Orphans of Chaos

“The victories at Waterloo, Trafalgar, and, yes, at Rourke’s Drift are mine. Even the massacres done to the helpless aborigines of far Tasmania are mine.

“All this island is, I am. Do you understand me?”

Vanity said softly, “Yes.”

“Then swear your most profoundest oath, swear by the blackest water of the River Styx, by the Cauldron of Arawn the Just, by the Grail of Christ the Merciful, by the Wounds of the Fisher-King and Spear that cured him, swear! Swear and bind those two you call your friends to the oath. You will never harm this island. No matter how this land offend you, nor what her crimes, nor even if all the Lordly Dead most beloved by you call with deepest tears, on knee, upon you, you shall do no hurt unto this island. Swear, and I shall let your ship pass by me.”

She said, “I swear.”

I said, “Um, so do I. God save the Queen.”

Quentin stepped over to where Headmaster Boggin had set out a box of cigars for his guests. There was an ashtray here. With the penknife used to trim the cigars, Quentin cut a strand of hair from his head, set the lock of hair in the ashtray, and ignited it with the matching cigarette lighter standing next to the box. The hair burnt with a truly disgusting smell.

Quentin said quietly, “May my life be cut as quickly, may I be burned as terribly, as this frail hair I cast into the flame, should I break this vow. I love England and will do the land no harm; no matter what crimes I am done, nor who calls on me. Black water of the Styx, Cauldron of Annfwn, Grail of Christ, Red Wounds of Alan le Gros, and Spear of Joseph of Arimathia, I pray you witness and enforce this oath, and never release me from it. So Mote It Be.”

The head said, “Done! For the span of time it takes to sing the Compline, the fetid stain of Myriagon shall be permitted to mar this place.”

The crystal tabletop darkened, transparent, translucent, opaque; and the head was gone.

I said, “How long does it take to sing the Compline?”

Quentin said, “Thirteen seconds. ‘Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night…’ ”

Even though the crystal tunnel was now opaque, I could still see it, like a green pillar issuing from the tabletop and reaching into the “red” direction. Looking at Quentin, I saw, stretching parallel to that, world-lines intersecting his nervous system, and distorting the natural flow paths of his thoughts.

“…and give your angels charge over those who sleep…”

It was the same effect I use to distort the at-rest mass-path of a heavy door to make it lighter. Something was distorting the at-rest state of the white dot at the center of his brain.

Vanity, seeing my face, shrieked and put her fingers over her mouth.

“…Tend the sick, Lord Christ…”

That dot was not, precisely speaking, “in” his brain. In the same way what we called a “song” was the terdimensional manifestation of a higher singularity, Quentin’s brain activity was an ongoing representation in time and space of the rotation of the surface of a fourth-dimensional object-event.

“…give rest to the weary…”

The dot was a monad. It was his noumenal self; the part of the self in which self-awareness resides.

“…bless the dying…”

Vibrations radiating from the monad formed six different types of energy, depending on what three- dimensional axis intersected them. Three were space, one was time, one was para-time, and the final one…

“…soothe the suffering…”

…It did not have a name. A new sense impression I had not hitherto been aware I possessed apprehended the nameless sixth vibration. The first five directions established relation and duration; this sixth gave self its self- ness. It was eternal, timeless, indestructible…

“…pity the afflicted…”

And it was tilted off-axis. The shadows it cast into Quentin’s nerve paths were deflected. I could see bright areas and dim areas in his cortex. Certain of his thoughts and memories were attempting to create a greater effect in the future. They had the potential for setting in motion chains of cause-effect which would influence his actions and change him. This was being blocked. I was looking, so to speak, at his happy memories.

“…shield the joyous…”

Bits of dark matter were also floating in his nervous system. They were the source of the blocking. It was very complex, a web of energy-interactions it would have taken years, centuries to trace…

“…and all for your love’s sake…”

But I did not have to. No matter how complex the web of matter was inside Quentin’s brain, whatever was not connected to the governing monad in which his noumenal self resided was, by definition, non-self-correcting. Only living systems can love themselves, change themselves, grow, correct themselves, put out new stalks and branches on the tree of possible futures issuing from their actions.

The dark matter, on the other hand, was inert. “Inert” equals “actions determined” equals “low probability.” All I had to do was…

I said, “Thoughts are known by thought and thought alone.” And I reached out with… something… and twisted his monad back into its proper alignment, to bring the blight areas along the thought-axis parallel to the para-time axis of the dim areas inflicted by the dark matter in his brain. And…

“…Amen.”

The universe collapsed on me, crushing me back into three-dimensional space. I still had my… call it a hand… outside of its normal volume, reaching into Quentin. I did not have time to fold up properly.

And so I (my body compressed at the wrong angle) screamed; Vanity (looking at me) screamed; Quentin (clutching his head) screamed.

We all screamed. It was not a good moment.

7.

I fell over and struck the floor. Whatever it was (A limb? A song? A thought? A psychic extension? A manipulator made out of solidified time?) that I had inside Quentin, slipped out as I fell, in the spray of reddish sparks.

I had not even been aware that I had a telescoping 4-D form meant to fold smoothly back into 3-D geometry until I was stuck half-folded. That sense of heaviness, of massiveness, which surrounded my hand when I tried to reach through the safe walls the night before was now spread unevenly through my whole body. Some organs felt compressed, others, distended.

I tried to look at myself, but my eyes were not working. Everything was afflicted with a blue haze. Instead, sense organs meant for some other level of reality were giving me information. I was receiving a sense of the internal nature of things from one pair of organs, and another organ told me how useful or useless certain objects and events around me were to my will.

Vanity’s internal nature was sweet and giving; Quentin was sad; the table was stern; the cigars were filled with malice; the doors to Boggin’s chamber were watchful and careful; the two clocks were bitter, filled with hate, and watching me.

Neither Vanity nor Quentin were of any use to me at the moment, my other sense informed me. That is, none of the world-paths issuing from me had any greater potential when passing near them.

But there was something shining with use-light coming quickly from a parallel area. It was either nearby in time or in space.

I twisted my head to see if I could bring another sense organ to bear. Through the wall, I could see two nervous systems, surrounded by glowing lines of superpotential, great usefulness, jogging up the stairs.

Then the first was at the door to this room. I could not see the door, but I heard it open, and the inner nature of watchfulness gave way to something masculine, selfish, disobedient, willful, lustful, and rough.

Behind the rough object was someone whose inner nature was logical, detached, dispassionate, stoic, skeptical about outer things, certain about inner ones.