“What came first, the Philosophy or the philosopher?”

-An ingenious rock

Four months earlier, not long after the ancient sorcerer's first nightmare. Far to the west of the Sojurut continent, a strange man was escaping a stranger prison.

Nothing about this baby-faced man made him out to be a prisoner. His ever-changing frown often seemed somewhere between perpetual amazement and doing advanced calculus. But with the weary blue eyes and the grey streak in his hair, he could've been a professor. The only thing missing to complete the image of a scholar was a beard. And not for lack of trying, but his smooth face could never produce more than a slight fuzz.

Herschel I. Pensador was trying out a new idea: non-violent resistance. Just one of many notions this gifted thinker had about how things should be done. It hadn't evolved into hunger strikes or protests. Instead, the non-violent part, only meant that no one else should be put out by his escape. Unknown to this long haired oddity — if he succeeded in leaving Zig-Zig — it would be the first time an inmate ever left the peculiar prison.

"At least the breakout is almost over, and I haven't even broken anything."

Then isn't it more like a sneak-out? An encouraging second thought eased his guilt.

The previous night, this middle-aged man had waded through the maze that was the prison's sewage system. His prison-gown told the tale, usually they were a bit off-white but his was stained in every shade of filth. The prisoners had chosen their uniforms for comfort, not for how practical one would be in an escape. And even his jet-black hair, draped over his one exposed shoulder, was wet with waste.

He'd had long arguments both with himself and his gaggle about his method of escape.

"Why don't you just go over the wall?" One of his friends had suggested.

Indeed, there was little to stop him. The low, shoddy prison wall looked nothing like something designed to keep people in.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

"That would go against what I'm calling the first principle of escaping," he answered, "which is not getting caught."

The first principle of escaping still wasn't as important as his personal motto of trying to do the right thing. Even so, it had never crossed his mind that doing the right thing would one day mean climbing down the stone tube of a four-seat privy. In the middle of the night no less, since that was the only time the inaptly named things were even remotely private.

"You're a braver man than me baby-face," Plaso said when he'd told him the plan. "I wouldn't go down there, you don't even know if you can get out out that way."

"The Socks were the first to call me baby-face." Herschel's frown turned home-sick.

Lets not start missing them just yet, his yearning thought, there will be plenty of time for that later.

But the second thoughts weren't helping, because the Socks gaggle of philosophers had been his first real friends. People he could express all his misfit ideas to without being called a crackpot. So, squatting there in the sewage-duct to freedom, he already wanted to go back to the prison.

The reddish-brown vista out there held no allure, even if the colour matched his skin. Leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of shimmering clean water. That on the other hand was alluring. Anything would be, compared to the trickle of sewage oozing over his sandals. In an attempt to avoid the stench, he tried breathing through his mouth.

But even if you can't smell it, it is going in your mouth, his multi-thoughting wondered, isn't that more disgusting?

"Maybe... but at least thinking still helps. Even if it's only thinking about thinking, or even thinking about thinking about thinking."

Sure, but that's far enough! His logic stopped him.

By accident, he'd stumbled onto the best distraction from the odour, thinking about anything else. Among other things, he pondered the nature of regret. This escape had supplied him with a large supply of the stuff.

"I should be pleased, the plan is working, I'm almost free," he said but his frown showed his ambivalence.

The sun's first rays had guided him to the duct out of this labyrinth. Here, the sewer was narrow and cone-shaped, getting tighter the closer he came to daylight. Near the end, he was forced into a deep crouch. It made his legs go from aching to numb. But in return, he got the occasional breeze of fresh air. It would flutter in and relieve the stench for a few seconds, and those moments really helped. So, Herschel stuck to the plan which was either genius, or simple stupidity.

We're going to walk away under cover of night and hope no one notices, his planning thought.