Cradled within the terraces – once stinking and vibrant, now still – lays what seems to be a hole of uncertain depth. Ribbed walls carry that chasm deep into the earth; travelling beyond the foundation of this shadowed skull to somewhere else. No scents, sounds, or secrets escape it, yet there is a sense that a nebulous, primordial substance dwells within.

Yet this pit is not open to the greater play. A crystalline layer caps it: smooth, flawless glass moulded by silent pressure. That same material spirals into trunks and upwards veins, wrapping into great, transparent oaks and ferns and vines and lifeless bayous and other myriad vistas, rendered in perfect, sterile imitation. Or perhaps all worldly shapes are imitation of this transparent place. All rotates, quietly, around a small, central hole. This stretch is strange and transcendental, as if those that walk through it have stepped from the earth into the clarity of the moon’s dark aether.

At present, only one walks. A wide sculpture creaks through the garden, a fragment of slate bound to its arm. Its form may have seemed rotund – even jolly – if not for the way its bark and obsidian flesh wraps around a gaping hole where its heart should lie. By any measure, that malformation ought to break it apart – the laws of load-bearing structures demand it. But either the round figure is sturdier than expected, or a hand greater than gravity holds it tight. It settles cross-legged on the glass, and quietly starts scraping layers away with its nails. Nothing new is found beneath. Just more void.

Sometimes, walking amidst the glass is like walking through a vibrant, natural landscape. Sometimes, it is like walking amidst an endless abyss; neither dark nor hungry. Only empty.

Unlike others, the figure knows this place is not as it seems. It has not fallen for the insidious coaxing of the darkness; has not walked into a labyrinth of its own creation and imagined it the truth instead of lightless shadows dancing across the cavern walls. It lacks either the desire or the imagination to be tricked, even by itself.

So it witnesses the amalgamate’s arduous climb down the terraces. It watches as they fight against the stiffness of their body to move through the otherworldly landscape it inhabits. The process takes some time, yet it continues its scraping without frustration.

When the amalgamate does finally arrive, it turns its empty gaze upwards, to the standing figure’s face. They return that gaze: glaring into the featureless hollows of its face.

If you truly haven’t fallen victim to any tricks, the amalgamate asks, then what is this maze of glass?

It shrugs. Something real. Or not.

Or not?

Reality is thin and weak-tasting. Has hardly earnt the title.

The amalgamate surveys their surroundings, in search of something to comment on.

Not much here, it blandly states.

They lower themself to sit upon the glass, careful to avoid shattering the transparent layer beneath them. There’s nothing… else?

Else? This’s all that is. Nothing changes. Not really.

What do you fill your time with?

It takes its time in answering. Thinking. I like looking at things, sometimes. Sometimes I don’t.

Why not?

Too loud.

They hum. You believe noise to be bad?

No. Just stinks.

Like the terraces up there stunk.

A little like that.

There is a long silence as the giant figure gathers themself. Eventually, they shuffle towards a nearby crystal sculpture: a glade of grass and wildflowers. They point to it.

When you look at things, what do you see?

Shapes.

What’s in them?

Quiet. Absence.

And if they were to be shattered? If their shape were to change?

Its visage creaks into a frown. Don’t do that.

But if that were to happen, would their contents change?

No.

What about a human being?

The same.

Just quiet?

All humans are wraiths. Haunting our own bodies. Loud in form. Not in truth.

Hmmm. But humans experience things. Is that not real?

It shakes its head. What does experience prove? There is flesh. Organs. Bones. Follicles. Sinew. Tissue. Grey matter.

Then there is colour. Sound. Taste. Texture. Pain. Thought.

The latter froth riding the shifting waves of the former. Or perhaps the opposite. Either way, it doesn’t truly matter.

At the centre of everything that exists is brutish absence. The dumb truth that this thing exists without argument. No permutation of meaningless noise can ever become meaningful. A million times zero is still zero.

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Do you truly believe that?

Can anything else be believed? Doesn’t this place prove it?

…

All here are ghosts. The lunatic conjurings of a mind too feeble to make sense of the senseless.

Not their fault. No mind’s strong enough.

Nothing lives in this place. Not really. At the core of everything that has ever existed is an absence large enough to dominate all else.

They – perhaps unequal to the rate at which the debate is progressing – gather themself to drum a finger against the glass. Have you seen the walls of this place? The beating heart? The things that grow? You move.

No. I just shift.

And you can prove this quiet?

It pauses. Think of a question. Any question.

Why do gods act the way they do? Say there’s a reason. Is there a reason for that reason? A reason for that reason’s reason? Spiralling downwards endlessly?

Infinite regress.

Yes. Or somewhere along the way, a reason that has no reason?

A brute fact.

Two options. Infinite chains of justification, or an ultimate, reasonless answer. Both quiet. Unbreakably quiet.

The amalgamate released something like a sigh. That depends.

On what?

Your interpretation.

…Interpret what?

It could be quiet. It could also be that way because it’s profoundly loud; so much so that reality bends around it.

…That’s pedantic.

This whole discussion is pedantic.

Seemingly unprompted, the round sculpture arduously fights its way upright, then begins moving through the vistas. The amalgamate follows. There does not seem to be a destination.

I don’t know if I’m right.

They wait for another thought. It doesn’t come.

What do you know?

A response does not emerge immediately As the two wind through the glass garden, it thinks. Ponderings rise and fall like phantasmal birds of paradise; vibrant yet intangible. They swoop. The pair walk. Landscapes pass by: rolling deserts; wavering forests; cracked wastelands; endless plains; ocean’s depths. Finally, within itself it discovers a reply.

At the core of my world is a hole. Life; death; blood: none are a match to it. I hear the truth of it. It is silence.

Once, that quiet place was full of voices. But those echoes are starting to fade. It’s quiet again. There’s no sound to spare me.

The amalgamate chuckles, in that voiceless way the sculptures that walk this place do. It turns to them, brow creaking upwards.

You make your own sound.

It turns.

It’s true. The shape of this place is yours. And how could such a bizarre discussion have occurred without it?

I just watch, though.

And by doing so, you make the seeing your own. Without your ears and eyes, none of this would exist.

Really?

Well, it seems so. You’ll see. The amalgamate leans down to take its hands in their own. Just BREATHE.

Then the two disparate sculptures are gone.

***

Gast’s eyes flutter open. Flames lick the air ravenously. Beneath, the wood loudly pops in concord. A thick blanket has been draped over her body to shield against Bite’s teeth. Ants march across it in a complex logistical chain designed to retrieve crumbs speckled amongst the wool. She’s pleasantly warm. Her mouth dry. When she’d fallen asleep, the campfire hadn’t been started.

“Look who’s up,” Kit drawls at the other side of the fire. “Just in time t’avoid any real work.”

Across from her, Vin spares a look from the cooking pot he tends to for a disapproving frown at the swordswoman. Ronnie – seated beside him in anticipation for dinner – warily glances between the two.

“Am I wrong?” she asks, flicking pebbles at the larger man. Each impact against his face is accompanied by a, “Huh? Huh?”

Though Vin’s jaw had begun tightening, a sudden grin breaking across his face dispels it. “Sounds like someone wants more spice in their meal.”

Kit blanches as he reaches into his pack. The giant next to him chuffs in silent laughter.

The Strain sits up, careful to avoid displacing the ants. Night has descended. Across the camp, Whip and Davian sort supplies from their cart while quietly discussing the vagaries in scholarship on monsters. The teenage girl wants more research on breeding habits. Her embarrassed elder is attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere. He has little luck. Elsewhere, their donkey – the Missus – stares at the pair disdainfully as he chews feed.

Sloshing from behind. Gast turns to find Ronnie shaking a skin of water at her. She takes it. Swallows. Tastes clear. They must’ve refilled it from the stream while she slept. After emptying it, the fat Strain returns it. The giant gives it a shake and snorts at discovering it empty. Then raps Gast on the forehead in admonishment before tossing it at her feet.

Ronnie’s good hand snaps repeatedly. Whip turns to watch the huge Strain sign.

“Hi Gast,” she says. “Ronnie wants you to refill it.”

When Gast looks to the giant, they nod in endorsement of the translation. Then return to their post beside the pot.

Whip limps over to her as the heavy Strain makes the journey to her feet. “I can do it for you if you’re too tired,” she offers.

“Whip.” Eyes rolling in exasperation, Davian gestures towards her crutch and shoots Gast a meaningful glance.

The woman thinks for several moments, then shakes her head.

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Okay.” Whip begins to hobble away, then turns. “Call if you need something.”

The stream is a short walk away. The caravaners they guard hold a closer spot. More defensible that way, said the scarred lady with the orange-haired girl. Gast passes the Growers and Smiths: the Owlblood and his wife, the old man gambling with Rita, the old woman, the babies and the sour-faced man looking after them. Then Tippi, Crumpet, and the angry old lady.

Their voices fade beneath the burbling of the stream. It tumbles over stones with a quiet murmur. Cold flecks of water speckle the Strain’s face. She kneels beside the flow, watching a wobbling mirror of herself repeat the motion in the stream. Behind that Gast, silhouettes fly through the clear night sky in pursuit of nocturnal activities. A red beetle mounts her knee and stolidly climbs upwards. Across the river, the heartwoods sway in the breeze. Their gnarled, spiked branches lose their edge in the moonlight. A set of rodents cluster around the branch. They look upwards.

Amidst the quiet, Rita cusses at a turn of dice. An owl hoots secretively. Kit and Vin’s bickering grows loud enough to be heard. The campfire pops loudly. The sour-faced man teaches his son about the plants lining the river. Wind gently blows. Whip laughs at something. The beetle rests on her shoulder.

High above, the moons hang shrouded in starlight. A crowd of light jostles for their attention.

Same as it ever was.

And Gast finds herself smiling.

***

The crystal landscape has not changed. It remains transparent; solid in form yet made transient by darkness passing through it. To wake is to witness a vast chasm in all directions and the miraculous fact that no one is falling into it. Above, the orb of blood thunders.

Between it all is a pile of dust. As they have done many times before, the amalgamate pulls themself from it, limb by limb. Throughout the process, only the whisper of dust rubbing against flesh and wood fills the empty air. The ubiquitous creaking that accompanied all their wooden motions has faded. In its absence, the darkness seems a bit calmer.

They finish their labour and stay cross-legged for a time. Take in the air as well as a sculpture can. Broad, dextrous hands tracing one another soundlessly. Eventually, they pick the fragment of slate from the ground where the dust had lain. Musings cover its every inch.

The amalgamate lays the sheathed sword across their knees and joins the slate to its partners: the bell; the wing; the ivory filagree; the seed. Then they rise. Look around the still, empty garden; the monstrous silence beneath it. A long vine dangles into it.

With a single blow, they shatter a hole into the substance beneath them. Then they begin the long climb downwards.