stormy and the lights of the cars were
pixelated by rain; the pavements collaged with wet black leaves.
When I got to his house I heard music playing. A requiem. I waited for
him to answer the door to an accompaniment of Berlioz.
The door opened.
‘Dr Ketterley?’ I said.
He was between fifty and sixty, tall and slender. A handsome man. He
had an ascetic-looking head with high cheekbones and forehead. His hair
and eyes were dark and his skin was olive-coloured. His hair was receding,
but only a little, and he had a neatly trimmed, slightly pointed beard with
more grey in it than his hair.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And you are Matthew Rose Sorensen.’
I agreed that I was.
‘Come in,’ he said.
I remember how the smell of rain that pervaded the streets did not die
away as I entered, but somehow intensified; inside the house there was a
smell of rain, clouds and air, a smell of limitless space. A smell of the sea.
Which made no sense at all in a Victorian terraced house in Battersea.
He led me to a sitting room. The Berlioz was playing. He turned down
the volume but it still played in the background of our conversation, the
soundtrack of catastrophe.
I placed my messenger bag on the floor. He brought coffee.
‘You’re an academic, I understand,’ I said.
‘I was an academic,’ he explained with a slight weariness. ‘Until about
fifteen years ago. I’m in private practice as a psychologist now. Academia
was never very welcoming to me. I had the wrong sort of ideas and the
wrong sort of friends.’
‘I suppose the Arne-Sayles connection didn’t do you any favours?’
‘Well, quite. People still think I must have known about his crimes. I
didn’t.’
‘Do you still see him?’ I asked.
‘God, no! Not for twenty years.’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘Have
you spoken to Laurence?’
‘No. I’ve written to him of course. But so far he’s refused to see me.’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘I thought perhaps he didn’t want to talk to me because he feels
ashamed of the past,’ I said.
Ketterley gave a short, sharp, humourless laugh. ‘Hardly. Laurence has
no shame. He’s just perverse. If someone says white, he’ll say black. If you
say you want to see him, then he won’t want to see you. That’s just the way
he is.’
I lifted my messenger bag on to my lap and fetched out my journal. As
well as my current journal I also had with me the previous volume of my
journal (which I referred to almost every day); the index to my journals; and
a blank notebook that would form the next volume of my journal (I was
very close to the end of the current one).
I opened my current journal and began to write.
He watched with interest. ‘You use physical pen and paper?’
‘I use a journal system for all my notes. I find that it’s much the best
way for keeping track of information.’
‘And are you a good record keeper?’ he asked. ‘On the whole?’
‘I’m an excellent record keeper. On the whole.’
‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘Why? Do you want to offer me a job?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ He paused. ‘What is it that you’re
actually after?’
I explained that I was chiefly interested in transgressive ideas, in the
people who formulate them, and how they are received by the various
disciplines – religion, art, literature, science, mathematics and so forth.
‘And Laurence Arne-Sayles is the transgressive thinker par excellence. He
crossed so many boundaries. He wrote about magic and pretended it was
science. He convinced a group of highly intelligent people that there were
other worlds and he could take them there. He was gay when it was still
illegal. He kidnapped a man and to this day no one knows why.’
Ketterley said nothing. His face was a discouraging blank. He looked
more bored than anything.
‘I realise that all of this happened a long time ago,’ I offered with a
stab at empathy.
‘I have an excellent memory,’ he said coldly.
‘Oh. Well, that’s good. Just at the moment I’m trying to build up a
picture of what it was like at Manchester in the first half of the eighties.
Working with Arne-Sayles. What the atmosphere was like. What sort of
things he was saying to you. What sort of possibilities he was conjuring up.
That kind of thing.’
‘Yes,’ mused Ketterley, speaking apparently to himself, ‘people always
use words like that about Laurence. Conjuring.’
‘You object to the word?’
‘Of course I object to the fucking word,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re
suggesting that Laurence was some sort of stage magician and we were all
his wide-eyed dupes. It wasn’t like that at all. He liked you to argue with
him. He liked you to put the rationalist point of view.’
‘And then …?’
‘And then he demolished you. His theories weren’t just smoke and
mirrors. Far from it. He’d thought everything through. It was perfectly
coherent as far as it went. And he wasn’t afraid to merge intellect with
imagination. His description of the thinking of Pre-Modern Man was more
persuasive than anything else I’ve come across.’ He paused. ‘I’m not saying
that he wasn’t manipulative. He was certainly that.’
‘But I thought you just said …?’
‘On a personal level. In his relationships he was manipulative. On an
intellectual level he was honest, but on a personal level he was as
manipulative as hell. Take Sylvia for example.’
‘Sylvia D’Agostino?’
‘Strange girl. Devoted to Laurence. She was an only child. Very close
to her parents, particularly her father. She and her father were both gifted
poets. Laurence told her to manufacture a quarrel with her parents and
break off all contact with them. And she did. She did it because Laurence
instructed her to do it and because Laurence was the great magus, the great
seer who was about to guide us all into the next Age of Man. There was
absolutely no advantage to him in cutting her off from her family. It didn’t
benefit him in the slightest. He did it because he could. He did it to cause
anguish for her and her parents. He did it because he was cruel.’
‘Sylvia D’Agostino was one of the people who disappeared,’ I said.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Ketterley.
‘I don’t think you can claim he was intellectually honest. He said he’d
been to other worlds. He said other people had been there too. That’s not
exactly honest, is it?’There may have been a slight edge of superciliousness
in my voice, which I suppose I would have done better to suppress but I
have always liked winning arguments.
Ketterley scowled. He seemed to struggle with something. He opened
his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and then: ‘I don’t like you
very much,’ he said.
I laughed. ‘I can live with that,’ I said.
There was a silence.
‘Why a labyrinth, do you suppose?’ I asked.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Why do you think he described the other world – the one he said he
went to most often – as a labyrinth?’
Ketterley shrugged. ‘A vision of cosmic grandeur, I suppose. A
symbol of the mingled glory and horror of existence. No one gets out alive.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But what I still don’t quite understand was how he
convinced you of its existence. The labyrinth-world, I mean.’
‘He had us perform a ritual that was supposed to bring us there. There
were aspects of the ritual that were … evocative, I suppose. Suggestive.’
‘A ritual? Really? I thought Arne-Sayles’s position was that rituals
were nonsense. Didn’t he say something like that in The Half-Seen Door?’
‘That’s right. He claimed that he personally was able to access the
labyrinth-world simply by making an adjustment to his frame of mind, by
returning to a child-like state of wonder, a prerational consciousness. He
claimed to be able to do this at will. Unsurprisingly, most of us – his
students – got absolutely nowhere with this, so he created a ritual that we
were to perform in order to access the labyrinth. But he made it clear that
this was a concession to our lack of ability.’
‘I see. Most of you?’
‘What?’
‘You said most of you couldn’t enter the labyrinth without the ritual. It
seemed to imply that some of you could.’
A slight pause.
‘Sylvia. Sylvia thought she could get there in the same way that
Laurence did. With this return to a state of wonder. She was a strange girl,
as I’ve said. A poet. She lived very much inside her head. Who knows what
she thought she saw.’
‘And did you ever see it? The labyrinth?’
He considered. ‘Mostly I had what you might call intimations, a sense
of standing in a huge space – not just wide, but immensely tall too. And –
this is quite hard to admit – but yes, I did see it once. I mean I thought I saw
it once.’
‘What did it look like?’
‘Very much like Laurence’s description. Like an infinite series of
classical buildings knitted together.’
‘And what do you think it meant?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. I don’t think it meant anything at all.’
A short silence. Then he suddenly said, ‘Does anyone know you’re
here?’
‘Sorry?’ I said. It seemed an odd question.
‘You said that the Laurence Arne-Sayles connection dogged my career
in academia. Yet here you are, an academic, asking questions about it all,
dragging it all up again. I just wondered why you weren’t being more
careful. Aren’t you afraid it will tarnish your brilliant career?’
‘I don’t think anyone is going to take issue with my approach,’ I said.
‘My book on Arne-Sayles is part of a wider project on transgressive
thinking. As I think I’ve already explained.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘So you’ve told lots of people that you were
coming here today to see me? All your friends.’
I frowned. ‘No, I haven’t told anyone. I don’t usually tell people what
I’m doing. But that’s not because …’
‘Interesting,’ he said.
We looked at each other with a sort of mutual dislike. I was about to
rise and go, when he suddenly said, ‘Do you really want to understand
Laurence and the hold he had over us?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘Then in that case we should perform the ritual.’
‘The ritual?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘The one to …’
‘The one to open the path to the labyrinth. Yes.’
‘What? Now?’ I was a bit startled by the suggestion. (But I wasn’t
afraid. What was there to be afraid of?) ‘You still remember it?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. As I said, I have an excellent memory.’
‘Oh, well, I … Will it take long?’ I asked. ‘Only I have to …’
‘It takes twelve minutes,’ he said.
‘Oh! Oh, OK. Sure. Why not?’ I said. I stood up. ‘I don’t have to take
any drugs, do I?’ I said. ‘Because that’s not really …’
He laughed that rather contemptuous laugh again. ‘You’ve had a cup
of coffee. I think that’ll be sufficient.’
He lowered the blinds of the windows. He took a candle in a
candlestick from the mantelpiece. The candlestick was an old-fashioned
brass one with a square base. It didn’t really match the rest of the
furnishings in the house, which were modern, minimalist, European.
He got me to stand in the sitting room, facing the door that led to the
hall. This area had been left free from furniture.
He picked up my messenger bag – the bag containing my journals, my
index and my pens – and placed it on my shoulder.
‘What’s that for?’ I asked, frowning.
‘You’re going to need your notebooks,’ he said. ‘You know. When you
get to the labyrinth.’
He had an odd sense of humour.
(Writing this, I feel a sort of terror descend on me. I know now what is
coming. My hand is shaking and I must stop writing for a moment to try to
control it. But at the time I felt nothing, no presentiment of danger,
nothing.)
He lit the candle and placed it on the floor of the hall, just beyond the
door. The floor of the hall was the same as the floor of the sitting room: a
solid wood flooring in oak. I noticed a blotch where he put the candlestick,
as if the oak there had been repeatedly stained with candlewax, and within
the dark stain was an unstained lighter square into which the candlestick
base fitted precisely.
‘You need to focus on the candle,’ he said.
So I did.
But at the same time, I was thinking about that pale square in the dark
patch and the candlestick fitting into it. And that was the point at which I
realised that he was lying. The candle had stood in that precise spot many,
many times and he had performed this ritual over and over again. He still
believed. He still thought he could reach the other world.
I wasn’t afraid, only incredulous and amused. And I started going over
in my mind what questions I could ask him after the ritual in order to
expose his dishonesty.
He turned out the lights in the house. It was dark except for the candle
burning on the floor and the orange haze from the streetlights outside that
penetrated the blinds.
He stood slightly behind me and instructed me to keep my eyes upon
the candle. Then he began to chant in a language I’d never heard before. I
surmised, from the similarities to Welsh and Cornish, that it was Brittonic. I
think if I had not already found out his secret, I would have guessed it then.
He chanted with conviction, with fervour, like he believed absolutely in
what he was doing.
I heard the name ‘Addedomarus’ several times.
‘Close your eyes now,’ he said.
I did so.
More chanting. My amusement at discovering his secret sustained me
for a while, but then I began to grow bored. He abandoned language
altogether and seemed to drag out of himself a sort of animal growl that
started in his stomach, impossibly deep, and grew higher, wilder, louder,
more extraordinary.
Everything switched.
It was as if the world had somehow just stopped. He fell silent. The
Berlioz was cut off mid-chorus. My eyelids were still closed but I could tell
that the quality of the darkness had changed; it was greyer, cooler. The air
felt colder and much damper, as if we’d been plunged into a fog. I
wondered if somewhere a door had been thrown open; but that made no
sense because at the same time the hum of London ceased. There was a
sound of vast emptiness, and all around me waves were hitting walls with a
dull thud. I opened my eyes.
The walls of a vast room rose up around me. Statues of minotaurs
loomed over me, darkening the space with their bulk, their massive horns
jutting into the empty air, their animal expressions solemn, inscrutable.
I turned in utter incredulity.
Ketterley was standing in his shirtsleeves. He was completely at his
ease. He was looking at me and smiling as if I was an experiment that had
gone surprisingly well.
‘Forgive me for not saying anything before now,’ he smiled, ‘but I
really am delighted to see you. A young, healthy man is just what I wanted.’
‘Put it back!’ I screamed at him.
He began to laugh.
And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
PART 6
WAVE
I was mistaken!
FOURTH ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I was sitting cross-legged with my Journal in my lap and the fragments
in front of me. I turned away slightly, not wanting to soil any of them, and
vomited on the Pavement. I was shaking.
I fetched Myself a drink of water, as well as a rag and some more
water to wipe up the vomit.
I was mistaken. The Other is not my friend. He has never been my
friend. He is my enemy.
I was still shaking. I had the cup of water in my hand, but I could not
hold it steady.
I had known once that the Other was my enemy. Or rather Matthew
Rose Sorensen had known it. But when I had forgotten Matthew Rose
Sorensen, I had forgotten this as well.
I had forgotten, but the Other remembered. I could see now that he was
apprehensive in case one day I remembered. He called me Piranesi so he
would not need to use the name Matthew Rose Sorensen. He tested me by
speaking words such as ‘Battersea’ to see if they sparked any memories. I
had been incorrect when I said that Battersea was nonsense. It was not
nonsense. It was a word that meant something to Matthew Rose Sorensen.
But why was the Other able to remember when I was not?
Because he did not stay in the House but went back to the Other
World.
Revelations came thick and fast now. My head seemed to shudder with
the weight of them. I clasped my head in my hands and groaned.
I must not stay long, the Prophet had said, I am all too well aware of
the consequences of lingering in this place: amnesia, total mental collapse,
etcetera, etcetera. Like the Prophet, the Other never lingered. He never
allowed our meetings to last longer than an hour and at the end of them he
walked away; and when he did that he was walking away into the Other
World.
But how could I make sure that I did not forget again? I pictured
Myself forgetting and becoming the Other’s friend again and running about
the House taking measurements and photos and collecting data for him,
while all the time he was laughing at me! No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!
I could not bear the thought of it! I pressed my head between my hands as if
I could physically keep the memories from escaping.
I will learn from 16 and collect marble pebbles from the Vestibules and
form letters with them. I will write in letters a metre high! REMEMBER!
THE OTHER IS NOT YOUR FRIEND! HE TRICKED MATTHEW ROSE
SORENSEN INTO COMING INTO THIS WORLD FOR HIS OWN
ADVANTAGE! If necessary, I will fill Hall after Hall with immense writing!
… for his own advantage … Yes, yes! That was the key to it. That was
why he had brought Matthew Rose Sorensen here. The Other had needed
someone – a slave! – to live in these Halls and collect information about
them; he dares not do it himself in case the House makes him forget.
Furious, hot anger rose up inside me.
Why, why had I told him about the Flood? If only I had learnt all this
before I knew about the Flood! Then I could have kept it a secret. I could
have waited until Thursday came and I could have climbed up to a High
Place, safe from the Waters and I could have watched him Destroyed. Yes!
That is what I want now! Perhaps it is not too late! I will go back to the
Other. I will smile and look as usual and I will deceive him as he has
deceived me. I will say I made a mistake about the Flood. No Flood is
coming. Be here on Thursday! Be in the very middle of these Halls!
But of course, the Other has said that he will not be here on Thursday.
He is never here on Thursdays. He will be safe in the Other World. That
does not matter! Anger makes me resourceful! On Tuesday the Other will
come to meet me – it is our regular meeting day. I will snatch him and bind
him with fishing nets. With these hands I will do it! I have two fishing nets.
They are made of a synthetic polymer and very strong. I shall bind him to
the Statues in the Second South-Western Hall. For two days he will be
bound. He will be in torment, knowing the Flood is coming. Perhaps I will
give him water to drink. Perhaps I will not. Perhaps I will say to him: ‘Soon
you will have plenty of Water!’ And on Thursday he will watch the Tides
pouring in through the Doors and he will scream and scream. And I will
laugh and laugh. I will laugh as long and as loud as he laughed at Matthew
Rose Sorensen when he brought him here …
This is where I lost Myself.
I lost Myself in long, sick fantasies of revenge. I did not think to rest. I
did not think to eat. I did not think to drink water. Hours passed – I do not
how many. I wandered about and over and over in my imagination the
Other died in the Flood or he fell from a great Height. And sometimes I
raved at him and accused him; and sometimes I was cold and silent, and he
begged me to tell him why I had turned against him, but I did not. And
always I could have saved him, but I never did.
These imaginings left me ravaged. I do not think I could have felt
more exhausted if I really had murdered someone a hundred times over. My
thighs ached, my back ached, my head ached. My eyes and throat were sore
with weeping and shouting.
When night came, I made my way back to the Third Northern Hall. I
collapsed on my bed and slept.
It is 16 that is my friend and not the Other
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I awoke this morning exhausted from the excesses of the day before. I
went to the Ninth Vestibule to gather seaweed and mussels to make a broth
for my breakfast. I felt dull and empty with no appetite for further anger.
Yet, despite this emotional blankness, from time to time a sob or cry would
escape my lips – a little sound of desolation.
I did not believe it was Myself that cried out. It was, I thought,
Matthew Rose Sorensen who reposed in a state of unconsciousness
somewhere inside Myself.
He had suffered. He had been alone with his enemy. It had been more
than he could bear. Perhaps the Other had taunted him. Matthew Rose
Sorensen had torn into pieces the description of his enslavement that he had
written in his Journal and he had scattered the pieces in the Eighty-Eighth
Western Hall. Then the House in its Mercy had caused him to fall asleep –
which was by far the best thing for him – and it had placed him inside me.
But the sight of his name written in pebbles in the Twenty-Fourth
Vestibule had caused him to stir uneasily and the revelation of what the
Other had done had only made matters worse. I worried in case he woke up
completely and his anguish began all over again.
I placed my hand on my chest. Hush now! I said, Do not be afraid. You
are safe. Go back to sleep. I will take care of us both.
It seemed to me that Matthew Rose Sorensen fell asleep again.
I thought of all those Journal entries that I had read – the ones about
Giussani, Ovenden, D’Agostino and poor James Ritter. I had thought that I
was mad when I wrote them. But I could now see that this conclusion was
incorrect. I had not written the entries at all; he had written them. And, what
is more, he had written them in a different World where, no doubt, different
Rules, Circumstances and Conditions applied. As far as I can tell, Matthew
Rose Sorensen was in his right mind when he wrote them. Neither he nor I
had ever been mad.
Another revelation came to me: it was the Other who wanted me to be
mad, not 16. The Other had lied when he said 16 was trying to drive me
insane.
I made my seaweed-and-mussel broth and drank it. It was important to
keep up my strength. Then I took up my Journal again. I turned back to the
message that 16 had written and which I had erased leaving only fragments.
A DISCIPLE OF THE OCCULTIST LAURENCE ARNE-
SAY(LES)
Preparations for the Flood
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SIXTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
With the exception of the Concealed Person, all the Dead stand in the
Path of the Flood Waters. On Sunday I began the work of carrying them to
safety.
I took a blanket and transferred all the Biscuit-Box Man’s bones into it
– all except for the ones inside the biscuit box. I tied up the blanket with
seaweed twine, making it into a sort of sack, and I carried it to the Second
Vestibule and up the Staircase to the Upper Halls. There I emptied out the
blanket and placed the bones on the Plinth of a Statue of a Shepherdess with
a Lamb in her Arms. Then I went back for the biscuit box.
I did the same for the People of the Alcove and the Folded-Up Child,
carrying each of them up a Staircase – whichever Staircase was nearest to
their usual Habitation – and storing them carefully in one of the Upper
Halls. I did not empty out the Fish-Leather Man but kept him wrapped up in
the blanket (he has so many tiny fragments of bone that I am afraid of
losing some). Similarly, I left the Folded-Up Child snuggled in a blanket,
but that was more because I wanted her to feel safe in an unfamiliar Place.
It took me the best part of three days to complete the task. The bones
of each individual Dead Person weigh between 2.5 and 4.5 kilograms and
the Staircases are 25 metres high. Yet I found that it was good to do hard,
physical work; it prevented me from continually obsessing over the injuries
the Other has done me and my fears concerning 16.
I had not forgotten the albatross chick (now a very large bird!). I did a
series of calculations to find out how the Forty-Third Vestibule would be
affected by the flood and was relieved to discover that there would be, at
most, only a thin skin of Water. The albatrosses consider me a friend, but I
did not think they would allow me to carry their chick up a Staircase – and
in any struggle between us they would surely win!
Yesterday was Tuesday, the day that I would normally go to my
meeting with the Other. I did not go. Was he suspicious, I wonder? Or did
he simply think that I was too busy preparing for the Flood?
The Statue of an Angel caught on a Rose Bush (behind which I keep
my Journals and Index) is approximately 5 metres from the Floor; a height
likely sufficient to keep them safe from the Flood. But, since my Journals
and Index are almost as dear to me as my Life, I have placed them all in my
brown leather messenger bag, wrapped the messenger bag in heavy-gauge
plastic and carried it up to the Upper Halls and placed it beside the BiscuitBox Man. I have stowed all my fishing gear, sleeping bags, pots and pans,
bowls, spoons and other possessions in High Places out of the reach of the
Flood. My last task was to gather up the remaining plastic bowls (the ones I
use to collect Fresh Water).
I had just collected the last ones from the Fourteenth South-Western
Hall and was carrying them back to the Third Northern Hall. On my way I
passed through the First Western Hall. This is the Hall that contains the
Statues of the Horned Giants, those Vast Figures that emerge, struggling
powerfully and with contorted Faces, from the Walls on either side of the
Eastern Door.
- a Gun
- a quantity of folded material made of a dense, heavy plastic. This was by far the largest object in the bag; it filled most of the bag and was coloured blue, black and grey.
- a small cylindrical container with a secure lid. This contained other small objects the purpose of which was unclear.
- a thing like a slice of a larger cylinder cut down at an angle, with a yellow hose coming out of it
- two black plastic rods extendable to a length of approximately 2 metres
- 4 black paddle-shapes
I replaced the Gun in the bag and did up the closures. I returned to the Third Northern Hall.
Wave
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SEVENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Today was the day of the Flood. I woke at my usual time. I was keyed
up with nerves and my stomach was clenched tight.
The day felt cold and I could tell by the touch of the Air on my skin
that it was already raining in the Vestibules.
I had no appetite, but nevertheless I heated a little soup and forced
Myself to drink it. It is important to keep the body well nourished. I washed
up my pan and bowl and stowed the last of my possessions behind High
Statues. I put on my watch.
It was a quarter to eight.
My most important task was to find 16 and ensure her safety. But as to
the best way to accomplish it, that was far from clear. I was certain that the
Other had set a trap for 16. Most likely he had promised to meet her in a
certain Hall at a certain time and to tell her how to find Matthew Rose
Sorensen. This meant that the most reliable way to find 16 was to look for
the Other, but I did not want to go near the Other if I could avoid it. I
remembered the words of the Prophet:
The closer 16 gets, the more dangerous Ketterley will become.
My hope was that I could find 16 before she reached the Other.
I went to the First Vestibule. I stood in the grey Rain and waited,
hoping that she would appear. Between nine o’clock and ten o’clock I
searched the adjacent Halls. Nothing. At ten o’clock I returned to the First
Vestibule.
At half-past ten I began to walk between the First Vestibule and the
Sixth North-Western Hall; I followed the Path laid down in 16’s directions.
I trod this Path six times, but I did not find her. I was growing extremely
anxious.
I returned to the First Vestibule. It was now half-past eleven. Two
Halls West and North of here, in the Ninth Vestibule, the first Tide was
already ascending the Easternmost Staircase. A delicate Wash of Water was
scuttling over the Pavements of the surrounding Halls.
There was nothing for it. I must look for the Other. I had only just
come to this decision, when upon the instant he appeared in front of me.
(Why could 16 not do that?) He walked briskly across the First Vestibule,
East to West. His head was ducked down against the Rain. His clothes were
strikingly different from what he usually wore: jeans, an old jumper and
sneakers, and over his jumper an odd sort of harness. Life-jacket, I thought.
(Or rather Matthew Rose Sorensen thought it inside my head.)
He did not see me. He passed into the First Western Hall. Silently I
followed him and hid Myself in a Niche near the Door.
The Other went immediately to the bag containing the inflatable boat
and began to unpack it. I waited, watching constantly for 16. The Other’s
attention was elsewhere and there might still be enough time to intercept
her if she entered the Hall.
Some distance behind the Other, at the Western End of the Hall, I
could see the glitter of Light on the Pavement: a film of Water was washing
through the North-Western Doors. I glanced at my watch. Five Halls South
and West of here, in the Twenty-Second Vestibule, another Tide was already
rising, tumbling up the Staircase.
The Other unrolled his boat. He attached his little pump to it and began
to pump with his foot. The boat began to inflate in an efficient manner.
Water was filling up the Second and Third South-Western Halls; I
could hear the dull thud of the Waves hitting their Walls.
Then it came to me. 16 was clever. She was at least as clever as me,
perhaps even more so. She knew nothing about the Flood but she would not
trust the Other. She would wait and watch, as I was doing, hoping that
Matthew Rose Sorensen would appear. Suddenly I had a mental image of
both 16 and Myself hiding in the First Western Hall, both waiting for the
other one to appear. I could not afford to remain hidden any longer: I
stepped down from the Niche and walked towards the Other.
He glanced up and scowled as I approached. He did not pause in
pumping up his boat. About two metres to his left was the grey bag, now
empty, and beside it, resting on the Pavement, was the silver Gun.
‘Where the Hell have you been?’ he said in a voice of displeasure and
anger. ‘Why weren’t you there on Tuesday? I looked for you everywhere. I
can’t remember if you said that ten rooms will be flooded or a hundred.’
His foot on the pump was slowing; the inflatable boat was almost full of Air
and his foot was meeting with more resistance. ‘I’ve had to change my
plans. It’s a pain, but there it is. Raphael is coming here and, like it or not,
we’re going to finish this. So no nonsense from you, all right? Because I
swear, Piranesi, I’ve just about had enough from everyone.’
‘I visited him in mid-November,’ I said. ‘It was just after four, a cold
blue twilight.’
He stopped pumping. The boat was now a plump shape with a taut,
rounded skin. ‘We attach the seats next,’ he said. ‘They’re those black
things over there. Pass them to me, will you?’ He pointed to the two
contraptions whose purpose I had not divined. ‘When the room floods, you
and I will get into this kayak. If Raphael tries to get into it with us, or to
hang on to it, use your paddle to strike at her hands and head.’
‘The afternoon had been stormy,’ I said, ‘and the lights of the cars
were pixelated by rain; the pavements collaged with wet black leaves.’
He was fiddling with the valves where the Air had gone in. ‘What?’ he
asked, irritably. ‘What are you talking about? Can you hurry up and pass me
those seats? We need to get a move on. She’ll be here any moment now.’
‘When I got to his house I heard music playing,’ I said. ‘A requiem. I
waited for him to answer the door to an accompaniment of Berlioz.’
‘Berlioz?’ He stopped what he was doing, straightened and looked at
me properly for the first time. He frowned. ‘I don’t … Berlioz?’
I said: ‘The door opened. “Dr Ketterley?” I said.’
He froze at the sound of his own name. His eyes widened. ‘What are
you talking about?’ he asked again in a voice made hoarse with fear.
‘Battersea,’ I said. ‘You asked me once if I remembered Battersea.
And now I do.’
Boom! … … Boom! … … The Tide from the Twenty-Second Vestibule
was growing stronger; it was hitting the Walls of the Second and Third
South-Western Halls with more force.
‘You saw her message,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
A thin Ripple of Water raced across the Pavement and hit my feet. It
was followed immediately by another one.
He laughed suddenly, an odd sound: hysteria masquerading as relief.
‘No, no!’ he said. ‘You don’t get me that easily. Those aren’t your words.
They’re someone else’s. You don’t really remember. Raphael put you up to
this. Really, Matthew, how stupid do you think I am?’
He dived suddenly to the right, towards the Gun that was lying on the
Pavement. But I had chosen my position with care and I was nearer to it
than he was. I gave it a good, sharp kick with my foot. It skittered across the
marble Pavement and came to rest by the Northern Wall about fifteen
metres away. More Ripples – deeper now – were coursing past our feet.
They flowed after the Gun, as if we were all playing a game with the Gun
and they intended to catch it.
‘What …? What are you going to do?’ asked the Other.
‘Where is 16?’ I asked.
He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment a voice was
heard. ‘Ketterley!’ it cried. A woman’s voice. 16 was here!
From the sound I judged that she was hidden in one of the Southern
Doors. The Other, who is not accustomed to the way in which the echoes
reverberate in the Halls, looked around him in a confused manner.
‘Ketterley,’ she shouted again. ‘I’ve come for Matthew Rose
Sorensen.’
He grabbed me by my right arm. ‘He’s here!’ he shouted. ‘I have him!
Come and get him.’
The Booming of the Tides was growing louder. The whole Hall
reverberated with the Force of it. Water was flowing freely in through all
the Southern Doors.
‘Take care!’ I shouted. ‘He means you harm. He has a Gun!’
A small, slight figure stepped out of the Door that leads to the First
Southern Hall. She wore jeans and a green jumper. Her dark hair was pulled
back into a ponytail.
The Other let go of me with his right hand (though he still had hold of
me by his left). Then he made a fist of his right hand and he swung his arm
and body back, intending to get some momentum to hit me; but I swung
with him, overbalancing him. He half-fell to the Floor. I pulled free from
him and began to run towards 16.
As I ran, I shouted: ‘A Flood is coming! We must climb!’
I do not know how much of my words she heard, but she understood
the urgency in my voice. I seized her hand. Together we ran towards the
Eastern Wall.
The Statues of the Horned Giants were in front of us on either side of
the Eastern Door, but we could not climb them; their bodies emerged from
the Wall two metres above the Floor and there were no hand-or footholds
until that point. Next to the Giant on the left was the Statue of a Father
seated with his little Son in his Arms; the Father was plucking a thorn from
his Son’s Foot. I climbed into their Niche and then onto their Plinth. I
mounted onto the Father’s lap and by holding onto one of the Columns at
the side, and using the Arm, Shoulder and Head of the Father as footholds, I
climbed onto the Top of the triangular Pediment that surmounted the Niche.
16 tried to follow me, but she was not so tall as me and, I suspect, not
accustomed to climbing. She got as far as the Statue’s lap but seemed at a
loss what to do next. Quickly I climbed down again and lifted her up; with
my help, she heaved herself up onto the Pediment.
It was noon. In the Tenth and Twenty-Fourth Vestibules the last two
Tides were rising, filling the surrounding Area with tempestuous, raging
Waters.
Half a metre above the Pediment was a Deep Cornice or Shelf that ran
the whole length of the Hall. We scaled the slope of the Pediment and
hoisted ourselves onto the Cornice above. We were now about seven metres
above the Floor. 16 was pale and shaking (she clearly did not love
climbing), but she had a fierce, determined expression.
The Air was suddenly rent by sharp, cracking sounds – perhaps four of
them – one after the other. For one terrifying moment I thought that the
Weight and Vibrations of the Waters were causing the Hall to collapse. I
looked out into the Hall and I saw that the Other had not yet got into his
boat (where he would be safe); instead he had run to the Northern Wall to
retrieve his Gun. He was firing at us.
‘Get in the boat!’ I shouted to him. ‘Get in the boat before it is too
late!’
He fired again, hitting a Statue above our heads. I felt a sharp pain in
my forehead. I cried out. I put my hand up and brought it away covered in
blood.
The Other started to wade through the running Waters towards us –
presumably with the idea of firing his Gun at us more effectively.
I shouted at him again, something to the effect that the Tides were
almost here! – but there was a Great Roar of Waters from every direction
and I doubt that he heard me.
If there had not been someone firing a Gun at us, we could have stayed
on the Cornice. (Then, if the Waters rose higher than I expected, we could
have climbed up again.) But, as matters stood, we were exposed, without
protection.
A metre or so below us the Back and Upper Arms of the Horned Giant
emerged from the Wall. There was a Space between his Back and the Wall,
a sort of marble pocket. I jumped; it was a distance of approximately two
metres sideways, one metre down; I managed it with ease. I looked up at
16. Her eyes were wide with apprehension. I held out my arms. She
jumped. I caught her.
We were now shielded from the Other’s Gun by the Giant’s Body. I
heaved Myself up his marble Back to look over his Shoulder.
The Other had turned away from us and was trying to reach the boat.
But he had left it too late. The Waters were as high as his knees and the
contending Waves were dragging at him. As he struggled, he seemed to
grow heavier; the boat by contrast grew lighter, freer. It danced on the
Waters, spun from one Part of the Hall to another; one moment it was by the
Northern Wall, the next it was halfway to the Western Wall. The Other kept
changing direction to follow it, but by the time he had taken a few arduous
steps, the boat was somewhere else entirely.
Suddenly it was as if the boat remembered the purpose for which it had
been brought here; it seemed to make up its mind to save him. It turned and
sailed directly towards him. He held out his arms and leant forwards to
catch it. It was barely half a metre from his grasp. For an instant I think he
had his hand on its bow; then it twirled around and was gone, borne away to
the Western End of the Hall.
‘Climb! Climb!’ I shouted. It was too late to catch the boat, but I
thought that if he climbed, he might still save himself. But he could not hear
me above the Sound of the Waters pouring into the Hall. He continued to
wade desperately, uselessly, after the boat.
There was a Great Rush and a Great Roar in the next Hall; a Weight of
Water hit the other side of the Northern Wall. Boom!!! And then I was
grateful that we had climbed down to the Horned Giant. If we had still been
standing on the Cornice, we would have been flung off the Wall. But the
Horned Giant held us fast.
Spray as high as the Ceiling exploded through all the Northern Doors.
The Spray caught the Sun; it was as if someone had suddenly thrown a
hundred barrelfuls of diamonds into the Hall.
Great Waves surged through the Northern Doors. One plucked up the
Other and threw him against the Southern Wall. He crashed into the Statues
at a point about fifteen metres from the Floor. I imagine that that was when
he died.
The Wave drew back; he disappeared into it.
Meanwhile the little inflatable boat whirled about on the Waters,
sometimes engulfed by them for a moment or two, but always reappearing
immediately. If he could only have reached it, it would have saved him.
Raphael
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-SEVENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
Waves crashed against the Southern Wall; explosions of white Spray
filled the Hall. The Waters covered the Bottom Tier of Statues; the colour of
the Waters was a stormy grey and their Depths were black. Several times
Waves passed over our heads, but they fell back the next instant. We were
drenched, we were numbed, we were blinded, we were deafened; but
always we were saved.
Time passed.
The Waves sank down and the Waters became peaceable. They began
to drain away into the Staircases and the Lower Halls. The Heads of the
Bottom Tier of Statues reappeared above the Surface of the Waters.
In all this time 16 and I had not spoken to each other. The Roar of the
Waves would have made it impossible for us to hear each other and in any
case, we had been intent on saving ourselves and each other; we had had no
thought for anything else. Now we turned and looked at each other.
16 had large dark eyes and an elfin face. Her expression was solemn.
She was a little older than me – about forty, I thought. Her hair was black
with wet.
‘You are Six … You are Raphael,’ I said.
‘I’m Sarah Raphael,’ she said. ‘And you are Matthew Rose Sorensen.’
And you are Matthew Rose Sorensen. This time she framed it as a
statement, rather than a question. This was surely premature. It would have
been better to keep it as a question. But then again, if she had framed it as a
question, I would not have known how to answer it.
‘Did he know you?’ I asked.
‘Did who know me?’ she said.
‘Matthew Rose Sorensen. Did Matthew Rose Sorensen know you? Is
that why you came here?’
She paused, taking in what I had just said. Then she said carefully,
‘No. You and I have never met.’
‘Then why?’
‘I’m a police officer,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ I said.
We fell back into silence. We were both still dazed by what had
happened. Our eyes were still full of images of the Violent Waters; our ears
were still full of their Sounds; our minds were still full of that moment
when the Other was flung by the Wave against the Wall of Statues. We had
nothing at that moment to say to each other.
Raphael turned her attention to practical matters. She examined the
injury to my forehead and said that it was not very deep. She did not think
that I had been hit by one of the Other’s bullets; more likely I had been
grazed by a shard of splintered marble.
The Level of the Waters continued to fall. When they came no higher
than the Plinths of the Bottom Tier of Statues, I began to consider how we
would get down from the Horned Giant. We could not return the way we
had come since that would involve a leap upwards onto the Cornice. I did
not think that Raphael could manage it. (Indeed, I was not sure that I could
either.)
‘I’ll go and fetch something to help you climb down,’ I told her. ‘Don’t
be anxious. I’ll return as quickly as I can.’
I lowered Myself from the Giant’s Torso and dropped down. The
Waters reached as high as my thighs. I waded to the Third Northern Hall
and climbed up the Statues to the places where I keep my belongings.
Everything was wet from the Spray, but nothing was drenched. I retrieved
my fishing nets, a bottle of Fresh Water and some dried seaweed. (It is
important to keep the body hydrated and nourished.)
I returned to the First Western Hall. The Waters had already dropped
some more and only came up as high as my knees. I climbed back up the
Horned Giant. I gave Raphael some water and made her eat a little of the
dried seaweed (though I do not think she liked it). Then I tied my fishing
nets together and fastened them to one of the Giant’s Arms. They hung
down to a point about half a metre above the Pavement. I showed Raphael
how to use the fishing nets to climb down.
We waded to the First Vestibule and ascended the Great Staircase so
that we were out of the reach of the Waters. We sat down. Our clothes were
plastered to our bodies with wet. My hair – which is dark and curly – was as
full of droplets as a Cloud. I rained every time I moved.
The birds found us there. Many different kinds – herring gulls, rooks,
blackbirds and sparrows – gathered on the Statues and Banisters and
chattered at me in their different voices.
‘It’ll be gone soon,’ I told them. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘What?’ asked Raphael, startled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I was talking to the birds,’ I said. ‘They’re alarmed by the great
quantities of Water that are everywhere. I’m telling them that it’ll soon be
gone.’
‘Oh!’ She said. ‘Do you … Do you do talk to the birds often?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But there’s no need to look surprised. You talked to the
birds yourself. In the Sixth North-Western Hall. I heard you.’
She looked even more surprised at that. ‘What did I say?’ she asked.
‘You told them to piss off. You were writing a message to me and they
were being a nuisance, flying in your face and over your writing, trying to
find out what you were doing.’
She thought a moment. ‘Was that the message that you wiped out?’ she
asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because the Oth … Because Dr Ketterley told me you were my
enemy and that reading what you had written would make me go mad. So I
erased the message. But at the same time, I wanted to read it, so I didn’t
erase all of it. I wasn’t being very logical.’
‘He made things very hard for you.’
‘Yes. I suppose he did.’
There was a silence.
‘We’re both soaking wet and cold,’ said Raphael. ‘Perhaps we should
go?’
‘Go where?’ I said.
‘Home,’ said Raphael. ‘I mean we can go to my house and get dry.
And then I can take you home.’
‘I am home,’ I said.
Raphael looked around at the sombre grey Waters lapping the Walls
and the dripping Statues. She didn’t say anything.
‘It’s usually a lot drier than this,’ I said quickly in case she was
thinking that my Home was inhospitable and damp.
But that wasn’t what she was thinking.
‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you
remember this, but you have a mum and a dad. And two sisters. And
friends.’ She gazed at me intently. ‘Do you remember?’
I shook my head.
‘They’ve been looking for you,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t know the
right place to look. They’ve been worried about you. They’ve been …’ She
looked away again to find the right words to express her thought. ‘They’ve
felt pain because they didn’t know where you were,’ she said.
I considered this. ‘I’m sorry that Matthew Rose Sorensen’s mum and
dad and sisters and friends feel pain,’ I said. ‘But I don’t really see what it
has to do with me.’
‘You don’t think of yourself as Matthew Rose Sorensen?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘But you have his face,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And his hands.’
‘Yes.’
‘And his feet and his body.’
‘All that is true. But I haven’t got his mind and I haven’t got his
memories. I don’t mean that he’s not here. He is here.’ I touched my breast.
‘But I think he’s asleep. He’s fine. You mustn’t worry about him.’
She nodded. She was not a contentious person as the Other had been;
she did not argue and contradict everything I said. I liked that about her.
‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘If you’re not him.’
‘I am the Beloved Child of the House,’ I said.
‘The house? What is the house?’
Such a strange question! I spread my arms to indicate the First
Vestibule, the Halls beyond the First Vestibule, Everything. ‘This is the
House. Look!’
‘Oh. I see.’
We were silent a moment.
Then Raphael said, ‘I need to ask you something. Would you be
prepared to come with me to Matthew Rose Sorensen’s parents and sisters –
to let them see his face again? It would help them a lot to know he is alive.
Even if you had to go away again – I mean even if you had to return here, it
would help them. What do you think about that?’
‘I can’t do it now,’ I said.
‘OK.’
‘I have to consider the needs of the Biscuit-Box Man – and the Folded-Up Child – and the People of the Alcove. They only have me to take care of
them. They are in unfamiliar surroundings and may feel disconcerted. I
have to return them to their appointed places.’
‘There are other people here?’ asked Raphael, in surprise.
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘Thirteen. The ones I have just said and also the Concealed Person.
But the Concealed Person resides in one of the Upper Halls and has not
been affected by the Flood so there was no need to move him or her.’
‘Thirteen people!’ Raphael’s dark eyes were wide with astonishment.
‘My God! Are they all right?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They’re fine. I take good care of them.’
‘But who are they? Can you take me to them? Is Stanley Ovenden
here? What about Sylvia D’Agostino? Maurizio Giussani?’
‘Oh, it is highly probable that one of them is Stanley Ovenden.
Certainly the Proph … Certainly Laurence Arne-Sayles thought so. Another
may be Sylvia D’Agostino and another Maurizio Giussani. Unfortunately, I
have no idea which is which.’
‘What do you mean? Have they forgotten who they are? What do they
say?’
‘Oh, they don’t say much really. They’re all dead.’
‘Dead!’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!’ Raphael took a moment to process this. ‘Were they dead when
you arrived?’ she asked.
I …’ I paused. It was an interesting question. I hadn’t considered it
before. ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I think they’ve all been dead a long time, but as
I don’t remember arriving, I can’t be certain. Arriving was something that
happened to Matthew Rose Sorensen, not to me.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s right. But what do you mean, you take care of
them?’
‘I make sure they are in good order. As complete and tidy as they can
be. I bring them offerings of food and drink and water lilies. And I talk to
them. Don’t you have Dead of your own in your Halls?’
‘I do. Yes.’
‘Don’t you take them offerings? Don’t you talk to them?’
Before Raphael could answer this another thought struck me. ‘I said
there are thirteen Dead, but that is incorrect. Dr Ketterley has joined their
number. I must find his body and make him ready to lie with the others.’ I
clapped my hands together. ‘So, as you see, I have a great many tasks to
perform and cannot at the moment think about leaving these Halls.’
Raphael nodded slowly. ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of
time.’ She put out her hand and rather awkwardly – but also gently – put
her hand on my shoulder.
Instantly, and to my huge embarrassment, I started crying. Great
creaking sobs rose up in my chest and tears sprouted from my eyes. I did
not think that it was me who was crying; it was Matthew Rose Sorensen
crying through my eyes. It lasted for a long time until it tailed off into
braying, hiccupping gulps for Air.
Raphael still had her hand on my shoulder. She looked away tactfully
while I wiped my eyes and my nose with the back of my hand.
‘You will come back?’ I said. ‘Even though I don’t go with you now,
you will come back?’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It’ll be rather late in the evening.
Will that be OK? How will we find each other?’
‘I’ll wait for you here,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter how late it is. I’ll wait
until you come.’
‘And you’ll think about what I said? About coming to see your … to
see Matthew Rose Sorensen’s parents and sisters?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Raphael left, disappearing into the Shadowy Space between the two
Minotaurs in the South-Eastern Corner of the Vestibule.
My watch had stopped, but I estimated it to be early evening. I was
alone, exhausted, hungry and wet. I waded back to the Third Northern Hall.
The Water was still a half-metre deep. I climbed up and examined the dry
seaweed that I use to build fires. Unfortunately it had been thoroughly
wetted by the Great Waves. I could not make a fire. I could not cook
anything.
I fetched my sleeping bag – also damp – and took it to the First
Vestibule. I lay down on a Dry, High Step of the Great Staircase.
My last thought before I fell asleep was: He is dead. My only friend.
My only enemy.
I comfort Dr Ketterley
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-EIGHTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I found Dr Ketterley’s body in an Angle of the Staircase in the Eighth
Vestibule. He had been battered against the Walls and the Statues. His
clothes were in rags. I disentangled him from the Balustrade and laid him
out straight and composed his limbs. I took his poor, broken head into my
lap and cradled it.
‘Your good looks are gone,’ I told him. ‘But you mustn’t worry about
it. This unsightly condition is only temporary. Don’t be sad. Don’t fear. I
will place you somewhere where the fish and the birds can strip away all
this broken flesh. It will soon be gone. Then you will be a handsome skull
and handsome bones. I will put you in good order and you can rest in the
Sunlight and the Starlight. The Statues will look down on you with
Blessing. I am sorry that I was angry with you. Forgive me.’
I did not find the Gun – the Tides must have taken it deep within
themselves; but later that morning I found Dr Ketterley’s boat, still idling
on the Waters in the First Western Hall which were now no more than
ankle-deep. It was quite unharmed.
‘I wish that you had saved him,’ I told it.
I did not feel that it responded in any way. It seemed drowsy, dozing,
only half alive. Without the Rushing Waters to animate it, it was no longer
the devil that had danced on the Waves, first mocking Dr Ketterley and then
abandoning him.
I have been thinking about what Raphael said about Matthew Rose
Sorensen’s mum and his dad and his sisters and his friends. Perhaps I
should send them a message explaining that Matthew Rose Sorensen now
lives inside me, that he is unconscious but perfectly safe, and that I am a
strong and resourceful person who will care for him assiduously, exactly as
I care for any others of the Dead.
I shall ask Raphael what she thinks of this idea.
As the Shadows fell in the First Vestibule Raphael returned
SECOND ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-EIGHTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
As the Shadows fell in the First Vestibule Raphael returned. We sat on
a Step of the Great Staircase as before. Raphael had a shining little device
like the one that the Other had. She tapped it and it brought forth a shaft of
white-yellow Light to illuminate the Statues and our faces.
I told Raphael my plan to write to Matthew Rose Sorensen’s mum and
dad and two sisters and friends, but for some reason she did not think this
was a good idea.
‘What should I call you?’ she asked.
‘Call me?’ I said.
‘As a name. If you’re not Matthew Rose Sorensen, then what should I
call you?’
‘Oh, I see. I suppose you could call me Pir …’ I stopped. ‘Dr Ketterley
used to call me Piranesi,’ I said. ‘He said it was a name to do with
labyrinths, but I think perhaps it was meant to mock me.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Raphael. ‘He was that sort of guy.’ There was a
little silence and then she said, ‘Would you like to know how I found you?’
‘Very much,’ I said.
‘There was a woman. I don’t suppose you remember her. Her name
was Angharad Scott. She wrote a book about Laurence Arne-Sayles. Six
years ago, you contacted her. You told her that you were also thinking of
writing a book about Arne-Sayles and the two of you had a long
conversation. Then she never heard from you again. In May of this year she
called the college in London where you used to work because she wanted to
know what had happened about the book – whether you were still writing it.
The people at the college told her that you were missing; that you’d been
missing pretty much the entire time since she’d first spoken to you. That
rang all sorts of warning bells for Mrs Scott because she knew about the
people who had disappeared around Arne-Sayles. You were the fourth – the
fifth if you count Jimmy Ritter. So she contacted us. It was the first time
that we – I mean the police – knew that there was any connection between
you and Arne-Sayles. When we talked to the people who remained of ArneSayles’s circle – Bannerman, Hughes, Ketterley and Arne-Sayles himself –
it was obvious something was going on. Tali Hughes kept crying and saying
she was sorry. Arne-Sayles was thrilled by the attention and Ketterley
couldn’t open his mouth without lying.’ She paused. ‘Do you understand
any of what I’m saying?’
‘A little,’ I said. ‘Matthew Rose Sorensen wrote about all these people.
I know that they are connected to the Proph … to Laurence Arne-Sayles.
Did he tell you where I was? He said that he would.’
‘Who?’
‘Laurence Arne-Sayles.’
Raphael took a moment to process this. ‘You spoke to him?’ she asked
in a tone of incredulity.
‘Yes.’
‘He came here?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘About two months ago.’
‘And he didn’t offer to help you? He didn’t offer to take you out of
here?’
‘No. But to be fair, if he had offered I wouldn’t have wanted to go. In
fact, I’m still not sure that I want to go.’
A pale owl glided out of the First Eastern Hall into the First Vestibule.
It settled on a Statue high up on the Southern Wall where it gleamed whitely
in the Dimness. I have seen owls portrayed in marble. Many Statues
incorporate them. But I had never seen their living counterpart until now. Its
appearance was, I felt sure, connected with the coming of Raphael and the
departure of Dr Ketterley; it was as though a principle of Death had been
replaced with a principle of Life. Things, I thought, were speeding up.
Raphael had not perceived the owl. She said, ‘You’re right. Arne-Sayles told us the truth straightaway. He said you were in the labyrinth. But
of course … Well, we thought he was just trying to wind us up. Which was
right. He was just trying to wind us up. My colleagues put up with it for a
while, but they gave up on him eventually. I had a different idea. I thought:
he likes talking. Just let him. Eventually he’ll say something useful.’
She tapped her shining little device. It spoke with Laurence Arne-Sayles’s haughty, drawling voice: ‘You think that all my talk about other
worlds is irrelevant. But it isn’t. It’s absolutely key. Matthew Rose Sorensen
attempted to enter another world. If he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have
“disappeared” as you call it.’
Raphael’s voice answered him: ‘Something about the attempt caused
him to disappear?’
‘Yes.’ Laurence Arne-Sayles again.
‘Something happened to him during this … this ritual, whatever it
was? Why? Where do these rituals take place?’
‘You mean do we perform them on the edge of a precipice and he just
fell off? No, nothing like that. Besides, it needn’t necessarily have been a
ritual. I never use them myself.’
‘But why would he do that?’ asked Raphael. ‘Why would he perform
the ritual or do whatever it is? There’s nothing in what he wrote to suggest
he believed your theories. Quite the reverse in fact.’
‘Oh, belief,’ said Arne-Sayles, laying a deep, sarcastic emphasis on the
word. ‘Why do people always think it’s a question of belief? It’s not. People
can “believe” whatever they want. I really couldn’t care less.’
‘Yes, but if he didn’t believe, why would he even try?’
‘Because he had half a brain and he recognised that mine was one of
the great intellects of the twentieth century – perhaps the greatest of all.
And he wanted to understand me. So he made the attempt to reach another
world, not because he thought the other world existed, but because he
thought the attempt itself would grant him insight into my thinking. Into me.
And now you are going to do the same.’
‘Me?’ Raphael sounded startled.
‘Yes. And you are going to do it for the exact same reason that Rose
Sorensen did it. He wanted to understand my thinking. You want to
understand his. Adjust your perceptions in the way I am about to describe
to you. Perform the actions that I will outline for you and then you will
know.’
‘What will I know, Laurence?’
‘You’ll know what happened to Matthew Rose Sorensen.’
‘It’s that simple?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s that simple.’
Raphael tapped the device; the voices fell silent.
‘I didn’t think that was a bad idea,’ she said, ‘to try and understand
what you’d been thinking at the point you disappeared. Arne-Sayles
described what to do, how to go back to a pre-rational mode of thought. He
said that when I’d done that, I’d see paths all around me and he told me
which one to choose. I thought he meant metaphorical paths. It was a bit of
a shock when it turned out he didn’t.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Matthew Rose Sorensen was shocked when he first
arrived. Shocked and frightened. And then he fell asleep and I was born.
Later I found entries in my Journal that frightened me. I thought that I must
have been mad when I wrote them. But now I understand that Matthew
Rose Sorensen wrote them and he was describing a different World.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the Other World has different things in it. Words such as
“Manchester” and “police station” have no meaning here. Because those
things do not exist. Words such as “river” and “mountain” do have meaning
but only because those things are depicted in the Statues. I suppose that
these things must exist in the Older World. In this World the Statues depict
things that exist in the Older World.’
‘Yes,’ said Raphael. ‘Here you can only see a representation of a river
or a mountain, but in our world – the other world – you can see the actual
river and the actual mountain.’
This annoyed me. ‘I do not see why you say I can only see a
representation in this World,’ I said with some sharpness. ‘The word “only”
suggests a relationship of inferiority. You make it sound as if the Statue was
somehow inferior to the thing itself. I do not see that that is the case at all. I
would argue that the Statue is superior to the thing itself, the Statue being
perfect, eternal and not subject to decay.’
‘Sorry,’ said Raphael. ‘I didn’t mean to disparage your world.’
There was a silence.
‘What is the Other World like?’ I asked.
Raphael looked as if she did not know quite how to answer this
question. ‘There are more people,’ she said at last.
‘A lot more?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘As many as seventy?’ I asked, deliberately choosing a high, rather
improbable number.
‘Yes,’ she said. Then she smiled.
‘Why do you smile?’ I asked.
‘It’s the way you raise your eyebrow at me. That dubious, rather
imperious look. Do you know who you look like when you do that?’
‘No. Who?’
‘You look like Matthew Rose Sorensen. Like photos of him that I’ve
seen.’
‘How do you know that there are more than seventy people?’ I asked.
‘Have you counted them yourself?’
‘No, but I’m fairly sure,’ she said. ‘It’s not always a pleasant world,
the other world. There’s a lot of sadness.’ She paused. ‘A lot of sadness,’
she said again. ‘It’s not like here.’ She sighed. ‘I need you to understand
something. Whether you come back with me or not, it’s up to you. Ketterley
tricked you. He kept you here with lies and deceit. I don’t want to trick you.
You must only come if you want to.’
‘And if I stay here will you come back and visit me?’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she said.
Other people
ENTRY FOR THE TWENTY-NINTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to show the House to
someone. I used to imagine that the Sixteenth Person was at my side and
that I would say to him such things as:
Now we enter the First Northern Hall. Observe the many beautiful
Statues. On your right you will see the Statue of an Old Man holding the
Model of a Ship, on your left is the Statue of a Winged Horse and its Colt.
I imagined us visiting the Drowned Halls together:
Now we descend through this Gash in the Floor; we climb down the
fallen Masonry and enter the Hall below. Place your feet where I place
mine and you will have no difficulty keeping your balance. The immense
Statues that are a feature of these Halls provide us with safe places to sit.
Observe the dark, still Waters. We may gather water lilies here and present
them to the Dead …
Today all my imaginings came true. The Sixteenth Person and I
walked together through the House and I showed her many things.
She arrived in the First Vestibule early in the morning.
‘Will you do something for me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anything.’
‘Show me the labyrinth.’
‘Gladly. What would you like to see?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Whatever you want to show me. Whatever’s
most beautiful.’
Of course, what I really wanted to show her was everything, but that
was impossible. My first thought was the Drowned Halls, but I remembered
that Raphael did not love climbing, so I decided on the Coral Halls, a long
succession of Halls extending south and west from the Thirty-Eighth
Southern Hall.
We walked through the Southern Halls. Raphael looked relaxed and
happy. (I was happy too.) With every step Raphael was looking around with
pleasure and admiration.
She said, ‘It’s such an astonishing place. A perfect place. I saw some
of it while I was looking for you, but I kept having to stop at the doors to
write out the directions back to the minotaur room. It got very time-consuming and frustrating and of course I didn’t dare go too far in case I
made a mistake.’
‘You wouldn’t have made a mistake,’ I assured her. ‘Your directions
were excellent.’
‘How long did it take you to learn it? The way through the labyrinth?’
she asked.
I opened my mouth to say loudly and boastfully that I have always
known it, that it is part of me, that the House and I could not be separated.
But I realised, before I even spoke the words, that it was not true. I
remembered that I used to mark the Doorways with chalk in exactly the
same way that Raphael did and I remembered that I used to be afraid of
getting lost. I shook my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Is it all right to take photos?’ She held up her shining device. ‘Or is
that not …? I don’t know, is that disrespectful in some way?’
‘Of course you may take photos,’ I said. ‘I took photographs
sometimes for the Oth … for Dr Ketterley.’
But I was pleased that she had asked the question. It showed that she
regarded the House as I did, as something deserving of respect. (Dr
Ketterley never learnt this. He seemed incapable of it somehow.)
In the Tenth Southern Hall I made a detour to the Fourteenth SouthWestern Hall to show Raphael the People of the Alcove. There are (as I
have explained before) ten of them and the skeleton of a monkey.
Raphael regarded them gravely. She gently rested her hand on one of
the bones – the tibia of one of the males. It was a gesture conveying
comfort and reassurance. Don’t be afraid. You are safe. I am here.
‘We don’t know who they are,’ she said. ‘Poor things.’
‘They are the People of the Alcove,’ I said.
‘Arne-Sayles probably murdered at least one of them. Perhaps he
murdered all of them.’
These were solemn words. Before I could decide how I felt about them
she turned to me and said with great intensity, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really
sorry.’
I was astonished, even a little alarmed. No one has ever been as kind to
me as Raphael; no one has ever done more for me. That she should
apologise seemed to me inappropriate. ‘No … No …’ I murmured and I put
up my hands to fend off her words.
But she went on with a bleak, angry look on her face. ‘He’ll never be
punished for what he did to you. Or for what he did to them. I’ve gone over
it and over it in my mind and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing he can be
charged with. Not without a lot of explanation that literally no one will want
to believe.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I said that this is a perfect world. But it’s
not. There are crimes here, just like everywhere else.’
A wave of sadness and helplessness washed over me. I wanted to say
that the People of the Alcove had not been murdered by Arne-Sayles
(though I have no evidence to support that assertion and the probability is
that at least one of them was). Mostly I wanted Raphael to come away from
them so that I could stop thinking of them the way she thought of them – as
murdered – and go back to thinking of them the way I always had before –
as good, and noble, and peaceful.
We continued on our way, stopping often to admire a particularly
striking Statue. Our hearts grew lighter again and when we reached the
Coral Halls, we refreshed ourselves with looking at their wonders.
Though the Coral Halls are dry now, it appears that at one time they
were flooded with Sea Water for a long period. Coral has grown there,
changing the Statues in strange and unexpected ways. One may see, for
example, a Woman crowned with coral, her Hands transformed into stars or
flowers. There are Figures horned with coral, or crucified on coral
branches, or stuck through with coral arrows. There is a Lion enmeshed in a
cage of coral and a Man holding a Little Box. The coral has grown so
profusely over his Left Side that half of him appears to be engulfed in redand rose-coloured flames, while the other half is not.
Late in the afternoon we returned to the First Vestibule. Just before we
parted Raphael said, ‘I love the quiet here. No people!’ She said the last
part as if it were the greatest advantage of all.
‘Don’t you like the people in your own Halls?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘I like them,’ she said, with no very great enthusiasm. ‘Mostly I like
them. Some of them. I don’t always get them. They don’t always get me.’
After she had gone, I thought about what she had said. I cannot
imagine not wanting to be with people. (Though it is true that Dr Ketterley
was sometimes annoying.) I remembered how Raphael had wondered
which of the People of the Alcove had been murdered and how the simple
fact of her posing the question had made the whole World seem a darker,
sadder Place.
Perhaps that is what it is like being with other people. Perhaps even
people you like and admire immensely can make you see the World in ways
you would rather not. Perhaps that is what Raphael means.
Strange emotions
ENTRY FOR THE THIRTIETH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
I once wrote in my Journal:
It is my belief that the World (or, if you will, the House, since the
two are for all practical purposes identical) wishes an Inhabitant for
Itself to be a witness to its Beauty and the recipient of its Mercies.
If I leave, then the House will have no Inhabitant and how will I bear
the thought of it Empty?
Yet the simple fact is that if I remain in these Halls I will be alone. In
one sense I suppose I will be no more alone than before. Raphael has
promised to visit me, just as the Other visited me before. And Raphael
really is my friend – whereas the Other’s feelings towards me were mixed,
to say the least. Whenever the Other left me he went back to his own World,
but I did not know that at the time; I thought that he was simply in another
Part of the House. Believing that there was someone else here made me less
lonely. Now, when Raphael returns to the Other World, I will know that I
am alone.
And so for this reason I have decided to go with Raphael.
I have returned all of the Dead to their allotted places. Today I walked
through the Halls as I have done a thousand times before. I visited all my
most beloved Statues and as I gazed on each one, I thought: Perhaps this
will be the last time I look on your Face. Goodbye! Goodbye!
I leave
ENTRY FOR THE FIRST DAY OF THE TENTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS
This morning I fetched the small cardboard box with the word
AQUARIUM and the picture of an octopus on it. It is the box that originally
contained the shoes Dr Ketterley gave me. When Dr Ketterley told me to
hide Myself from 16, I took the ornaments out of my hair and placed them
in the box. But now, wanting to look my best when I enter the New World, I
spent two or three hours putting them back in, all the pretty things that I
have found or made: seashells, coral beads, pearls, tiny pebbles and
interesting fishbones.
When Raphael arrived, she seemed rather astonished at my pleasant
appearance.
I took my messenger bag with all my Journals and my favourite pens
and we walked towards the two Minotaurs in the South-Eastern Corner. The
shadows between them shimmered slightly. The shadows suggested the
shape of a corridor or alleyway with dim walls and, at the end of it, lights,
flashes of moving colour that my eye could not interpret.
I took one last look at the Eternal House. I shivered. Raphael took my
hand. Then, together, we walked into the corridor.
PART 7
MATTHEW ROSE SORENSEN
Valentine Ketterley has disappeared
ENTRY FOR 26 NOVEMBER 2018
Valentine Ketterley, psychologist and anthropologist, has disappeared.
The police have made inquiries and discovered that before his
disappearance he made some unusual purchases: a gun, an inflatable kayak
and a life-jacket – purchases that his friends all agree were completely out
of character: he had never shown any inclination to be waterborne before.
None of these items has been found in his house or office.
The police think that possibly he used the inflatable kayak to travel to
a remote spot and then used the gun to kill himself; but there is one officer,
a man called Jamie Askill, who has a different idea. He believes that the
sudden and unexpected disappearance of Dr Ketterley must be linked in
some way to the sudden and unexpected reappearance of Matthew Rose
Sorensen. Askill’s theory is that Ketterley imprisoned Rose Sorensen
somewhere, in the same way that Ketterley’s one-time supervisor and tutor,
Laurence Arne-Sayles, imprisoned James Ritter years before. Ketterley’s
motive, thinks Askill, was the same as Arne-Sayles’s: to manufacture
evidence of Arne-Sayles’s Theory of Other Worlds. Ketterley became
alarmed when the police uncovered the link between himself and Rose
Sorensen. Faced with the exposure of his crimes, Ketterley let Rose
Sorensen go and then killed himself.
Askill’s theory has the advantage of accounting for the reappearance of
Matthew Rose Sorensen at the same time – give or take a day or two – that
Ketterley disappeared, which is otherwise an odd coincidence. Where the
theory falls down is that neither Arne-Sayles nor Ketterley ever used the
disappearances as evidence of anything. In fact, for many years Ketterley
had been loud in his denunciation of Arne-Sayles.
Undeterred, Askill has questioned me twice. He is a young man with a
pleasant, good-natured face, little brown curls all over his head and an
intelligent expression. He wears a dark blue suit and a grey shirt and speaks
with a Yorkshire accent.
Did you know Valentine Ketterley?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I visited him in mid-November 2012.’
He looks pleased with this answer. ‘That’s just before you
disappeared,’ he points out.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘And where were you?’ he asks. ‘While you were gone?’
‘I was in a house with many rooms. The sea sweeps through the house.
Sometimes it swept over me, but always I was saved.’
Askill pauses and frowns. ‘That’s not … You’re not …’ he begins. He
thinks for a moment. ‘What I mean is that you’ve had problems. A
breakdown of sorts. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. Are you getting
treatment for that?’
‘My family have arranged for me to see a psychotherapist. To which I
have no objection. But I have refused medication and so far, no one has
insisted.’
‘Well, I hope it helps,’ he says, kindly.
‘Thank you.’
‘What I’m trying to get at,’ he says, ‘is whether Dr Ketterley
persuaded you to go anywhere. Whether he kept you anywhere against your
will. Whether you were free to come and go.’
‘Yes. I was free. I came and went. I did not remain in one place. I
walked for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of kilometres.’
‘Oh … Oh, OK. And Dr Ketterley wasn’t with you when you walked?’
‘No.’
‘Was anyone with you?’
‘No, I was quite alone.’
‘Oh. Oh, well.’ Jamie Askill is slightly disappointed. I am
disappointed too, in a way: disappointed that I have disappointed him.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know
you’ve already talked to DS Raphael.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s amazing, isn’t she? Raphael?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not surprised that she found you. I mean if anyone was going to
find you, it was probably always going to be her.’ He pauses. ‘Of course,
she can be a little … I mean she doesn’t really …’ He fishes in the air with
his fingers to catch at the elusive words. ‘I mean she’s not necessarily the
easiest person in the world to work with. And time management? Definitely
not her thing. But honestly, we all think the world of her.’
‘It is right to think the world of Raphael,’ I tell him. ‘She is an
extraordinary person.’
‘Exactly. Did anyone ever tell you about Pinny Wheeller?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Who or what is Pinny Wheeller?’
‘A guy in some city in the Midlands – where Raphael started out. He
was an upset sort of person, a troubled person, the sort of person that ends
up having a lot to do with us.’
‘That’s not good.’
‘No, it’s not. There was this one time something happened to set him
off and he climbed up inside the cathedral tower. He got onto a sort of
gallery and was shouting abuse at the people inside the cathedral. He had
some bales of old, dirty newspaper that he used to take everywhere, and he
started setting it on fire and throwing it down onto people.’
‘How terrible.’
‘I know. Frightening, isn’t it? When we – I mean the police – got there,
it was evening – all dim and dark with flaming sheets of newspaper floating
about and people dashing everywhere with fire extinguishers and buckets of
sand. Raphael and another guy tried to get to Pinny Wheeller, but when they
were in the stairwell – which was a really tight, confined space – Pinny
threw a load more burning newspaper down and some of it wrapped itself
around the other guy’s face. So he had to go back.’
‘But Raphael did not go back,’ I say, with great certainty.
‘No, she didn’t. Technically speaking she probably should have, but
she didn’t. When she came out onto the gallery her hair was on fire. But,
you know, she’s Raphael. I doubt she even noticed. The people down below
had to shout at her to put the fire out. She sat down with Pinny Wheeller
and she got him to stop throwing flaming newspaper everywhere and she
got him to come down. Pretty brave, don’t you think?’
‘Braver than you think. She doesn’t like heights.’
‘She doesn’t?’
‘They make her uncomfortable.’
‘That wouldn’t stop her,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘Thank God, she didn’t have to do any of that with you. I mean she
didn’t have to walk through fire or whatever. She just went to the seaside.
That’s what I heard anyway – that she found you at the seaside.’
‘Yes. I was at the side of the sea.’
‘A lot of missing people turn up at seaside places,’ he muses. ‘It’s the
sea, I suppose. It has a soothing effect.’
‘It certainly did on me,’ I say.
He smiles cheerfully at me. ‘Excellent,’ he says.
Matthew Rose Sorensen has reappeared
ENTRY FOR 27 NOVEMBER 2018
Matthew Rose Sorensen’s mother and father and sisters and friends all
ask me where I have been.
I tell them what I told Jamie Askill: that I was in a house with many
rooms; that the sea sweeps through the house; and that sometimes it swept
over me, but always I was saved.
Matthew Rose Sorensen’s mother and father and sisters and friends tell
each other that this is a description of a mental breakdown seen from the
inside; an explanation they find reasonable, perhaps even reassuring. They
have Matthew Rose Sorensen back – or so they believe. A man with his
face and voice and gestures moves about the world, and that is enough for
them.
I no longer look like Piranesi. There are no coral beads or fishbones in
my hair. My hair is clean and cut and styled. I am clean-shaven. I wear the
clothes that were brought to me out of the storage in which Matthew Rose
Sorensen’s sisters had placed them. Rose Sorensen had a great number of
clothes, all meticulously cared for. He had more than a dozen suits (which I
find surprising considering that his income was not large). This love of
clothes was something he shared with Piranesi. Piranesi frequently wrote
about Dr Ketterley’s clothes in his journal and lamented the contrast with
his own ragged garments. This, I suppose, is where I differ from both of
them – from Matthew Rose Sorensen and Piranesi; I find I do not care
greatly about clothes.
Many other things were delivered to me out of storage, the most
important being Matthew Rose Sorensen’s missing journals. They cover the
period from June 2000 (when he was an undergraduate) until December
2011. As for the rest of his possessions, I am getting rid of most of them.
Piranesi cannot bear to have so many possessions. I do not need this! is his
constant refrain.
Piranesi is always with me, but of Rose Sorensen I have only hints and
shadows. I piece him together out of the objects he has left behind, from
what is said about him by other people and, of course, from his journals.
Without the journals I would be all at sea.
I remember how this world works – more or less. I remember what
Manchester is and what the police are and how to use a smartphone. I can
pay for things with money – though I still find the process strange and
artificial. Piranesi has a strong dislike of money. Piranesi wants to say: But I
need the thing you have, so why don’t you just give it to me? And then when
I have something you need, I will just give it to you. This would be a simpler
system and much better!
But I, who am not Piranesi – or at least not only him – realise that this
probably wouldn’t go down too well.
I have decided to write a book about Laurence Arne-Sayles. It is
something that Matthew Rose Sorensen wanted to do and something that I
want to do. After all, who knows Arne-Sayles’s work better than me?
Raphael has shown me what Laurence Arne-Sayles taught her: how to
find the path to the labyrinth and how to find the path out again. I can come
and go as I please. Last week I took a train to Manchester. I took a bus to
Miles Platting. I walked through a bleak autumn landscape to a flat in a
tower block. The door was answered by a thin, ravaged-looking man who
smelt strongly of cigarettes.
‘Are you James Ritter?’ I asked.
He agreed that he was.
‘I’ve come to take you back,’ I said.
I led him through the shadowy corridor and when the noble minotaurs
of the first vestibule rose up around us, he started to cry, not for fear, but for
happiness. He went immediately and sat under the great marble sweep of
the staircase; the place where he used to sleep. He closed his eyes and
listened to the sounds of the tides. When it was time to leave, he begged me
to let him stay, but I refused.
‘You don’t know how to feed yourself,’ I told him. ‘You never learnt.
You would die here unless I fed you – and I can’t take on that responsibility.
But I’ll bring you back here whenever you want. And if ever I decide to
come back for good, I promise I will bring you with me.’
The body of Valentine Ketterley, magician and scientist
ENTRY FOR 28 NOVEMBER 2018
The body of Valentine Ketterley, magician and scientist, is washed by
the tides. I have placed it in one of the lower halls accessed from the eighth
vestibule and I have tethered it to the statue of a half-reclining man. The
statue’s eyes are closed; he is possibly asleep; thick snakes and serpents
entwine themselves heavily with his limbs.
The body is contained in a sack of plastic netting. The mesh of the
netting is wide enough for fish to poke their mouths in, and birds their
beaks; it is fine enough that none of the small bones will be lost.
I estimate that in six months’ time the bones will be white and clean. I
will gather them up and take them to the empty niche in the third northwestern hall. I will place Valentine Ketterley next to the biscuit-box man. In
the middle I will place the long bones tied together with twine. On the right
I will place the skull. On the left I will place a box containing all the small
bones.
Dr Valentine Ketterley will lie with his colleagues: with Stanley
Ovenden, Maurizio Giussani and Sylvia D’Agostino.
Statues again
ENTRY FOR 29 NOVEMBER 2018
Piranesi lived among statues: silent presences that brought him
comfort and enlightenment.
I thought that in this new (old) world the statues would be irrelevant. I
did not imagine that they would continue to help me. But I was wrong.
When faced with a person or situation I do not understand, my first impulse
is still to look for a statue that will enlighten me.
I think of Dr Ketterley and an image rises up in my mind. It is the
memory of a statue that stands in the nineteenth north-western hall. It is the
statue of a man kneeling on his plinth; a sword lies at his side, its blade
broken in five pieces. Roundabout lie other broken pieces, the remains of a
sphere. The man has used his sword to shatter the sphere because he wanted
to understand it, but now he finds that he has destroyed both sphere and
sword. This puzzles him, but at the same time part of him refuses to accept
that the sphere is broken and worthless. He has picked up some of the
fragments and stares at them intently in the hope that they will eventually
bring him new knowledge.
I think of Laurence Arne-Sayles and an image rises up in my mind. It
is the memory of a statue that stands in an upper vestibule, facing the head
of a staircase (the one rising up out of the thirty-second vestibule). This
statue represents a heretical pope seated on a throne. He is fat and bloated.
He lolls on his throne, a shapeless mass. The throne is magnificent, but the
sheer bulk of the figure threatens to split it in two. He knows that he is
repulsive, but you can see by his face that the idea pleases him. He revels in
the thought that he is somehow shocking. In his face there is mingled
laughter and triumph. Look at me, he seems to say. Look at me!
I think of Raphael and an image – no, two images rise up in my mind.
In Piranesi’s mind Raphael is represented by a statue in the fortyfourth western hall. It shows a queen in a chariot, the protector of her
people. She is all goodness, all gentleness, all wisdom, all motherhood.
That is Piranesi’s view of Raphael, because Raphael saved him.
But I choose a different statue. In my mind Raphael is better
represented by a statue in an antechamber that lies between the forty-fifth
and the sixty-second northern halls. This statue shows a figure walking
forward, holding a lantern. It is hard to determine with any certainty the
gender of the figure; it is androgynous in appearance. From the way she (or
he) holds up the lantern and peers at whatever is ahead, one gets the sense
of a huge darkness surrounding her; above all I get the sense that she is
alone, perhaps by choice or perhaps because no one else was courageous
enough to follow her into the darkness
Of all the billions of people in this world Raphael is the one I know
best and love most. I understand much better now – better than Piranesi
ever could – the magnificent thing she did in coming to find me, the
magnitude of her courage.
I know that she returns to the labyrinth often. Sometimes we go
together; sometimes she goes alone. The quiet and the solitude attract her
strongly. In them she hopes to find what she needs.
It worries me.
‘Don’t disappear,’ I tell her sternly. ‘Do not disappear.’
She makes a rueful, amused face. ‘I won’t,’ she says.
‘We can’t keep rescuing each other,’ I say. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
She smiles. It is a smile with a little sadness in it.
But she still wears the perfume – the first thing I ever knew of her –
and it still makes me think of Sunlight and Happiness.
In my mind are all the tides
ENTRY FOR 30 NOVEMBER 2018
In my mind are all the tides, their seasons, their ebbs and their flows.
In my mind are all the halls, the endless procession of them, the intricate
pathways. When this world becomes too much for me, when I grow tired of
the noise and the dirt and the people, I close my eyes and I name a
particular vestibule to myself; then I name a hall. I imagine I am walking
the path from the vestibule to the hall. I note with precision the doors I must
pass through, the rights and lefts that I must take, the statues on the walls
that I must pass.
Last night I dreamt that I was standing in the fifth northern hall facing
the statue of the gorilla. The gorilla dismounted from his plinth and came
towards me with his slow knuckle-walk. He was grey-white in the
moonlight; and I flung my arms around his massive neck and told him how
happy I was to be home.
When I awoke I thought: I am not home. I am here.
It began to snow
ENTRY FOR 1 DECEMBER 2018
This afternoon I walked through the city, making for a café where I
was to meet Raphael. It was about half-past two on a day that had never
really got light.
It began to snow. The low clouds made a grey ceiling for the city; the
snow muffled the noise of the cars until it became almost rhythmical; a
steady, shushing noise, like the sound of tides beating endlessly on marble
walls.
I closed my eyes. I felt calm.
There was a park. I entered it and followed a path through an avenue
of tall, ancient trees with wide, dusky, grassy spaces on either side of them.
The pale snow sifted down through bare winter branches. The lights of the
cars on the distant road sparkled through the trees: red, yellow, white. It was
very quiet. Though it was not yet twilight the streetlights shed a faint light.
People were walking up and down on the path. An old man passed me.
He looked sad and tired. He had broken veins on his cheeks and a bristly
white beard. As he screwed up his eyes against the falling snow, I realised I
knew him. He is depicted on the northern wall of the forty-eighth western
hall. He is shown as a king with a little model of a walled city in one hand
while the other hand he raises in blessing. I wanted to seize hold of him and
say to him: In another world you are a king, noble and good! I have seen it!
But I hesitated a moment too long and he disappeared into the crowd.
A woman passed me with two children. One of the children had a
wooden recorder in his hands. I knew them too. They are depicted in the
twenty-seventh southern hall: a statue of two children laughing, one of them
holding a flute.
I came out of the park. The city streets rose up around me. There was a
hotel with a courtyard with metal tables and chairs for people to sit in more
clement weather. Today they were snow-strewn and forlorn. A lattice of
wire was strung across the courtyard. Paper lanterns were hanging from the
wires, spheres of vivid orange that blew and trembled in the snow and the
thin wind; the sea-grey clouds raced across the sky and the orange lanterns
shivered against them.
The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite.
READING RESOURCES
The meditative empathy of Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi
