Introduction
**l'appel du vide (The Call of the Void)**
This narrative unfolds as an allegorical elegy, a journey through the labyrinthine depths of the human psyche. As you, the discerning observer, traverse its layers, you will find yourself immersed in a tapestry of existential inquiry. Here, motivations are not just attributes of the characters you encounter but reflections of your own moral compass. This odyssey ventures through realms parallel to yours, where the familiar beckons with false promises of understanding. Yet, be cautious, for this journey is fraught with sudden turns and leaps into the unknown, a journey not just of the mind but of the soul.
Our tale begins with Abe, a boy ensnared in the frail clutches of illness, and his parents, trapped in their inability to transcend their limitations to nurture him fully. Within the confines of their home, a silent chasm grows, widening with each unspoken truth and veiled reality.
Abe, innocent yet unaware of the ancestral curse coursing through his veins, yearns for the freedoms his peers take for granted. His spirit, though confined by physical constraints, is unbridled in its quest for knowledge and experience. The light of day beckons him to partake in its fleeting joys, yet he finds solace in the embrace of the night, thriving in the shadows where his imagination reigns supreme.
His mother, a guardian angel draped in mortal weariness, strives to shield him from life's harsher truths. Her overprotective love, cloaked in lullabies and half-truths, seeks to keep him safe, yet in doing so, unwittingly stunts his spirit's growth.
The father, a figure more absent than present, is lost in a world of his own, a world of ledgers and obligations. His love, though genuine, is muted by the weight of societal expectations and unfulfilled dreams. In his quest to provide, he unknowingly widens the gulf between him and his family.
Abe's world is one of confinement, both physical and metaphysical. His intellect, a beacon in the darkness of his condition, yearns to break free from the chains of his frail body. He delves into the works of Dickens, Shakespeare, and Doyle, finding in their words a kinship with characters who, like him, grapple with existential dilemmas.
The home, a microcosm of societal norms and expectations, becomes a stage where each family member plays their part, yet yearns for a different role. The mother, the seamstress of their lives, tirelessly weaves the fabric of their existence, while the father, lost in his own narrative, fails to see the tapestry unraveling before him.
In this world, Abe stands as a testament to the human spirit's indomitable will to seek, to question, and to dream. His journey, a mirror to our own, asks us to ponder the boundaries we place on ourselves and others, and the cost of conforming to roles that stifle our true potential.
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Ch. 1 Imaginary Fiends
"It is a tragedy, all too common and yet profoundly intimate, to witness our future — the youth — ensnared by the cruel clutches of sickness," these words, uttered by my mother, reverberated through the decaying walls of our home. Her sobs were a lament, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the relentless passage of time. Hidden in the shadows, I listened, my heart heavy with the knowledge that I was the unwitting architect of her sorrow.
As I navigated the creaking corridors, a silent witness to the unspoken agony of my parents, I felt an overwhelming sense of otherness. My existence, marked by illness and confinement, was a stark contrast to the world outside — a world I longed to explore, to conquer, and to make my own. Yet, bound by the invisible chains of my frail body, I was condemned to be but a spectator.
The day had been a reflection of my inner turmoil. My attempts to ascend the forbidden trees, to feel the exhilaration of freedom, were thwarted once again by my physical limitations. Each fall, each failure, was not just a defeat of the body but a crushing blow to my spirit. The sticky sap on my hands, once a symbol of adventure, now felt like a mocking reminder of my confinement.
In my parents' eyes, I was a child to be protected, shielded from the harsh realities of the world. Yet, in their overprotective embrace, they unknowingly stifled the very essence of my being. Their perception of propriety, their fear of societal judgment, weighed heavily upon our family, casting a shadow over our existence.
My mother, a tireless sentinel, wove the fabric of our lives with threads of sacrifice and resilience. Her hands, though skilled in the art of an elite seamstress, could not mend the growing rift in our family. Her face, once a canvas of hope and dreams, now bore the lines of unspoken sorrows and unfulfilled desires.
My father, a distant figure, lost in the labyrinth of his obligations, was a ghost in our home. His love, though never in doubt, was obscured by the fog of his preoccupations. The unspoken covenant he had made with the world — a pact that demanded his constant absence — left us adrift, a family in form but not in spirit.
In this silent drama, I, Abe, stood at the crossroads of childhood and the vast, unknown territory of the self. My mind, a haven of unbounded imagination, sought refuge in the worlds created by literary masters. In their stories, I found echoes of my own struggle — a desire to break free from the constraints of my existence and to write my own narrative.
As the night embraced our home, my parents, lost in their own worlds, sought solace in fleeting moments of connection. Their hands, intertwined in a rare display of affection, were a silent testament to a love that endured despite the storms that threatened to engulf us.
In my heart, I knew that their aspirations for social ascension, their desire to be seen and acknowledged, were driven by a deep-seated yearning to belong, to be more than just the sum of our circumstances. Yet, within the walls of our home, we remained unchanged, prisoners of our own making.
As I retreated into my sanctuary of books and dreams, I realized that my quest for knowledge was more than just an escape; it was a rebellion against the invisible forces that sought to define me. My intellectual pursuits were a declaration of my existence, a defiant stand against the narrative written for me by fate.
And so, in the quiet hours of the night, I journeyed through worlds of ink and imagination, my spirit soaring beyond the confines of my frail body. In these solitary explorations, I found not just solace, but a glimpse of the freedom I so desperately craved.
Mother.
In the quiet hours of the night, as the house lay enveloped in silence, I often heard my mother's voice, a soothing yet confining whisper, echoing the sentiments of a lullaby that was both a comfort and a cage.
“Don't fret precious, I'm here,” she would murmur, her words wrapping around me like a cocoon, shielding me from the world outside. “Step away from the window, go back to sleep,” she would continue, urging me to retreat from the curious gaze that sought the mysteries of the moonlit world.
Her love was a fortress, safe from pain and truth and choice. In her embrace, the other poison devils of the world, those that didn't care for me as she did, were kept at bay. She was my protector, the sentinel guarding me against my unseen enemies and the demons that lurked in the shadows of my imagination.
Yet, in her protection, there was a subtle suppression — a will to survive and a voice of reason that she deemed too perilous for my fragile existence. “I'll be the one to protect you from your enemies and your choices, son,” she would assert, her voice a melodic yet firm declaration of her unwavering guard.
In her eyes, my enemies and my choices were one and the same, a dual threat from which I must be isolated. Her love, as pure and well-intentioned as it was, became a shroud that veiled the realities of life, keeping me safe, yet apart from the very experiences that define existence.
This overprotective shield, woven with threads of love and fear, became the walls of my sanctuary, my prison. In her earnest endeavor to save me from myself, she unknowingly tethered me to a world of shadows and whispers, where my spirit yearned to soar beyond the confines of her fearsome love.
Submerged in the world of books, I found solace in the intricate dance of words across pages, each sentence a step in an endless waltz of knowledge and imagination. Initially, my parents regarded my voracious reading as mere child’s play, an endearing mimicry of adult pursuits. They would often engage in spirited debates over dinner, discussing complex concepts and phrases, believing my mind too immature to grasp their depth.
However, one fateful evening, as Mother dimmed the gas lamps, casting long shadows through our somber abode, she stumbled upon my hidden trove of notes and annotations. There, in my own fanciful script, were theorems, corrections, and conjectures on the works of literary giants. I had even dared to venture into Father’s sacred ledgers, analyzing and amending his meticulous entries, naively believing my efforts might bridge the chasm between us.
Armed with a wealth of notes, my heart brimming with a mix of trepidation and hope, I approached Father's sanctum. His high-backed leather chair stood like a throne before the roaring fire, the evening paper rustling in his hands, and the familiar scent of pipe smoke weaving through the air, a signal of his presence.
Each step towards him was a battle against my own insecurities, my small, trembling hands clutching the sheets that held my soul's labor. The words I had rehearsed, perfect and eloquent in the solitude of my room, now fled from my mind, leaving me with a faltering voice and a heart pounding against the cage of my chest.
As I neared the colossal chair, a symbol of paternal authority and distance, my bare feet moved cautiously, silently, yet with a determination fueled by a yearning to connect, to be seen and acknowledged by this enigmatic figure who loomed so large in my world.
But destiny, it seemed, had other plans. In a cruel twist of fate, my clumsy, feeble step caught the edge of the rug, sending me plummeting forward. The open ledger, my precious offering, collided with my face, and the night's dream of shared understanding shattered in an instant.
Mother rushed to my aid, her tender care a balm to my bruised body and spirit, while Father, though cursing the disruption, offered a silent squeeze of reassurance on my trembling shoulder. Yet, the incident left an unspoken void, a haunting silence that enveloped us, as I was ushered to bed, alone with my thoughts and the echoes of a failed attempt at connection.
My isolation, both at home and in society, deepened with each passing day. The local school, unable to accommodate my unique needs and episodes, had cast me aside, further cementing my role as an outcast. Unbeknownst to me, Father harbored a silent suspicion that a recessive ailment from our family’s shadowed past had manifested in me, his only heir.
Time marched on, indifferent to my stagnating existence. Both parents, in their distinct ways, grew increasingly anxious and desperate. Mother’s voice, heavy with unspoken worry, broke the silence of one particularly strained evening. “Your Uncle is coming for a visit, darling,” she announced, a flicker of hope in her weary eyes.
This uncle, a figure shrouded in mystery and whispers of eccentricities, was a character of my father’s reluctant tales. A trauma surgeon turned private practitioner, his life was a tapestry of war, travel, and esoteric interests — a stark contrast to the rigid confines of our family’s existence. Father’s words about him always carried a tinge of envy and disdain, painting him as a heretic of our troubled bloodline.
As Mother spoke of his impending visit and a proposed change of scenery, a spark of excitement ignited within me. The prospect of an adventure, however fleeting, with this enigmatic uncle stirred something deep within my soul. Mother’s cautionary words, warning me of his peculiarities, only added to the allure of the unknown that awaited me.
In the ensuing days, my mind became a fertile ground for wild imaginings about the impending visit of my Uncle. I envisioned grand escapades in sprawling estates, with gardens morphing into fantastical beasts beneath my touch. The mere thought of play and laughter, of sharing camaraderie with a soul as misunderstood as my own, set my heart racing. In my mind's eye, I saw us, two kindred spirits, delving into the mysteries of the unknown and forbidden, a partnership of explorers in a world that had long shunned us both.
On the day of his arrival, a tempestuous evening set the stage for what was to be an unforgettable encounter. My Uncle, a towering figure, loomed on our doorstep, cloaked in layers of thick coats and scarves, leaning on a short, curved cane that seemed to be the only thing tethering him to this earthly realm. He was like a character from a gothic novel, emerging from the rain-soaked world into our dimly lit reality.
His voice, when he spoke, was an enigmatic blend of weariness and authority, a timbre that resonated with the echoes of distant lands and untold tales. “Well Brother of mine, won’t you invite me in?” he intoned, his words wrapping around the room like tendrils of mist. I felt an instinctual urge to retreat, to seek refuge in my mother's familiar embrace, yet I was captivated, rooted to the spot by the sheer presence of this enigmatic relative.
As Father hurried to assist him with his belongings, I found myself alone with the man who seemed more a myth than a relative. There we stood, nephew and uncle, locked in a gaze that was both an appraisal and a recognition. It was as if we were two creatures of different worlds, cautiously measuring each other, each aware of the potential for both connection and conflict.
When he finally broke our mutual scrutiny, his voice softened, “Forgive my manners, Master Abe. Let us be of good cheer, I am but tired from the road and you have grown so much since I saw you last. I doubt you would recall at all one such as I even. Shame him, I doubt that my brother talks of me very much. We’ll have to remedy that and talk of many, many wondrous things.”
His hand, when he extended it, was like a landscape in itself, vast and enveloping. There was a gentleness in his grasp, a careful containment of a strength that seemed barely held in check. It was as if I were encountering a mythical beast, a hybrid of ancient serpent and noble tiger, wrapped in the guise of a man.
Even relieved of his traveling garments, my uncle remained an enigma. He appeared as a figure woven from shadows and whispers, his clothes hanging loosely like the vestments of a spectral wanderer. His boots, rugged and imposing, seemed to anchor him to this world, a reminder of his military past and the journeys that had etched themselves into his very being.
As we stood there, I felt as though I was gazing into a world I had only dared to imagine — a world of adventure and mystery, of tales untold and secrets yet to be uncovered. In my uncle, I saw the promise of a journey that would take me beyond the confines of my sheltered existence, into realms where my spirit could finally soar unfettered.
As the days of Uncle Cain's visit ebbed away, they left in their wake a tapestry of lively conversations and a newfound vitality that seemed to seep into the very crevices of our home. The once mundane rhythms of life were now punctuated by his enigmatic presence, rekindling a vibrancy in my parents, especially my mother. Her laughter and smiles, so rare and subdued in the past, now bloomed like forgotten flowers rediscovering their splendor. Each evening, after the day's social whirlwind, I would overhear them, their voices weary yet infused with a newfound appreciation for each other, remarking on Cain's unexpected vigor despite his gaunt appearance.
I found myself increasingly drawn to Uncle Cain, this peculiar man who, like a mirror, reflected my own sense of otherness. Alone again with him in the dim glow of the hearth, I observed him, lost in a trance-like state, his eyes fixated on the dancing flames, murmuring incoherently. His presence was both comforting and unnerving, a juxtaposition that held me captive.
When I returned from a brief absence, the muffled sounds of my parents' mirthful reunion echoed through the house, a testament to the subtle magic Uncle Cain had woven. As I approached, his murmurs became clear, and he turned to me with an intensity that pierced the shadows. “...and here he is now,” he spoke, as if he had been expecting my very soul to emerge from the darkness.
Our silent communion in the firelight bridged worlds and words, a connection that transcended the need for speech. Then, breaking the stillness, Uncle Cain addressed me with a certainty that commanded attention. “We’ll be traveling tomorrow together,” he announced, his voice resonating with a blend of promise and mystery. He spoke of a coastal home, enshrouded in birches and beeches, where the sea air and creaking woods would sing us to sleep. His invitation was not just a change of scenery but a portal to a new realm of existence.
In my heart, I knew this was the path I was meant to follow. With a sense of destiny and wonder, I accepted his offer, my voice barely above a whisper, “Yes Uncle, I would like to go home there.”
The morning of our departure arrived with a solemn gravity. As I followed my colossal benefactor, his presence marked by the rhythmic “boom, click-Boom” of his stride, I pondered the silence that his absence would leave in his own mysterious abode. Our goodbye was a tableau of bittersweet emotions, with Mother's tears glistening in the dawn light, her handkerchief fluttering in a silent farewell.
As the coach pulled away, crushing the gravel beneath its wheels, I watched my parents, hand in hand, fade into the distance. A profound certainty filled me — I was embarking on a journey that would forever alter the course of my life, leaving behind the familiar for an adventure into the unknown with a man who was both a guardian and a riddle.
In those days of sojourn, Uncle's spirits were high, his zeal infectious; our repartee filled the lengthy carriage journey that seemed to bend time itself, turning days into mere fleeting hours. I, in my youthful curiosity, was lulled by the rhythmic sway of our transport, often slipping into slumber's gentle embrace, only to awaken and find my Uncle ever vigilant, his eyes betraying a restless anticipation for our destined arrival. At taverns along our route, our presence, a pair of bearded scholars, seemed to cast a curious shadow, drawing glances that spoke of both intrigue and caution.
As we dined, Uncle Cain's voice, lively with mirth, broke the silence, “Master Abe,” he spake, his words a blend of barley and wisdom, “I must forewarn thee, my abode, though a haven of knowledge, harbors my life’s work, a pursuit most exhilarating yet solemn. Thou shalt find every corridor welcoming, save for my sanctum of study, a realm forbidden, where my deepest contemplations reside.” His discourse painted a picture of a home alive with secret passages and speaking tubes, yet marked by a solitude that seemed to resonate with his very being.
Upon my inquiry of his vocation, his countenance lit with a rare beam, “Brave lad, to venture such a question,” he replied. “My travels, far and wide, have bestowed upon me gifts not of gold, but of esoteric knowledge, a burden as heavy as it is profound. These learnings, gleaned from the wildest corners of the world, bear a haunting weight, casting long shadows upon my soul. Yet, they are the specters that drive my quest, fueling the research that consumes my days.”
He spoke of a tonic, an elixir born from his vast experiences, a potion to temper the darkness that clung to his memories, allowing him to harness the wisdom of his past without succumbing to its abyssal depths. “This potion, my dear boy, is my shield against the relentless tides of remembrance, a beacon that guides me through the tempests of my own mind,” he professed.
As our journey neared its end, the anticipation of his enigmatic abode eclipsed all other thoughts. The coach creaked and groaned as it traversed the smoother path, and my heart quickened with each turn. Peering through the window, I pondered what form this dwelling would take — a grand Victorian manor, perhaps, or a castle with soaring turrets reaching for the heavens.
Yet, what lay before us defied all fanciful expectations. It was a structure of stark simplicity, an edifice more akin to a warehouse or military bunker than the abode of a learned sage. Surrounded by nature's wild embrace, it stood in stark contrast, a monument to order amidst the untamed. Its presence in this lush, verdant setting seemed almost an affront to the natural order, a stark reminder of the dichotomy between man's creations and the whims of nature.
In this abode, nestled within the embrace of the wilderness yet apart from it, I sensed a journey of discovery and shadowed secrets awaited, one that would test the bounds of my understanding and perhaps venture into realms yet unimagined.
As we approached the austere portal of his abode, Uncle bade me lead. The walkway, fashioned of fine stone, led to what seemed a fortress's gate rather than a humble door. Close inspection revealed etchings, cryptic and arcane, hidden in plain sight under the awning's shadow. Some bore the elegance of ancient spirals, others the starkness of effigies, whispering of forgotten rites and warnings unheeded.
Caught in a reverie, I pondered these inscriptions, imagining their meanings, their stories. But a chill crept upon me, a realization dawned – these were not mere decorations but omens, perhaps, foretelling of the darkness that lay within.
Uncle's voice, solemn yet reassuring, broke the spell. “You feel it, doth thou not? Our blood, thick with ancient lore, senses the call of this place. 'Tis both our burden and our legacy, Abe. Herein lies a force that hungers, yearns for our essence. We are its keepers, its wardens, bound to stand against its ravenous maw.”
His words painted the threshold as a liminal space, a barrier betwixt the known and the unseen, a place feared and revered in equal measure. “Think on the tales of old, where shadows linger eternal, and nature recoils in silent protest. Such is our home – a bastion against the tempest of forgotten gods and primal pacts.”
The mansion, crafted of stone to withstand infernal blazes, stood as a testament to our family's grim legacy. “Fear not, young Abe,” he continued, “for thou art master of this ancient Cerberus. Enter when thou art ready, when courage and curiosity outweigh the trepidation that clutches thy heart.”
In that moment, I stood betwixt choice and destiny, akin to Alice peering into the looking glass, yet feeling the rabbit's instinct to flee. But Uncle's truths had illuminated the shadows of my former home, revealing a darkness that had festered in ignorance and neglect.
With a breath to steel my soul, I crossed the threshold, expecting resistance, a weight to this boundary. But Uncle's presence eased its passage, and the interior greeted us with an unexpected warmth. The air was fresh, cleansed by a mechanism unseen, which whisked away the remnants of his arcane research.
The abode, in all its geometric simplicity, was a marvel. Vast rooms bathed in light from a grand sky dome, the architecture a dance of light and reflection. Each space was a testament to purpose and clarity – from the library's wealth of knowledge to the sitting room's inviting embrace. The kitchen, a grand alchemist's lair, was arrayed with tools both culinary and esoteric.
Amidst this clarity, books abounded, each room a sanctuary of thought and imagination. Herein lay the paradox of my Uncle's realm – a place of shadows and light, of known paths and hidden depths, where every corner whispered of mysteries yet to be unraveled.
As we drew near the formidable entrance of his domain, Uncle gestured for me to take the lead. The walkway, meticulously carved from stone, guided us to a portal more akin to a fortress’s bulwark than a mere household door. Beneath the grand awning, shadow cast its veil over the door, revealing etchings both cryptic and arcane. Amidst these ancient markings, my attention was captivated by a small, unassuming emblem affixed to the right side of the doorway, contrasting the foreboding inscriptions, familiar yet foreign.
Where had I seen it scribed or felt its impressions before this moment?
This symbol, unfamiliar yet resonating with an age-old power, seemed to thrum with a quiet, protective energy, standing as a silent guardian of the threshold. Uncle, perceiving my intrigued gaze, offered a subtle nod. “Behold, Abe, our seal. Our Aegis of the Ancients,” he whispered, “a potent ward forged by our forebears, a testament to the legacy and secrets that lie within.”
His words hung heavily in the air, enveloping the moment with a sense of crossing into the unknown. The threshold before us was more than a mere boundary; it represented a passage between the ordinary and the mystical, guarding untold mysteries and ancient truths known to those who dare to venture.
Uncle Cain’s voice, both somber and comforting, broke the silence. “Dost thou feel the weight of our lineage here? This place, steeped in shadows and lore, beckons us, demanding both reverence and caution. We are its stewards, its guardians against the veiled threats that lurk beyond.”
His gaze rested upon the Aegis of the Ancients, and he continued, "This emblem, our ancestral shield, is a beacon of protection. Within these walls, we preserve arcane knowledge, standing as a bulwark against forces both timeless and obscure.”
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As Abe stood transfixed before the Aegis of the Ancients, a flood of memories suddenly broke through the dam of his subconscious. He was whisked back in time, to the quiet afternoons spent in his father's study, a room filled with the musty scent of old books and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock.
Pulse quickens in the realization, but time slurrrs and reality goes cock-eyed for him.
In these memories, his younger self wandered around the room, his curious eyes often settling on his father's desk, laden with bound ledgers. These books, a constant in the backdrop of his childhood, were objects of mystery, always slightly out of reach, both physically and metaphorically.
It was during one of these afternoons, while his father was away and the study lay open, that young Abe had dared to explore those forbidden tomes. He remembered now, the feel of the leather under his fingers, cool and slightly worn, as he carefully lifted one of the ledgers.
But it was the symbol on the cover that now captured his adult mind – the Aegis of the Ancients. Each ledger bore this emblem, embossed in the leather, so commonplace in its presence that it had faded into the background of ordinary life. Yet, there it was, a symbol he had seen every day, never realizing its significance.
Young Abe had traced the symbol with innocent fingers, unaware of its ancient power and legacy. To him, it had been just another pattern, a decorative touch to his father's otherwise mundane accounting books. He had even tried to sketch it in his own notebook, fascinated by its intricate design, but the meaning had eluded him, lost in the innocence of childhood.
Now, standing at the threshold of his uncle's home, the weight of realization settled upon Abe. The Aegis of the Ancients had been a silent sentinel in his life, a guardian symbol overlooked and underestimated. Its presence on his father's ledgers spoke of a legacy deeply entwined with their family, a legacy that was now calling to him, beckoning him to step into a world that had always been his to discover.
With a mixture of trepidation and burgeoning resolve, Abe readied himself to cross into the realm beyond. As he stepped over the threshold, under the watchful protection of the Aegis, a surprising warmth enveloped him, dispelling the apprehension that had seized his heart.
Inside, the mansion unfurled an unexpected warmth and welcome. Bathed in light from an expansive sky dome, each room harmonized purpose with clarity. From the library, rich with the lore of ages, to the kitchen, resembling an alchemist’s haven, every space was a symphony of the practical and the profound.
Amidst its unadorned design, the abode was a sanctum of knowledge. Books abounded in every room, each a shrine to thought and imagination. Uncle Cain’s domain, a paradox of light and shadow, was a nexus where known paths intertwined with veiled secrets, each corner echoing with whispers of mysteries yet to be unveiled.
As Abe ventured deeper into the mansion, the sense of crossing into a world both ancient and unknown intensified. The walls, adorned with relics and artifacts, spoke of distant lands and forgotten times. Each artifact seemed to hold a story, a piece of history that whispered to him as he passed.
Uncle Cain led the way, his steps resonant with a quiet authority that seemed to echo through the hallways. His presence was both a guiding light and a reminder of the profound mysteries that lay hidden within these walls. The deeper they went, the more the house seemed to come alive, as if awakening to the presence of the new and old.
Abe's eyes lingered on the myriad artifacts lining the hallways, each one casting a shadow that seemed to dance and flicker in the ambient light. The air was thick with the scent of old books and a faint, indefinable aroma that hinted at arcane secrets. The very atmosphere of the mansion was charged with a sense of latent power, as though the walls themselves were imbued with the wisdom of the ages.
In the grand library, towering shelves laden with books stretched towards the high ceiling, their contents ranging from ancient tomes bound in leather to more modern works, all meticulously organized. Uncle Cain paused here, his hand brushing against the spines of the books with a reverence that spoke of his deep connection to these vessels of knowledge. "This library," he said, turning to Abe, "contains more than just books. It is a repository of the wisdom of civilizations, some long vanished from the world."
Abe felt a sense of awe as he gazed upon the collection, realizing he stood amidst a treasure trove of knowledge that could unlock secrets of the past and perhaps even the mysteries of his own lineage.
The tour continued to the heart of the mansion, where the rooms grew more intimate, reflecting the personal tastes and interests of Uncle Cain. One room, in particular, caught Abe's attention. It was smaller, cozier, with a fireplace casting a warm glow. The walls here were lined with photographs and paintings, each capturing moments of history, faces from the past gazing out with eyes full of stories.
Uncle Cain noticed Abe's interest. "These are our ancestors, Abe," he explained, "each one a guardian of the knowledge and power that now rests in our care. You are part of this legacy, and in time, you will come to understand the full extent of what it means."
As they meandered through the mansion, a particular room drew Abe's attention irresistibly. Dominating the space was a grand fireplace, its flames dancing with a familiar liveliness that mirrored the fireplace of his childhood home. Yet, there was an enigmatic quality to it, a sense of otherworldliness that Abe couldn't quite place.
The heart of this fireplace, its hearth, was fashioned from an odd stone, the likes of which Abe had never seen. Despite the constant firing, the stone bore no marks of wear or damage; instead, it seemed to thrive in the presence of the flames, as if absorbing their essence. Its surface had an iridescent sheen, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the room.
Uncle Cain, noticing Abe's fixation, remarked with a hint of somberness in his voice, "Ah, the hearth. It is as much a mystery as it is ancient. Crafted from a stone not of this earth, it has been in our family for generations, each flame kindling secrets old as time."
Abe felt a chill run down his spine as he gazed into the fire. The flickering flames, so similar to those in his own home, now took on a sinister aspect. The queer sameness of the fireplaces, separated by distance yet connected by an inexplicable familiarity, unsettled him.
"The hearth," Uncle Cain continued, his eyes reflecting the fire's glow, "has been the silent witness to our family's history, absorbing our joys, sorrows, and deepest secrets. It binds this house together, a constant in our ever-changing world."
Abe couldn't shake the feeling that the hearth held more than just warmth and light. There was a sense of watchfulness about it, as if it were alive, its glowing embers eyes that saw into the very depths of his soul.
As the evening shadows deepened, the room, illuminated only by the hearth's glow, took on an ominous atmosphere. The flames cast bizarre patterns on the walls, and the stone of the hearth seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. Abe realized that this mansion, with its ancient fireplace, was more than just a house; it was a nexus of unseen powers, a keeper of untold mysteries that he was now inexorably a part of.
As they emerged from the room, the shadows of evening began to fall, casting the mansion in a new light. The setting sun painted the walls in hues of gold and crimson, transforming the mansion from a repository of ancient wisdom into a living entity, pulsating with the energy of countless ages.
Abe followed Uncle Cain, his mind swirling with thoughts and questions. The mansion, with its layers of history and mystery, felt like a living puzzle waiting to be solved, a puzzle in which he was now an integral piece.
With a mixture of trepidation and burgeoning resolve, Abe readied himself to cross into the realm beyond. As he stepped over the threshold, under the watchful protection of the Aegis, a surprising warmth enveloped him, dispelling the apprehension that had seized his heart.
Inside, the mansion unfurled an unexpected warmth and welcome. Bathed in light from an expansive sky dome, each room harmonized purpose with clarity. From the library, rich with the lore of ages, to the kitchen, resembling an alchemist’s haven, every space was a symphony of the practical and the profound.
Amidst its unadorned design, the abode was a sanctum of knowledge. Books abounded in every room, each a shrine to thought and imagination. Uncle Cain’s domain, a paradox of light and shadow, was a nexus where known paths entwined with veiled secrets, each corner whispering of mysteries yet to be unveiled.
Uncle, in his peculiar discourse, professed that the diligent staff meticulously reinstated the sanctum's order with the dawn, affording them the freedom to indulge in their day's whimsical disarray. These toilers, esteemed in their silent labor, garnered lavish compensation for their efforts. He whispered of their entry through veiled passages, vowing to unveil these secret ways to Abe amidst their impending exploration. Yet, amidst this bewilderment, Abe harbored doubts whether such a revelation had indeed come to pass.
Matching Uncle's vigorous gait required of Abe an outpouring of manly fortitude. The cane, once a symbol of stature, had now been cast aside. Uncle traversed with a swift, erect pace, a marked divergence from the laborious 'clump-kip-clump' that Abe had grown accustomed to. Strangely, despite their heft, Uncle's footsteps uttered no echo upon the stones, radiating a peculiar warmth, as if summoned by both the dome's sheltering arm and the fiery maw of a dragon furnace beneath. Throughout their passage, Uncle's animated discourses on the manor's lore and structure ensnared Abe's attention, only to lose him in intervals of preoccupation. Uncle, seemingly rejuvenated, flourished his withered yet spry limbs with the zeal of a curator unveiling a concealed marvel, his ancestral behemoth.
The architecture within Uncle's abode was a visual symphony, with lines that beckoned one's gaze skyward to the dome and, intriguingly, downward to more clandestine depths. The corridor to Uncle's study was a vaulted gallery, adorned with vitrines housing an assortment of peculiar liquids in vials and flasks, arrayed with meticulous precision. The symmetry and spectrum of these elixirs presented a visual concord, yet Abe felt a foreboding air amidst their cryptic exhibition. Their sojourn in this sector was transient, as Uncle, with fleet-footed steps, stressed the sanctity of his study, barring Abe's entry into his erudite haven. This grave warning, stark in its tone, resonated with Abe as he realized Uncle had already vanished around the corridor's bend, summoning Abe to marvel at his chamber with unbridled enthusiasm.Days had passed to weeks, and Abe had never known such joys. Uncle would sing from the mess of cooking most mornings, constructing folded strudels or frothing beaten eggs. The man was an icon of invigorated actions, chopping and mincing in rapid rhythms that Abe's stomach joyously equated with flavor and sustenance. Though he could hear Uncle pleasantly interacting with the staff and providing nonchalant direction, Abe had yet to meet the phantoms who came and went invisibly. These phantoms would restock and clean, truly resetting their corruption of the staff's labors every couple of days. If Uncle and Abe stayed up to the wee hours, pouring over novels and reciting particular pieces to one another, even acting scenes out using various bedding and pillows for capes and sabers, they would all disappear like morning mist in the heightening sun’s temperatures. Indeed, it was as if the great sunbeam from above dissolved daily their dusk-time debauchery.
After a while, Abe just seemed to forget to care, for his life had become full of daily journeys that mattered more. Memories of misery, like a dull ache, lingered from time to time, like reminding himself to ask Uncle to message his parents about visiting, but the majesty of the day would just carry his cares away. He would ponder why that was, but was quickly distracted by the majesty of questing around the surrounding grounds, sketching various insects in the open field and air. He would read and consume knowledge and adore the vellichor exhaled from the tomes that shared their many words with him. All these he would store in his dizzy, busy mind, and if he had questions about language or ponderings, his Uncle could be depended on during most meal hours, but even his routines seemed to fade into the background, and Abe forgot to notice and care about this as well. It was very comfortable for him to do so.
The commotion of a colossal house such as his, minimal movements, as it was, all seemed to slow and fade around Abe's unraveling enlightenment. It occurred to him that he had not known such happiness and thrills to greet each new day. Perhaps he could have been lonely for companionship, but he didn’t feel the need at nine to linger there for too long. His Uncle was there for him along routine hours, but Abe did seem to notice him asleep more and more often at his desk, though it was all so far away, it was hard to tell.
Abe took his meals alone, accompanied only by a story, and time would simply slip away. He could remotely note that his Uncle's heavy footfalls were somewhere beyond and far, perhaps on the upper level as he took a relieving constitutional. Abe had begun to consider that he should have his own project or focused research endeavor. Perhaps he would build himself an outdoor fort or a treehouse, inspired by stories like Wyss's Robinson family adventures. His co-companion, Uncle, would occasionally drift through these spaces, perhaps looking for nourishment himself, and would admire Abe's topics and notations before returning to his dwelling. These anti-clamorous interactions became more common and comfortable as days passed and evenings grew longer.
One evening, Abe was enchanted by the sight of nightlight bugs, their sparkling and dancing illuminating the field. It was a sight he had never seen on such an enthralling evening. He called and called for Uncle to come down and join him, if only for a bit to observe the gaiety. Abe was so captivated by the dazzling patterns of the bugs that he hadn't sensed Uncle's footfalls at all. He didn't even jump when Uncle rested his hand on his shoulder to watch and admire the spectacle.
Uncle had donned a heavy robe that evening, perhaps to ward off the chill after long hours of labor. It wasn't as if he had become sedentary, but he definitely worked for extended stretches, and Abe would sometimes forget about him. Abe was utterly captivated by the scene, and he wished he had his paints out to capture it. "I wish I had my paints out, Uncle, but I am afraid I couldn't replicate such a beautiful sight. Thank you for bringing me here with you." Uncle seemed almost like a friendly specter in the moon's cerulean gleam, but he smiled down at Abe, and they held a comfortable silence together for an immeasurable amount of time.
The homestead had a signature "clean smell" that didn't require synthetic cleaners or aromas. Abe didn't enjoy it at first, but, like everything else in this experience, it was beginning to grow onto him. If he were to go without it for a while, he imagined he would find that he couldn't be without it for long and would recognize it instantly and feel it attributing to this new life, a new home.
However, there came a day after weeks, perhaps a month or two, when a new odor permeated the house. It too was a clean odor, not unpleasant, yet foreign. It was even more hygienic than usual, and it was PUNGENT. Abe embarked on a new solo adventure: Find the Smell. He searched in the galley-kitchen, in garbages, and outdoors. He rummaged through cabinets, corners, and alcoves he hadn't visited yet, discovering some delicious tarts hidden away. Finally, he decided to walk up his Uncle's work hall, deliberately making himself known to avoid startling him (a strategy he was unconsciously employing more and more frequently).
As he approached the office that had been left slightly open, Abe cleared his throat and called out to his Uncle about the odd odor in the house, inviting him, perhaps, on this epic quest. Alas, when he entered the room, he found Uncle asleep (not uncommon), still seated at his desk. His chest rose and fell with the unlabored regularity of a hardworking man. Abe noticed a vial on the carpet below Uncle's open hand. It was mostly dry, with only a bit of amber-colored serum remaining along the convex. Abe smelled it cautiously and then noticed lip marks on the rim of the vial. Had his Uncle had been self-experimenting?
As Abe contemplated this discovery, a sudden noise, a "BOOM, clang, clang," echoed from a distant part of the house, causing him to startle and wonder about its origin and the quest for olfactory discovery overrode the intrusion upon his benefactor.
Other than those nights when they sang baudy shanty together until the dawn, complete with pencil mustaches, cooking utensils for hooks, and cut-cloth eye patches, the sprawling quarters were typically peaceful and serene. The foreign thunderous sound that reverberated through the house on this particular day was unlike anything Abe had experienced since his arrival. It demanded immediate investigation. But must he go alone on this potentially perilous mission?
"Uncle, UNCLE!" Abe shook the gargantuan rather unceremoniously, but there was no response. "Uncle, there was a loud boom from downstairs. Are the helpers working on something?" Abe's uncle remained unmoved, deep in slumber. Abe resigned himself to the fact that he would have to "Find the Boom" alone. He couldn't help but fear that if he were in danger, his Uncle might be more engrossed in "Find the Smell," a notion that seemed rather absurd. Perhaps it was time for Abe to finally meet any of the elusive staff who had remained hidden from him for so long.
A thorough search of the main levels proved exhaustive. Abe had checked every armoire and closet, looked under beds and within foot lockers, and even scrutinized the view from all the windows. It was a fine day outside, with no signs of commotion on the grounds. Abe was growing increasingly perplexed when he noticed a note posted on the icebox. It read, "The deionizing filter needed replacing, sir. I took the liberty of replacing it today and will make appropriate charges. Mind the smell for a few days, we’ll ventilate the premises if it bothers you and your charge at all. Faithfully, Benjamin." Abe's curiosity about Faithful Ben was piqued. Where could this helpful individual be?
There was one part of the house that Abe had avoided exploring since his arrival, a region that filled him with a fearful apprehension akin to his initial encounter on the doorstep. A small voice of reason urged him to reconsider, but he knew that if there was something to be feared within their family's shelter, it was in the basement. Steeling himself, he picked up a pushbrush handle and took a steadying breath before venturing trepidatiously into the unknown. Secretly, he hoped his Uncle would stir and reprimand him, but for now, he was on his own.
The descent into the basement felt like an extraordinary journey, a descent into a gaping maw of black uncertainty. The lights were off down there, signaling that no one was currently working in the basement. Abe, visibly trembling, questioned the wisdom of his decision not to turn and flee. A sense of unease settled in as a ringing sensation in his head, akin to nausea, gripped him. But if something was genuinely amiss, shouldn't he investigate? Abe had crept down the stairs, step by step, and had only just begun pondering this when he spotted a salvation of sorts—a light switch.
To his relief, the light switch worked, casting illumination into the previously dark space. Abe surveyed the barren storage area, filled with boxes and containers holding seasonal articles and extra linens. Everything seemed clean and accessible. His initial trepidation began to wane as curiosity took over. The basement appeared unusually dry, and there was an abundance of bedding, much of it old.
In a new section of the basement, Abe stumbled upon old fold-out cots and large cotton laundry bags. He nudged one of the bags, and to his surprise, a pleasant, flowery scent wafted from it. Intrigued by its contents, he attempted to open the bag, but the knot was too tight for his small hands to untangle. Just as he was about to give up and let the secrets of the squishy bag remain hidden, he tossed it aside, and the pleasant smell intensified. That's when he noticed it—a marbled eye of a children's stuffed bear peering out from the bag.
Abe reached into the bag once more and felt around. He discovered a button nose, another eye, perhaps a tuft that could be an ear, and something that resembled a tail, possibly from a small stuffed pony. These were children's toys, and the mystery of their presence intrigued Abe. As if in response to his curiosity, a sound echoed through the basement. It wasn't the boom from before but rather a metallic clang, less jarring but no less eerie. The reverberation felt oddly familiar, and Abe couldn't pinpoint its source.
His attention was drawn to a simple wooden door nearby. It appeared to be both closed and locked, barring his way. The space in front of the door felt warm and inviting, thanks to the many rectangular ventilation shafts stretching out from the room beyond. It was apparent that he had found the furnace room, and Abe felt a compelling need to explore further. The latch on the door seemed to suggest that it was merely discouraged from easy access, rather than securely locked. Abe tugged at the lock and inspected the keyhole. As he did, he sensed that he was about to embark on a new and potentially unsettling phase of his exploration.
With the latch thrown aside, Abe cautiously pushed the door open, revealing a room that seemed unimposing at first, but held a monstrous and sophisticated boiler-furnace. The enormity of the contraption surprised him, and the network of ceiling shafts emanating from it, supplying clean, comfortable air to the chambers above, gave it the appearance of a colossal tree. Suddenly, it all made sense, and Abe felt a touch of foolishness and disappointment. The mystery of the day had been unraveled, and the furnace emitted a pleasant hum as it diligently carried out its duties. But what about the earlier jarring boom and clang?
As he circled the massive "tree trunk," something out of place and out of time blocked his path. It was a massive, dark, and heavy artifact—an old iron furnace. The blackness of its metal defied description; this beast could contain and consume both heat and light with gusto. It seemed forgotten, abandoned, and Abe was convinced it had a story to tell.
Abe's head spun, and he had to concentrate on remaining still in front of the furnace. Panic threatened to consume him, but he resolved to stay calm, control his rapid breathing, and resist the urge to flee. It was absurd, but he felt an inexplicable desire to touch it. What made the situation unnerving was his expectation that the furnace might suddenly come to life and burn him, as if this old, forgotten beast still had dormant fangs waiting to be unleashed. Abe knew he couldn't remain in this childlike state forever. He needed to be brave and, more importantly, ascertain that the furnace was indeed lifeless.
As he took a dry swallow and forced it down, he shook out his tingling arms and approached the furnace. The soothing voice of his mother echoed in his mind, repeating, "Nothing to fear." Had she comforted him during childhood nightmares? Would she come to his aid now? In a way, she did, for he could hear her voice over and over as he approached the furnace. Mother was with him, and even if the furnace were to awaken and roar with a belly full of fire, he could escape. Her voice provided solace as his feet, seemingly filled with jelly, remained firmly planted on the ground. His stomach churned, and his jaw ached, but he breathed and listened to Mother, step by step.
The ash in the furnace appeared deep and billowy. The massive belly contained nothing but fine soot and ash—no kindling, no flame, and no fuel to feed the dormant beast. Abe reached out, driven by an inexplicable impulse. Why would the lion's master tease the creature by placing a tender limb so temptingly close to its gnashing mechanisms? There was no audience, no one to impress with his bravery, no one at all. But Mother's mantra continued to reassure him, "Nothing to fear," and the world spilled forth upon contact.
Upon touching the ash, Abe experienced a rush of insight—a deluge of thoughts and memories surged through him. He thought of Dr. Watson soothing his feverish friend, Sherlock Holmes, during coca leaf and opioid withdrawal, battling the "agent of the devil." But Abe felt detached from his own body, watching himself from a distance. He saw himself scoop up a pile of ash, much like Watson observed their adventures together. In that moment, Abe witnessed countless faces, unblemished and terrified, held captive in a rush of contact—a thousand lives flashing before his eyes.
"Nothing to fear, Nothing to fear, Nothing to fear," he repeated rapidly in response to the flood of memories. The faces rushed and bombarded his mind, each one a story of terror and captivity. Abe felt the desperation of these lives pleading for rescue, just as he yearned to be discovered and saved. Yet, these were not the faces he sought to save. They had been consumed, forgotten, burned, and shoved violently into the maw of this monster—a truth he was now confronting as he placed his hands into the abyss.
As Abe's hands trembled with the weight of the haunting memories he had touched within the furnace, a reassuring presence descended upon his shoulder, grounding him in this surreal and nightmarish realm.
"Shhh, don’t fret precious, I am free. I am herrre” a voice whispered close but distant, as if echoing through a distorted mirror of reality. Abe's heart raced as he tried to articulate the horrors he had witnessed. "I saw, I saw…" he stammered, his voice quivering, unable to contain the burning agony of those tortured souls imprisoned within the ancient device.
It was as though he had ventured too far into a world both curious and perilous, seeking the guiding hand of a benevolent figure to pull him back from the brink. The boundaries of his understanding blurred, and he felt like a lost soul in an unfamiliar landscape.
The presence beside him, a spectral figure with an otherworldly aura, offered cryptic guidance. Bones and viscera shifted and clicked, creating an unsettling symphony that reverberated through Abe's ears. "Set that down, Precious. Go back to sleep” it urged, as Abe clung to the remnants of a thousand tragic lives.
The world around him swirled in confusion, and Abe couldn't discern if he was asleep or awake, lost or found. His eyes remained fixed on the pile in his hand, and in a moment of lucidity, he made a fateful decision. With trembling resolve, he spilled the remnants back into the furnace, the sacrificial pyre, accepting the weight of their torment as his own.
But the spell had not been broken entirely, and the presence lingered, an enigmatic tear in his reality. It neither hurt nor threatened, but it was profoundly unsettling, a tear in the fabric of existence. Abe's mind wavered, and he called out to the figure, uncertain of its nature.
The presence struggled to vocalize, each utterance accompanied by an eerie symphony of rustling leaves and clattering metal. Abe couldn't bear to witness its torment and retched, finding solace in the darkness that enveloped him once more.
The entity, a shapeless and spectral presence, found its voice through a cacophony of mimicry that was both mesmerizing and unsettling. It was as though a symphony of discordant instruments were tuning towards one another, each note an eerie echo of the next. The sounds it produced were a haunting blend of rustling leaves in a ghostly breeze, metallic clinks and clatters, and the distant murmurs of forgotten conversations.
As it sought to communicate with Abe, its voice oscillated between the ethereal beauty of a symphony in the throes of chaos and the agonizing screech of fingernails on a chalkboard. The harmonious and dissonant notes wove together, creating a disorienting melody that resonated deep within Abe's psyche.
The entity's attempts at speech were a mesmerizing dance of sound and discomfort, like a symphony conductor coaxing music from an orchestra of otherworldly instruments. It was a voice that defied conventional description, transcending the boundaries of reality and plunging Abe further into the abyss of his own mind.
Yet, the presence persisted, its voice a dissonant blend of strange sounds and enigmatic words. It sought to bridge the gap between their minds, to guide Abe through the labyrinth of this surreal realm. It implored Abe to trust in intuition over analysis, to let go of the confines of the mind and embrace the frayed edges of reality.
In this nightmarish fusion of the familiar and the bizarre, Abe stood at the precipice of wonderment and madness, a delightful nightmare into the unknown, guided by a presence that defied….was beyond descriptors. The choice to continue or retreat remained, but the path ahead promised only deeper revelations yet unseen. His mind reeled and ached, but he was hungry for it because this is what was meant to happen. He knew it, he knew it like he had read it all before somehow. Like he saw the Aegis, he knew the lines and trajectory - he was exactly where he was supposed to be and he was communing, attuning to an inheritance.
The entity spoke and I stirred at the sound of it (had I been resting?), it was rustily like leaves, but banged together chaotically and sounded like nuts and bolts in an empty pail. There was a reverberation to it all, in my head nestled like a thorny snail within the coil of my ear that it hurt me at first, but I felt it sense that and made quick adjustments, then, 'black then white. {Scrreeching squelch!} these are all I see in my infinity, infancy, I now see Rrud and yellow then came to be me see, reaching out to me, your desire for me lets me see.'
It rested in the effort of the commune. All was still and an accordion sensation of breath and time and new sensation.
Continuation; (if it inhaled to steady itself, it was an inward torrent, my color went away with its vacuum, mimicking breathe. I hoped it would not do it again), 'As it is below, so I above and beyond, (pained) I imagine it all as do you, drawn beyond the lines of reason, sorry, sorry to do this. You must. We can push at the edges, fringe and frayed we will make it together and watch it bend.
'You! You cannot discern, {hEEAaaayee!} yuuuu
You! Fight to take it all in, you over thinking, {hEEAaaayee!} you! You there over analyzing. It diseparates the body from your mind. Fight not!, it withers intuition, missing opportunities, I must guide you and I must.'
The strain was palpable, the air around us was noticeably warmer and humid… Humid? I wiped across my cheek and it was a clear slime. Some primordial ooze and it was not pleasant. It seemed to have faded and for a moment I thought Uncle? Would fail altogether, fade away, how would I feel if it left me having experienced it? Indescribably relieved? Indescribably sad having it died in front of me taking its first steps in communicating?
The stain suddenly surged forward from whatever background it had momentarily retreated to, efforts renewed, 'Feed my will! Feel my moment! Do not let your mind go as they would instruct you to do. Exceed the boundary! ( it could have been panting like an overworked beast of burden, perhaps it was. It was gouging the uncut earth for the first time with muscles it had never used like this ), 'There is so much more, and I beckon thee to look through to these infinite possibilities. Fear me not, childe. As it is below, so I above and beyond, I see it all as do you, drawn beyond the lines of reason. You must. We can push at the edges, fringe and frayed we will make it together and watch it bend. I can teach and guide thee. You will not know harm.'"
It wanted me to claim some sort of birthright, and the days all flew together. "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus" came with me everywhere I went. When I checked on my Uncle, it hovered silently. When I ate, when I slept (if I wasn't already asleep), and when I bathed, it stayed as my constant companion. I imagined this is a lot like what Peter Pan must have felt like the first time his shadow left from its tether from him, dancing about on its own will and desires.
"The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus" called itself, its name unintelligible, and said it was constructed of the many things (I knew it meant people, but it felt it would frighten me for it to say it, no, make that noise in my head) burned in the furnace so long ago.
We strode (it hovered) those long halls, together forever, never alone again. My birthright. It showed me many truths and revealed things long hidden. Hidden by whom? Logic whispered so far away, perhaps chained to the basement floor so far away now. Perhaps Logos and my young form were still down there, laying helpless in front of the empty and hungering furnace? Perhaps I too should fly back to my form and reclaim all the things "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus" revealed to its child with tender and real hands. Perhaps I died, I wondered (wandered), but I didn't...
"The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus" showed me which one to read, laying asleep like the rest of my heirlooms. MINE! The book, a story to read, there lying undisturbed in a sarcophagus forgotten. The footlocker astride sleeping Uncle's desk, the lock easily navigated and defeated by my companion's whispy finger of vapor and shade.
It rested heavy in my lap, a bound and leathery thing of so many pages and esoteric images. Could it be notes of my Uncle's? Could it be some artifact that he had uncovered during the war, something taken from an enemy or given in trade for medical assistance? Regardless, this heavy tome felt like it had to be mine now, that it was meant to be unraveled by my mind, and it seemed that "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus" was guiding my hand and existence towards its consumption.
It didn't unfurl like one would assume; the pages were old and did not turn without an enormous amount of effort. Each leaf turned its own inexplicable tale, and not one I would take lightly, like a great photo album or a sacred text. An heirloom somehow transporting me, was it remembrance, nostalgia, something bothersome, or an old ache, like how Uncle complained about his hip when he dwelled within my home, the place before now.
From one stage, the ground beneath my crossed legs shifted and sunk away, but I wasn't bothered by the sensation. It was like snuggling into a familiar blanket fresh from Mother's linen line, still kissed by fresh air and cleansing sun and sleeping star. I reveled in the revolutions in my head now and basked in colors out of the old text that had waited so long for my consumption. Now I felt at home. Was this what Uncle and "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus" had intended? Alas, it mattered not as I made the effort to unfold the page.