Chapter 19
Dear Sophy,
I write to you today from a familiar locale and point in time – a Bubble, on the first night of an expedition! Remember when I sent E. your letter via automaton? Though I would much rather send mail on your behalf than write to you (since the former necessitates you being here with me in person), I enjoy the nostalgia.
I must ask you to forgive me, as I am a little out of sorts today. You know all too well how often an episode of Nerves overtakes me during significant moments of research, and I do not know what turn this expedition will take. My thoughts are so scattered that I can hardly remember what I have and haven’t told you already – please pardon any redundancies!
We return to the Point of Interest tomorrow, where I do indeed hope to encounter our Nautilus once again. As the self-appointed Overlord of Scholars of Classification (and All Other Scholars, for that matter), Chancellor Rawsel reminded me that I must obtain photographic, trace, or specimen-grade evidence of the creature for it to be entered into the Universal Compendium of Species, so my task is an imposing one.
Irye and Ylaret packed some more sensitive sound equipment that Irye hopes will help them capture that “music” more clearly. Vincenebras will assist me, since I could use some charming frivolity as a distraction. And Tevn intends to scale the length and breadth of that vast trench, gathering as much information about its contours as he possibly can.
O, Tevn. I apologise, dear Sophy, for seeming so enigmatic about him. As you have gathered from what I told you already, this is a painful and complicated subject for me, and my past actions embarrass me – and I did not wish to share them with you, the one person upon whom I wish most fervently to make a good impression! Because I trust you, and because I want you to know me, even my flaws, I will tell you the tale now. It is “evening”, I sit here alone in my Bubble, and I have nothing else to do but express myself to you.
Tevn’s “interview” with Vincenebras provides the basic background on our history, but allow me to add some nuance. Tevn and I met while studying for our Presentations as Apprentice Scholars, though people often mistook Tevn for younger (he has managed to catch up to me in height a little more in the years hence – but only a little!). Of course, we were in entirely different Departments, and never saw each other in classes, but our friendship had been prefabricated for us – our parents, though from different regions, knew each other from their Apprentice days. My mother urged me before I departed for the Campus to “seek out Tevn Winiver Mawr”. Apparently, his parents told him something similar about me.
Though both of us resented our families’ “suggestions” of whom we might befriend, we were delighted to discover that we got along excellently. Tevn liked me, I believe, because he had lots of questions about the world – questions that most Scholars might find too, well, imaginative to dignify with a response – and I was always open to an intellectual challenge. All things unexplained, anomalous, and mysterious fascinated him. I liked him, in turn, because as an academically advanced child, I always found it difficult to make friends who did not resent me – and he never did. In fact, the faster I learned and the better I became at research, the more I could lend context to his inquiries.
I never expected my Advisor to turn down his invitation to join the first Ridge expedition and recommend me and the support Scholar of my choice in his place. Tev could not imagine why someone would say no to such a groundbreaking opportunity. For my part, I could understand it – most Scholars have families or friends or careers on the surface that are too precious to them to risk such an undertaking – but the thought of it still excited me. The potential made the dangers worthwhile.
A year ago, then, Tevn and I squeezed together into the cramped and rustic first iteration of the Depth Capsule and descended into the unknown. There was no station yet, so we spent our time in this tiny depth-craft that was barely the size of a Bubble. For some, living in such close quarters for such an extended period might be excruciating.
Fortunately, Tevn and I were about as comfortable together as brother and sister. We reached the area that we nicknamed “The Point of Interest” (yes, his idea, but I deserve credit for indulging him!) about two tide-cycles – perhaps more, around sixteen days? – into our expedition. By that point, we had played all the mental puzzle games known to humanity (and invented a few of our own, to boot), come up with a full lexicon of phrases to describe different qualities of abyssal darkness, and encountered a charming number of luminescent fish species that taunted me by staying just far enough from the capsule that I could not make out their shapes.
It was at this point that we were instructed to stop, don pressure suits, and commence our first dive. That is when I made my first mistake. I thought we might appreciate a few moments of solitude, and I desperately wanted to pursue some Anglerfish by myself so as not to alarm them (Tevn has always been a notoriously loud swimmer). So, we went our separate ways, planning to meet back at the capsule in two hours (recorded by the timepieces within our suits).
My only consolation, looking back, is that those Anglerfish were truly incredible. I was the first to witness their Conjugal Fusion about which my Advisor had hypothesised for years – really, it was quite horrific! I felt surprisingly comfortable as I swam through the unknown darkness, where, in all likelihood, some massive undiscovered apex predator may have been waiting for the day when Humanity decided to encroach upon its territories. My desire to see something new – something sublime – inoculated me against any terror. Those two hours I spent splashing about in the abyss remain precious to me.
Given my spellbound state, I never expected to be the first to return. We had docked the Capsule on the seafloor and turned off the lights to avoid interrupting the lives of any local species. Take heart – we were tethered, so there was no chance of us slipping away into the darkness forever! When nearly three hours passed and Tevn had not yet appeared, I tugged firmly upon his tether. An hour still later, he appeared at last.
I had never seen my friend so alarmed. In the grim, green illumination of his helmet lights, I noticed that his face was utterly expressionless – such a contrast from his perpetual grin and flushed cheeks.
I asked him what had happened, and he would not – could not? – speak. I feared the worst (or what, at the time, I thought was the worst): that somehow his suit had been damaged, and the slow increase of pressure (or draining of oxygen?) rendered him dramatically ill. Exactly what my Advisor and all those other proposed Candidates for this mission feared might happen to them when imagining worst-case scenarios.
We had a protocol for emergencies, of course, and I followed it to the letter. I tugged Tevn into the capsule, powered it on, began the depressurisation sequence, and set my course for the surface immediately. The research vessel Alacrity towed us aboard into the safety of a depressurisation chamber. When we reached Boundless, a team of Medics bore each of us away to separate areas of the Infirmary Anchorage for examination.
And Sophy, would you believe it? I never saw Tevn again.
(Well, until now, that is.)
My stay at the Infirmary was unnecessary. I suffered no ill effects from this experience other than confusion and concern. They let me return to my usual campus quarters on the second day, when Chancellor Rawsel and I met. He regretted to inform me that Scholar Mawr had experienced trauma so great that he would require substantial rehabilitation. Rawsel claimed the medics diagnosed Tev with a “highly Anxious personality” that was “unsuited” to such a journey. Consequently, only I could continue the Ridge mission.
The Chancellor warned me, however, that if word got out about Tevn’s experience, people might “mistakenly” assume it was too dangerous to undertake this expedition – when really, Tevn was simply the wrong man for the job because of his Emotional Sensitivities (so Rawsel said). Before Chancellor Rawsel departed, he gave me a small letter – the one I carry with me always – in which Tevn said that he needed time to himself and begged me to say nothing about his involvement in the mission. Tevn feared nothing more – or so he claimed – than the entire Academic world knowing that he was a failure.
Though I wrote to him many, many times, I never received another letter. (I did manage to contact his parents, who told me quite cheerfully that as far as they knew, Tevn was thoroughly enjoying his sabbatical.)
Well, what was I to do? By his own account, Tevn himself had assured me that it was his problem, not a safety issue. Chancellor Rawsel made it quite clear that my refusal of these terms might result in the termination of the project. So, I committed to leading a second Ridge expedition as thoughtfully and carefully as possible. That is why I grew so fearful when I saw Ylaret struggling with something she could not explain, and why I wished above all to avoid putting you in danger during those early days. For what played at the back of my mind was that pernicious thought – if Tevn had not been my friend and had not offered to accompany me on a voyage for which he was not suited, he would not have suffered in this way.
I use the past tense because if you were to see Tevn now (as you have), you would never guess what he experienced. He seems keen and clever as always. Either he has enjoyed the most successful post-traumatic rehabilitation programme imaginable, or it is a front to help him take on the (very brave) task of returning to this mission. That is part of why I tell you this now – because it all seems silly, doesn’t it, in retrospect? I thought my friend had experienced something sinister, but he is apparently well, so I needn’t worry any more. Is that not so?
I still wonder why he has returned now, of course. I tried on two occasions to speak to him alone, but both times he turned me away. It is difficult to imagine us returning to that Point without it unsettling him in some way.
Goodness, I must have been writing for half the night! I hope this will not take you half a night to read. Now, before I conclude – has E. decided to return to the Deep House? (Or rather: have you decided to let her?) I sympathise with her desire to get home as quickly as possible – and I certainly never found the Boundless Campus dormitories especially hospitable (the ones at Intertidal are so cosy) – but I do hope it will be safe for her. As your Expedition Specialist, I must inform you that the entire crew looks forward to your eventual return.
As someone who grows fonder of you with each passing day, however, I must also inform you that I cannot wait to see you again.
Yours in the depths,
Niea
Dearest Niea,
I am tempted to open this letter with a gentle admonition along the lines of “I cannot believe you tormented yourself for so long with this ‘secret’ that has in no way changed my opinion of you whatsoever, whether as a Scholar, a leader, or a – Person of Interest, so to speak” – but o, I myself am prone to cling onto guilt for things entirely out of my control!
So let me be as clear as I can for the moment (knowing that I will likely reiterate these points once I can see your face again): you are not to blame for whatever Tevn experienced. If anyone is the guilty party, it is obviously Chancellor Rawsel, who put you in such a difficult position. I appreciate that you are the most qualified to lead this expedition, but surely it would have been more humane for him to grant you a reprieve while you waited to hear what had become of your friend.
I consider you exceptionally courageous, empathetic, and thoughtful. Now I understand why you were so affected by Ylaret’s situation. O, my dear, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you.
(Well, that is not quite true – I also hold the utmost fondness for you.)
I hope Tevn will speak more openly with you. Perhaps he simply does not know how to initiate the conversation. I can sympathise with that, at least, for I have found recently that it is very difficult to talk to my own sister!
I suppose I should have said from the very beginning that we shall indeed return to the Deep House soon. E. insisted, so I agreed – as long as I may come with her for a tide-cycle or two to make sure she is safely settled. As I mentioned previously, Jeime recommended some colleagues who could work on repairing the parlour in the future, but she does say the house is quite liveable otherwise. Outside of that, the only other injury to the House is the destruction caused when Arvist and Seliara took over my bedroom – I imagine I will hardly be able to find my old things among the enormous clay sculptures or whatnot in the closet…
The cosy closeness that E. and I enjoyed during her initial convalescence dispersed recently. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but she has been odd. Perhaps it’s just because I’m so used to writing letters to her and enjoying that kind of endlessly intimate communication. Yesterday morning – about half past nine bells – I was returning from the Refectory with teas in hand when I swear I saw, from my position in the hallway, the door to our dormitory slam shut. Panicked that we might have an intruder – or an unwanted visitor named Arvist Cidnosin – or someone who had gone to the wrong room by accident – I ran ahead, spilling an appalling amount of tea on the carpet. I swung open the door with great fury, only to find nothing more than E. sitting peacefully in the window seat by the porthole, reading a book and smiling at me. I asked if she had opened the door, and she said that she thought she heard me returning and wanted to help with the tea. Perhaps she did. But it was exceptionally peculiar.
Now, I fear that being here troubles E., but dear Niea, she simply won’t speak to me about it! She spends much of her time alone in her room. I walk by, sometimes, pausing in the hallway, and hear nothing but the scratching of her pen. She still sends enormous letters to Scholar Clel. I am so happy that they have grown close, and yet there is a part of me that envies that accursedly charming Natural Historian. There has never been a time when E. favoured someone else’s company over mine.
That is not to say, of course, that she has been intentionally cruel, or dismissive, or exclusionary of me. We eat most meals together (Seliara occasionally visits, too, though she has returned to her parents’ vessel in my brother’s absence) and I can often tempt E. into chatter about our childhood antics. But something has changed. I fear that it may soon be time for me to return to the Spheres.
O, how silly of me – of course I do not “fear” that! I would love nothing more than to return to work and you! (In reverse order of desire, naturally.) I simply wish that I could feel more reassured about E.’s condition before then.
I do expect I shall see you sooner rather than later! I will let you know when I make my decision.
Yours fondly,
Sophy
VIEWING LOCATION: bedroom porthole
HABITAT: still the surface
OBSERVATIONS: Today the sky has taken on the same sparkling grey tone as the wallpaper that decorates Sophy’s former bedroom back at home. Whitecaps dot the water like drowned clouds. The Toothed Whales departed for the day – I wonder where they go when the storms come? After almost an hour without a single sighting, I noticed the gently triangular tip of a ray’s wing breaking through the water as the prow of a ship does. I hoped perhaps it might leap from the waves and soar for a moment on the wind, but it decided to be sluggish and not waste any time on needless exhilaration. I feel much the same.
My dearest Henerey,
Let me begin by addressing some of this parcel’s contents. As you have likely already seen, I prefaced this letter with my newest “field journal” entry, written just for you, though I do not suppose it will prove quite as interesting as my first foray into the genre!
As I read your letter, your pragmatic approach to my experiences brought me great solace. It comforts me to think that even though I visited “that place” alone, we might reassess the memories together.
Since you have not dismissed my account (for which I am very grateful), I have indeed copied my sketches for you.
But they are not the only notable things enclosed. Not by far!
I went to your library, Henerey! I panicked the entire time – and panic still now – but I did it!
You are probably surprised. I am surprised! Now, this is the point at which Dr Lyelle would kindly say, “It is not that you cannot do things, E.; rather, it’s that doing certain things can be much more challenging for you, but if you plan accordingly and prepare yourself for the feelings an experience might cause, you may decide to attempt it anyway.” I tried to keep these words in mind as I snuck out of our quarters at quarter to nine bells to visit the Reading Room!
Of course, my Brain decided to torment me all the while. As I crept down the halls, marvelling at how many dormitories there were, it whispered: “You neglected to tell Sophy where you were going. What if another seaquake occurs, but here on campus this time, and you are not there to warn her, and she perishes because you decided to go out jaunting to the library?”
In response, I focused on sensations – the swishing of the thick carpet beneath my feet, the feel of my shoes and stockings wrapping around my ankles, and the salty smell of someone’s breakfast wafting from one of the closed doors.
As I descended the staircase and consulted a map of the Campus Tunnels, my Brain cut in once more: “You are not supposed to be here. You are not a Scholar. If they find you here without authorisation, you will be reproached beyond your wildest imaginings and perhaps even Sophy’s career will be ruined, thanks to you. Also, someone may kill you, I suspect.”
I counted the number of branching tunnelways on the map (seventy-nine) before continuing further.
“Or perhaps someone will accuse you of killing someone else!” continued the chatter in my mind. “You will walk right into the wrong place at the wrong time. And everyone knows you are Mad, and probably thinks you likely to snap at any second, so you will have no defence.”
It went on like this for some time. (I jest a little to help make this less of a horrifying affair, but really, Henerey, you wouldn’t believe what my Condition leads me to think sometimes. And not just think – believe! In fact, now I am thinking “Perhaps I should not be so open with Henerey about the tricks my Brain plays with me, because then he will think I am unstable and untrustworthy, just like everybody else in this world does” – but I shall try to ignore that!)
Though I had to constantly refocus myself by composing witty retorts aimed at my own mind, I eventually made it all the way to the Library Anchorage. I never would have guessed that those tunnels were underwater, though, because there were no windows! What kind of Architect designed these spaces? I thought about my mother as a young Apprentice at Boundless, wandering these bleak undersea halls without a single porthole, and smiled to imagine her cursing the austerity of the design.
She must have appreciated the library, though.
Once I exited the tunnels and crept onto the lower deck of the Anchorage, the colour and light startled me. An endless line of columns faded in a gradated way from blue to bluer. They drew my eye to that great pointed Library Arch – with the dizzying array of pearl mosaics at which I would have stared for hours were I not already on a mission.
Because you so helpfully informed me about the best time to visit, I was almost alone on the library’s first floor. A few lingering Scholars in groups – like pods of Toothed Whales, I thought, trying to calm myself – gathered things from their carrels, but they swiftly made their way to the exit. After spending some time counting the shelves – it is remarkable how high the ceilings are here! Are there truly one hundred shelves per wall? The ladders are extraordinary! – I breathed in, pulled all of the muscles of my body until I could tighten them no more, released them, and walked over to Scholar Elaxand Iyl.
He was the only person at the desk, but still I felt glad to see his helpful nameplate – and gladder still that he spoke first.
“You must be the only other Scholar in all the seas who does not care for hot beverages,” he said by way of introduction. “I do find them exceptionally overrated. It is not natural for water that one drinks to be hot, nor flavoured. Don’t you agree?”
I regret that I found this friendly introduction deeply intimidating.
“Please, it’s Darbeni I’m wanting,” I ended up saying, then shook my head, breathed in once more, and tried again, hoping that I had spoken so quietly the first time that he heard nothing. “Good morning, Scholar Iyl,” I attempted. “I am here on behalf of Henerey Clel and hope to access the Darbeni archive, if I may. What must I do to enter the Reading Room?”
Scholar Iyl scrutinised me kindly – that is the best way to describe it – until suddenly he hoisted himself out of his chair and opened the gate to his desk, bowing politely before me. I clumsily returned the gesture.
“You’re the correspondent, aren’t you?” he asked, leading me back through an ornate wrought-iron door. “The one who lives in the Deep House and writes Henerey ever so many letters. He’s mentioned you before. Excessively, in fact.” (My goodness! Have you really, Henerey?)
“And he deemed you a most excellent friend,” I replied. “It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is E. Cidnosin.”
“O, I know that, too,” Scholar Iyl laughed. “Despite your stated connection to Scholar Clel, I am under strict orders to deny Reading Room access to unauthorised guests – unless Scholars of Repute vouch for them as Campus Visitors. Scholar Philosophy Cidnosin has had you on her visitation list for years.” (This took me by surprise! Surely Sophy never thought I would visit here before. Wishful thinking?)
“I also know that you have recently taken ill, and should really be abed, don’t you think?” he continued. “I overheard some Scholars discussing your mysterious accident. Worry not – I wasn’t reading about it in the morning papers. Too much of a distraction. I prefer to ponder philosophical concepts while drinking my room-temperature, water-flavoured water.”
“I can never resist the call of archival research, no matter my personal or physical circumstances,” I said with what I hoped was great conviction.
“I believe that well enough.” Here Scholar Iyl let me into the Reading Room at last – and o, Henerey, as exciting as it was to think about all the history that surrounded me, I have to admit I was at least as excited by the thought of entering yet another space that you visited in the past!
I settled down on the cushion nearest to the door while Scholar Iyl rummaged about in one of the many numbered vaults. Soon afterwards, he presented me with a beautiful abalone box.
“You are fortunate, E.,” he said – not even stumbling over my lack of a Scholarly honorific. “There has been renewed interest in Darbeni of late. In fact, someone even visited us yesterday to access his archives. But today, they are all yours.” He gestured towards some supplies under the table for making full-page impression copies – I had innocently assumed that I would have to copy down anything of import all by hand – and left me. Shockingly, I felt rather sorry to see him go.
I imagine that when you visited the Reading Room, you worked quickly to avoid the company of fellow Readers. Thanks to your kind guidance, this was not the case for me. Left to my own devices, I sifted through the box and dissected Darbeni’s documents. What a fascinating thing an archive is! To think that a person’s entire life could be summed up in the jumbled, incomplete assortment of ephemera they leave behind.
It did not take me long to reach that puzzling folio of shorthand documents. It seems that our favourite Darbeni expert kindly left his translations next to each original so I might read them. I’ve attached a few for your enjoyment.
But here is what haunts me the most. At the very bottom of the box, I found what appeared to be the “poetry group’s” manifest. This particular item was not listed on the catalogue sheet at the beginning of the box – I have not spent much time in Archives, Henerey, but I imagine such an oversight is quite unusual? It was a list of about thirty names, each accompanied by a date, some of which were well past the day of Darbeni’s death! It appears that this group’s activities continued even without the founding member. But considering these modern additions, how did the manifest end up in Darbeni’s archive?
Then I noticed the last among the most recent names – with a membership date of thirty-five years ago. Amiele Nosin. My mother. Naturally.
As you might imagine, I quite elegantly lost all my wits.
Somehow, I managed to stand up, repackage the box, and return it to that odd File Collector mechanism (which whirred quite pleasantly to thank me) before exiting the room. Scholar Iyl gave me a wonderfully warm smile as I emerged.
“Did you enjoy your research? Please send my best regards to Henerey,” he said before looking back down at the text he was perusing.
“Are you completely sure that all the documents in that archive are genuine?” I said faintly, hoping he could hear me.
“Certainly,” Scholar Iyl replied. “My colleague re-catalogued it two days ago. All accounted for, and all provenances verified.”
A thought struck me.
“Who was it, exactly, that requested to view the Darbeni files yesterday?”
Scholar Iyl seemed to search the ceiling for meaning.
“Now that,” he said, “is confidential, unfortunately. Unless you are a Department Chair looking to track down an unruly Apprentice.”
I realised that the sign-in sheets were simply in a book under his palm. I considered leaning over to steal a glance – then thought better of it.
I didn’t need to. I suspected that the person who may have tampered with this archive yesterday could be our mother’s friend Jeime Alestarre.
I did not even wait to see how Scholar Iyl might respond to my departure. It was growing late, anyway, and I feared that the Scholars – including Sophy – would soon return from their morning repast. (I was right! As I ascended the spiralling dormitory staircase, I saw Sophy seven flights beneath me – and promptly began to run. I barely made it inside before she did, though I suspect she might have noticed me shutting the door. I still do not want to worry her with this, but I do wonder what she would make of it all!)
This letter has run embarrassingly long as usual. I shall end here and leave my sketches, copies, and notes to continue to speak for themselves. Please take care – how I wish we could simply talk in person. (Certainly I will contact Jeime as soon as I possibly can!)
Yours,
E.
Were I more skilled with scale, I would have sketched a small version of myself standing beside it – but my artistic skills remain far too limited for such an ambitious project. Instead, please imagine the top of my head corresponding roughly with the first quarter of the “tree”.
I doubt this will be of any use to you, but while on the island I found it amusing to attempt a scientific illustration of a creature that I barely glimpsed! Certainly I succeeded in capturing the most defining trait: its mysteriousness.
“A Luminous Circumference”
I knew I saw the water glowing.
Turns out there’s better things than knowing.
“A Luminous Circumference”
It’s born and it burns and it dies
Though never in front of my eyes!
I’m a sceptical sort
Of the things they report—
But remain open to a surprise.
“A Luminous Circumference”
She says it sings visually, looks musical,
feels impossible. Radiant tunnel, elegant symphony, attractive curiosity?
What does it say about our ancestors? What do they say about us?
What must I do to see it myself?
Some Hypotheses (not particularly backed by evidence, but I thought this title seems more convincing than “Some Idle Speculation”):
Firstly, though I read all the poems, I included only a representative sample here. Common threads include mention of a glowing circular shape (20 appearances), synaesthesia (such as a sound you can see, and so forth – 15 appearances), a cycle of birth–life–death (4 appearances), and a mysterious figure referred to as “she” (3 appearances).
All the poems are titled “A Luminous Circumference”, but those actual words only appear in Darbeni’s original poem. I should note that the manuscript for Darbeni’s poem is not officially titled. “A Luminous Circumference” is simply the first line.
It is also worth noting that while none of the poems are signed with full names, many include initialisms or symbols. Darbeni’s “A Luminous Circumference” does feature his Scholar’s Seal.
In case you were wondering, I did not recognise the handwriting on any document as my mother’s. It is possible that the shorthand might have obscured it, but she wrote in quite a characteristic way – always angling all curving letters, making an “o” rather like a little box, for example. I must speak with Jeime!