The Soul Continuum (15 page)

“It is the Ouroboros,” I tell him. “The great snake of legend that is perpetually eating its own tail. Can this ring on your finger tell you where it begins and where it ends?” I pause to let the example sink in. “Some things have no beginning.”

Kaliki observes the ring, then looks at Phalana again. She unfolds her arms and reaches to stroke Kaliki's cheek while addressing me. “Are you saying that this world did not have a beginning? Because if you are—”

“Surely Kaliki's ring does have a beginning,” Nitocris cuts in. “The head.”

“But when did it start eating its own tail?” I ask her. “It is an eternal cycle. The head is forever eating its body. In the same way, this world and everything in the heavens once exploded into existence: the head”—I place a fingertip on the serpent's head—“and one day it will grow cold and die: the tail.” I trace a second fingertip around the body of the serpent. “But one day it will explode into birth again in exactly the same way. The cycle will continue as it always has. So while it is true to say there is a beginning and an end, that same beginning and end have repeated themselves for all eternity, and the cycle
itself
has no beginning or end. The world you live in is the Ouroboros, the eternal wheel of creation, never changing, never ceasing. At the end of things, you will find the beginning of things. It is the way of things.”

I do not know if they understand, but it is at least a start, and it has silenced Nitocris for now.

“You said everything will grow cold at the end,” Ninsuni
says. “But other seers say the end will come in fire. Are they all wrong?”

“The end of the world will come in fire, that is true,” I tell her. “The Sun—your god Shamash—will grow fat with greed and swallow the Earth, but one day, many ages after that, Shamash and the other gods, the other suns in the heavens, will grow tired. They will grow cold and die.”

“When? When will that happen? When?” Moss scuttles forward into a crouch, even closer to me than Ninsuni.

“Not for eons of time,” I say. “Not in your lifetime. Not in many, many thousands of lifetimes.”

“What do you mean by other suns?” Phalana asks.

I gaze upward toward the beige roof above our heads, wishing I could see the night sky. “Do you ever wonder what the stars are in the sky at night?”

Ninsuni laughs. “I used to believe that a big black cloak had been placed over the world and behind it was the light of heaven. The stars are little pinpricks in the cloth where the angels want to peep through at us.”

“The stars are gods, aren't they?” Phalana says.

Nitocris huffs loudly, proving again that she is still listening
even though her back is turned to us. “They are not gods. If they were, they would do more than twinkle at us and allow us to live like this. Even so, I like that idea more than Diabolis's idiocy. There is only one sun, and the stars are nothing like it. He talks nonsense.”

“You are right,” I say. “The stars in the sky are very different
from the sun. Most of them are much bigger.”

“Bigger?” she scoffs. “Now you want us to deny the evidence
of our eyes.”

“Very, very far away.” Moss nods frantically. “Yes?”

Moss's enthusiasm is heartwarming, and once again, I am humbled into admitting that these people are able to understand more than I gave them credit for. “Moss is right,” I tell them. “The sun is just another star like all the others you see at night. It is just that we are in very close orbit to it.”

Ninsuni nudges her head forward. “Orbit?”

“Yes, the Earth travels around it.”

“This is ridiculous,” Nitocris says, turning to face me. “Yet again we are asked to ignore our senses. Any fool can see that the sun rises and sets. It moves while the world is still. Why are you listening to this madman?”

“Please,” I say to Phalana, “will you pass me an apple and take one for yourself?”

Phalana reaches behind her into a bowl to oblige. It is an easy thing to demonstrate. I shuffle off my mattress to maneuver into the open, and the others rearrange themselves in a circle around me. It is then that I notice more Blessed Ones from Nitocris's group have joined us. Neither she nor Jabari object, but they both continue to watch with suspicion. I hold my apple in the air and ask Phalana to
circle me with hers, and although some of my new would-be
students scoff when I ask them to imagine what a fly on Phalana's apple would think if it were watching mine, their mocking begins to dry up when I suggest that the Earth, moon, and stars are also round like the apples and that there may even be other worlds circling the sun, too. Their ridicule is altogether silenced when Ninsuni reminds them about similar ideas shared by the Mizraimites long ago, paving the way for me to tell them that if my apple were the sun and Phalana's apple were the world, the distance to the next sun with orbiting worlds would be somewhere near Assyria, and that is why the other suns appear as mere twinkling specks in the sky.

Two hours pass as I become engrossed with the opportunity to share this otherworldly knowledge blossoming inside me. I am driven, and their attention is rapt. Though I am sure the ability to understand or retain the information is fading for my unlikely students, the effects of the incense is not, and I cannot help but continue. I am compelled to share it with them, for there is so much more to tell. There are so many more wonders in the heavens, more stars than they can count, all of them clustered in a vast whirlpool shape that will one day be called a galaxy and, at the core of the galaxy, a violent and ravenous vortex so powerful that nothing can escape its appetite.

But the galaxy is a fraction within an infinite universe. I watch mouths drop as I tell them that there are even more galaxies than there are stars and that these galaxies are also clumped in vast clusters, which in turn are grouped within almost immeasurable superclusters. The universe is larger and more complex than anything they could ever imagine.

I do not know if it is wonder or lack of comprehension, but it is only when I describe what will one day be defined as the Phoradian Gulf Formulation that they go completely silent. I use the pool to demonstrate Phorad's Theorem by dropping several pebbles into the water, the second immediately after the first, the third a second later, the fourth two seconds after that, and then doubling each time, replicating the Castorian mystic's own lecture. The gap between each splash ring is twice as wide as the one that follows, and I explain to them that each gap represents a unique Phoradian Gulf: the gap between the first and second ripple represents the void between star systems. The gap between the
second and third ripple represents the void between galaxies,
the gap between the third and fourth is superclusters, and so on, except that Phorad used expanding hologramatic spheres instead of splash rings.

There is wave upon wave upon wave of concentric spheres. Each sphere a comparatively thin membrane of
galaxies and clusters followed by an enormous Phoradian
Gulf. Stars, galaxies, clusters, superclusters, exploding outward from a beating black heart, the terrible maelstrom at the center of the cosmos known as the Promethean Singularity, and one day, having expanded beyond the capacity to sustain itself, it will whimper into cold death, flattening out into an inert disc of primordial energy.

Some deeply buried part of me has seen all of this. I saw,
somewhere in that endless plane, the black heart pumping its next beat, bursting outward to repeat the cycle, re-creating
the exact same stars, galaxies, clusters, and superclusters, every life that ever lived, reborn, living again, dying again, with no memory of its previous existence.

I stop at that point, sensing that I have reached the limit of their awe; they cannot grasp anything beyond this, and I
could be content in concluding with Ninsuni that my hunter
has originated from somewhere beyond all of this, but these Blessed Ones are not my only audience.

In the far distant future, in the far distant past, for they are both the same in the eternal heartbeat of the cosmos—it is here, at this level of understanding, that mankind stops looking. It is here, in their complacency and arrogance, that they simply cease to reach farther. They forget the true nature of the universe discovered in the youth of their existence. They name the Promethean Singularity and its exploding cycles as the sum total of all that was, all that is, and all that will be. They forget that this cosmos, with the Singularity at its heart, is just an infinitesimal fraction of an endless and eternal universe, born of another repeating explosion that lit the heavens everywhere at once, the newly formed matter expanding to separate out into another paradigm of clusters—each spawning from their own individual
Promethean Singularities. The distance between the Singularity Clusters are so enormous that humans will never witness
their light. They will believe their own supercluster to be the sum total of their universe. A limited sphere of existence. A limited understanding. But such sublime awe.

Salem, you forgot. Or you were never told. Or you were lied to.

E
ventually, as the effects of the incense diminish, I grow tired. The lingering exhaustion of my transformation reminds me that it has not been properly acknowledged. Beer, wine, and fruit satisfy us for a while longer as I share the deep truths of the cosmos with the Blessed Ones, but food and drink alone do nothing for the droning ache deep in my bones, and pain is not a forgiving companion. It can be ignored for a time, but if left unchecked, it drains the will and sours one's enthusiasm. It never compromises, always wins.

But I am no stranger to pain. Even when I am the dreamer and my human self—or demon, as Ninsuni would have me believe—is dominant, I suffer its weight as though I am carrying a corpse on my back, and this is not far from the truth when I consider the nature of the mutations running riot through my hybrid cells. With its lidless eyes and twisted muscles, the face emerging from the back of my head is as expressionless as Kaliki's, yet it gently moans and slavers when I speak, like a dull beast mesmerized by the lullaby of its conjoined twin. Sleep is the only remedy for the pain, but I never know which one of me will rise on the other side of my slumber.

My waking moments following this immense session of
cosmological revelations are all too brief. For me, time passes
in hours, but for my new companions it is weeks, perhaps even months. Each time, the same pattern emerges. I wake with the pain of transformation, sprouting a new organ or appendage—something my body creates in response to an unconscious need—but strangely, there seems to be nothing stimulating my awakening and accompanying change; nobody in the chamber is dead when sentience returns. Almost always, the first person I see is Ninsuni. She has grown accustomed—even eager—to wait with the Blessed
Ones to hear my next words. It is a well-established ritual
now. A sacred time for them. They have even raised me on a cushioned platform in a special alcove above them, surrounded by wine, food, and perfumed offerings to keep the human part of me contented. They huddle around me, hungry to learn more about the universe in which they live.

Even Nitocris, still acting sour with her acidic criticism, attends the sessions, though sometimes I believe she stays
only to tease Moss, who is clearly my most enthusiastic student;
he tries to keep away from her. Kaliki watches with the same blank expression, though he remains perfectly still, clutching Phalana's hand tightly as the two of them listen intently.

Ninsuni, always asking more questions, always there when I wake, always expectant of more exotic revelation, remains closest to my heart, even though I know we can never truly be together.

It is Jabari I am most unsure of. He stands by the door, staring upward, detached from everything except when
called upon by Ninsuni or Nitocris to do something. Sometimes I catch him glancing at me, but the look is one of disdain. He is no longer interested in anything I am encouraged to say.

At my own request, my teachings are kept secret for now, and if anyone decides to scribe the details for later wisdom, I must remain anonymous. It is not out of humility or a desire to keep the Babylonians ignorant that I have made this request. I ask it because I am still afraid. I do not know if Keitus Vieta is still looking for me, but if he is, the nature of these teachings, should they become public, would lead him straight to the Chambers of Veneration, and therefore not just to me but to all the Blessed Ones.

On this particular day, things are different. I wake as usual with little memory of how my tales of the universe ended in the previous session, but I remember that I had drunk too much wine. Since immunity to the incense has
now set in, Ninsuni has discovered that wine serves to loosen
my tongue equally well, even though I think it is not needed. Any reluctance I had to teach my new compan
ions has been diluted by the luxuries they provide. They do little service to me at this time, however. I sense there was a celebration last night, encouraging more consumption than usual.

My head is pressed into my mattress, pounding with the pressure of new growths spawning from the face on the back of my head, and dehydration only serves to increase the ache. My lungs and mind are confused by near suffocation as my secondary mouth is forced to suck air through the thick layer of material, and my lidless stinging eyes see only dark cloth, masking my normal vision like bloodstained drapes. What was at first discomfort has quickly risen to panic and I push upward, instantly jarred by pain in all my extremities, wondering why Ninsuni is not helping me cope with the awakening as she usually does.

Visibility through the dungeon mist is never good, but I can always see movement near the pool. Tonight, there is no one. Usually I wake in the middle of the night with an expectation that—once I have recovered sufficiently—I will teach, but my audience is curiously absent. None of the Blessed Ones are here, except for one. Kaliki remains, stooping and still, watching me from two alcoves away. We remain staring at each other as my pain gradually fades, and it is only when Kaliki finally looks away that I notice someone has dressed me in clean garments different from my usual scarlet robes. These are new and more decorative. Thick straps of buckled leather are holding the new protuberances in place, and covering all of that is a thick robe of royal purple embossed with patterns of creamy white swirls. I run the ten spindly fingers of my right hand along the length of it to appreciate the velvet texture.