So long did Eremit spend weeping over Magister’s body that he was very nearly caught by the jailers. He ducked into the tunnel and managed to close it behind him just as the door opened. Because he had pulled it shut, he had been unable to return the bed to its position, yet he hoped this would be attributed to the death throes of poor Magister.
He returned to his own cell and threw himself onto his cot. When the jailers came with his dinner (for it was shortly before dinner that Magister had breathed his last) he didn’t move or stir. He heard the commotion in the next cell and recognized the sounds as the servants putting Magister’s body into the bag, and wept more.
The thud and clank of Magister’s cell door slamming shut made him suddenly remember the plan he had promised to carry out. It took, in fact, considerable effort to raise himself up from the cot, as if sorrow had a tangible weight that was now pressing down upon his back. Nevertheless, he managed it, and was sitting up when they returned for his tray.
“Ah, you haven’t eaten,” remarked the servant.
“Well.”
“You heard that number eighty-two died?”
Eremit managed to nod, and yet hearing his friend called only “number eighty-two” filled him with such a sense of outrage that it was all he could do not to express his anger to the poor servant in terms that would have left the man bleeding on the floor. Eremit sternly reminded himself that Magister would have strongly disapproved of any such action and, moreover, that the servant was hardly to blame for the rules of the jail. When Eremit did not reply, the servant merely took the tray away, and the jailers locked the door.
From this moment, Eremit knew he had to hurry if he was to carry out the plan, and, moreover, the jail had suddenly become for him that hateful, abhorrent place that, in truth, such institutions usually are for most of the unfortunate souls who are locked inside of them. Eremit had first been too numb to feel this, and, after, too busy, and then too involved in his lessons. But now, suddenly, in addition to the grief for his friend, he felt that he couldn’t remain there for another night. Thus he at once opened the tunnel and, he hoped for the last time, made his way to Magister’s cell.
He was just on the point of pushing open the portion of the wall used as a doorway when he heard sounds, in fact, voices, coming from just beyond it. He pressed his ear against the wall, careful not to press too hard, for it would certainly not help his plans should he sprawl into the cell. He listened closely and was able to make out the voices he recognized as those of two of his jailers, who were, it seemed, engaged in some sort of conversation.
“But in all my years,” said one, “such a thing has never happened before.”
“So you have said, my friend,” said the other. “And you have said it three times now, and each time I have replied, nor in mine.”
“Well, but then, it is unprecedented,” said the first.
“With this I agree,” said the second. “Indeed, it may safely be said that any event that has never happened before is, the first time it happens, unprecedented.”
“Have you no curiosity as to why?”
“Oh, as to why, I have no need of curiosity.”
“Curiosity is not something one needs; it is something one either has or doesn’t have. And for my part, I have some. Why is it that, for the first time, instead of throwing a body into the Ocean-sea, we are to preserve it in the cold room, wait for the next boat, and send it to Northport? I have curiosity and wish to know the answer. You have no curiosity—”
“I have no curiosity,” the second interrupted, evidently growing impatient, “because I know.”
“How, you know?”
“Certainly.”
“But how could you know?”
“In the simplest way: I was in the outer hall when the director explained it to the night commander, and I happened to be placed such that I could hear every word.”
“So you understand the reason for this strange order?”
“In every detail.”
“And will you tell me?”
“Ah, you wish me to tell you?”
“Obstinate fellow, it is an hour since I wished for anything else.”
“Then I will explain. It is according to the wishes of a certain individual known as Traanzo.”
“Traanzo? I have never before heard this name pronounced.”
“Neither had I, and yet, that is the explanation.”
“But who is this Traanzo? Were you able to glean anything from the conversation?”
“Only that he is highly placed in the House of the Iorich, perhaps a High Justicer, perhaps the heir, and that—”
“Yes, and that?”
“He gave certain orders at the time of number eighty-two’s incarceration.”
“Well, but that must have been nearly four thousand years ago.”
“Perhaps it is a son or a daughter.”
“Well, that is possible. But then?”
“The orders were that when number eighty-two died, his body was to be returned to Traanzo, in order—”
“Yes, in order?”
“In order to permit certainty of death.”
“How, death is uncertain?”
“It seems this number eighty-two had certain information that could be damaging to Traanzo, and so nervous was he concerning it, that he would be unable to rest until he had, himself, seen his face.”
“There will be little enough to see after waiting for the boat, the trip to Northport, and then to wherever is his final destination.”
“He is to be packed in ice, and, once he has arrived in Northport, spells to preserve his body from decay will be applied.”
“Ah, well, I perceive that, in this matter, there is no question of joking.”
“That is right. So then, we must see that this body is brought to the cold room, where it will be stored. Someone will be along presently with the shutter, and we will go along.”
“Very good then. Those are our orders, and so—”
“Yes, and so?”
“So, I will carry them out. And yet—”
“Well?”
“I have sometimes wondered.”
“Oh, as to that, well, in spite of your opinion about my curiosity, I have sometimes wondered too. But on what subject have you wondered? For I perceive you were less speaking in general than of a specific subject.”
“You are perspicacious. This is it, then: A powerful Iorich causes this body to brought to him to ensure himself that he is truly dead.”
“Well, and?”
“And there are no names here, but rather each prisoner—that is to say, guest—is known by the number of his cell.”
“This is true.”
“And, moreover, although we are licensed as a jail under the auspices of the House of the Iorich, yet, no one has ever left here for trial.”
“You are right once more. But then?”
“Have you never wondered if, perhaps, all here is not entirely within the law?”
“Ah, ah!”
“Well?”
“Come, my friend. You do yourself no favor by speaking of such things, nor do you do me a favor by causing me to listen.”
“Then you do not wish to discuss it.”
“Never in life.”
“Very well, then, it shall be as you wish.”
Eremit pulled his ear back, trembling. His plan was gone! Not only were they not to throw Magister into the Ocean-sea but, moreover, they were not going to leave his body unattended. He made his way back to his own cell and once more threw himself onto the bed.
And yet as despair threatened to close over him, he nearly imagined he could hear Magister’s voice in one of their conversations. A plan has failed, he would say. What then?
Then, Eremit must reply, find another.
That is correct.
But how? What other plan can there be?
Though he didn’t have an answer yet, as this imaginary conversation played itself out in his mind, he felt himself becoming more steady; he felt, as the Dragons say, his soul firmly planted in his feet, by which they mean that this person is calm, alert, and ready for what may come, which effectively describes our good Iorich at this moment.
He considered all that he knew of the jail, of the guards, of the circumstances. He began by admitting to himself that it might not be entirely bad that the plan had failed because he was, in all honesty, far from certain he could have walked along the ocean floor while continuing to breathe for the miles and miles it would have taken. So, then, what other plan could he find?
He cast his memory back to his arrival and slowly recalled every step he had taken, each turn. He recalled the way his footsteps had echoed while descending the pit, and the feel of the stairway. In his mind, he reconstructed the passageways to the director’s office and then, hardest of all, he brought back to mind the walk to his cell, when he had been in such a state of shock that he had not even noticed whither he was bound.
This done, he went back still further, to the voyage he made from Northport. He recalled every day, and when he could look up and see the sails, and which way they were set, and when he could not, and what this meant for the wind direction, and, moreover, how much leeway a ship such as that must make.
He sat back on his cot then, leaning against the very wall behind which was the tunnel he had so laboriously constructed, year after year. Hours and days passed. Trays were delivered and taken away, and still he sat, only rising once a day to go through the daily exercise as a sleepwalker will, still remembering, forcing himself to recall how the boat had cut through the waves when he was on deck, and the few times he had felt the furnace, and where it had been.
At last, after four days, he rose and saw a tray of food. He moved over to the desk, sat down, and ate every bite, drinking the watered wine. Then he said aloud to the empty room, “Well, as I sit here, I am facing south by west. The mainland is ninety miles southeast of me, which would put me at very nearly the northwest corner of the Empire. And, though he didn’t know, the cave of which poor Magister spoke is four hundred miles in that same direction overland, whereas by ship it would require a voyage of a thousand miles south just to reach the Narrows, and then hundreds of miles north again just to reach Dinshouse.
“So I know where I am and what direction I am facing.
“What is to prevent me from continuing the tunnel straight out? Nothing, except that there is the matter of the volcano, which has been enchanted to destroy anyone appearing outside except on the one path that is constantly watched.
“Well, I have no solution, but I will consider the matter. And, as I consider the matter, well, it is back to making vinegar from apple cider. At least I need not concern myself with where to put the dust anymore—there is no need to paint it onto my walls, I will simply fill in the tunnel Magister and I worked so hard to build. If my calculations are correct about the height of my cell and the thickness of the mountain, it is not more than eighty feet of tunnel that is needed. So then, to work, and as I work, I will consider the matter of this inconvenient volcano.”
This decision was no sooner made than acted upon.
So, then, for some considerable time—the reader must understand that each foot worn away was more than a year of effort—he devoted himself to his work while letting “the bottom of his mind,” as the saying is, consider the matter of the volcano and the distance to the mainland. His progress, we must say, was significantly faster than it had been when carving out the first tunnel, as he saved significant time by not needing to worry about the debris. We must also add that, while he failed to arrive at any answers about the two vital questions that concerned him, the discipline of mind that he had learned held him in good stead, and he continued to consider these matters without becoming in the least frustrated.
While he continued to miss his friend, he was able to, in some measure, ease the pain by recalling conversations they had had, and sometimes even imagining new ones, in which his agile mind would provide both sides of the conversation on some subject that had taken his interest. These subjects, we should add, covered a wide range, but the subjects themselves are of no importance; what matters for now is that he was thus able to fully occupy his mind and, in some measure, set aside his sorrow at losing what was, in fact, the longest friendship of his life. The bitter irony of this being the case, that is, it being his incarceration that provided him with a rewarding companionship lasting far, far longer than any other in his life until then, is not new to those with the misfortune to have been imprisoned for lengthy periods of time.
These thoughts, of course, did not occur to him as he continued his patient work, inch by inch, wearing away at the stone between himself and the outside world, until at last there came a day when, by his calculations, he believed that one good, hard push would get him through. Here he stopped, because he considered that opening the tunnel to the air would cause a change in his cell, perhaps in temperature, certainly in smell, and if this change were noticed, it could cause an investigation that would ruin everything. So then, having stopped, he turned all of his attention toward solving the two questions that still perplexed him. He told himself that if he could solve the first—that is, find a way to leave without being subjected to intolerable heat from the steam and ash of the mountain—he would take his chances with the other. He did not, it must be said, feel any confidence in this plan, but as he had as yet not solved the first problem, he need not worry too much about the second. “Because,” he told himself, “if I am burned alive before reaching the water, well, I will hardly need to concern myself with breathing; and if, on the contrary, I remain here, then I am able to breathe perfectly well. Thus, the question is how to achieve the answer to the first problem.”
It happened, however, that he was able to solve both of his problems at once, and it was thanks to the attention he paid to food that he was able to do so. It came about this way: He picked up an apple that regularly came with dinner on the eleventh day (as well, we should add, as supper on the fourteenth, and lunch on the third), and bit into it, observing that it was pleasantly crisp, as so often it was not.
He frowned as he considered this. In the outside world, as the reader is aware, the fruits and vegetables we eat are determined by the season: We will eat oranges and green onions in the spring, lemons in the winter, and so on, contenting ourselves with dried fruits when they are out of season. Yet the jail on Burning Island had no such policy; if the fruit was out of season, well, it would be delivered just the same, preserved as well as could be, which often meant not very well at all; he had discarded as inedible countless pears and no small number of artichokes. It was as if a rigid diet had been determined and such matters as the practicality of supplying it were considered unimportant. This, however, combined with the knowledge of natural philosophy he had acquired from Magister, gave him clues that were as useful as if the fruits had only arrived in season.
He considered the apples.
There were, he was certain, no apple trees on the island. Thus, why was this apple crisp, in distinction to others that were not? What, he asked himself, determined the crispness of an apple? There were three factors, he decided: First, the exact variety of apple, of which there were more than a thousand in the Empire at the time (a number that has since tripled, or perhaps quadrupled, depending on the outcome of a dispute among natural philosophers on what constitutes a distinct variety of apple), next the length of time since it was picked, and third, its temperature at the time it was eaten. This last he dismissed at once as having the least to do with the matter, and, moreover, all of the apples he had eaten were at the same temperature.
As for the first, he dismissed that as well, for the simple reason he could tell by flavor that all of the apples he had eaten were of the same variety and that, moreover, the apple cider he was turning into vinegar was also of that same variety.
So, then, that left only one factor, or variable as the arithmetists called it (we did not mention Eremit’s studies of the arithmetics as they play little role in our history, yet they happened) remaining: the length of time from when the apple was taken from the tree to the moment when Eremit consumed it. This, however, had itself three factors: the season of the year, when the apples arrived on the island, and how they were stored.
If he accepted that they were stored identically (probably in the “cold room” to which poor Magister’s body had been consigned, which would account for the tastelessness of the red nightshades), then that left two. So then, eating an apple as crisp as the one he had just had required two things: it must be between late summer and mid-autumn in the outside world, for that was when apples became ripe (excepting the late-apple, which the one he had eaten certainly was not), and it must have been delivered to the island recently.
How recently?
He took another bite and carefully considered. He remembered the other apples he’d eaten, trying to recall exactly when they had been crisp, when soggy, and when very soggy, and concluded that, during apple season, fresh apples arrived every month.
Then he set about remembering the other foods, especially fruits and vegetables, and considered what he could determine about their arrival dates and frequency. Alas, though his memory had been well trained, it was insufficient to this task; he simply could not recall the pattern of variation in the taste and texture of the different foods.
Nevertheless, from that time on he set out to do so, and so it was that, in less than a year, he had made an important conclusion: Boats arrived with supplies exactly three times every month: on the second, the fourth, and the fifteenth as he was counting days (which he knew was not the same as the seventeen-day month of the outside world). His next conclusion was more difficult, in that it required estimates on matters he knew little about, yet he had spent his youth (now, alas, gone forever!) by the Ocean-sea watching ships come in and go out, and so he concluded that, once having arrived, the ship or boat might remain at the island for an hour.
Should he escape in that hour, well, there were two possibilities: If it were a ship, he could stow away in it; if it were a boat, he could steal it. In either case, he would be off the island.
Of course, it was impossible to say exactly when the boat would arrive, as this would depend on the wind, which no one could predict, and even the best sorcerers of the House of the Orca had never managed to do more than influence in small ways, changing the direction by a point, moderating a gale slightly, generating just enough of breeze for steerage way during a calm.
He frowned then.
But if there was no way to predict the exact arrival time of a supply ship or a prisoner boat, then how is it they were able to control the deadly ash and steam produced by the volcano; that is, how were they to know when to use the sorcerous skills in order to provide a safe landing?
There were only three possibilities: The first was that there was a means of communication, that somehow the captain was able to let those on the island know the arrival time. The second was that there was what might be called a pre-determined gap, that is, some number of hours on certain days when it was safe to arrive. The third was that, in fact, there was never any volcano at all, but only a spell to generate mist that was used to convince the inmates that escape was impossible.
This last idea so excited Eremit that he at once jumped up to test it. He made his way down the tunnel to its very end and placed his hands against the remaining layer of rock. Alas, it took only a short time for him to be aware of the extreme warmth that had penetrated this thin layer. So the volcano, at least, was real.
He returned to his room, sat on his cot with his back to the wall and his legs drawn up, and considered the matter. There were, then, two more possibilities. If it was the second, then how long would the opening be? This could make all the difference. Or, to the left, if it was done by some sort of communication, then what form of communication? Was it mind to mind? If so, there must needs be few captains, and, moreover, they must never switch, even if one of them became ill or injured.
“Then let us assume,” he told the empty room, “that there is a certain amount of time left open for the ship or boat to arrive. How long would it be, and when would it be? Well, if it is to be the same time every day, then it must naturally be near the middle of the day, so that even in winter, when the days are short, the captain is able to direct his vessel. So, if that is the case, then, obviously it will be with noon as the middle point. How much time on either side? My journey from Northport took twenty-six days. But a twenty-six-day journey, well, with variations in wind, could be as little as five days, or as many as seventy. How, then, to determine when the arrival will be? Moreover, each arrival of fruit has been consistent, as I have proven during this last year.
“Let us consider that twenty-six-day journey. Might the captain have deliberately gone slower in order to arrive on the correct day? Yes, it is possible. I remember, toward the end of the journey, the sails seemed less taut on some occasions. And then—Gods! The bell! As we arrived I heard a bell from the island! That was the signal that it was safe to enter!
“But can these same boats that transport prisoners on a journey of unknown length be supplying food? Of course not, the transports are irregular, as needed, whereas the supplies come three times every month.
“Well, then, the boats that supply us are not coming from Northport, but from somewhere considerably closer. I have established, I think, that the mainland is ninety miles away. What is there? Could there be some convenient port? Well, why would there not be? I know little of the northwest corner of the Empire, but if there is a coast, well, there are coastal villages. If there are coastal villages, there must be fishing boats. If there are fishing boats, there are piers, or wharfs, or quays, or at least jetties, any of which might be used to launch some sort of boat or ship to cross the ninety miles to this island, and it would be a strange wind indeed that would not prevent a boat or a ship from making a ninety-mile journey that could be determined to end within, let us say, between four hours before noon to four hours after noon.”
And so, while not a completed plan in all particulars, he now knew how he would escape: An hour after noon on what he called the second day, or the fourth, or the fifteenth, he would break open the final barrier to freedom, climb down into the water, use the spell he had perfected to walk on the bottom to the boat or ship, climb in and, in the first case, steal it while the crew was unloading, and in the second case, hide himself. By the time he was found to be missing, he would be on the Ocean-sea, beyond the reach of the jailers.
Well, but, what if he opened the way and found no ship or boat because he was too early or too late? “Well,” he said, “in that case, I will wait until the time of the evening meal, which will give me several hours, and, if no ship has arrived, I will return to my cell and await the next one. Then, of course, the seal will have been broken, and I will risk discovery because of changes in the odor of the cell. So then I will choose the second, and if my luck is bad, then I can try again only two days later, which will, if I am fortunate, be before the jailers have noticed the oddness.”
To-day was the twelfth of his own particular counting. So then he must wait seven more days, and then: Escape!
For the first time, the idea of being free seemed like something that could actually happen, and he felt his heart racing at the thought. He went over the plan in his mind, considering how he would steal the boat, if boat it was, or considering the best place in a ship to hide and, in either case, how to enter it without being seen.
And he waited. Seven days.
Then six.
He felt an eagerness, an impatience, that was entirely new to his experience. He worked to keep this feeling off his countenance when he exercised, and when the jailers came to his room, he made certain he was lying on his cot, his face to the wall.
Five days.
At breakfast, he calculated that after finishing it, he would have twenty-one more meals before the moment he executed his plan, and he counted them down.
Four days.
He recalled a breathing exercise he had been given: slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth, which Magister had pretended would relax him. He used it now and found it somewhat successful, although still, the hours and even minutes dragged as they never had before.
Three days.
He reviewed the plan again, looking both for defects and for ways in which it could be improved. He ate his meals slowly, drawing them out, lingering over them, and then, when nothing else worked, he returned to pacing in his cell, as he had hundreds of years before: seven paces, turn, seven paces.
Two days.
He ate, he paced, he went over the plan, he sat and breathed. He recalled songs from his childhood and sang them in a low tone.
One day.
He awoke before breakfast. Soon breakfast would arrive, then lunch, then dinner, then supper, and then he would sleep. Then to-morrow’s breakfast, and to-morrow’s lunch, and then an agonizing wait for the jailer to collect his tray, and then—
He sang again for a while after exercise. He ate, not even tasting the food in spite of Magister’s lesson on the subject. Dinner came and he lay on his cot, beneath the wool blanket. The jailer, seeing him tremble, inquired if he were ill, but he assured the jailer that it was only a passing chill and he would be well to-morrow.
To-morrow!
That night, he sat down at the desk to eat his supper, that is to say, the antepenultimate meal he hoped to eat in that place, after which he retired and, though full of nervous energy, he at length managed to sleep. The next morning he arose and paced his cell until his breakfast arrived, whereupon he set into it as a welcome distraction. As he was eating, something entirely unexpected happened, but in order for the reader to understand what it was, we must now turn our attention back to Livosha and Kefaan, which we will do at once, now having concluded this chapter of our history and being prepared to move on to the next.