The dark eyes were looking at the vapor coming from the cup. The white smoke-like substance slowly curled in the chilly air, and contrasted beautifully with the layer of pitch-black, almost static holy mist going up to the desk. The head was resting on the arm; there was a general sense of drowsiness in the air, and, as the tea evaporated, the eyes slowly closed, their tired owner closer and closer to sleep. The calm gaze, half hidden, occasionally wandered to the closed book lying close to the steaming cup, but it lacked real interest in what it strayed over. The book was beautiful, with an extremely detailed eye drawn on either side on the cover, half-closed, like the two eyes that observed it, showing that it belonged to the Temple. It was difficult to ascribe a concrete emotion to the single eye. Was it joy? Or maybe hatred? The eyes alone give little information as to what a person is feeling at the moment. It may have been the illustrator’s goal, to represent the entire spectrum of human emotion.
Tomorrow was Thursday… Max shook himself awake, and his eyes dilated in fear. Thursday! He had Chemistry tomorrow!
Three physics assignments...Working, struggling, what was the purpose of it all? He could just lead a normal life, like all the people he saw on the streets. Maybe he should just become a simple engineer, like his grandfather…
Would they even accept him into the engineering department? His knowledge was more competitive-physics oriented...Karl, who was supposed to be a mathematician, knew much more than him about tinkering with things. No, they probably wouldn’t.
Friendships… What was the use of them when most of his friends didn’t let him copy off their homework? Would everyone forget him in university? His father often reminded him of the fact that childhood friendships drifted apart and disappeared, so it must be what would happen. It was best to work hard now and make friends later, he was told.
The adrenaline from the thoughts about his deadlines filled him with energy. He roughly sat up and reached for the book with a jerky motion, opening it somewhere in the center. Before getting to Chemistry, he needed to memorize some verses and their spelling. His father would be angry at him otherwise.
Jrulan was the characteristic literary language of the Free Union, managed almost completely by the Church, sharing its name with the main religious text of Ru. Its script, the Quf script, was based on logograms mixed with hieroglyphs, each filled with ancient meanings, and optimized for geometric precision. The history of its evolution, closely linked to the history of the Free Union, is worthy of a small note, which we will presently give.
Let us firstrecall that a sizable part of the ancient practitioners of Ru were miners and blacksmiths, as during those difficult times of persecution by the Light fanaticsHis image was partially related to the forge. After fleeing underground, the synergy between these two professions and the total freedom from restrictions, along with the need to somehow produce food underground led to massive technological innovation. Astheir numbers grew, the people chose a monarch and created a social structure around him based on the level of contribution to society.
By then, Ru had morphed into a god of innovation and progress, and his forge with its ever-burning fires had become a symbol of his inventions.Now, having good education put a person closer to the divine. If a person got high marks on a certain set of the exams, which required around fifteen years of constant studying, he could theoretically become a high-ranking advisor.
The nobility, naturally wanting to restrict others from taking their positions, made the exams more and more difficult.
Due to these factors, the written language was completely different from the spoken one, with the most elite noble families even speaking this different language, called Jrulan. This Jrulan language was much less prone to change and was probably the closest to what was used aboveground.If you wanted to learn how to write, you would first need to learn Jrulan. Of course, there were many modifications of Jrulan used for transcription purposes, but they were unknown to the general public.
This curious structure of society stably held the literacy rates of the population around 6%. After the Revolution which toppled the monarchy and created the Free Union, they decided to completely restructure the written language, making it purely phonetic. And so, Zarul was created, basing itself loosely on Jrulan.
After a few hundred years, Jrulan was now being used purely for religious texts and for very official documents, and was now mostly learned by people who considered themselves ‘cultured’, if there can even be such a moniker in the Free Union’s society. They called themselves ‘devotees’, as they were usually wildly obsessed with the idea of serving Ru.
Even though Max’s father was an atheist, he was extremely devout, it was impossible to be in his profession otherwise, so he had pushed his son into learning the language from his early years.
The tea had almost cooled by now, the white vapor was now gone; the world around the boy was dominated by a sea of darkness. The Temple library was slowly filling up, with previously praying people coming to find chairs to rest on. Max didn’t notice, he was currently trying to whisper the seventh paragraph of the thirty second chapter with perfect pronunciation, in an effort to memorize it. He was rocking slightly on the spot, and his leg was twitching, an effect of his extreme concentration.
‘Young man, may I sit here?’ a warm voice quietly sounded above him.
Max jerked up, surprised, and his eyes met with another pair, different from the ones on the book’s cover. These kind eyes were wrinkled around the edges, and glowed with an inner light, with a hint of steeliness. Max absentmindedly held eye contact, still partially immersed in the abstract world built on strange symbols.
‘...He was calm, despite the injustice being done upon him, and this pleased God. The world quieted down, but he became agitated. The attack had ended, his mind started to spoil, and he began protesting instead of enduring, thinking instead of praying, dishonoring instead of believing. … From this we conclude, the priest and craftsman must master and control the ceaseless and careless motion of the mind to enter a state of ‘being careless’ and become untouchable by the putrid temptations of the Light one. They must lead their minds to the vision of God1’.
Oh. He was staring now. The ambiance was very tense, he realized. He quickly withdrew his eyes.
‘Yes, of course, sit down, sir’ Max moved his textbooks slightly to the left, and the middle-aged man sat across from him. Max peered at him, curious at the distraction from his studying. The man’s posture was dignified, and he was dressed in light, pure colors, his dark hair in contrast long and messy. The man took out some sort of thick book, and quickly became immersed in it, the cover indicating that it had something to do with collections of laws. Near the man was a large stack of paper… was that a set of tests? It seemed that this man was a teacher. Not a law teacher, though, the formulas he had glimpsed on the stack of papers were familiar... Max remembered his deadline for tomorrow, and was momentarily pushed from his thoughtful mood. Shaking himself slightly, he returned another portion of the text he was supposed to memorize.
‘The mind is the master of the flesh. Therefore, the flesh has the position of a servant. His mind had become darkened and polluted as a protest towards the natural order imposed by God. Therefore, his flesh was serving a corrupted mind, and must be cleansed.1’
He still couldn’t resist his curiosity, there was something magnetic in the presence across from him, perhaps it was the suppressed movements, which contrasted with lightness and cheeriness of the face and the clothes. Max turned his head so that line of his eyes was perpendicular to the surface of the plane that was the table so that he could watch the man more stealthily. He rested his ear on the nook of his elbow. The only thing he could now see from his new position were the man’s hands, the rest of the body hidden behind the book of law. The fingers were long and deft, well manicured, and there was a beautiful glass ring on his index finger, which glittered slightly and bent the weak light, interfering with the dark holy smoke. The fingers sometimes moved to flip a page, and as they did this, the boy’s eyes would focus on the hypnotic, repeating motion. He was slowly being put to sleep again.
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After some time, Max remembered about his upcoming test and homework submission, looked at his own hand, his tired eyes focusing on his own fingers, reached it out to pick up his pen, and started scribbling the reaction rules that he could remember. Not many. Enough of Jrulan for today. He took out his Chemistry textbook, and began reading it earnestly. ‘Reactions of ionic exchange are possible and proceed to completion if and only if precipitate appears, a gas bubbles out, or a low-dissociating substance is produced (water)… The theoretical reaction yield is the maximum amount of product that can be made as a result of a chemical reaction… Physical chemistry… ’ Max became immersed in the abstract reality of laws and logic, again.
‘Are you interested in Chemistry, young man?’ a voice pleasantly tinted with a slight Underlands accent sounded above him. It was the teacher, his face was inviting. ‘Would you like me to explain something to you?’
‘N-no’, he was uncomfortable with social interactions with adults. ‘I’m reading this for class, we have a test tomorrow...’
The man’s face glowed with fondness. ‘Well – he pronounced the e slightly differently than Max was used to -- I work in the Chemistry field, and teach a bit, so I would be glad to explain anything. I like clearing up the fog in people’s minds. I hope you’re enjoying that thick book of yours.’, at this, he smiled a bit. ‘Boys your age should be running out in the streets and spending their energy, not stressing over deadlines. Tell me if you have any questions.’ His eyes twinkled and radiated warmth.
Max smiled. ‘Thank you’. This man was pretty strange, but he liked him.
The table quieted down, but the pleasant feeling that had enveloped Max from the short interaction stayed with him in for a long while. The image of his strict and unforgiving Chemistry teacher at school, which usually hovered above him as he worked on the despised subject, was weakened by the presence across from him. It was interesting, the thought that there were adequate people in Chemistry never crossed him. The only chemists he had seen were severe and demanding, forcing people to recall rules verbatim, without explaining anything or giving any logic apart from simple stories; they kicked people out of classrooms for falling asleep, they yelled and angered easily. For him, the entire subject was closely linked to the image of a stagnant underground pool of muddy water. Flies were the names of chemical compounds, reactions the mosquitoes, wading through was close to impossible, he only slowly sunk as his feet sagged deeper and deeper into the heavy sludge. This kind teacher was somewhat like the sun in this case.
He wondered – were positive associations and general appreciation of a subject linked? If, for example, his now deceased mother had introduced him to Jrulan as a child and linked it to positive emotions, would he be more like his father? What he read was logically complete and beautifully linked together, but sometimes he didn’t really believe it. He had never had a divine revelation... He felt a certain imbalance in his way of thought, he should remedy it as soon as possible.
The minutes dribbled slowly, and time stretched out. Now, the tea had stopped cooling, it’s temperature steady, colder than room temperature by few degrees; evaporation… How much colder was the water in the cup? How humid was the air? Was there a current in the room, inducing quicker evaporation? No current. Did any chemical reactions take place in the tea? Obviously they did, but what were these reactions? Organic Chemistry… They had had it a year ago, but he had already forgotten everything. What was the tea’s acidity, anyways? Not seven, definitely. The taste was bitter, so it must be less. Pomegranate juice was an indicator of acidity, he remembered, not like he had ever even tried it. Fruit was a rare treat, almost never grown in the Solariums. Vitamin tablets were a fundamental part of the national cuisine.
Max immersed the tip of his silvery pen in the cup and moved it a bit. Turbulence, water friction, Reynold’s number, Archimedean force, a completely different section of physics. Hydrodynamics was also somewhat related to air dynamics, a popular field of research. Why did Sovok even need aviation? They only flew in underground caverns. The tea was overbrewed, too dark, enough to keep him alert. He took the cup and drank, shuddering at the bitterness. Why did tea get more bitter with time?
His thinking was strange, physics and chemistry were clearly being mixed up in his mind, he should look around, maybe… A distraction… His eyes lifted. The library was again close to empty. The service must have started, the crowd probably left to listen in. How long had it been? There was no clock to keep track of time. The lights near the entrance were off… The librarian’s large walled table stood in this darkness, her lazy, fat face with the small spectacles illuminated by a desk lamp, the holy smoke draining the light around her. The sections of the library that had no people in it were also submerged in darkness.
The desk-phone rang, and the librarian picked up. Max calmly observed the movements of her lips as they spoke. After some time, she stood up and straightened her Temple armband, looking in his direction. What was wrong? Did he break some rule?
The librarian briskly approached the table. Her amorphous form shook slightly and her yellowish dress brushed the air. “Are you Teacher Moritz?” The chemist nodded. “You are required outside. Follow me. Do not take anything with you, it will be quick, I suppose.” The man pulled on a strand of his long hair in slight nervousness and fixed his light-colored clothing, and fiddled with the beautiful ring on his index finger. The ring slightly bent the weak light around it, casting a rainbow reflection on the table. “What is the problem, I dare ask? Have I broken some sort of rule?” He glanced at the book on Laws that he had been reading all this time.
“I do not know, I was told to bring you outside. And be discrete about it.” She glanced at Max. “Student, are you related to this man?” “I am not, Ma’am”
Max looked into the man’s calm eyes. “I see by your face that you have some questions about Chemistry. I will be back soon and answer them” The boy felt slightly warm at the care this man showed him, a stranger.
The pair walked outside, the librarian soon returned to her place. Minutes passed, but the chemist was nowhere. Max finished the last of his tea. He was curious, where was the teacher?
He stood from his seat, and stretched, a few bones popped. He walked through the door. There was a hallway cutting through central room of the temple and continuing up to the prayer-room, a few doors on both sides of it, for storage, probably. He knew that under the floor he was on, priests and trainees lived and worked, but those places were restricted.
The hallway was empty, with no one in sight. Some echoing voices in the distance carried fragments of conversation to his current location, but he only heard select words; the dark temple mist seemed to absorb a big portion of the sounds.
He walked towards the central room of the temple, here there were more people. He walked back to the library. Were there any open doors he had missed? No, everything was closed. He walked back in forth through the corridor a couple of times, desperately . On the third time, he suddenly stumbled, and his gaze dropped down. The carpet was filled with black smoke, but something glittered through it. He crouched down… Glass shards... It was the chemist’s beautiful ring, now broken.
Max crouched down, and looked down on the ring. His hands were shaking and his face was pale.
‘Young man, what are you doing there? You’ll get cut, walk away.’ A cleaning lady approached him and looked angrily. ‘Go, go. Why are you shaking? Cut it out, didn’t your mother teach you to comport yourself better in pubic?’
Max almost drunkenly walked away, back to the library, gathered his things, and, in a daze, stumbling, went to find Karl.
The prayer room was circular in shape, its walls were decorated with perpetually spinning and interacting machinery serving no purpose. The ceiling was a mosaic made to echo the sun-like mosaic above the Temple, but this time they had decided to make the sun black. The thick smoke reached up to a person’s hips, so when people stood on their knees, only their heads was visible. The air was musty and stale, but there was a calm aroma to it. The room was full of floating heads.
Karl was one of these people, he was standing on his knees, and dutifully listening to the sermon. When praying, his naturally rule-breaking and mischievous nature became serious and reserved. It is interesting to note how people can have very different characters depending on the task they are completing. What is personality, anyways? Personality is a person’s specific reactions to external stimuli, some say. When you react to something in a setting where a certain behavior is expected from you, is that part of your personality, or is your real personality somehow temporarily masked? It is useless to delve too deep into such thoughts, so let us get back to reality.
The woman conducting the sermon was a familiar face, her slender silhouette dressed in neat and simple attire, her armband showing her recent promotion. Mari was a fervent preacher, every word of hers produced a visible effect on the crowd.
‘The believer who turns his back to alertness and to nepsis, delivering himself to sleep, is
dead. He, of course, is ‘resting’; but the time of his life is running away. Instead of sleep, the true citizen must devout himself to prayer...1’
Max, his eyes closed and his head slightly bowed, listened to every word very carefully, but he was too tired, and his mind was slowly entering a mediative state, despite what he was being told. Some of the light from the altar shone through his eyelids, and there were strange patterns forming and unforming that he observed with great interest. His eyes slowly rolled up, relaxing, and then, suddenly, something forced his eyelids open. Cold air hit his sclera, but his pupils were still rolled up. His eyes were white.
A voice whispered something unintelligible in his right ear, and he saw a vivid, bright image, first of a relaxed hand, its fingers long and deft, carefully manicured, a dead body, then a bottle with dripping blood. The vision ended. Had that been a Divine Inspiration? He paled and started shaking. He gathered his bag and ran out.
‘The mind is the servant of the Temple. Therefore, the Temple is its master.’ Her whisper was loud and was echoing in the room, following him, and for some reason embedding itself in his mind.