AFTER HAVING RECEIVED an impressively detailed summary of “The early history of Araktéa” (which Devus had read three years earlier), Isaiah ended up sleeping in an unoccupied bed in his chambers. His room, placed on the third floor, was small and humble compared to the rest of the house, but had a good view of the tulip garden and an overall decent standard. As the sun woke him the next morning, he ran to the lecture hall, just to wait for the Master for an hour while trying to rehearse what Devus had taught him. When Mongoya at last arrived, he had no questions for him, and said nothing of the Parda that day either. Nor did he the next day. Adding to this, each time he felt he’d gained some understanding of whatever subject was being taught, Master Mongoya changed it to something else. He went through a wide variety of topics. A great deal of things and events he’d never even heard of before. All far less intriguing than stories from the fortress. His only comfort during these lengthy hours was that Devus was right outside the door listening, so that when the evening came, he would summarize them.
On the third night, each of them flickered through the pages of the two new books he’d been assigned. Devus on the menacing sofa, and Isaiah on the midnight blue floor, as the clock approached the first hour of the following day.
“I just don’t understand – what in Araktéa does things like sculpting styles in these ‘golden ages’ and bird quitters have to do with me going to the Parda?” Isaiah asked.
“I don’t know about the birds but in Dabár, we’re taught that the Parda is the only man-made forest in the world. Due to this, some consider it a piece of art as much as nature.” Mongoya had explained to him how important the arts had once been. How painters, writers and performers had been cherished “back when the aristocracy had taste, tact, and true wealth”. He’d come fairly close to showing him his own collection of canvases, but Isaiah had managed to distract him, so he wouldn’t catch Devus as he ran down the hallway.
“Who was the man who made it?” Isaiah asked.
“The Parda? Many did – men and women together. The first humans that came here long before us, in ancient times...”
“Were they sorcerers, then? Is that the reason that it’s supposedly enchanted?” he smirked, wishing he had not asked that question.
“No.” Devus said, closing the book firmly.
“The tribal people in the north, the Agátis, tell us they came from another world. That they were like gods there and could fly like birds and breathe underwater like fish. There, they had carriages made of metals and lighting that could bring them around faster than even our best horses. They could communicate with each other even when they were miles apart. All of this power, they left behind to come here, and all the knowledge has vanished...”
“Were they also made out of stars and glowed like jewels?” Devus thought for a moment.
“I don’t know, but your tone is suggesting you don’t believe in it.”
“Sounds like village lore to me.” Isaiah shrugged.
“And maybe it is. I’m yet to find literature here that confirms any of it, but sorcery and magick is very real, Isaiah.” Devus’ eyes seemed to measure him oddly, as if just then discovering he had a third eye on his forehead. He almost felt it himself. A strange pressure that seemed to heathen the space between his eyebrows.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He said. Having more than enough on his mind already, he figured he’d be better off not entertaining the idea of its existence at all.
“The Parda will make just about anyone a believer.”
“Would you ever go there yourself?” Isaiah asked, thinking of his father, of Tzelem, and the twelve. They had all entered despite the risk. Searching for treasures, knowledge – secrets perhaps – while all he wanted to find in there was his family.
“Possibly.”
“What do you think it’s hiding? What’s this treasure I am to find?” Devus looked at him with a wordless, unreadable expression. “The only thing the Master has told me to bring back is water, and he wouldn’t say anything more of it.” He continued.
“Though I might owe you my ears and my knowledge, Isaiah, telling you more about the Parda would be no favor done to you.” His tone was uncharacteristically strict, as he turned his gaze up towards the tall ceiling. Tiny and large flowers. Perfect circles of blue, black and silver symmetry.
“So, you do know?”
“As I’ve told you, I haven’t gone there myself…”
“All the stories I’ve heard seem out of this world… None of them are true, are they? They can’t be.” Devus sighed.
“Do you at least know more than these books of his? Mongoya tells me to read between the lines to prepare, but it’s useless…” Devus took a deep breath and looked at him hesitantly. Biting his lip. At last he said, “My father is one of the twelve.” Isaiah raised his eyebrows at this, looking for a hint of a joke that often accompanied their sessions. But he was grave serious.
“I grew up listening to the lesson that he and the other survivors brought with them – from both the academy and the Parda. It wasn’t until I was older, he told me they’d gone there themselves, and that they were training us so that someday, we might do the same.”
“Did he… did he not go mad afterwards?” Devus shrugged.
“Madness is relative. He might have changed, I wouldn’t know in which way, but my father is a good man.”
“The Master…”
“Does not know who I am, and he can’t know. Even telling you is… I shouldn’t have.” He got up from the sofa in a rapid, distressed movement. Then he turned. “You see, people will expect you to be a certain way, and I am not. I am just a cook who likes to read. That’s it.”
“I can imagine how it feels.” Isaiah said. With the vocabulary of a noble and the wits of a merchant, he’d already suspected Devus was more than just the Dabárian villager he’d portrayed himself to be.
“Sorry for keeping the truth from you. I just don’t want there to be any talk about it in the city. I will need to ask you to keep this to yourself.” He remembered what Archilai had told him of their culture of honesty. Keeping something so essential to himself for three whole days, was proof enough Devus was not your typical Dabárian. Isaiah considered telling him about his own father, as Devus didn’t seem to have overheard this part of his first meeting with Mongoya.
“It’s alright.” He said instead, deciding it was perhaps enough confessions for one night. Devus nodded, eager to resume on the original topic.
“The Parda, among many things, is notoriously known to be a place of ancient treasures, but it is more importantly a place of secrets. It will often tell you a very personal story… It even made the northerners that went there believe, certain things are better kept within their own memories.”
“So, your father never told you what happened there?”
“I’ve been told no more than what he’s been told to tell me. For the most part…”
“And what is the wildest story you’ve ever heard?” Devus hesitated for a moment.
“Nothing of my father’s, but there have been rumors stating there is a tree of truth there. It sees all this world’s past and current events and has the memory and eyes of every seed ever planted in Araktéa. It catches people and forces them to listen to their own truth. It then keeps them trapped until they… eventually kill themselves – most times.” Devus shook his head as to steer away from the thought.
“Can every person’s truth possibly be that terrible?” Isaiah asked, and Devus’ lips tightened.
“You asked for a story, Isaiah. That’s what it is. One that none of my teachers have confirmed.”
“None of the ones who came out alive…” Isaiah thought, but then hushed the thought away and resumed with his reading.
“I’m tired.” Devus announced, though he did not seem as such. He then walked out on light feet and closed the door. That large, heavy door that seemed to want to keep the entire world out.
The next morning, Devus was back to his usual spirit and over the next few days, they developed a routine of browsing through the numerous books in the lecture hall (trying to find more specific information than Mongoya’s curriculum provided). With Devus explaining the essence of both the lectures and the books, Isaiah ended up understanding slightly more than nothing at all. Just enough to feel a shade more enlightened about the world. They slept late and got up early, and when both their heads were too tired to think of large, worldly matters, they spoke of smaller ones. Small things that seemed to find a natural place in that large, empty room under the dim yellow light of its five lanterns. The kind that flows easily when your mind has no strength to reconsider or keep words entangled.
“Where are the other servants? Other than Julius I never see any of them unless they’re bringing in food – not even in the halls.” Isaiah asked on the fourth night.
“They mostly stay in another part of the house. Mongoya is only one man and eats for no more than half a woman. I don’t even think he eats my food at all, but the other servants do. At least they enjoy complaining about it.”
“What does he eat then?” Devus shrugged, laying on the sofa with a heavy book on his chest. Allowing his mind to select and perfectly recall the pages that might matter someday.
“And how did you even get to work here? His nephew told me he never hired anyone new. The rest of his servants seem… well-established here.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me…”
“Tell me.” Isaiah demanded. Devus sighed.
“I showed up at the gates and brought some cake for the guard.”
“And?”
“That’s it. You’d be surprised how persuasive the sweet taste of Dabárian cake can be. I had false papers with me of course. Devus Donovan, a name I’m yet to have had any use for before meeting you.”
“And he brought you in? He gave you a room just like that?”
“Well, no – Julius convinced the Master to take me in.” Isaiah looked at Devus, and when he realized he was not joking, he burst out laughing. It was a loud, broad laugh, spreading from a place deep inside his gut, and he couldn’t have stopped if he’d tried. Devus laughed too, nearly as uncontrollably, realizing how long it’d been since he’d done so.
“So, here I am. Not even the Master’s chef in truth – I just cook for his pet. His precious, guard dog.” He managed to utter, and when they’d finally managed to calm themselves down, they were both teary eyed.
“Don’t you ever feel alone here?” Isaiah asked after a while.
“No. It’s been terrific. In the north, people talk breathlessly. Everything is loud. Here, I finally got some time to read undisturbed…”
“Sorry for interrupting.” Isaiah said.
“After four years a little interruption is much welcomed. I finally have someone to discuss the work with. Holding on to all these ideas and knowledge feels a little maddening sometimes.” He confessed. The truth was he’d been starting to feel an overbearing boredom creeping in on him the past months. A heavy stagnation he’d never thought would reach him with this current abundance of literature. The very sort that could make a man, and perhaps specifically a man like himself, make bold and even reckless decisions.
“Why doesn’t he teach anymore? Mongoya is old, but he seems to have no problem lecturing nine to eleven hours a day.” Isaiah wondered.
“My father claims it is due to all the students that died during the revolution – that he feared his teachings would bring about another one.”
“But you don’t.” It was more a statement than a question, and taking a breath as to think, Devus looked at him with his large eyes. Humorless now.
“I think my father believes it to be true. But after all these years, I can’t say I believe he would stop talking for the sake of the youth’s sanity. Master Mongoya is the kind of man that teaches purely out of his own pleasure.” After four days, Isaiah was still confused as to Devus’s true opinion of him. Usually he praised his genius, and so he hadn’t complained about him as much as he’d liked to. Still, he could sense a certain loathing in his tone and Devus was certainly no fool.
“I am leaving the day after tomorrow.” Isaiah said, changing the subject to something he realized was much more urgent. “He hasn’t told me anything real about the Parda yet.”
“I wish I could tell you something that would calm your nerves…”
“You could. Your father went, and you told me they’ve basically groomed you, so you could go there yourself someday.” He said, failing to hide the sudden annoyance coming over him. Except for making the topics of the lectures much more comprehensive, he was no more helpful in this regard than the Master himself. He had thought he would come around. That something might be a slip of the tongue, but he’d been as silent as a fortress morning.
“My father has spoken of his journey going there, and he has told me about the aftermath. But as I’ve told you, next to nothing about his time inside. If you must, you can read the book Master Mongoya wrote based on their descriptions – I won’t be able to tell you anything more.” Devus had mentioned this book already, and though it was considered the most (if not the only) academic book on the Parda, he’d assured him there was really no good reason for him to read it.
“I had… an insight before coming here.” Isaiah said with some hesitation and Devus looked at him expectantly. “I saw the Master speaking with my grandfather. He was holding a book…”
“And you think this is the one?”
“It might be.” Devus sighed.
“If this insight was more than just imaginative, I doubt this is the book you saw.”
“Why is that?” Devus covered his face with his hands, then looked at him – clearly frustrated with all the sudden questions. It was too late for this. Too late for proper discernment and not spilling the many things he needed to keep to himself.
“Because there’s another book. One my father told me about just before I left.”
“About the Parda?” Devus nodded.
“Then why are we wasting our time reading about all these other things – let’s find it!”
“I looked for it for years…”
”It must be on one of the higher shelves! Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“It isn’t. And because I knew it would misdirect your focus. There’s so much exclusive information the Master is gifting you. Even if I can’t explain exactly why it’s relevant…”
“This book, Devus. I need the book if I am to stand a chance.”
“It’s not here.” He said firmly, and after Isaiah had suggested numerous other places it might be hidden – ways they might be able to climb the shelves without making a mess of things, Devus gave him a grave look.
“Unless the Master shows it to you, it is not for you to read.” On this note, the conversation came to an end and shortly after, they went to bed. But even in his last minutes of awareness, he couldn’t keep it from his mind. Somehow, and for some reason, he needed this book.
At last came the final day of lectures, and after a whole night of contemplating on the book and what it might withhold, Isaiah found some courage within his tireless aggravation. As Master Mongoya entered (twenty minutes later than scheduled), he stood up a little taller than what felt natural. Then, after bowing respectfully, as he’d made a habit of doing, he attempted some variation of a poised expression.
“Master, I appreciate everything you have taught me about Araktéa so far. But I feel I know very little as to what to expect inside the Parda, and I fear I won’t be able to find this water you wish me to bring you.” It was no proper way to start their day, but he had better chances of receiving a reply before giving Mongoya a chance to speak.
“You do know very little.” He responded plainly, looking at him with a blank expression as he made his way past him.
“I was under the impression you were going to prepare me to go there. This is our last day of lectures and…”
“The only thing you can expect to see in the Parda is the unexpected. The only way to survive her is through pain. Pain is the toughest of teachers – and the only one that will take you anywhere.” The last words he said almost as a reassurance (If he had thought him strict, he’d better think again). Isaiah swallowed hard, noticing his current teacher looking slightly more tired today. The Master continued, “I must say, you’ve been more persistent than I believed you would be. But if I haven’t sufficiently scared you yet, she will. I’ve seen the most tactful, educated, and fearless of men, come out speechless and with their minds crumbled to strange fairy-dust.” “How odd that he keeps calling it a she.” Isaiah thought, but then again, the Master said many odd things.
“I do not mind not speaking for a while, Master Mongoya.” He replied. At this, the old man chuckled in a slightly different pitch than usual, revealing a new shade of intensity in his eyes Isaiah hadn’t seen before. Only a fool would’ve believed it to be admiration, for there was no possibility Master Mongoya would admire a boy that knew as little as himself. Yet, it looked oddly similar, and so, for a brief second, he allowed himself to believe it was. He measured him for a while with this strange gaze before finally breaking the silence.
“You would do anything for your grandfather, wouldn’t you?” He said, so uncharacteristically slow, Isaiah felt the hair on his neck rising.
“Of course I would.” He responded, feeling he had no reason trying to convince him of this fact any further. The old man nodded, stretched his neck and looked down on his cane.
“Well then. I believe we are done here. Use today to reflect upon everything I’ve taught you. You’ll depart in the morning.” With those words, and without even reaching the stairs of his pendulum, the Master left him. Isaiah worried he would discover Devus behind the door, but fortunately he wasn’t there.
It was only in the late evening he walked, grinning and his eyes were carrying their usual excitement, he also looked a little sleep-deprived.
“I went looking for you. Mongoya cancelled today’s lecture.” Isaiah said, having spent the whole day trying to make sense of the books they’d found the previous evening. One titled “A Traveler’s Guide to the South” and another “Ancient Ways to Light a Fire”. Neither taking part of his curriculum, and both seemingly of more relevance than the ones that did.
“He passed by the kitchen this morning, so I worried he might be watching me. He never shows his face around there…”
“Well, I might finally have learned how to light a fire in the meanwhile.” Isaiah said, closing the book and standing up. He searched through the pocket of Robert’s west and pulled out the small, green bag Lord Huxley had gifted him. He’d nearly forgotten all about the gold and had only some days prior realized that Tara had placed it in an inner pocket she’d sewn while his clothes were drying.
“For all your help.” He said, feeling he owed Devus much more than just gold. The boy lifted his eyebrows while opening it.
“Your grandfather never taught you about economics either, did he?” Devus’ eyes widened as he weighed the four coins in his hand.
“I couldn’t… It is too much.”
“You can. Gold won’t allow me to enter where I’m heading… At least, do me the favor of keeping them safe for me till I’m back?” Devus smiled, shaking his curly head in disbelief.
“Alright, but I do expect you to come back for them.”
“I will. I’ve signed a contract after all and dying would conflict with the Great Master’s wishes.” Isaiah smiled, a real, effortless smile. It seemed the guard dog’s chef had somehow managed to teach him that too, though his own was not as present right then.
“Alright.” Devus said, placing the coins back in the bag, and inside his own pocket.
“How long are you staying? Why are you really here, Devus?” With all the time they’d spent together, Isaiah was yet to ask him this. And from the look on his face, it didn’t seem like something he wanted to answer. He might have told him part of the truth, but there was something more. There was always something more.
“I’m here to find some missing pieces, that’s all. Books are banned from Dabár, you see...” He explained.
“You don’t have any books at all?”
“No educational ones. Only hero tales, cock and bull stories…”
“Poetry?” Isaiah asked, and Devus shrugged.
“Yes, but our people mostly prefer to sing.” Isaiah remembered Byron’s reaction to his poem – Timotheus and his songs, and suddenly that dreadful night made more sense to him. “I’ll never be a poet,” he thought, and it didn’t sting him the way it’d done a few weeks back. It seemed he’d come to terms with the irrelevance of it.
“Where I grew up it was the other way around. No tales. No poetry or songs – just plain, good facts.” He explained, and it just then occurred to him, that perhaps that had been his problem all along. Why his imagination had always felt so limited whenever he’d tried writing.
“My father says truth is found in a place in between tales and facts. That’s where true wisdom is, and he seemed to think it’s hidden here.” Devus held his arms out, and they both looked up at the countless books. Reading all of them, with all the sentences and the lines in between them, would take half a lifetime if you were fast.
“Your father is not fond of the new Academy either, then?”
“He’s convinced they’re corrupted and only teach their students pointless nonsense.” Isaiah’s heart skipped a beat.
“There’s… corruption here in Nagár?” He asked, and with this Devus looked at him gravely as he said (to this peculiar boy whom he still wasn’t sure if knew absolutely nothing or had all the answers he needed). “This is where it was born, Isaiah.”