Chapter Thirty
End of the Road
The Catacombs
An ache overwhelms me. Not the physical ache of tired muscles or overstrained limbs, but something almost phantom.
As I weave through the corridors and crevices of these Catacombs, my body feels the exertion down here.
I am aware of the pain in a deliciously human way.
I have craved this burn. The physical feeling that I can attach to an action or a sensation.
It serves as the prickling proof that I exist, that I am trying.
Maddy would read from her books during the stolen afternoons we spent together when I could escape my work at the estate. Most of it never made much sense to me, but I was there for the company more than the ideas.
I’ve always believed you can’t write a philosophy; you’ve got to live it.
My father used to tell me you couldn’t learn anything worth knowing the easy way.
I think he meant that you can read a brilliant idea on paper, but it won’t stick; it doesn’t become a truth to you until you experience that idea in action.
Don’t put your fingers on a hot surface is great advice, but until you’ve touched one, until you’ve felt the consequences of that disobedient behavior, the idea won’t ingrain itself.
Consequences motivate change. If we don’t pay for the wrongs we’ve committed, then we have no incentive to behave any differently in the future.
I gently rub at the tip of my left index finger, feeling the smooth, scarred surface. My physical reminder of one such lesson learned the hard way—the only way, as my father would say.
“You’ve been awfully quiet.” Fyre interrupts my wandering thoughts.
For a moment, I forgot that I’m accompanied on this journey by a talking flame. The light continues to float in front of me, guiding my unsure progress through this labyrinth.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?” When I don’t immediately respond, Fyre continues, “I’m a wonderful guide and a great listener.”
“The whole package,” I joke.
Fyre does not laugh.
Then, after a pause, I add, “Philosophy.”
“You’ve been contemplating the meaning of life?”
“Parts of it, I suppose. ‘I think, therefore I am.’ ”
“René Descartes.”
“Another Frenchman in my life who doesn’t have a clue. Thinking doesn’t define us. What we endure does. Pain—that’s the true measure of a man.”
“I hurt, therefore I am,” Fyre voices the amended quotation. “That’s rather sad.”
“Sad but true.”
“ ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,’ ” Fyre responds as we take another turn around a tight corner of jagged rock embedded with bone. “That one is Hamlet.”
“What’s that got to do with me? With this?”
“It’s not what happens to you in life that matters nearly as much as how you respond to it. What is … simply is. How you feel about it. That’s the measure of a soul. Happiness or hurt—that decision belongs to each of us.”
I walk further down this corridor in silence for a while.
Then the light from Fyre sputters and softens. “I’m afraid this is where I must leave you, Traveler.”
“What? Why now?”
“Because you have found your way to The Innermost. There is a gate just up ahead. But this part of the journey must be completed alone. In the end, we all must find our own path.”
“A little light along the way never hurt anyone.”
“Sometimes, our path is illuminated; other times, it is not. Only you can reach the center of these Catacombs, and the heart is often the furthest from the light. Trust your steps in the darkness.”
“I don’t have much faith in that.”
“Faith is exactly what you must have now.”
“What do I have left to believe in at this point?”
“When all else fails, we still have the power to believe in ourselves. Goodbye, Traveler, and good luck.”
Instantly, the world around me plunges into darkness. This blackness feels worse than before because I’ve experienced navigating these tunnels with vision. Being thrown back into darkness is more painful now that I know the alternative. My steps slow and eventually come to a complete stop.
I cannot see anything around me. If I take a single step in the wrong direction, my entire sense of equilibrium could be shot. Just one twist or turn could destroy any sense of orientation I’m currently clinging to.
Despite my inability to see, I press on and move through the tunnel one hesitant step at a time. I can’t distinguish between right and left or down and up, but I know if I turn around, I will lose my way. And then I am lost forever.
The darkness seems to stretch endlessly, and my feet keep moving, but it does not feel like I am making any progress.
I haven’t come to any forks in the road.
I have not felt anything change beneath my feet.
No obstacles have blocked or altered my path.
As I continue to inch forward, desperately trying to keep my motion steady and face the same direction, time begins to lose its meaning.
My disorientation increases. Without my sight, I know not where I am.
And without any changes in my journey, I also lose track of how long I’ve been here.
Anxiety rises within me. Hopelessness and fear flood my mind.
I’ve come so far, but now I feel completely lost. That’s when new voices begin to surface in my mind.
These whispers do not come from anywhere around me; they echo only in my head.
What’s the point? Why not give up? You don’t know where you are. You don’t know where you’re trying to go. You have no guide, no map. And even if you did, you cannot see a thing. You are lost. You have failed. At least, by now, you should be used to that.
My feet slow down. All I can think about is the dark.
The welcome, overwhelming, complete blackness.
Absentmindedly, my right arm rubs my left bicep.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I can feel the scar, the raised flesh smooth and rigid like a snowcapped mountain.
It doesn’t feel like skin should. Somehow, it feels better to me—perfect in its deformity.
I focus on the scar and press my fingers into my opposite arm.
The jolt of pain stops me in my tracks. I curve my fingers slightly and apply more pressure to the spot with my nails.
The fresh wave of pain silences the whispers in my head.
My knees get heavy, my thighs weaken, and I sit in the comfort of this sensation.
I press my fingers down even more firmly into the hard edges of the brand.
My eyes glaze over at the ache beneath the numbness.
The euphoric hurt that courses through my body feels like a blanket.
It soothes, it calms, and settles me. And I am at peace in the pain.
The only place I’ve ever truly belonged. Here, I am not lost. Here, I feel home.
And then … I don’t. A crack forms at my core as I can physically feel my heart tearing itself out of the cage of my ribs, driving me onward toward Maddy. Toward love.
The intensity of this new sensation propels me back up onto my hands and knees.
With the little strength I have left, I crawl forward.
I push the welcome relief of the pain to the back of my mind, focusing solely on my singular goal.
From that crawling position, I gather more strength into my arms and push up off the floor.
Standing slowly, I take measured steps in the dark.
Just keep moving. Don’t ever stop. One foot in front of the other, come what may. I tell myself this as the sightlessness envelops me.
I know that if I stop, I’m as good as dead, so I keep pressing forward.
My vision is useless in the world surrounding me, but the darkness allows the visions in my mind’s eye to grow ever brighter.
Trying to keep myself progressing through the blackness, I wrestle not only with the physical fear of the unknown that may lie ahead but also with the emotional toll those vivid memories take on me.
As I shuffle my feet forward, arms extended in front of me to sense anything in my path, the unseen realm around me gives way to crystal clear memories lighting up my mind.
England, 1869
I stand beneath the willow tree, with ten minutes slowly crawling toward the top of the hour.
Time can be maddening; it moves at a snail’s pace when we want it to fly, and shoots past us when we wish to savor every breath.
Apprehension and excitement make each second feel like an eternity.
The carriage is packed with enough supplies to get us by for a few nights, and I have hidden away almost a hundred pounds.
It represents all the money I have in this world, and it has to be enough to get us through to a new town and a fresh start.
I am running a mental inventory of everything I brought and what we might still need when I hear the crunch of breaking branches and leaves.
She’s early, I think to myself, scanning the surrounding areas for signs of Maddy.
I do not see her, but instead, my blood turns cold at the sight of Alister Sullivan walking slowly toward me, flanked by four men a few feet behind him on either side.
“There he is, boys. The murderer! Don’t let him get away.” Alister’s calm, quiet way of leveling these accusations is chilling. He is so confident that he has me cornered; he does not even bother to pretend to sound convincing.
The thugs with Alister move quickly to surround me, pinning me against the tree.
I would welcome an opportunity to face this man one-on-one, but against five, I have no chance.
They hold my arms and legs tightly, stretching me awkwardly back against the tree; my shoulder sockets feel like they might burst at any moment.
Alister continues his slow approach and stops inches away from me, eyeing me up and down. Before he speaks, a nasty grin splits his mouth, and he spits directly in my face. The saliva is warm and viscous. I try to lunge at him, but I can’t break free from the grip of the men restraining me.
“How could you?” he sneers at me.
“I haven’t done anything,” I respond flatly, though inside, I scream and fight desperately.
“Now you and I both know that’s not true. Don’t we, boy?”
“Fuck you.”
“Nasty tongue on the brute. His propensity for violence seems clear to me, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?” Alister speaks to the men surrounding me, but his eyes never leave mine.
A chorus of grunts and affirmations sound out from the gathered crowd. My chest heaves with fury I cannot express and desperation I cannot articulate.
Alister continues, “You killed a vagrant up the road a short while ago, leaving him bleeding out on the street.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Then why were blood-soaked bills found in your possession?” Alister asks, pulling a small wad of pounds from his pocket and shoving them into the sleeve of mine.
My hand curls into a fist, but I can’t move. I can only watch as he orchestrates my destruction.
“You’re disgusting. You’ll pay for this, Alister.” My words come out through clenched teeth, but even I can hear the despair underneath the rage.
“Shh, shh, shh. Save your breath for the judge. And see if you can figure out how to tell him that your shop and worldly possessions were all packed up, and the murder weapon was found on your person, with your blood mingled alongside the victim’s?”
As he speaks, he pulls a bloodied blade from inside his coat and presses the flat edge to my face.
He runs the blade down my cheek without breaking the skin.
The blood coating the knife is still wet and warm; Alister must have come here directly after the murder.
When the blade reaches below my jawline, he turns the edge and nicks a small cut at the top of my neck.
I wince reflexively, then turn my gaze immediately back to the man framing me. He slides the blade down the front of my waist and pats the hilt against my stomach.
He brings his face to the small cut by my neck and takes a deep inhale. He hums softly, then leans in closer to my ear. “You shouldn’t have touched what belongs to me. Now I’m taking everything that belongs to you. Including your pathetic little life.”
He pulls his face away from mine, and I stare into his eyes.
“Take him away, men. And congratulations. We’ve helped rid the streets of London of dangerous vermin.”
He walks away as slowly as he approached, laughing the entire time.
The Catacombs
My memory fades from that moment to the haunting clang of the prison bars slamming shut. The sound of my fate sealing forever.
I reach up and grasp the bars in front of me, finding some comfort in their coldness and strength, even though they are meant to confine me..
As the prison bars fade from my memory, darkness descends once more. But the physical sensation of the bars remains vivid. I am in The Catacombs, and I am definitely holding on to metal bars. I squeeze them tighter, finding delight in their cold, impenetrable force.
How did I get here? Where even is here?
Everything is engulfed in darkness. I relish the simple joy of feeling something in my hands.
It’s comforting, in a world where my eyes provide no clues, to have a physical sensation that grounds me in a reality I don’t need my vision to understand.
Feeling the bars gives me some idea of what they look like and allows my mind to create an image of the room around me.
Then I push, and feel the gate yield slightly. A low creaking sound accompanies the opening of the gate, though I still cannot see where I am or what lies beyond. My body weight shifts as the gate opens further, and I take a step forward, deeper into the unknown.