Chapter 17
Dear Niea,
Greetings, my friend. I anticipate that this letter might shock you. After all, my calculations suggest that it has been upwards of a year since I effectively disappeared (leaving no word but that most unhelpful farewell letter I sent you in a rush) – and I am sure you might not look upon my name upon this envelope (or, worse, the words contained within it) with the greatest fondness. For that I apologise.
I have rested and recovered, and I would like to work again. And help you, as best that I can. I know that your work is as difficult and thankless as it is inspiring and enlightening. The indisposition of Scholar Cidnosin seemed an ideal reason for me to end my sabbatical. Don’t worry – I have made the appropriate arrangements, of course. Even your colleague herself has approved me as her substitute. (And Chancellor R. was most pleased – how droll.) By the time you read this, I will be aboard the Depth Capsule and on my way to the Ridge.
I will say nothing else until we see each other again.
Yours sincerely,
Tev
Dear Sophy,
Every day, I reread your letter during each moment when I might have otherwise talked to you. Over breakfast – naturally! Before our expedition briefings – when I can! In the quiet hours of the evening that would be much more pleasantly passed in your company with cups of something warm at hand – o, how I delight in your letter’s company then.
All of this is to say that I have not been ignoring you these past few days. On the contrary, you were with me constantly! There has been much abuzz in my head, my dear, and I feared I could not explain it properly on paper.
It relieved and troubled me to hear of your encounter with Tevn. Two days after I received your letter, he sent me a note of his own – only to say that he was on his way to the Spheres to take your place! I have not seen or spoken with or written to him in over a year, and now he is here. I had much anxiety about his arrival, I will say, but really, it seems to have lightened the Company’s spirits. Not because they do not miss you – in fact, the very first thing Vincenebras uttered to Tevn was “Perish any thought of replacing the irreplaceable Sophy,” to which Tevn gravely assented – but because we have all gone so long without seeing anyone else outside of our circle, I wager. Vincenebras spends far too much time interrogating Tevn for gossip about various mutual acquaintances (of whom Tevn has, regretfully, nothing to share), and even Ylaret dared to ask him if some articles she’d been anticipating had yet seen print in their respective journals.
Like you, everyone has questions aplenty about my history with Tevn, but – also like you – many of them seem quite familiar with (if sceptical of) the Boundless Chancellors’ tendency towards obscuring elements of the most important missions for the Greater Good, or something of the sort. Being an Intertidalite myself, it is all very strange to me, and this lie I perpetuated about supposedly surveying the Ridge by myself has torn me to pieces ever since our mission began, and it is much more—
Well, there is much more I want to say to you about Tevn and everything, but I find that the quiet nook of the galley I chose as a sanctuary in which to write to you has been invaded at last. They found me! Alas. I miss you so truly. I will write again as soon as I dare.
Niea
P.S. Enclosed you will also find a letter from Ylaret, who insisted upon writing to you! See, you are well missed!
Dear Sophy,
Will it surprise you to know that I do not enjoy correspondence? I find it unbearably limiting. There is so much “written” in gestures, in gazes, in wrinkles, in the touch of a palm or the flick of an eyebrow. Compared to the rich world of conversation, writing a letter feels like representing a constellation of stars – a collection of enormous Suns! – by drawing simple lines and dots on paper. Serviceable, but leaving no scope for the imagination.
Yet I found myself so frustrated by your absence that I simply had to follow Niea’s lead and send you a note. I hope that your sister is well and your spirits have mended. Did you ever visit my colleague at the Solvent Seagrass? (What is the point of people owing one favours if one never has friends who have the sudden need of a free, fine meal?)
We all assumed that Niea keeps you abreast (a word I do mean quite innocently, in case you thought otherwise) of the happenings down here, and thus I hesitate to share too much news to avoid the risk of redundancy. I am sure, however, that you might be interested in hearing more about Scholar Tevn Winiver Mawr. Does it really not offend you that he has arrived here, out of the blue, to take your place? If so, you know that you may tell me.
Though I find myself befuddled by the convenient circumstances under which Scholar Mawr joined us, I have no other complaints about the man himself. I imagine he would have made a perfect candidate for a confidential two-person mission that the Chancellors subsequently pretended was a one-person mission for reasons of “Academic Optics”. (You Boundless Scholars are fascinating). Tevn is quiet – which now makes two of us down here – and rather gentle-humoured, except when he expresses his exuberant passion for Wayfinding. He and Niea share a natural rapport – the kind, I recognise, that comes from living underwater together in such close quarters – and it is nice to see how they anticipate each other’s every move. (Why, yesterday, when Niea broke a slide for the Microscope while examining some plankton samples, Tevn clipped a new one of the exact grade in place without a second thought – I suppose that sounds less remarkable written out, but believe me, it was a sight to see!) There is some tension between them that I cannot quite explain, however. I have a sense that each has something to say but cannot find the right words to tell it to the other.
And as odd as his arrival may seem, his timing is fortuitous. We dive again in two days. Even with my communicators adjusted, I do fear something might go amiss for me. O, how isolated I felt when that music played for my ears alone! Fortunately, Irye has been a balm on that front – always saying that there is no greater privilege than hearing an unknown sound. Perhaps it is indeed a privilege, not a torment.
There would be no greater privilege, however, than undertaking this mission in the company of the most brilliant Scholar of Wayfinding, whom I have come to consider a friend – and whom I miss very much.
With the kindest regards,
Ylaret Tamseln
Dear S.,
Received your letters today. How odd to read about the Ridge mission without you there. And Scholar Mawr still fascinates me. By the waves – I’d feel threatened by him if I were you. Clipping in each other’s microscope slides? Scandalous.
May I send E.’s letter now?
V.
Dear Vyerin,
Send away, I suppose.
Anxiously,
S.
VIEWING LOCATION: dormitory porthole
HABITAT: the surface of the Boundless waters, right before the wavebreak
OBSERVATIONS: It occurs to me as I write from my new quarters that this is the first time in many years that I have seen the ocean from above. With this novelty fuelling my powers of concentration, I noticed several pods of Imperturbable Toothed Whales skipping around the tops of the waves. They seem to enjoy how the Docked Dormitories struggle against the currents. Many creatures make a habit of jumping up against the walls, as though catching the small crests the bobbing building creates. For the most part, the Toothed Whales tend to rove in groups of ten or more; I did see at least one youngling chattering with the rest of them. I envy their easy comfort in a group environment. (Is this what one does in a field journal? Please advise!) – E. Cidnosin
My dear Henerey,
First of all: many, many thanks for ordering me the replacement journal! I hope you enjoyed my first entry.
I write to you tonight under the cover of darkness and from the comfort of my new quarters! It is certainly no Deep House, but there are two bedrooms, a small dining room and parlour, and a library that fits in a large closet. The family who owns this residence is away on a yearlong research expedition, and I find myself quite intrigued by their decor. On carpets, in paintings, and upon practically every other flat surface, there is a great abundance of unusual iconography – Anemones and Spirals – and Prawns!
I prefer it immensely over the Infirmary (though it comforted me to hear that you too had spent time there – because I entertained myself by wondering what you thought about every particularity, from the unfortunately abstract Octopus wall-hangings to the scratchiness of the sheets!). Yet I still feel – well, I suppose the best word is “exposed”. I miss the familiarity and reliability of my Home, and knowing that I am just one tiny person on a massive floating Anchorage filled with countless strangers makes me want to never leave my bed.
Fortunately, never leaving my bed happens to be just what the doctor ordered for my recovery, so I have that to my advantage. Sophy is doting – we have spent hours on jigsaws. Unsurprisingly, my sister is a capable caretaker. She appears in better spirits these days and told me that she will be able to stay as long as I need. Yet my enjoyment of our quiet time together is poisoned by the great falsehood to which I have sworn myself.
But no such falsehood awaits you in the following paragraphs. Before I sat down to pen this letter, I also swore to tell you the truth.
Of course, I write in the past that which you will read in the future. If you are not interested or prepared at this very moment for me to bare my soul, I encourage you to put down the letter. I will think no less of you for doing so!
When it happened, I was sitting in the parlour with Seliara: shortly after Arvist and Jeime departed on their ill-fated “mission”. After writing and immediately posting a letter to you, I deigned to chat with Seliara about any number of general topics. Amid a practised debate about the particulars of Linguistic Alchemy, Seliara blurted out that she and Arvist were very keen to have a child sometime soon, which took me by surprise. Shaken and rather out of my depth, I changed the subject by complimenting the pie she baked (as I had not the strength, in the end, to make anything myself), which reminded her that she had brewed some tea to enjoy with it, so she headed off into the kitchen to fetch that. And that was when my home began to tremble.
All at once, the window shattered – it did not even have the decency to crack first, but simply burst into what felt like a thousand droplets of glass – and water spiralled over the carpet. I tried to scream for Seliara, but the ocean moved too quickly. Instead of filling the room, the renegade sea seemed to stay rigid in a… column, or… I know not what… imagine the spray of a whale, perhaps, but greatly magnified? I suppose a Baleen Whale’s mouth might be a better comparison, though, because when that twisting water rose, I could not help but be swallowed by it, like the unfortunate Krill. I fell towards what felt like the centre of the world.
Gasping for air, I swam and tumbled through this aqueous tunnel for what must have been no more than a few moments (otherwise how would I have survived without drowning?). When I landed, I did not hit the ground with a sickening crack, but rather slapped down onto a cold, liquid surface, which stung my face and limbs quite bitterly. With seawater blurring my eyes, I tried to make sense of my new surroundings.
I do not know if you ever engaged in casual study of the Physical Sciences (in addition to your aforementioned, impressive, and certainly alluring historical shipbuilding knowledge), but I certainly cannot explain how I ended up on the top of the water’s surface after experiencing what felt like falling down for such a long time. All I can do, I suppose, is simply lay out the sensations as I experienced them. Treading water, I looked upwards as my eyes cleared and saw nothing but darkness above me, as though the stars and moon had been painted over with a heavy purple pigment.
Feeling a ripple about me, I used my newly available eyes to detect a dark shadow gliding in my general direction. This mysterious shape inspired my aching limbs to action. I swam forward at a Porpoise’s pace, turning my head every which way to seek out some spit of land. At last, I came across what looked like a great island. I paddled towards it with the greatest enthusiasm, as you might imagine! I have never been a particularly accomplished swimmer, but in that moment I thanked my parents for raising us in the sea and demanding that I grasp the basics of long-distance survival strokes.
I should mention that the water felt different from the lovely sea to which I am accustomed. It seemed to ooze around me – warm and slippery, as though it had thickened like a custard. The sensory unpleasantness of the water, however, could not dim its visual splendour. Despite the imposing darkness, the water possessed a kind of luminescence: an odd purple and green and grey glimmer like the last moments of a sunset.
To my cautious relief, the sinister shape that swam behind me kept a careful distance as I made my way to shore. (Normally, I would say that it might have been the shadow of a cloud, or something else of that nature – except I assure you that this “sky” appeared devoid of any discernible forms.) When I first stepped foot on the “island”, it felt more like a soft sea sponge than solid ground, but I cared not. I fell onto that beach, panting and exhausted. The water curled around my toes.
After lying on that spongy shore long enough to catch my breath, I collected myself, hitched up my skirts (which were immensely heavy with the water I had absorbed during my swim – I hope it will not embarrass you to know that I abandoned my petticoats quickly thereafter as a matter of self-preservation!), and took it upon myself to discover more about my surroundings.
Perhaps that last sentence will surprise you more than anything else in this narrative. My reaction certainly surprised me. How could I – someone so cursed by my Brain that I once believed stepping outside of the house for even a second would result in ineffable doom – feel surprisingly logical and capable when tossed by a column of water into an otherworldly ocean?
Well, I propose that when one spends one’s life feeling as though a calamity has happened every other second, perhaps one can better manage a true calamity when it occurs.
Let me pause here to set the scene in more detail so you can fully imagine the depths of ridiculousness – I, a sunken hermit who barely leaves my home and recoils at a simple conversation with a stranger (making the odd exception for a particularly clever and kindly one, of course), stood resolutely on the strangest of shores in what remained of my house-dress (with its sleeves bunched up around my shoulders most unpleasantly after my swim), gazing confidently into the unknown as though I were Lady Ei herself! What would you have thought of me, Henerey?
It boosted my resolve to observe that some of the flora native to that “shore” also demonstrated a kind of bioluminescence. Recalling your discussion of this phenomenon in your wonderful book (how long ago it seems that I first read it!), I found the eerie glow quite comforting. A half-fathom from the water, I spied a great strand of kelp twice my height in width – yet on land! – that somehow snaked delicately into the air, giving off a soft blue light.
I nestled myself into a bed of algae beneath the “kelp-tree” and kept a careful eye on the water. Though the island seemed much larger than I assumed at first – I could not even see the end of it stretching into the distance behind me – I did not wish to take myself further into the thick kelp forest. My unexpected bravery could only go so far! How could I know what other predators might lurk within that territory? At the same time, I tried to convince myself that if I stayed out in the open, perhaps a passing boat might sail by and offer me rescue. What manner of phantom vessels haunt waters like those?
Instead of a boat, however, I spied more strange shadows shifting through the waves. I strained to catch sight of their forms beneath the sea’s surface. Unfortunately, the luminescence of the island could not penetrate the darkness of the water. I feared that whatever followed me to the island might be amphibious and would soon scrabble up the shore to catch me at last – but my luck seemed to hold out for the duration of my stay.
At last, as suddenly it happened in the Deep House, I felt a horrible shaking of the ground that made my coral-covered island bounce beneath my body. The force must have caused me to hit my head, because I cannot recall how I managed to return to the reef outside the Deep House – what comes next in my memory is the experience of opening my eyes in the Infirmary.
As a result, I have been eager to learn what I can about the following: bioluminescent ecosystems, legendary and unusual methods of transportation that cannot be explained by Science, and… really, any other previously observed aquatic anomalies.
O, yes, and I did promise you a suspicion about the Structure! I have nothing to go on here, really – except the fact that the unusual phosphorescence of that other world reminded me of the Structure when you and I observed it at night. The light emitting from the surface of the island itself, in fact, included the same shades of glimmering pink and pale green. More significantly, Arvist and Jeime were going out to look at (and perhaps touch?) the Structure when this happened. Perhaps, if it was an Artefact, they activated some ancient, waterlogged technology that soon exploded with age?
Though how that relates to my experience, I cannot say!
And finally – my proof. As I stood upon that impossible island, admiring the monumental kelp, I fished around in the deep side-pocket of my house-dress and discovered, to my great delight, that the short pencil and scrap of paper I carry with me always had survived the flood. (Mother would chide us for using anything other than waterproof paper, you know!) Perhaps artistic documentation should have been the last thing on my mind at the time, but I often find that keeping my hands busy can prevent me from losing control of my Brain in challenging situations.
Henerey, if you can believe this, I made two sketches while I was there, and I found them still tucked in my pocket when I awoke. I can think of no other explanation for their existence. Though I dare not sneak them out under Sophy’s watchful eye, I often find myself secretly touching the now-creased papers for reassurance. As the only tangible artefacts of my journey, those sketches remain most precious to me. That said, I would not be opposed to copying them for you in the future, if I had the opportunity…
But by this point, I’m sure I must have frightened you – if you were not slightly frightened of me already. I shall stop recounting here, at present. If all of this disturbs you, I hope you will not think unkindly of me – I would be happy to put it behind us and never mention it again, or to claim it is a complex joke I have crafted for your amusement!
(How I wish that were the case.)
Yours in confusion (but most certainly yours, if you wish),
E.
P.S. Thank you for recommending A Poetic Hospice. (It occurs to me that, in other circumstances, you and I would probably greatly enjoy reading and conversing about the same books for pleasure – perhaps one day when your sail ends and this nightmare is behind me…?) Sophy brought it for me this morning – she was anxious about leaving me here by myself even just so she could go to the library! How silly. I am fine! At any rate, I consumed it in about an hour. I must confess that I hoped for some obvious clue – such as “Near the end of his life, Darbeni was frequently haunted by images of a strange Structure that appeared in his dreams – and eventually, in his underwater garden.” No such luck. There was only one passage that seemed vaguely mysterious. I made a copy for you. What do you make of the reference to other “poetry manuscripts”? It is odd that multiple people appeared so fixated on this theme!
While Darbeni valued interdisciplinary pursuits throughout his career, the onset of his twilight years inspired him to push Academic boundaries even more aggressively. He began to embark on Antepelagic flights of fancy, spending hours poring over obscure manuscripts in that strange “study” he built in an alcove in his dining room (so he would never be too far away from a hearty meal). His daughter Ulla writes to her betrothed:
“My father used to mock me for even daring to pick up a book not written by an acclaimed Scholar. Yet now he passes his time in the company of the strangest documents I have ever seen! All old, all handwritten, some seemingly even scribbled in scripts that I cannot recognise. And I, a speaker of twelve languages and writer of every Academic Shorthand! Every day, precisely at two bells, he leaves the house to ‘research’. Well, you will wag your tongue at me, dearest, but one day I decided to follow him – and what do I find? Father at a public house, with a folio of these precious manuscripts, speaking in hushed whispers with a crew of strangers! (At the very least, I can appreciate that he possesses a far more robust social life than I.)”
Perhaps satisfied with this prosaic reveal, Scholar Ulla Darbeni did not follow her father again. No surviving documentation suggests the identity of this “crew of strangers” – though it has been proposed that they might have been an informal group of amateur poets. By that logic, the mysterious manuscripts Darbeni possessed may be, in this author’s opinion, drafts of works by his peers, written in an agreed-upon private shorthand to avoid having their attempts at verse read (and mocked) by their family members.
When I first published my thesis on Darbeni, Scholar Evin Yelt rightly labelled my primary assertion (summarised in the previous sentence) as nothing more than idle speculation. In preparing for the publication of this book, however, I was fortunate enough to spend some time in Darbeni’s own home at Scholar Ulla’s generous invitation and was given the opportunity to sift through a “forbidden box” (her words, not mine) of the oddest bits of unfiled detritus from her father’s study. (Scholar Ulla regretted that she was not able to offer this opportunity to Scholar Evin Yelt when he visited, as alas, she is most particular about who may review those parts of her father’s belongings that have not yet already been donated to various Campus Archives.) In it I found what I now believe are the extant manuscripts described in this very letter.
“And how,” I can imagine Scholar Yelt asking, “do you know that these manuscripts relate to this mysterious poetry group?”
Because each manuscript has the same title:
“A Luminous Circumference”.
The poems, such as I translated them (see my forthcoming volume: The “Circumference” Circle – Darbeni’s Poetical Colleagues), range in quality. Darbeni’s is, frankly, the best of them. Each varies in length and metre and structure, but all address the same theme. Thus I propose that Darbeni was not, as Scholar Yelt might insist, reading historical manuscripts, but actively participating in critical reviews of works created as part of his group’s poetry challenge. Though nothing else, at this point, can be discerned about the identities of those within this “poetry circle”, we can say with confidence that their presence made Darbeni the most social he had been in years.
And, according to Scholar Ulla, Darbeni continued to think of his poetic colleagues until his very last breath. In a private interview, Scholar Ulla speaks of Darbeni’s passing:
“We had no visitors while I waited for Father to leave me. He wished it to be just the two of us, like it had been since the beginning. Yet his ‘poetry friends’, whomever they may be, seemed to be close to his heart even if he did not wish to see them at his deathbed. He kept repeating fragments of verse, most of it incomprehensible. At one point – and I shall remember this until the end of my days – he seized my hands and whispered ‘A predator awaits, Ulla! A predator awaits!’ I thought he had spotted a shark through the porthole and opened the curtains to show him that there wasn’t a dorsal fin in sight. Later I recognised the line from that odd poem of his. At least he enjoyed a final recitation of those words that meant so much to him. I do wish he would have picked a more sensible poem upon which to focus, like ‘A Sonnet to Symmetry’.”
(With all due respect to Darbeni, I must agree with his daughter.)
Dear Vyerin,
The last time you sent me a letter from my sister that troubled me, I took days to respond. Today, I wanted to write to you instantly.
A new puzzle emerged to torment me – a corollary to the question I pondered last week. If E. had told me this story, would that have somehow changed what happened to her? Am I responsible for my sister’s death?
Niea says that is an unproductive thought to pursue. She reminded me that it is fruitless to ponder how each tiny decision might ultimately bring about a greater tragedy or mystery. (By the waves, she and I certainly know enough about that.) Perhaps if Henerey’s letter reveals anything at all, it is that he was the person best suited to hear this from E. I suspect it was because he wanted to believe her. He had enough of an open mind to welcome the possibility that what she saw was real.
(Also, the sketches certainly would have helped me believe her, even if I proved reluctant—but—no matter!)
I feel better now. I realise that frustration will get us nowhere. And after talking with my wife, I understand where some of this frustration and anxiety is coming from. There are things I have not told you about myself that might clarify my response to E.’s mysterious account, my friend. I can reveal them if you wish. But before I do, out of curiosity, let me ask another question. Long ago, you said that you were interested in the Ridge expedition, which was why you were curious about reading my letters.
How much do you know about why our mission ended?
My dear friend,
I do not know if you intended to end your message without signing off, or whether you simply sent it prematurely. I should feel socially obligated to say, “I understand how difficult this is for you,” but, in truth, I cannot fathom how difficult it is.
How can we not experience outbursts and anxieties under these circumstances? This is not a detached academic project that we are completing for the sake of professional glory or historical import. These are the lives of the people dearest to us, and honestly, Sophy – you are the most reasonable of anyone I’ve met. You certainly deserve to experience emotions from time to time. (Pesky things, aren’t they?)
There is a dramatic tone to your final question, so I shall assume that something happened to end the mission other than what we (the Public) understood. I heard that there was a near-fatal accident that many speculated was due to equipment failure because the crew (you!) resigned immediately afterwards, spelling the end of the project. (Though I’ve heard – as I’m sure you may have heard as well – that some Boundless Scholars now promise to get researchers back in the Spheres within the next five years.)
V.
Yes, you understand it about as well as anyone else in the world does. Instead of summarising the truth for you, though, I will let the rest of my letters do the talking.
Something happened to us down there, Vyerin – something that I still struggle to explain – something that I kept shut away in the back of my head just as E. preserved Henerey’s letters in her safe-box. The combination of losing E. and the end of our mission removed my logic and curiosity for a time. I have never returned to those thoughts again, as much as Niea would like me to.
I shall seek out and send you more of the letters between myself and Niea. With her blessing, I am happy to finally tell someone else about this.
Sophy,
Let me offer an alternative proposal.
I realise at this point that continuing to explore our siblings’ letters over correspondence feels – well, somewhat contrived. Think of how much more efficiently we could work were we in the same place. If you consent, I would be very pleased if you would do me the honour of spending a few days in my family’s home. We have much to discuss, if you are willing. (Niea is welcome too, of course!)
Fondly,
Vyerin
Sophy Cidnosin – Scholar of Wayfinding, School of Observation (Boundless Campus)
V.,
Apologies for the late reply, and forgive my boldness, but – Niea and I await you on your doorstep. Quite literally, as you can see from this calling card.
See you shortly, I hope? (Our arms are laden with documents! Do hurry, please!)
Sophy