“SQUEEEEEEEE!”

The sound of a high pitched hyperventilating pug that lived within her escaped Chloe's mouth as she scrambled to the table and grabbed a pen I had not noticed before. She scribbled her name on the left-most page and I watched as the parchment was drawn to her pen, reluctant to end its embrace as her name ended in a clumsy flourish.

“And the next column, Chloe,” Walker directed, not unkindly. “What do I write there?” Chloe asked, her speckled face returning to the scrunch that may just be her resting expression.

“The next statement is one of trust. You must write ‘I bear no malice or ill will to the cause I have signed my name in this book to. I trust myself to the devouring should I write a lie.’”

As Walker spoke, I noticed that the mood in the room had changed. All eyes were glued to Chloe among the old hats who were still seated, as she scrawled a semblance of words in the next column. When she dotted the final full stop, the words glowed blue and red before settling on green.

Then the power Awoke.

The language leapt off the page as if living and showered Chloe in prose and sophistry. Language known and not-, both graced her skin as it scoured her flesh, spinning around and round, within and throughout. It seeped and seethed, but the bulk flew towards her eyes and turned it a milky white. Two Chinese characters wrote their jade sigil into the window where her pupils once were before the dappled and glowing text covering her body pulsed three times more, only to settle on her skin, faring into her pores. Her green eyes retained their colour.

Chloe looked shocked.

“Can you hear me?” she asked the room, but not one person answered, at least to my hearing.

“Uh, yes. Hello? Are you alright?” I asked, attempting to break the silence. Why was no one else speaking?

Rather than acknowledge my words straight away, Chloe's eyes seemed to glaze over, her focus elsewhere. Then her eyes snapped back to me with a distracted look, like I had interrupted a conversation that had required her full concentration.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice void of any inflection. It was machine-like.

“You go next,” Colin said, his eyebrow raised. His fingers twitched and I could imagine in a visceral sense the cold clammy touch of his hands from where I stood.

He was nervous. So was I.

I gulped as my feet brought me towards the leather-bound book with hungry pages. As before, the parchment embraced the pen as I wrote, rising to meet it. With each letter born on the page, I felt a light wind ruffle my clothes, an airy breeze caressing the small of my back in comfort and a warmth shining on my face. The hint of a giggle met my ears as I finished writing my name, and my hand tingled as if held by a much larger hand.

“Now you must write as Chloe did,” Walker said, and I spelt each letter as he spoke.

I bear no malice or ill will to the cause I have signed my name in this book to, I wrote. I felt weaker with each word, as if I was giving something of myself to the page, a link to the unwritten. As with Chloe, the words glowed blue and red before resting on the page in green livery.

I trust myself to the devouring should I write a lie, I continued. On the end of the last word, I staggered back as if struck by an uppercut. I fell to the floor but did not land on the boards, the slight wind in my back holding me up, far stronger than I had thought it. The invisible grip in my hand tightened and held, duplicating and now grabbing both my wrists, keeping me secure from the maelstrom of words erupting from The Book.

And then, Absence.

[A new story Awakes,] said a matronly voice to my deaf ears.

I was not kin to Audites, so I did not Hear. I was not taught by the Spoken, so I did not Answer. I was not betrothed to the Artful, so I did not Compose. This was Known. My existence was pulled taut like a strand of hair, thin enough to be cut by a wayward wind. Around me was only darkness.

[So it does. The growth of our new House is welcome. It has been too long since these weary bones cast judgment,] another voice agreed. My strand was buffeted by the warm summer breeze and my very being wished to fall into the embrace of the inviting sun. I nearly did, all goals and desires gone, all regrets forgotten, before a chill refrain like a thousand frozen doves striking string sent a shudder through my strand as if it were an instrument.

I thrummed, and a chord responded, even though I was only a single strand.

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[A pleasant sound to this one. Try not to break him, Sisters, or our new House may desert us.]

I tried turning my head to see who spoke, but I had none. My shape was string alone, a hair’s width and a hair’s depth, my length unknown.

[He's trying to see us, Sisters!] one of them cackled. Lightning struck me in tune with her laughter, but I felt no pain, for I had no use for it. My strand emanated steam in response, but this only seemed to make her cackle even louder.

[Hush Sister,] another Sister scolded, [We are wasting time and even now he is drifting closer to the Absence. We must Ask and record his Answer.]

I couldn't see it, but I could feel the remaining Sisters nod, one of them suitably chastised but still in good humour.

[Simon,] they chorused, [before you can enter the rolls of the House as a peer, we must confirm. Do you or your masters bear any malice or ill will to the cause of your House and its Thesis?]

My masters? And what's all this about a House and Thesis? I'm not doing an Honours year or a PhD, I thought.

A Sister snorted and my strand felt as if covered in yoghurt, thick and wet consistency clung to my thread in annoyance.

Maybe they can read my thoughts?

Silence greeted me this time. There was only myself and the gnawing Absence to my awareness now.

“I bear no ill will or malice and I have no masters other than myself. I’m not sure what this House thing is or what thesis you are talking about but I've spoken to AxE for years on Blisschord. I think I can trust her.” I said without a mouth or words that could be heard, but I knew they were listening.

[Understood. You will be entered into the annals of the House and your Answer and your future journey will be recorded.]

I heard the rustling of pages being flipped through and felt the wind on my strand, tasting of libraries and fantasy and old books.

[Now. What do you want to Write-Speak-Compose Create?] they harmonised across three sets of notes, the last word shaking my strand with a booming timbre as if every key on an organ were pressed at once.

I knew my answer.

“I want to search for the authors that have been stolen and the stories that never finished, but deserve to be. A fulfilling beginning and an end is what I want to [Create]. [I want to bring about a world where the unwritten is read],” I Spoke.

[GREEDY!] the Sisters shrieked, their harmony turning discordant. I felt an awareness of the length of my strand and gathered the notion that I was being reduced, my time growing shorter.

[GREEEEEEDY!] the discordant chorus repeated. [You wish to bring about what is not into existence? The unread is one thing, but the unwritten? You seek to bind the Fates to a cause worse than trying to save the burning tomes in the Library of Alexandria, and look what happened to Serapis? Spurned and burned for his efforts, the names of his pantheon struck out or deserted.]

The Sisters who spoke as one drew themselves in, as if to take a breath, their exhalation teeming with their madness. But before they could continue their tirade against my wrong Answer I was stung by a sky-blue actinic flare from the darkness of the Absence. In its light I could finally see the faces of the Sisters towering over me: a child, a woman, and a matron, each draped in the finery of the stars and festooned with colourful flowers.

[Moiragetês!? Why have you wrought this share of destiny upon us? We cannot cut away this thread with your light!], the Sisters yelled in unison. Their faces once again faded into the darkness of the Absence and I felt a need to forget their faces rebuffed by the blue coursing through my strand.

[On a whim, my daughters. The greatest story may be within the unwritten and the pantheon grows weak. Mayhap this man will breathe life into new Words and Reawaken their chronology,] the Lightning replied, [It is worth the risk].

My existence in this space was ending. The last words I heard as I faded back into my reality thrummed through my strand and into my body. [Good luck,] I Heard, and a small strand of my thread-self rode with me, latching itself to the wrist of my proper body.

SLAM!

The spirits that held me aloft dissipated, and I crashed to the ground in a sprawl of limbs.

[Are you alright?] AxE asked me, and I felt her concern.

[I’m fine I th-]. I froze. I had not said a word, merely thought and felt the phrase, and AxE had heard.

[Now he gets it,] a voice said. It was not one I had heard before, and it had a strong accent through the connection.

[Jeez. I didn’t look this confused when it happened to me, did I?] said Chloe, her smirk tangible in her words.

[No. This is a particularly severe case,] Walker grumbled.

“What the fuck happened?” Asked Colin. His voice was skittish and wary.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just not what I expected,” I said quickly, scrambling to my feet and stepping back.

“That’s not what I asked. What? Happened!?” He repeated. “That’s enough of that,” Walker interjected. “What you experience in writing in The Book is between you and fate. Are you still committed to our cause, Kal?”

Colin gulped, just as I did. He sheathed his trepidation and approached The Book. The pen guided his hand as he wrote his name, for which the words glowed blue and red before the glow melted away, settling on the black ink of the pen alone.

[That’s not a good sign,] said the guy with a strong accent. I looked at him, dressed in a tan overcoat like Inspector Contraption from the cartoons. [I’m Yongwen, nice to meet you Simon] he sent me, for as far as I could tell, it was for me alone.

[It is not,] replied Walker to us even as he spoke to Colin. “Now please write ‘I bear no malice or ill will to the cause I have signed my name in this book to. I trust myself to the devouring should I write a lie.’”

Colin wrote as if the effort involved a hike through waist-deep mud. Slow, sweaty and clammy, the written language on the parchment was akin to a swamp infested with mosquitoes. I fought off the urge to scratch a suddenly itchy spot on my upper left arm.

As Colin finished writing, it felt like an age had passed, and the tension in the room was palpable. I’m not sure if Colin noticed it, though.

[$50 if he isn’t cremated,] AxE said to the group. [I’ll take those odds,] Gretta replied, [He’s my candidate anyway]. Before I could ask the question that I sought to ask I felt AxE’s attention: [Just watch] she said. Her voice and intention were a lot more concerned than her bravado to the group displayed.

And then Colin burnt alive in front of us, wreathed in green flames.