Thursday, May 26, 2005

One decibel, 80, then 90, then 110, this was it. I could ignore the ringing in my ears no longer, and in the tumult my foolishness melted when I realized the high-pitched noise was my conscience. It had fancied itself a musician, a tolling maestro intent on guiding me toward a better direction.

This time I listened. When it advised, I heard. Where it pointed, I followed, and it beckoned to the chair. What previously was the only decoration in the bare room became a perfect tool for bashing down doors, particularly stubborn blue doors. Each purposeful swing, each stray splinter, affirmed me in ways you cannot possibly imagine. The chair was made for this, it seemed, as it chewed swiftly through the door to find there, laying in the middle of the room, Muse in a senseless heap.

“Why did you do this?” I cried, rushing over to her. “There must have been another way.”

Muse didn’t stir. She was breathing, yet she wasn’t really alive. I looked around for answers.

The Auditor’s chamber was a cozy office, lined with dark and expensive wood paneling from corner to corner. Books lay scattered everywhere. An enormous safe jutted from the east wall. If you were to join the Blotted, last looks could be far worse. In the room sat a desk covered in fresh blood and, with the exception of a ledger and a pair of spectacles, this was all that was left of the Auditor.

“I understand now,” I whispered to Muse. “I just wish I could do something.”

“You can,” she said hoarsely. “I’m– Help me up?”

“Of course.”

While I was lifting Muse to her feet, I noticed she clutched painfully at her side.

“What on earth–” I started and gently pushed away her hand.

A severe gash stretched languidly across Muse’s body like a devilish smile. Even though the wound had begun to close, she was far from well.

“We’ve got to leave this place. There are too many–” she gasped excruciatingly. “I’m not–”

“We’re going. Now. Should I take the ledger? The glasses?”

“Leave them.”

If the right circumstances surround you and you possess the resolve to match, everything is different. We opened the steel door and beheld an angry Minder, but it wasn’t so difficult to dash her against the corridor. The hall itself, though, boring and white as it appeared before, transformed into a punishing 100 yards. The dark sky, so often the inviting backdrop against our evening strolls, delighted in tripping us. The three blocks to the train station became three grueling miles. And the rain, try as Muse did to cover herself, rushed eagerly into her wound.

We boarded the final train leaving Antiquity City for the night. The Blotted had sought shelter from the downpour, and for that we were thankful. I gingerly wrapped Muse in my coat, set her down on a seat, and took my own before we started moving. She coughed and propped up herself feebly.

“If you leave now,” I pleaded, “no one will ever find me. So don’t, please don’t. I need you to make it. We need to make it.”

“Read me some poetry?” Muse asked weakly. “Tell me a story.”

And that I did. Words I remembered, words I fabricated, all of them I shared with Muse. She looked exhausted but content.

“What about the Auditor?” I asked. “Is he done?”

She winced at his name and gave me a piercing, questioning look.

“There is so much you should know about me,” she said softly.

“Will we ever need to come here again?”

“Not a he.”

She pulled the coat tighter around herself and turned away to watch the motionless moon.