Chapter VI

  Crossing the Westward Strait

  Vito had been rowing for around an hour now, and he was sure that Thing and he were far enough away to be naught more than indistinct shapes to anyone spying them from either shore.

  “Thing, you can come out now,” he said.

  Thing grew, returning to its normal size. With each stroke of the oars, Vito had been thinking about a problem— one that he was sure the two of them were about to encounter. He couldn’t think of a solution by himself, so he brought it up to his friend:

  “I don’t want you to have to stay small the whole time we’re in Onagio, do you have a disguise?”

  Vito didn’t think that Thing would, but he acknowledged the possibility that Thing might have at one time needed a disguise for something else, and still had it stored within his ring. Thing shook its head.

  “Hmm…” said Vito, trying to think of some other way that they could conceal Thing from others, without forcing it to be too uncomfortable. Vito didn’t want to make Thing sit, shrunk down, in his pocket day after day. That, he imagined, would be a boring proposition. Thing waved its hand with a winking eye and a braggadocious smirk.

  “Pssh,” it said, “don’t even worry about it, Little Goat. I got it handled.”

  Thing began to do a sort of dance, shaking its hips and arms, and bobbing its head like a bird.

  Vito couldn’t help but giggle.

  “I can see you’re impressed,” Thing said, its voice warped by the movement of its head.

  As Thing continued to dance, its body seemed to become more fluid. It began to bulge and deform, like clay being spun on a potter’s wheel. Like blue putty, Thing began to stretch and change, occasionally pulling on parts of itself, molding its own flesh. The image began to make Vito feel a little sick, so he turned away and focused on rowing. A few minutes passed before Vito heard:

  “Ta-da!”

  Vito looked up, and saw a marginally different figure before him. Thing’s body had become solid once again, and now bore the figure of a human, about five and a quarter feet tall, with slender limbs and chest, and wide hips. Its head had shrunk to normal human size, it had gained two fingers on each hand, bringing them to five, and it now had legs. Its skin was still the same shade of blue, and its horns and unusual eye color remained. It had grown long, burgundy hair, which contrasted with the bright red scarf, which was tied so that it produced twin tails trailing down Thing’s back. The wrappings covered Thing’s chest, but left its shoulders and midriff bare, which Vito found unwise, given that the wet season had only just begun, and it would be raining for the foreseeable future. It wore nothing else, and had no covering for its groin. Vito averted his eyes from that area, and told Thing,

  “Maybe you could… I mean you must be… with your legs…”

  Thing inclined its head to indicate that it needed some clarification. Vito obliged.

  “Pants?” he suggested with a blush. Thing looked skeptical. It put a finger up, and reached its hand through its ring. Moments later, it drew out a pair of white shorts, and put them on.

  “We’ll compromise,” Thing said, pointing to the shorts, “glad I found these things earlier! Humans sure do wanna wear a lot of clothes don’t they? How am I supposed to look at myself if all this garbage is in the way?”

  “Hey, are those my shorts?” Vito asked.

  “Hmm? What? No, they’re on me,” said the spirit.

  Looking at them a bit longer, Vito was sure. “Yeah, wait! Those are the shorts my mom made for me as a kid! Where did you get those?!”

  “These? I dunno, I woke up way before you so I was digging around outside and I just found ‘em. They probably belonged to an ancient king or something, that would make the most sense.”

  “So that’s where they were…” said Vito.

  “Listen pal, I dunno what this ‘the shorts were mine’ angle is about, but I found ‘em, so they stay on me.”

  Vito rolled his eyes. “Whatever. They probably don’t fit me anymore anyway. Why do you want to see yourself so much, anyway?” asked Vito, believing he probably knew the answer already.

  Thing, true to its character, simply gestured to its body as if it should be obvious.

  Vito examined Thing’s new form.

  “I’m not sure this will work…”

  “No, don’t worry, no one will suspect a Thing!”

  Vito remembered the mixup that happened in the forest when he had used the word “thing” and wondered how Thing hadn’t confused itself just now. He decided to ask after the issue.

  “Do you mean to say no one will suspect yourself?”

  “No… well, yes, but I meant all Things, not just me.”

  Vito could tell from Thing’s expression that it thought his question was stupid. This only made Vito more curious. “Can you tell when I’m talking about just… things… versus you: Thing?”

  Thing scowled, “What do you mean? They’re both me. All Things are basically me. At first it was a bit confusing when I woke up— but now I understand! Let me lay all out for you! Basically, you’ve got every-Thing that exists ranked by its power, with each tier up becoming more powerful. Then you basically draw a line from every single one of those Things directly to me, at the top! Any-Thing can be a Thing, and so all Things are me!”

  Vito stared for a moment. He was going to need some time to riddle that one out, so he left it for now. He’d come back to the subject later. A rushed question was a spoilt chance, to him.

  Vito still wasn’t sure of Thing’s disguise: “Are you sure no one will notice you? I mean, you don’t really…”

  Thing dismissed the comment with a swat of its hand. “Don’t worry about it, I’m a charisma extraordinaire! I can convince those stupid humans of any-Thing I please! If I wanted to, I could convince you that you’re a donkey, and it would be easier than falling down— at least for other people, that is. I never fall down.”

  They weren’t halfway across the strait, and Thing’s ego was already starting to grate on Vito. If it could really convince anyone that it was a human, he’d be impressed.

  The day was clear and full of sun, and Vito took a deep breath, slowing down his rowing since his arms were getting sore. He planned to switch out with Thing soon, so that the burden between them could be shared. Thing became interested in watching the fish swim by, and Vito took pleasure in watching its simple joy. Thing seemed incapable of boredom, always fascinated by some innocuous detail of its surroundings. Everything seemed to distract it, and Vito found this to be charming. Thing was something like a toddler to Vito’s eye. It was blunt, self-centered, disliked wearing clothes, but it had such a pure wonder for everything it saw, that Vito was persuaded to tolerate its negative traits.

  As he watched Thing, now in its “human” shape, he realized that it looked very much like a young child. He wondered if he might try to explain the spirit as a diseased relative of his: a younger brother perhaps— sister? He realized that he didn’t know whether Thing was a boy or girl, or something else entirely. He had only referred to it as “it” thus far, which he thought might reflect badly on him. He, after all, would not want to be referred to as “it”.

  “Hey Thing, are you a boy, or a girl?”

  Thing got a mischievous look in its eyes.

  “Eww!”

  “What? I’m just asking so I know how to call you—”

  “Eww! You’re being so gross right now!”

  Vito rolled his eyes, but he felt bad about doing it, so he turned away so Thing wouldn’t see. It was clear that he wouldn’t be getting an answer on this subject right now. Thing would remain “it”.

  Vito’s biceps were starting to kill him, so he drew the oars into the boat and sighed, “Phew, do you think you could take over for the next hour, Thing? I’ll row us the last little bit.”

  Thing frowned down at a bass,

  “No, why would I want to do that?”

  Vito was a little taken aback, though he knew he really shouldn’t have been.

  “My arms are tired, and aren’t we supposed to be friends?” he said.

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Thing asked, looking up from the water.

  “A friend would help by rowing the other half of the way.”

  Thing put its finger up,

  “A real friend wouldn’t ask another friend to do something boring.”

  Vito saw that he was going to have to be more stern. Thing really was like a young child.

  “I don’t think I can consider you a friend if you won’t help me.”

  “But c’mon! I’m Thing! T-H-I-N-G, Thing! I shouldn’t have to paddle some dumb boat!”

  Vito raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t you want to be friends?”

  “Yes!”

  Vito thought for a second of how he would respond to that.

  “Then this is the price. If you want to be my friend, you have to help me. My arms are tired, and it isn’t much to ask of you, I think.”

  Thing paused before saying:

  “Well, okay! But you really are a nasty friend, you know! Threatening to not be my friend over something as stupid as rowing a boat.”

  Vito suddenly remembered what his mother had said to him when she was treating his wrist.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “When you don’t do your part, Thing, you disrupt the system of the world. If I row, then you, then me for the final stretch, we’ll get there in half the time. If I row, rest, row, rest, and then finally get us to shore, it’ll take much longer.”

  Thing mocked him by moving its hand as if it were a chattering mouth. It picked up the oars, and began to row.

  “Who cares about ‘the system of the world’? Sounds like a scam.”

  Vito laughed. “You don’t really believe that!” he said, easing into the front of the boat, resting his arms on the sides.

  “I just think I shouldn’t have to do Things when there’s no-Thing in it for me! This ‘system’ seems built to get me to do slave labor!”

  So apparently Thing had meant exactly what it said. This was not a promising sign for their friendship, but Vito wasn’t ready to give up on Thing just yet. The spirit had saved his life.

  Thing quickly forgot the spat, and the two of them chatted about the fish as Thing rowed them across the strait. Vito knew only a few of their names, but Thing still listened intently, trying a few times to catch them with its hand. They were always too fast for it, even when it threw its ring into the water to block their path and trick them into the portal. The commotion always scared them away, and Thing would have to retrieve its ring in defeat.

  The Westward Strait stretched out around them in all directions, greenish-brown and impenetrably dark. Most of the fish within were small and colored shades of forest green. Occasionally, an auburn streak flashed by. These swift fish Thing was the most interested in, but Vito did not know them, and had never seen them up close before. While Thing tried to get a good look at one, Vito peered back at his island, its image becoming less saturated as they made their way west. Remex, on the other hand, was becoming ever more defined. A deep rainforest stretched out before them on the coast, and Vito saw a pair of giant insects on the prowl amongst the trees. He had learned in school that this region was known as the Singing Rainforest, due to its abundance of insects of all varieties, most notable being the overgrown specimens. The dog-sized isopods known as the Nguichi, the mosquitoes bigger than a fist called the Leon Gio, and the most infamous of them all, the Sengenè, bees which could pack into the shape of men, and lure people into the jungle when the cover of night hid their true form.

  The insect spirits held this place, and they were known for being callous and uncaring. Given that the spirits of the Spiritwood on his home island did not have this reputation, Vito feared what these were like. If trying to kill and eat someone didn’t qualify as callous, what did?

  Carved out of this nightmare world was the city of Onagio, a sanctuary for humanity. It was ringed by a stone wall fifty feet high, which kept the fickle spirits and the horrid bugs out. When a stray insect or a spirit tried to scale the wall (which happened only rarely, the spirits and wildlife seemed totally uninterested in it), knife throwers from Onagio Keep would effectively end the threat. Even the mighty Gochmani, hornets with barbs as long as a sword, whose sting turned the target into one of their own kind, could not challenge the marksmen of the great castle. The defenders of the city would line up on the ramparts in groups of seventy or more, and rain down knives on the attackers. For the spirits, this served to annoy them enough to leave, while the insects would perish under the rain of sharpened steel. Occasionally, one of the greatest of the defenders would be sent down the other side of the wall, to retrieve the knives so that they wouldn’t collect over the years, forming a ramp via which the insects could walk over the wall. This man or woman, should they survive, became the new captain of the guard of Onagio.

  Vito turned away from the city and the Singing Rainforest which surrounded it, and took out his history book from its holster on his right leg. This and yesterday had been so chaotic that he hadn’t had a chance yet to read the section at the back of the book: the Dance of Death, in IDEAS. He saw that, unfortunately, the page number listed for the section was three hundred and fifty-two. Vito knew the book to have only three hundred and fifty-four pages, which did not bode well for his investigation. He turned to the book’s final page, labeled in small lettering at the bottom as “p.354”, and found that it was blank— the end sheet. The preceding page, “p.353”, was not empty. It had words, but few of them, and none of them relating to the Dance of Death. Page three hundred and fifty-three listed the names of those who had contributed to the book, the original author, the copyist, the binder, and of course, in the largest print, the producer, the one who had funded it all. Vito could not believe what he was seeing.

  He flipped backwards once, and the reality stared him in the face. Page three hundred and fifty-two was the singular page on the subject of the Dance of Death. It announced this purpose in large, fancy letters at the top of the page:

  The Dance of Death

  Yet below, the content of the lean chapter did not even fill the sheet to the end. The sum of its knowledge on the topic was three measly paragraphs. He hadn’t seen a heading in his textbook with less than five pages to its name, and each page marbled with thick, eloquent paragraphs, espousing as much information as they could manage in single sentences, to cut down on the total number of pages needed. Each read like the author had tried to constrain their passion for the subject, tried to spare the producer the cost of so much extra paper, and yet could not help but spill narrative after narrative, history after history, page after page. Each section ended with a beautiful summary of what had just been covered, like a dancer’s final flourish.

  It was surreal to see this section then, stark and emaciated. Just from looking at the periods at the end of the sentences, Vito could see that the writing style was blunt, and reserved. He briefly turned the page again to see if there was a note, crediting this section to a separate author from the rest of the book, but there was not. The entire thing was attributed to one “Pewiol the Third, of Blindin”. Vito sighed, and returned to page three hundred and fifty-two. He began reading it. It did not take long to finish:

  “Congratulations student, for you have nearly completed your nine years of education.”

  Vito disregarded this passage as a relic of whatever educational system had been present when it was written, as currently, on Bangye-Rua, there were fourteen years, not nine. Many of these anachronistic passages were present in the book. The section continued:

  “There is but one topic remaining for you to master. It is called the Dance of Death. The Dance of Death is very ancient. It will be of little concern to you in your daily affairs. However, in efforts to prepare you for unusual situations, it has been chosen that you should be told of it.

  The Dance of Death hails from the Crotuparlanti Times, in the ancient days before the Alakonian Empire, before Remex your home yet had men to trod its grass and sand and rock. The Dance of Death is a ritual involving various religious items originating from the continent of Alakon. The ritual was central to the Crotuparlans’ religion, which held no place for the spirits. These ancient folk believed that, through a mystical rite, the self could become unbound from the constraints of the embodied world. The subject of the ritual could be granted an understanding of certain factors. Great power was afforded to those who could master the Dance of Death.The Dance of Death is very dangerous.

  It varies from the worship of the spirits in many ways…”

  And the section went on to describe how the Crotuparlans, while the ancestors of the peoples of Remex, Alakon, and Bangye-Rua, were not the starting place for their religious beliefs, going more and more off-topic until eventually ending abruptly. A chill ran up Vito’s spine as he read the second paragraph again. “Unbound from the constraints of the embodied world?” What did that mean? “An understanding of certain factors?” What factors could that passage possibly be alluding to?

  The final sentence of the paragraph was the most mysterious of them all, a vague warning that “the Dance of Death is very dangerous”. The phrasing of the entire section was clipped and strange, but the conventions in the second paragraph were especially odd. Each sentence read like the words had been switched around several times, edited to exclude any real information. The line “an understanding of certain factors” did not read as though it was simply awkwardly put. It reminded Vito of when he wrote an essay, and made a sentence overwrought to avoid overusing a particular word. It was vague to the point of meaninglessness.

  Why did the article not describe any part of the ritual, or what it was actually meant to achieve? Why did it mention that great power was given to those who mastered the Dance of Death, but neglect any description of the process of learning it? This couldn’t have been in efforts to keep readers from gaining political advantages— the book itself referred to the Crotuparlanti Times as “ancient days” which were surely long since over before the book had even been written.

  Vito couldn’t believe all of these were just mistakes. Something else was going on with this section. It felt like it had been stitched together from some other, longer piece of writing. It seemed like either the author didn’t know what they were talking about, felt it wasn’t important to record accurately, or, most chilling of all, was censored by the producer or copyist.

  But the most disturbing detail of all about page three hundred and fifty-two to Vito was a minute detail lurking between the final two sentences of the second paragraph. It was the lack of a space. Vito had never seen a copy mistake anywhere else in the book, but there it was, plain as day before him: there was a capital “T” immediately following a period, with no space between the two. Vito knew that something else had once filled that space, some other words had once dwelt there. He felt as if something dwelt there still, just out of his reach.

  Vito had gotten all he could from the book, and closed it, slipping it back into the holster on his hip.

  Thing was taking its fifth rowing break, fitting its ring back onto its horn after trying once again to catch one of the fast, auburn fish.

  Vito felt that he was ready to take over again and took up the oars. Thing hardly noticed. They had come a long way across the strait by Thing’s effort: it had more stamina than Vito. Even now, Thing didn’t seem the least bit tired. Vito began to row once again. The sun had sunken but was yet to set. Vito looked at how close the dock of Onagio was, and he saw that the stately wall and harbor had come into clear view. He was sure they’d reach the city before dusk.

  Vito smiled, glad that he had convinced Thing to row, delivering them to Onagio expediently. He relaxed himself, felt his shoulders sink, his eyes wander. He had not realized until now that he had been stressed, worrying that they would be caught in a storm and thrown into the sea. He smiled at Thing sticking its finger into the water, watching the wake it made as the boat sailed onward.

  “How deep do you think the ocean is?” he asked Thing.

  “It’s infinite,” Thing replied, keeping its eyes on its finger. “A long time ago there used to be a bottom, but He who Gouged the Oceans kept battering it down till he broke through the bottom of the world, and fell out.”’

  Vito stared at Thing for a second.

  “What? Is that true? How would you remember that?”

  Thing shrugged, “I didn’t forget everything, you know, like I still remember how to talk and breathe and stuff. All the spirits know that story. And ‘course it’s true, what do you think would happen if you just keep digging a hole? You’ll fall out of the world!”

  Vito stopped rowing, staring at Thing in horror. The spirit looked up from its finger, past Vito. They were now a stroke or two from the harbor, and Vito assumed that it was looking at the city. His shock that the world had a finite bottom was only beginning to fade as Thing said, still looking in the direction of the dock:

  “You know that guy or something?”

  Vito didn’t respond, too busy processing that there was once a bottom to the world, it was possible to fall out of it, and that the ocean was now infinitely deep.

  “Hey, I think he’s saying something,” continued Thing.

  Vito heard something behind him and snapped out of it, spinning to look where Thing was looking.

  He was greeted by an unusual scene. The captain of the guard, a man covered in scars bearing the likenesses of huge mandibles and insectoid claws, led a quorum of fighters after a young boy in rich clothing. He wore a sort of black coat, which extended to just above the knee. The buttons were very prominent, each inlaid with a green dragon. He looked a little older than Vito, and Thing had been right, he did seem to be shouting something. As he got closer, Vito could tell what it was:

  “HELP!” He yelled. He was looking right at their boat, running towards it.

  Vito paddled his way to the side of the docks at Onagio harbor, which currently held only a few other ships. The guards chased the boy there.

  As he approached, Vito yelled, “What’s going on—!”

  He had scarcely gotten the words out when the boy jumped into the boat, calling out:

  “Go, go! My brother’s trying to force me into an arranged marriage!”

  In the split second he had to react, Vito decided to trust the stranger, and used the paddle to push off the wharf, back into the Westward Strait. The original plan had been to land in Onagio, get their bearings, and then go to the Great Whale Grave, though it seemed a change of plans would now be necessary. Vito threw one of the oars to Thing.

  “Go!” he said. To his surprise, Thing obeyed. Vito and it began paddling as fast as they could. The guards had knives on their belts but refrained from throwing them as Vito knew their skill enabled them to do with the highest level of proficiently. Instead, they picked up rocks, hurling them at the oars of the boat. A few doffed their black leather armor and plunged in after them.

  “Come back here, boy!” They called. Vito couldn’t determine whether they were referring to the escapee, or himself.

  The boy in black looked around anxiously, and noticed Thing for the first time.

  “Oh! What the hell is that thing!”

  He began to squirm to the other end of the boat.

  “He knows who I am too!” Thing said happily.

  “What the?!” the boy said upon hearing Thing speak.

  “Can you get them away?” Vito asked the spirit breathlessly.

  “Yup! One getaway, coming right up!”

  Thing’s hand turned giant, at which the boy also exclaimed with a yell. Thing dipped its fingers into the water, pushing towards the fighters and the dock, creating massive waves that threw the swimming pursuers back, and knocked the rest off the wharf and into the water. They began to throw off their armor, clamoring to help those who could not and were sinking. Vito prayed that none would drift down into the infinite expanse below. He turned to the boy as he began to row, and Thing paddled with its massive hand.

  “This is Thing. It’s a spirit. It’s nice, don’t worry. I can talk to it, I’m a spirit-talker,” he explained between strokes.

  Thing picked up one woman who had dived underneath the boat, and threw her away like a ragdoll. Its giant palm protected them from the flying stones, and they made their escape.