Fri, May 18 2012
Rebecca flew at him, all weakness quite gone, and hugged him tightly. He was barely able to stay upright and eventually whispered, "Rebecca, can I breathe now, please?"
They sat on the sofa. "Let me have a look at you." She drank in the sight of him.
"Welcome back, Verne," Fogg said, taking his own measure of his friend. He looked well, a tad pale, a little more depth to the eyes, and something else Fogg couldn't quite put his finger on.
Rebecca fussed over him. "Shouldn't you need a haircut? Have you been here long? Have you eaten?"
"No, not very, and yes," Jules replied helpfully. He radiated pleasure. "If you want, I could give you the scientific explanation of why my hair hasn't grown. It involves stasis fields and timeconstants and--"
"I think we can do without," Phileas interjected, studying Jules closely. "Tell me, Verne. Why are you here?"
"Phileas, that's ungracious," Rebecca said in surprise. What was he thinking?
"They've sent you down from school, haven't they? They're punishing you."
"No, Fogg. It was a mutual decision. I couldn't stand idly by when I knew Rebecca was in trouble. If it happened again, it was obvious I would interfere again, without hesitation. We agreed that I was not willing to accept what they were willing to give under the conditions they set."
"And?"
Jules did not trust himself to answer immediately. Fogg was patient. "And they took it all back," Jules said softly.
Loss. That's what Phileas had sensed but could not name. The immeasurable loss of learning so much, with the promise of so much more, and then having it all taken away. Phileas tried to imaging how it must feel and knew that he couldn't. He had no point of reference.
Rebecca was outraged. "They punished you for showing human compassion; for acting in friendship?! How dare they!"
"You're being unfair."
"*I'' am?"
"Rebecca, I broke my word! They didn't spring this on me. I knew the terms and I agreed to them. I just never imagined ... I didn't know how much I would know ... and I couldn't not act once I had such knowledge." Jules smiled at her. "They were quite generous, really, compared to what they might have done."
"Such as?" Phileas inquired.
"Stopped me from interfering. Taken my memory of you -- taken all my memory for that matter. Instead, they settled for a 'back-to-square-one' kind of arrangement. And I agreed, as I said. It wouldn't have worked without my cooperation."
Rebecca was not mollified. "I still think they're blighters, and I'd love the chance to tell them so."
"Rebecca, you're missing the point. What good is the wisdom of the universe to me if it costs you your life?"
She started to say something but stopped, struck speechless. She had always accepted that she might one day be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. Queen and country deserved no less. And she'd do it for Phileas of course, but there was a balance there, an equilibrium because she knew he would do the same for her. But the idea that there was something beyond that, the "wisdom of the universe" for heaven's sake, and that someone would willingly make such a sacrifice for her ... how did one acknowledge such a thing? "Thank you' seemed not merely inadequate but puny.
Rebecca looked at Jules anew. He often had difficulty withstanding that gaze, either blushing, looking away, or making some kind of nervous movement. Not this time. He opened his heart to her. This episode had been bittersweet, but he had no regrets. "I've walked on another world, Rebecca. I've had experiences no other man will ever have. I am, truly, content."
"Is that why you are not minding this?" Passepartout asked, holding up the disc he'd discovered in Jules' room a short time ago, while delivering a culinary surprise. His first impulse had been to destroy it, but it was not his to destroy.
"You got your souvenir after all," Fogg commented.
Jules shook his head. "It's not the same one. This is a new and improved model and it's only a locator -- there's no need for the communicator half." Jules handled it without fear. "It's indestructible, you know, and the range ... whether this is at the bottom of the ocean or atop Everest, it will know where I am -- I only have to be on the same planet."
"That doesn't bother you?" Fogg was puzzled.
"Of course not. It's hope. It's possible that one day the Aeiou will change their minds. You know, Professor Marechal used to say that the best teachers learned just as much from their students as their students learned from them. I never really understood that until now. Maybe the Aeiou will someday." He stood up. "I've only stayed awake to see you safely home, but the truth is I'm desperately exhausted. Will you forgive me?"
"Of course," Rebecca replied. "I shall be joining you shortly. I mean ... oh bother." This time, she was the one blushing. She hugged him good night.
Fogg stood up and shook Jules' hand. "Thank you, Verne," he said simply. He knew Jules hadn't told them everything, and Jules knew that he knew, but would let it be. Amazing, the nuances that could be communicated in a single handshake.
Passepartout trailed Jules up to bed. "McIvy is telling me you are only having broth and juice today. You are not wanting anything else? Like maybe this chocolitized coffee?"
"That smells wonderful." Jules sipped. Bliss. But his stomach signalled it would be a few days before he could finish the cup. "I'm sorry, Passepartout, but would you mind leaving it here? Just the aroma is heavenly."
Jules sat on the bed. Before he realized it, Passepartout had removed his footware and jacket and was unbuttoning his shirt. Just climbing the stairs had made him too exhausted to protest, or help.
"I'm sorry, Passepartout."
"You are forgetting, Jules, you have already apologized."
"No, not for that. The surprise I promised you. I remember the promise, but the surprise, well, it's one of the things they took back. I have no idea what it was supposed to be."
"Eh. You are back now. We will make our own surprises." He had Jules changed and under the covers. Passepartout paused before he left. "Jules, these things they were learning you -- you know you do not need these things, don't you?"
"Yes, Passepartout, I know. But I wanted them."
"Then it is a good thing for my master and Miss Rebecca that you know the difference. Good night."
Jules stared at the ceiling. It had been two long days since he'd slept. He couldn't believe he'd managed to stay alert long enough to field Fogg's questions with any intelligence, long enough to set the tacit boundary Fogg had wordlessly agreed to respect.
For the warning vision Jules had had that night had not come from Rebecca or Fogg, but from Gregory. The malevolent monster had taken a leaf from Jules' book. It wasn't enough to kill Rebecca -- how could he take it one step further; how could he magnify the murder? Gregory's repulsive conclusion: as long as he was taking her head, why not dismember the rest of her? That was the hideous vision Jules had seen: Rebecca, reconstructed in Gregory's image, as a fitting mate. Even now, Jules paled at the memory and struggled to settle his stomach. He would have nightmares about it for the rest of his life, but he would never share this with his friends. It was too horrific.
The rest of his memories, the ones the Aeiou had let him keep, he would cherish, even the difficult ones. Though "they took it all back" was a simple and straightforward statement, the actual process had been anything but. Some of the Aeiou had argued against it. The youngling had no idea what he was getting into; he would be badly damaged. For his own sake, better to not let him try, better to keep him. But Jules had demanded the chance. He was a sentient being with the right to choose and he didn't want to be a pampered pet, he wanted to go home. He vowed he would surprise them. They agreed to let him try.
They were right of course. He had no idea. During the first session, as they ripped away bits and pieces embedded in his mind, Jules had been astonished at the pain of the process, but he begged them to continue and he helped where he could. When he could take no more, they stopped and let him recuperate a little, and made sure he really wanted to go on. Jules would not be deterred. So it went with each session: incredible agony, a bit of rest, was he sure he still wanted to do this? Yes.
The last session had been the hardest. There was one piece he had fought himself to hang onto. He did not now know what it was, but he retained the memory of the effort because the battle had been at such a primal, basic and all-encompassing level that to take the memory of the struggle away would have left nothing of him.
At the end, he was hollow and empty and weaker than a babe. Fraeiou cradled him, Fraeiou who had stayed by his side every step of the way.
Jules had surveyed his interior void, telling himself it would be all right. He would go home and there would be new memories to fill the holes in his soul. But he could not deny that, just now, it hurt like hell.
He knew he had been constantly monitored during his ordeal, out of care, and the session observed as an oddity. But what he thought had been, perhaps, thousands had in reality been millions, both on-planet and off. It hadn't been an oddity, it was unheard of. The sheer determination and persistence, the force of will Fraeiou had encountered and had tried to explain to his fellow Aeiou had brought them. They had not believed such a young race capable of such things, and here was Jules, a living, breathing example. Their collective respect went out to him. They were not a hard-hearted or indifferent people. The Aeiou empathized. They had had to take, but there was much they could give, and they proceeded to, millions of them.
It would take several lifetimes for him to sort through their gifts. Most were infinitesimal, a synaptic connection here, a microscopic mote there. Collectively they were packing his wounds with mental salve at an almost molecular level. Many were carefully monitoring the procedure, assuring that Jules could absorb what he was being given, slowing or speeding the process as prudence demanded. A few Aeiou were more spectacular with their offerings: a snatch of Aeioun music, a color human eyes could not see, a dawn on a world long gone. Jules was uplifted and brimming over -- he had never imagined anyone could experience such extremes of emotion in such a short time, but he knew he'd gone from hell to heaven, and he was grateful.
There was one straggler, an Aeioun observing from, as near as Jules could tell, yesterday or tomorrow (a day removed, in one direction or the other). She had somehow picked up on "fiddlesticks"; her gift to Jules was a mild Aeioun profanity. Jules couldn't help himself. That this adventure start and end with "fiddlesticks" was too ironic, too fitting. He had to laugh.
A ripple passed through the Aeiou, first through the millions connected to Jules; then outward to the billions of their brethren. Something had just happened, but Jules didn't understand what. "You laughed," Fraeiou said, as if that explained it.
"?" Jules responded.
The Aeiou had thousands of terms for the various shades of joy, pleasure and happiness; they were essentially a contented people. But laughter was a vocal sound; they'd stopped laughing when they stopped speaking and, through disuse, had lost even the mental term for it. And Jules had just given it back to them. All of them. They would never lose it again.
Jules felt what only he would characterize as ridiculously pleased with himself. They'd given him; now he'd given them.
On that note, Fraeiou had taken him home. Jules saw Passepartout's note and pressed the button, but nothing seemed to happen in response. He'd sat down to wait, so drained he almost fell asleep.
That wouldn't do. He walked to the house, tried to help Mary clean up the dishes she'd dropped at the sight of him, and accepted the backslaps and wellwishes of almost every member of the staff before McIver rescued him.
"Welcome back, Mr. Verne. The Foggs aren't here presently, and I'm afraid I can't say when they'll return ..."
"Today, McIver. They'll be home today."
"Ah ... Well ... That's very good to know," he said uncertainly. "May I offer you some refreshment?"
Jules considered what might be safe. "A small glass of lemonade, diluted lemonade, would be nice. And if Cook has, some weak broth. Thank you."
"You're very welcome, sir. Is there anything else?"
"Don't let me fall asleep, McIver. I want to be awake when they get back." His friends -- they would be his true sustenance while he readjusted to life. That was the last empty part of him and it was reserved for them.
Their return had been everything he hoped it would be. Now he could let himself sleep.
Fraeiou appeared. Jules thought he might. "It can be undone. We can go back."
"No, thank you. I'm content with the way things have turned out. But you knew that."
"And the Broken Man? I can take his sight from you."
"Part of the price. I'll keep the nightmare." How could he protect Rebecca from the horror if he no longer knew what it was?
"Then I give you a gift. Keep your vision. The Broken One, he will never think such again."
Jules hadn't comprehended the weight of that particular burden until Fraeiou lifted it. It was one thing to say he would protect Rebecca from the vision, but he couldn't figure out how he'd do it without revealing the specific and hideous details. "Thank you," he told Fraeiou. The star man would know how deep his gratitude was.
Jules had to ask. "Will I ever see you again?" Fraeiou made no response. It was one of the few annoying things (besides the food) about the Aeiou: they would say 'yes,' 'no,' or nothing at all. There was never 'we'll see,' or 'I don't know' or 'I haven't decided yet' about them. At least the answer hadn't been no.
Fraeiou, in a gesture he must have picked up from Rebecca, brushed the unruly curl from Jules' forehead. Jules was stunned. In all the time he'd been with the Aeiou, with the exception of Fraeiou's post-ordeal cradling of him, he'd never seen any of them actually touch anything, including each other. He'd come to believe the Aeiou's enveloping halo was a physical extension of them. Not so.
"There is one among you, barely born," Fraeiou said, "who will one day write 'a cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.' You will never be a cynic, Jules Verne." Fraeiou dipped in farewell and was gone.
Jules turned over and went back to bed. He knew it would be the best night's sleep he would ever have.
fini
Chapter 13 | Chapter 14