Entry tags:
The New World // for Daine
It was a difficult decision, but it has been made. He will go with Raphael. He will venture beyond his Halls, beyond the House, beyond the World Itself. It is a dizzying prospect, a decision which continues in no small way to terrify him. But he remains resolute. The decision, the promise has been made, and he will honor it.
He takes some time in preparing as he awaits Raphael’s return. He writes in his Journal and collects his belongings, the things he imagines he might need in the New World, as well as some things he simply wants to carry with him — little mementos, feathers and pebbles and the Finger of the Unknown Statue which the Tides had placed in his hand some Months ago. He hopes that the House will not mind the removal of these things any more than it will miss its Inhabitant. He does intend to return, and he thinks it will be easier to venture into the Unknown if he has these few traces to remind him of Home.
He has just finished adorning his hair with the shells and coral once more, wishing to look his best for the journey, when he hears a strange draught. He stops what he is doing, his hands coming to rest in their activity as he tilts his head to listen, trying to ascertain the direction of the Wind. It does not sound quite like the Air of the House; there is something high and thin about it, a gentle whisper he does not expect, unimpeded by the Marble Walls and Statues and Archways. Rather it blows quietly and without disruption. How wonderful and strange it is! He wonders, rather fancifully, if the House has conjured up some new Passage of the Air in order to bid him a safe journey.
And then he notes a peculiar smell. It is the smell of grass. He recognizes it, just as he has recognized other smells that do not belong in the House — metal and petrol, things he has occasionally scented in the First Vestibule, or tasted in his dreams. But he is wide awake, and he is quite a distance away from the First Vestibule. Such strange scents do not tend to reach him here.
It is pleasant, though, and again he wonders if the House has brought forth something new, as if to encourage him, or to excite his curiosity.
Then — and this is quite extraordinary and alarming — he feels and hears and smells a great many things at once. The scent of grass grows strong and pronounced and is joined by a flood of other smells, each one’s name called up from the recesses of his (or, perhaps, Matthew Rose Sorensen’s) memory: there is soil and sod and the perfumery of flowers, and the wood of trees, and there is that distant tang of metal and petrol he has noted in the First Vestibule. The draught is even more unhindered and it brings with it a strange rustling sound, as of papers being gently shifted together. There are other sounds, too, a great many, too many to account for or parse; a distant rush and roar he cannot place, and birdsong that sounds too far away to be in any of the neighboring Halls, too high and faint to be carried by Marble Walls — and voices, human voices, more than two, which is the most staggering of all. The World beneath his feet is soft and strange, not at all the solid Pavement he knows.
He blinks.
There is so much Light pouring down upon him, around him, from all sides, that he is blinded and overcome. He lets out a startled cry and reaches up to cover his face, nearly dismantling his glasses all over again from their makeshift fish-leather-and-seaweed reinforcements. He staggers and finds no Plinth to brace against, no Niche to squeeze into. He lowers his hands. He opens his eyes. He blinks until he can almost peer through the blinding, brilliant Sunlight that has enveloped him.
He does not understand what he is seeing.
He does not understand any of it.
“Oh,” he cries, breathless and afraid, and his legs buckle and his knees strike not the unyielding Pavement but soft, absorbent Earth. His hands drop down to brace himself and his fingers curl into a tangle of Grass and Dirt. A shudder runs through him and horror grips his heart. Where is he? Where is he?
“Six—Raphael!” he cries, and his voice is strangled and thin and does not reverberate in the way that it should. He is lost, the World around him a vast expanse with no shape to it, no Halls, no Ceilings, no Staircases and no Statues. It is too bright and too vivid and too loud, and even the thrilling awareness that there are other People is not enough to quiet his growing terror. Is this the New World? Has he left already, somehow, without Raphael to guide him? And without her, will he be able to return?
Horror turns to panic and he crumples over, gasping and retching violently, squeezing his eyes shut and praying to the House to reclaim him, to wake him from this awful dream.
He takes some time in preparing as he awaits Raphael’s return. He writes in his Journal and collects his belongings, the things he imagines he might need in the New World, as well as some things he simply wants to carry with him — little mementos, feathers and pebbles and the Finger of the Unknown Statue which the Tides had placed in his hand some Months ago. He hopes that the House will not mind the removal of these things any more than it will miss its Inhabitant. He does intend to return, and he thinks it will be easier to venture into the Unknown if he has these few traces to remind him of Home.
He has just finished adorning his hair with the shells and coral once more, wishing to look his best for the journey, when he hears a strange draught. He stops what he is doing, his hands coming to rest in their activity as he tilts his head to listen, trying to ascertain the direction of the Wind. It does not sound quite like the Air of the House; there is something high and thin about it, a gentle whisper he does not expect, unimpeded by the Marble Walls and Statues and Archways. Rather it blows quietly and without disruption. How wonderful and strange it is! He wonders, rather fancifully, if the House has conjured up some new Passage of the Air in order to bid him a safe journey.
And then he notes a peculiar smell. It is the smell of grass. He recognizes it, just as he has recognized other smells that do not belong in the House — metal and petrol, things he has occasionally scented in the First Vestibule, or tasted in his dreams. But he is wide awake, and he is quite a distance away from the First Vestibule. Such strange scents do not tend to reach him here.
It is pleasant, though, and again he wonders if the House has brought forth something new, as if to encourage him, or to excite his curiosity.
Then — and this is quite extraordinary and alarming — he feels and hears and smells a great many things at once. The scent of grass grows strong and pronounced and is joined by a flood of other smells, each one’s name called up from the recesses of his (or, perhaps, Matthew Rose Sorensen’s) memory: there is soil and sod and the perfumery of flowers, and the wood of trees, and there is that distant tang of metal and petrol he has noted in the First Vestibule. The draught is even more unhindered and it brings with it a strange rustling sound, as of papers being gently shifted together. There are other sounds, too, a great many, too many to account for or parse; a distant rush and roar he cannot place, and birdsong that sounds too far away to be in any of the neighboring Halls, too high and faint to be carried by Marble Walls — and voices, human voices, more than two, which is the most staggering of all. The World beneath his feet is soft and strange, not at all the solid Pavement he knows.
He blinks.
There is so much Light pouring down upon him, around him, from all sides, that he is blinded and overcome. He lets out a startled cry and reaches up to cover his face, nearly dismantling his glasses all over again from their makeshift fish-leather-and-seaweed reinforcements. He staggers and finds no Plinth to brace against, no Niche to squeeze into. He lowers his hands. He opens his eyes. He blinks until he can almost peer through the blinding, brilliant Sunlight that has enveloped him.
He does not understand what he is seeing.
He does not understand any of it.
“Oh,” he cries, breathless and afraid, and his legs buckle and his knees strike not the unyielding Pavement but soft, absorbent Earth. His hands drop down to brace himself and his fingers curl into a tangle of Grass and Dirt. A shudder runs through him and horror grips his heart. Where is he? Where is he?
“Six—Raphael!” he cries, and his voice is strangled and thin and does not reverberate in the way that it should. He is lost, the World around him a vast expanse with no shape to it, no Halls, no Ceilings, no Staircases and no Statues. It is too bright and too vivid and too loud, and even the thrilling awareness that there are other People is not enough to quiet his growing terror. Is this the New World? Has he left already, somehow, without Raphael to guide him? And without her, will he be able to return?
Horror turns to panic and he crumples over, gasping and retching violently, squeezing his eyes shut and praying to the House to reclaim him, to wake him from this awful dream.