Fantaësie Gothaëca

II—The Tempest Underground

Chapter I--Faust

I had it planned all along: with it being virtually impossible to leave Shaede, the walls surrounding it being flawed by no door, window or break whatsoever and far too tall to be reached by any means, my escape route would be the underground. After all my restless exploring of those inner parts of the Broken Glass Factory, I had deduced that the only way to get out of Shaede and into other cities was through the world's bowels. The prospect did not scare me: I would miss Sataerylm, horribly so, but this was a sacrifice I was willing to make to reach my ultimate, if just rather vague, goal: to somehow climb up the castes and reach those who had stood like the shadows of creatures greater than any Emperors during my whole life: the Engineers, and through them, ultimately, to Mage Ekt himself. Though did not possess the faintest clue as to how I would reach them, I had a limitless confidences in my own intellectual skills, and believed they would take me wherever I needed. So into the undergrounds I sank, like the shadow of a kelpie sinking down into murky waters and vanishing out of sight. As I could not take the ebony mare with me, I sold it to a merchant: I had only to take off my hat and show him my face and he offered me twice the price anyone would have expected for a single animal.

After I'd sold my horse and went down, I took out from one of my packs the two main objects I'd need: a lantern and my own map of the Shaede Underground. Reaching into one of my coat pockets, I got out a box of matches, struck one of them and carefully lit the lantern. Raising it above my head, I looked for some indication of where I was. There was no doubt I stood in the middle of what once had been an underground train station: metal benches stood along the edge of the platform, their rusty planks covered in cushions of moss. To my right and as far as the lantern's weak lights could lit stretched out the counters where, apparently and according to my various history books and sources, people had sold trains. Dragging my packs behind me, I went towards the counter, and found what I was looking for: a large plastic plate bearing the words: Flailsworth Station in faded letters. Triumphant, I set down my lantern on the counter, and opened my map. A few seconds later I had located Flailsworth, and deduced that the closest way out of Shade would be to go either straight east, or, if this proved impossible, head south-east.

So my journey started. Not bothering with any pause, and rarely ever minding when I got ribbing stitches. Eventually, my lantern started to weaken, and my eyes started to sting rather disagreeably, and after I'd stumble over train rails for the fifth time, the strength to push myself back upwards on to my aching feet failed me utterly, and I remained lying face down in the ballast, my packs on top of me and my lantern clattered to the ground.

When I woke up, it was with no idea whatsoever as to how long I'd slept. The joints of my limbs, especially the knees and elbows, ached, and the side of my face which had been pressed against the harsh ballast through my fallen straw hat throbbed dully. I sat up, rubbing my face and pushing hair out of my eyes: the darkness around me was absolute, pure, as though I was locked in the inside of a jet stone. A bottomless, frighteningly unfathomable night enshrouded me, but somehow I did not feel scared. I reached into my back and blindly groped for the zip, which I slashed open. I bright light cascaded out of the green canvas cloth, as a tiny dog sauntered out of the bag, dazzling fluorescent green light pouring from its mouth and eyes. I grabbed it by the neck before it started licking my face off with its tiny rough copper tongue, and twisted it around in search of my lantern. After I'd lit it with a match I placed carefully back in one of my pockets, I looked into my little dog's flank: I'd placed a finely worked clock there, consequently naming the little mutt Chrono—a word which I'd been assured by some detestable man I somehow cannot remember meant 'time' in Latin.

The long, fine golden needles indicated that it was a little after three, but whether it was of the morning or the afternoon I had absolutely no idea. I sighed, reached inside my food satchel, and gobbled down some water and bread. Then I placed Chrono of my shoulder, hitched my bags on my shoulders, picked up the lantern and set off for my second day on the road towards my brilliant destiny.

In the rusty underworld, time did not exist, I deduced after what I estimated five days, though it may have been three, or even seven, of travelling through it. There was no sound whatsoever, apart from the sound of my heavy breathing and footsteps, the occasional yaps of my irritatingly enthusiastic Chrono, and the gloomy dripping of water from pipes in the not-so-distant distance. Though I denied it vigorously to myself, I was starting to quite miss the sound of horses' hooves clattering on the cobbled streets, the voices of the hollering merchants and the constant blabbering and chattering of Flaeme's unruly poet's mouth. Such useless human feelings were, I told myself hostilely, as unneeded as they were pathetic and undignified. A person gifted with talents and an intellectual level such as mine could not possibly allow themselves to feel such degrading things. So I hitched my bags I little higher, gripped my lantern a little tighter and held Chrono a little closer, and marched down through the gargantuan belly of my world.

The ragged routine of my journey settled in on me, as my eyes dulled from all the darkness and my breathing got much more rapid, hissing through my teeth and rattling down my parched throat. I drank more, ate less, and started to stink. Though this fact did not bother me when I fell asleep, every single time too tired even to spread out my blankets and arrange my bags into make-shift pillows. But during the day, when I walked and meditated the most profound aspects of existence, the stench troubled my thoughts like a devilishly persistent child throwing stones into water. When it became unbearable, I discarded them with relief, donned fresh trousers, shift, chemise, and shirt; and went on.

Days, weeks and months melted into one long stretch of darkness and dark thoughts, and when, after waking up one from one of my usual deep sleeps, I stumbled into a patch of light thrown by a torch nailed high into the wall, my muddled mind hardly registered the incongruous fact. A man sitting on the floor with a long grey dog on his lap looked at me with bulbous eyes and said nothing. I walked past him without a reaction.

It dawned on me a few meters away. I had just seen a torch, a dog and a man. Or had I? Surely, it must only be my feverish brain sending random pictures to my glazed eyes: the man did not exist, nor did the dog, nor did the torch, which, now that I came to think of it, looked remarkably like the torch that stood over my head, glowing from high up the dark wall. This time I stopped. Something was wrong. Feverish brains sent rapid pictures that flashed before one's eyes in glimpses of two or three seconds. They did not stand here, looking down on you with insolent orange eyes. Or with bewildered pale jade eyes, for what it mattered, and now that I came to look back down again.

'Who are you?'

'Who are you?'

The squeak and the rasp. The little startled mouse speaking and the scrawny dazzled bear replying. The person standing in front of me with a bright white lantern dangling form his hand could not have been much older than twelve, maybe even thirteen; and then looking ridiculously young for his age. He was clad in a white shirt, fine waistcoat matching the kerchief around his collar, dark breeches and stout boots. His hair was like a sweep of pale silvery shadow around his thin juvenile face and his eyes where like bright pale green jades.

'My name is Faust,' he squeaked in his mouse's voice, 'I live here. Who are you? I never saw you before. Are you a messenger from Above?'

'Are you calling me an angel?' I asked, affronted and taking one threatening step towards the insulting little shaver.

'An angel?' he gave me a blank look.

'What's a messenger from above if not an angel?' I snapped, growing irritated.

'What are you talking about?'

'What are you talking about?' it seemed as though any last remaining scrap of sense had left the discussion.

'Listen,' the boy steeled himself and spoke with saintly patience, 'who are you?'

'Fantaësie,' I snapped, and added under my breath, 'you tyke.'

'It's a nice name,' the boy beamed at me in this saintly (mouse) way he had, 'why are you here for?'

'I'm leaving Shaede,' I announced grandly.

'Shaede?' he looked surprised: even his squeak had a note of startled within its piercing height, 'you're coming from Shaede?'

'Aren't we under Shaede anymore?' I asked, feeling my spirits rise.

'Hell's bells lady!' the little boy laughed a high-pitched squeaky laughter, 'you must have come a mighty long way! You're currently under no less than Evaniae.'

He looked so proud it caused me joy to tell him the truth:

'What's Evaniae?'

The pride left his face, which clouded over with incredulity.

'You don't know what Evaniae is?' he squealed, and this time, the mouse which was squeezing out his voice was dying, judging by the desperate shrillness of the tones.

'I do not have the foggiest idea what it is,' I informed him gleefully.

'How can you not know Evaniae? It's the greatest, most beautiful city in the whole entire Broken Glass factory.'

'Is it?' I said coldly.

'Yes!' he shrilled.

'If you say so,' I allowed smugly.

He gave me a miserable look.

'Still,' I went on, waving my hand and the subject away: 'do you know how I get back up?'

'What—wait. You want to go back up?' the boy looked at me irritating incredulity.

'Well, um, obviously.'

'So. Wait. You mean you haven't come to join the Tempest Underground?'

'The what?' I asked, thinking that this boy was probably ill in the head or something very similar anyway.

'You don't even know what the Tempest Underground is?' he choked.

I wondered how in the world the mouse could survive such an apoplexy attack, then resumed, with saintly patience:

'Listen little brat. Tell me where the nearest exit is.'

'You want to go back up, then?' he asked, looking disappointed.

'Yes,' I sighed, glad that we were finally drawing conclusions.

'I don't know any exits,' he declared.

I groaned, smacking my hand on my eyes.

'But I can very well take you to my uncle: he'll probably know where the exits are.'

'Very well, then. Let's go.'

I picked my bags up from the floor, and started to walk beside the green-eyed kid. More and more torches seemed to appear on the walls, nailed to wooden beams. Apparently, we had moved from former train tunnels to mine tunnels: the earth, lit by the torches and lanterns, gave off a strange glitter, as though there were some bright powdered gems mixed with the hard soil. The ground was no longer covered in ballast and metals rails, but much smoother, a thin layer of fresh soft brownish moss covering it.

As we progressed through the underground corridors, we started crossing people along our way: tall slim women with faded hair and bright eyes, men carrying piles of paper or boxes hurrying past us. At one point, a thin-haired young man with deep carved lines around his mouth and eyes stopped by us, and popped his head from around an obviously heavy wooden box sporting the words: 'Hendle with Cayre—Frajayal contents.'

'Ah Faust! I see you've finally found yourself a sweetheart!'

Faust blushed heavily and swung a half-hearted kick at the young man's leg.

'Careful,' the latter said brightly, 'you might harm something along with me!'

'The inscriptions on your box are spelt wrong,' I announced scornfully.

'I know they are,' he winked at me: 'It makes Esta angry, so I do it. She loves me ever more when she's angry with me, bless her sweet soul.'

'Go away,' Faust said, his cheeks tainted with the most grotesque of pinks.

'Shall I kill him? If you tell me to kill him, I'll kill him,' I muttered to Faust as the man sauntered away with his burden.

'You can't kill him! He's my sister's fiancé. She loves him.'

'He's a cretinous dunderhead,' I said, flipping my hand dismissively at him.

'That's true, but she still loves him, and as the age-old saying goes: we are all fools in love…' the infant said wisely.

I stared at him in incredulity, children shouldn't speak this maturely:

'Listen, tyke, how old are you?' I asked.

'Fourteen, much may the knowledge please you,' the little boy bowed at me.

'You liar,' I said serenely.

'Fourteen and twelve days exactly, ma'am,' he said proudly.

'Fourteen? You can't be fourteen,' I spat.

'Listen, lady. I'm at least five years older than you. You can't be older than ten, so it should seem logical that I'm fourteen.'

I swung around and hit him across the face.

'Ow!' he whined.

'Don't you ever dare say I'm ten again, you stupid little lying mouse!' I snarled.

'I'm sorry!' he wheezed, rubbing his crimson cheek, 'I honestly thought you were te—younger. How old are you then?'

'I'm sixteen, you tyke!'

He let out a yell of laughter. Lest I might hit him again and rip his head off, which he rightfully deserved, though unfortunately infanticide was a crime of which I simply could not render myself guilty, I stormed away. He immediately hurried after me, and grabbed my hand and stopped me.

'Oh, please forgive me! I sincerely never meant to hurt your feelings!' he cried with regret and laughter in his horrid mouse voice.

'You sound like a mouse that's dying. You deserve to die, insulting the best Cartographer of Pain, Botanist, Biologist, Explorer, Lifesaver and Thinking Person in the whole of the Broken Glass Factory!' I flung my titles in his face with lavish arrogance, and then resumed my dramatic withdrawal from his rodently presence.

'I had a mouse once!' he said, running after me, 'And it died. How did you guess?'

'I'm psychic,' I said, with withering sarcasm.

'Are you?' he demanded in wide-eyed admiration, completely missing the magnificent irony of my statement

'No.'

'Aw, I got all my hopes up for a moment! I thought, maybe, if you had been a real psychic, not like this crook Evaneskant Earl—'

'Evaneskant Earl, for your measly knowledge, tyke, was a real psychic!'

'He most certainly was not!' Faust squeaked indignantly.

'What do you know about psychicology?' I threw at him.

He was about to give me a very obviously flimsy reply, as tykes his age always do when they are cornered, but we were prevented when I walked straight into a woman that stood in my way, sending a pile of documents flying all around us, so that for a few seconds we stood staring at each other among a swirl of yellowish birdlike floating papers.

Artist's Comment

Here! I told you stuff would start happening. Sort off…XD I had tremendous fun inventing Faust and her feelings towards him. I'd like to have your very own opinion, because that beats any pleasure I might feel when inventing and writing. Criticism, positive or negative, is ENCOURAGED, so, knock yourself out—and if you have any suggestion, let me know!