Some doors should remain closed, my father used to mutter to himself as he toiled endlessly in his laboratory in the dead hours of the night. It was never clear to me whether he meant to remind himself of that notion or if he was mocking those that had perhaps cautioned him in life.
I was never particularly apt at exercising caution when searching for answers to my more pressing questions; mayhap as a result of my physical abnormalities. It’s strange that I have never resented my captivity in all those years as much as i detested being referred to as some kind of a superior specimen, a marvel of physiological and intellectual engineering. I always hated being elevated in that fashion by my keepers, when a blind man could have easily attested to the fact that I was more akin to a visceral nightmare of what humanity should never be, rather than its surpassing inheritor.
And yet, for all the disgust I harbored for the revolting thing they made of me, I realize now that I have always secretly embraced some part of the security that being a prodigy often implies.
I think that is the essence of my recklessness, the root of my failure to weigh the consequences of my drastic engagements. I simply feel, as a general rule, completely and utterly invincible. That assurance naturally comes into question at times; like for instance when I find myself on the receiving end of the claws of some kind of gargantuan creature covered in 3-foot-long razor quills. I can think of another instance where my considerable abilities and attributes were all for naught, and all I had to keep me warm were my suspicions and my detachment from natural human conventions.
The mesmerist we had sought out with my companions had been as helpful to our cause as he had been a burden. I am confident that regardless of his motivations, Elisio did his utmost to interpret the hypnotic “readings” he took from his session with Symeon. In the end however, he could do little but deliberate on his observations in the typically cryptic fashion that learned men do, and raise more questions than answers.
He was able to ascertain through with his expertise that Symeon, Petru, Ephraim and I had been, possibly for the past months, been under some kind of a mental state of tangible hallucination. He speculated that the “lost time” that we had all experienced was in fact a result of some form of subtle manipulation by an outside force, bent on distorting our conceptions of reality, and possibly determined to lead us to our doom through misdirection and misinformation. While none of us could confirm these theorems, I think we all gave some kind subconscious validity to this hypothesis. Jean-Jacques, Elisio’s eccentric attache had some amendments of his own to contribute, citing dreams and premonitions that he had had. Elas I think even the most metaphisically-inclined among us were reluctant to put stock in any of his semi-coherent ravings.
We had but one concrete clue in our hands; the surviving would-be assassin we had recovered before beating our retreat from the dark alleys of Chateufaux. My colleagues revived him in the confines of St-Mere-Des-Larmes, the stronghold of Ezra’s faithfuls and the closest thing to a mother’s womb for our dear Ephraim Ulster. The prisoner was naturally disoriented when he found himself faced with our accusations. He claimed to know nothing as his sort always does, and protested any suggestion to the contrary.
Something quite peculiar occurred then. Jean-Jacques was babbling on about something related to our situation when one of his words, I do not recall which, incited a rather odd supernatural phenomenon. The moment the word was uttered, the prisoner’s eyes went wide and he began to collapse, seized by some form of catatonia. As his body surrendered to gravity, all the glass in the room spontaneously shattered, the shards shooting out on a eerily specific trajectories; namely, my companions’ faces. Poor Symeon absorbed the worst of it I’m afraid, but he quickly bounced back in his customary messianic fashion. It strange how adjusted we have all become to his little miracles.
This latest incident threw us into almost complete disarray. We simply became at a loss of where to go next. These past weeks had been a dizzying series of half-truths, illusions and warped reality, or had they? We couldn’t distinguish what was, what had been and when it had been? Were we still dreaming? The puppet strings were there, but we could not see them. Soon our tormentors would have to reveal their hand or suffer the consequences of our crazed desperation.
The weariness and contempt at being endlessly manipulated was beginning to chip away at us. When you’re told that you’ve been randomly sleepwalking without any trace or warning, the future is no longer merely a misty horizon filled with our hopes and dreams; it becomes the manifestation of vertigo and contradiction. Moving forward with your life becomes a test of character, an act of pure defiance rather than a conscious decision. The significance of your actions fade away and you become a creature of primal instinct.
Once recovered from our latest ordeal, we managed to collect enough information to attempt to forge ahead on our quest. We decided to fall back on the clues (we were most convinced) really existed.
We were facing a cult or coven of zealots devoted to some ancient and dark prophecy.
They wanted me to some revolting ceremonial end for their experiments.
They were determined to the point of lunacy and had shown themselves to be resourceful to the point of arcane sorcery.
They dealt by proxy; hiring criminals and thugs to accomplish their more sinister goals (like thrashing Symeon and Petru in the alley when we had visited Brass House).
The greatest clue we had at our disposal was mathematics, which would have delighted Gideon Coombs Elder, one of the stranger tutors that were made available to me during my formative years in Paridon. By mathematics I mean that we happened upon some curious details once we determined the time line of recent events. We played around with numbers and dates, searched our memories for points of reference; for any shred or fragment that could help us make sense of the on-goings. We determined the month of March and the number 10 to be of significance through our research. A date that held some kind of crucial significance. Later our good Symeon stumbled upon the key behind the 10th of March by realizing that it was not actually significant as a date, but rather as an address of residence; Number 10, March street to be exact.
Unfortunately Symeon had come upon this information on his own, and we were not there to defend him when a devil-faced brute from his past (on of his aggressors from the alleys of Brass House) emerged from the shadows intent on dealing out a second thrashing. Fortunately Symeon was prepared this time, and not only subdued the scoundrel with his special abilities, but he even managed to drag the blackguard back to to our inn by his hair. It was inspiring to see that even our holy man was not above administering a little schoolyard justice to such a deserving candidate.
When the ruffian came to his senses, his education would continue at the hands of an even more willing administrator; Petru was positively foaming at the mouth at the prospect of retribution. For my part, I was simply glad that Ephraim was entertaining with his fellow Ezran acolytes, and no where near this delicious debauchery…
to be continued.