Cathedral Shadows and Lingering Knowledge

In the Red Maple District, within the grand hall of Mist City’s Central Cathedral.

An elderly man, his white hair and long beard cascading, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon the goddess statue, his cloudy eyes deeply recessed within their sockets.

A large silver crucifix, intricately carved with a single closed eye, swayed gently upon his chest with his slightest movement.

“What do you wish to know from me, Agent?”

Standing a respectful distance behind the elderly man, Valo-Ramsey held his hat against his chest.

“If I may, I’d like to request the assistance of the head of Mist City’s diocese. The situation has proven far more intricate than initially presumed…”

“There is no need for such elaborate measures. You need only present your credentials, and every member of the order will readily assist your investigation.”

“You’ve mistaken my intent, Bishop Sartre.” Raising his gaze, Valo-Ramsey met the old man’s eyes. “I simply wish to inquire if you have witnessed anything in your dreams of late?”

“The Goddess observes all equally, bestowing upon us slumber and dreams, guiding our path through the mists. However, I regret to say these old bones of mine have long ceased to partake in such nightly visions.”

“Are you suggesting, then… that this was merely an ordinary accident, perhaps even devoid of a culprit?” His brow deeply furrowed, Valo-Ramsey found himself reluctant to accept such a conclusion.

Had the two incidents occurred in common residential buildings or other unremarkable structures, he might not have harbored any suspicion.

Yet the first incident had been a church, and the second, a monastery. The victims were far from ordinary individuals, and his deployment here was largely due to the esteemed abbot and the significance of that particular monastery.

“The goddess statues at the sites of both incidents suffered damage to varying extents, making it difficult to dismiss suspicion…”

“That proves nothing,” the elderly man stated, turning to face him, a parched, gravelly voice emanating from deep within his throat.

“Destroying goddess statues offers no conceivable advantage, not even to those individuals. They have not yet succumbed to such incurable madness. Furthermore… the next ‘Long Dream’ (TL Note: A significant cyclical event in this world, often associated with altered states of consciousness or a period of heightened spiritual activity.) is fast approaching.”

The church’s towering spire pierced through the veil of mist, and through the grand skylight, the luminous moon shone with pristine clarity.

Trailing the moonlight that stretched across the crimson carpet, he approached the contemplative man. Bathed directly in the lunar glow, the elderly man’s face, despite its deeply recessed eye sockets, appeared surprisingly less aged than anticipated, exuding an unexpected warmth and vitality.

“Will you stay the night here, Agent? The Goddess will bless you with good dreams.”

****

Three minutes later, the low rumble of a car engine resonated from beyond the cathedral walls, followed by the distinct sound of a woman’s voice echoing through the grand hall.

“I’ve heard tell of him. He holds a respectable, if not entirely popular, reputation within the Prevention and Control Bureau, having participated in and resolved no fewer than twenty incidents of severe affliction. For reasons unclear, he is not a particularly favored individual.”

From the deep shadows beside the goddess statue, a woman with pale blonde hair and piercing blue eyes leaned casually against the wall. A black overcoat was draped effortlessly over her shoulders, complementing her white formal dress and dark, short cocktail skirt. Her legs, clad in black stockings and tall boots, appeared long and slender. Her complexion was porcelain fair, and a small, crimson lotus-shaped mark graced the outer corner of her right eye. Her gaze, languid and detached, fell upon the specialized, scalpel-like tool she idly twirled, its surface intricately engraved with the same distinctive crimson lotus pattern.

“I imagine that final assessment applies equally to you, Dr. Callan. You truly ought not to be here.” Despite his words, the elderly man’s expression betrayed a flicker of distinct interest.

“Even you, then, have succumbed to the belief that the esteemed abbot is deceased?” Disregarding the elderly man’s lighthearted jab, the woman regarded him with a mocking glint in her eyes.

“All mortals are destined to die, and even beings more sublime and greater than humanity are no exception. What, then, is so peculiar about this particular demise?”

“Cease these pointless platitudes, old man. That woman still owes me something of value.”

“Woman…” Tilting his head back, his eyes narrowed as he glanced at the skylight, before the elderly man turned and ambled towards the grand entrance.

“I once encountered someone identical to her when I was but a child. There can be no mistake; she has likely graced this world with her presence for a span longer than our combined lifespans.”

“You might consider inquiring of the surviving nun, the one afflicted with amnesia. Perhaps in time, her memories will return. Her name, I recall, was something akin to Konehl… what was it again…”

“Ghervil.” A flicker of disbelief crossed the woman’s eyes, yet she suppressed her urge to question, offering the name.

The elderly man merely offered a knowing grin.

“Ah, my memory fails me so swiftly. Perhaps I, too, have succumbed to amnesia… Yes, that surname is indeed correct. However, I fear your efforts may prove fruitless. Should they discover your true identity, they will undoubtedly employ every conceivable measure to impede you or to distance that child from your influence. Were I in their position… I would act no differently.”

As the white-robed figure vanished from sight, the woman fixed her gaze upon the door, an expression of profound displeasure etched upon her features.

“Annoying fellow!”

****

The warm glow of the lights in the first-floor hall of 101 Lily of the Valley Street persisted until eleven o’clock that night.

Ghervil found herself utterly absorbed in the profound joy of deciphering text and assimilating information. This unique ‘acquisition’ transcended the cumbersome process of ordinary reading, contemplation, and comprehension.

It felt profoundly simpler, akin to possessing an internal translator within her mind, capable of automatically rendering information into a readily comprehensible form.

For instance, the myriad words contained within the partly opened, dark green-bound dictionary, *Elementary Fenterian Grammar*, yielded their pronunciations and phonetic nuances to her understanding without the need for a single annotation.

Fenterian, a somewhat unique partially phonetic script, comprised thirty-five fundamental letters. Its intricate writing system incorporated both phonetic and non-phonetic elements, necessitating supplemental markings to differentiate between pronunciation and semantic meaning.

Such a script, with its complex writing system, diverse pronunciations, and rigorous grammatical structure, presented a formidable learning curve. Yet, its undeniable advantage lay in the rich expressiveness of its written and spoken forms, where tones and intonations resonated with a soft, captivating beauty.

As she delved deeper into the text, she made a startling discovery: words she had once seen were not forgotten, bypassing the arduous process of memorization entirely. A single glance was enough for complete retention, and even now, she could effortlessly retrieve the pronunciation and orthography of any word from any page within her mind.

Conversely, a peculiar and disjointed phenomenon emerged: over these two hours, she had leisurely turned through roughly an eighth of the dictionary, absorbing nearly five thousand words. Yet, the numerical section remained absent, meaning her mind currently held only the twelve words for numbers one through twelve, gleaned solely from the grandfather clock. She possessed absolutely no knowledge of how to write or pronounce Fenterian numbers beyond twelve.

It appeared the numerical components of Fenterian were comparatively challenging to spell, prompting the author to defer their inclusion to a later section.

Regarding page numbers and sequencing… this world, surprisingly, also employed Arabic and Roman numerals, as evidenced by the grandfather clock.

A faint flicker of relief graced her.

The warm, amber light cast its glow upon the printed white pages, and each elegant character seemed to spring to life, dutifully lining up to burrow into Ghervil’s mind. This relentless, forceful infusion of knowledge, however, left her profoundly exhausted.

Her initial burst of excitement had dwindled after merely thirty minutes; for the subsequent ninety, she had persevered through sheer force of will, resulting in a meager two hours of reading that progressed at a pace significantly slower than usual.

This profound mental fatigue swiftly manifested physically. Were she to describe it, she would liken it to the arduous task of clutching a weighty tome, attempting to read while running along the edge of a desert. The rushing air and swirling sand scratched at her eyes, her limbs felt heavy and sapped of strength, and her eyes were dry and painfully sore. Closing them offered little solace, for the grit would not simply vanish.

Yet, the most excruciating discomfort resided in her head, which throbbed with a persistent, low hum, as if an electric drill were systematically boring into her skull. She felt, for the first time, as though her brain was physically ‘growing,’ yearning for a larger dwelling that her current small abode could no longer contain.

Hauling her suitcase and her rapidly deteriorating body, she finally reached the bedroom at the far end of the second floor. The moment she pushed open the door, her gaze landed instantly upon the bed.

That inviting, expansive bed!

Though utterly depleted from the day’s exertions, she found no disdain for this sensation of profound fulfillment; indeed, a part of her yearned for yet more tasks. Alas, the hour was late, her body protested, and her attention was now irrevocably captivated by the sight before her.

If the adage claimed that ‘man is iron, and food is steel,’ what, then, was a bed? Ghervil would, without hesitation, declare it a powerful, square magnet.

Having changed into her pajamas, a soft ‘creak’ sounded as the iron was drawn inexorably to the magnet.

She closed her eyes, a weary smile gracing her lips.

“Good night, Ghervil.”

‘While I know you do not dream, I nonetheless wish you a peaceful night’s rest.’