XI. Sisyphean
Despite his efforts to tread silently, the irksome sounds of Henry's footsteps reverberated in his head. His torch's dim glow provided just enough light for him to avoid obstacles as he traversed the narrow tunnel where Kismet had disappeared. Nonetheless, he refused to be deterred.
You're committing to something without comprehending the extent of it, Thanatos spoke in his head. For all we know, you will walk right into a trap!
With a scowl, Henry pressed his lips together. The flier displayed a complete lack of understanding of his issue, especially considering how willingly he had agreed to come here. Henry hadn't expected so much resistance from him, to the point where a heated argument had ensued between them once Kismet had disappeared.
Why could Thanatos not understand how much he needed this? That he would just go back to being miserable if he didn't grasp this—what felt more and more like a final shot at . . . redemption? He didn't understand, and Henry didn't know how else he could convey the jumbled mess of emotions in his head.
Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks. The tunnel came to an end at this point, revealing a sheer wall directly in front of him. "Kismet?"
But he received no reply. All he heard was the echo of his own voice; it reverberated through the ancient stone eerily. Henry groaned. "Show yourself!" he cried. "I know that you are here!"
There was still no reply. Henry opened his mouth again when his gaze found his torch. An odd hunch struck him, and with a swift motion, he extinguished the light. For a moment, Henry stood there in unbroken darkness, then he turned slowly. He saw nothing, and he heard nothing either. But . . .
"Show yourself," he said after a brief pause. "You know, I can see you."
"How can you see in the dark?"
"Ha!" exclaimed Henry, whipping around and pointing in the direction of the voice. "I was bluffing. And you fell for it. So, I win!"
There was a pause that sounded almost baffled. Then Kismet slowly began clapping. "Fine," she said. "You've sufficiently proven your cunning. Now skedaddle."
"Oh!" Henry, who had already moved his hand up to reignite his torch, lowered it again. "But my bluff wasn't a lie," he said, setting the torch down as he was struck with another idea. "I can see in the dark."
"No human can see in the dark."
"But I can." Ripred's interest and flash of recognition when he had told him about his using echolocation appeared before Henry's inner eye, and . . . well, he was here to learn a more advanced form of it. At least he should demonstrate to her that he already had the basics down. "Watch."
Henry stood upright again and snapped his fingers.
Click.
Immediately, he whipped around toward where Kismet's hunched-over shape illuminated. With remarkable stealth, she had relocated herself from the spot where her voice had originated, catching him off guard.
Click. Click.
"What is this supposed to be?" He snapped his fingers repeatedly and turned, tracing her movements with a pointed finger as she slowly crept around him.
"Fine." Henry flinched and snapped his fingers instinctively when she came to a halt directly in front of him. "I suppose I have to give Ripred this much; he did not just send me anyone. When did you pass the first threshold? Don't tell me it was Ripred who taught you."
"Some half a year ago. And hell no!" Henry shook his head. "It was Thanatos' idea . . . my flier."
Kismet's only reply was a more or less approving grunt, and Henry groaned. "I have capped this skill out in the conventional sense." He snapped his fingers and flinched again when he found that Kismet had moved away. "But it is not enough. Not for me, who cannot make a sound consistently and smoothly so that it would be of any use in battle."
"Obviously," she said. "You're human . . . a human who has learned to use echolocation. And so you are an exception like myself. And so Ripred thought you would make a fine test subject for my little theory."
"I would."
Kismet laughed. "What else did the fine Ripred tell you about me?"
"That you were an old friend, and you created this theory . . . concept of a higher form of echolocation. A . . . second threshold," said Henry. "And that convincing you would be the first in this series of impossible goals."
"And you undertook this . . . series of "impossible goals" aiming for exactly what ultimate objective?"
"To regain my strength as a warrior!" exclaimed Henry. "The way I am, I am utterly useless. I am a liability. And I refuse to live like that. I am an outcast; I cannot afford to be—"
"To be a liability on your flier?"
Henry clenched his teeth.
"He did not seem pleased with your decision to pursue this further."
"He worries too much."
Kismet laughed hoarsely. "Perhaps he has good reason to worry. Am I not a big, bad gnawer? The very creature about which you were cautioned through horror tales since you had the mind to grasp their meaning?"
"Except I was the one telling the tales," said Henry. "Only the feeble fear tales of their own spinning."
Kismet broke into laughter. "Fine, fine," she said. "You are unafraid. And maddeningly persistent." She hissed. "Get lost, pup. I cannot make you into the great warrior you aspire to be. I cannot do anything for anyone anymore. Skedaddle, you are disturbing my circles."
"Circles?"
"Yes, circles," snarled Kismet. "What are you doing?"
Henry, who had snapped his fingers again several times to look around, halted. "Looking for the . . . apparently disturbed circles."
"Oh!" Kismet instantly broke with laughter again. "Pup, there are no literal circles; I am not Archimedes. It is a metaphor for personal space."
"Archi . . . who now?"
"An ancient Overland mathematician who . . . Oh, perhaps I should not waste this tale on you," she said between giggles. "Are you not one of those who finds math boring?"
"I do," said Henry. "But not echolocation."
Kismet groaned. "Pup!" she hissed. "How many times must I repeat that your being here is futile? Swaying me is a Sisyphean labor."
"A what?"
Kismet groaned again; her claw dragged across the rock impatiently. Before she could speak, Henry resumed: "I do not care what kind of labor it is. But you must at least be fair. Test me!" he exclaimed. "Let me prove my worth and my resolve, and then we may discuss all further remaining impossibilities."
As another snap of Henry's fingers showed, Kismet sat on her haunches in front of him. "You wish to be challenged so badly?" she snarled. "You will allow me to determine a challenge for you, and if you fail, you will leave me to my sweet solitude?"
"Anything!"
A silent moment elapsed. "Fine," she said eventually. "A challenge you shall have, and it shall be one befitting your spirits. Come."
Henry almost stumbled over his feet when he scooped up his torch and followed on her heel, so eager was he. This was it, he thought; finally, he had a chance! He reignited his torch as Kismet led him down a side path and eventually into a small cave with a steeply inclined hill rising on one side; from where he stood, Henry saw not where it led or what the other side looked like.
There, Kismet told him to wait and returned shortly, rolling toward him a sizable rock measuring around two feet in diameter. "Your challenge is simple." She sat on her haunches, pointing upward. "Do you see that hill? You will not return to me until you have successfully maneuvered this boulder," she slapped it with the tip of her tail, "up there."
Henry frowned. "That is all?"
"That is all," echoed Kismet. "And until you have succeeded, you will not show your face to me anymore. Gottit?"
"I will not fail!"
Kismet snorted with laughter. "Of course you will not. You have the hubristic quality of infinite hope. So long!" With that, she slipped out of the cave and out of sight, leaving Henry behind to stare at the hill and the boulder.
Part of him wondered if he couldn't trust the seeming simplicity of this task, but then he snorted. He should aim to be done before she could properly register that he had been gone at all.
Henry stuck his torch into a crevice in the floor and swiftly began rolling the boulder up the hill; he did not even break a sweat. Yet, as he made it to the top, his feelings of triumph and confidence came crashing down . . . just like the boulder that failed to find a stable spot and rolled right back down on the opposite side of the hill.
As he watched it slip away, Henry's spirits plummeted, and he groaned. Fine; he looked around, barely keeping himself standing at the steep summit of the hill. Maybe this challenge was not to be laughed at after all. At first glance, it was pretty much . . . impossible, thought Henry, and groaned again.
Dejectedly, he trotted down after the boulder and racked his brain about what to do. For lack of better options, he rolled it up a few more times, doing his best to find a spot to balance it, but he continuously failed. It rolled right back down every time, and Henry became more and more frustrated with what he quickly discerned had likely not been an actual challenge but a decoy—an impossible task to keep him off her back.
"You are not playing fair!" he shouted, plopping down atop the boulder, unsure whether she could even hear him. Henry stared up the hill miserably and gritted his teeth, suddenly feeling an overwhelming swell of resolve to somehow accomplish this, just so that he could rub it in her face that he would not be deterred by even a problem that seemingly had no solution.
He stood and picked up his torch to take a better look at the hill. As he made his way up, rubble broke loose under the sole of his boot, and Henry almost tumbled. Tracing the ground with one hand for stability, he continued to ascend but suddenly halted in his tracks. His eye fixed on the pointed peak, then his head swiveled back to stare at the rubble.
And moments later, a broad smile spread across his face, because then he had an idea.
***
"It is done!"
In a matter of seconds, Kismet's head emerged from behind the ledge, peering down at Henry, who called out from the base of the steep wall where they had met earlier.
"Say what now?"
The sight of her being the surprised one for once filled Henry with immense glee. He stared up at her with a wide smile. "I said it is done. Your labor is done."
A silent moment went by. "No, no." She disappeared and then vaulted down in one giant leap. "That is not how this is supposed to work."
"Why?" asked Henry, following on her heel as she practically sprinted toward the cave with the hill. "Because it was meant to be impossible? I already told you that impossibilities do not deter me."
"Pup, you do not understand. This task was—" She cut herself off and halted in her tracks when she came up in front of the hill. What had once been a towering peak had been shattered, creating a small plateau that was just wide enough to balance the boulder.
Henry held his slingshot under her nose. "I admit it took me a few more shots than it would have if I had both my eyes . . . or your aid." Kismet glared at him, and Henry glared right back. "But in the end, it was not even so difficult."
"Pup," she repeated emphatically, glaring at him as though he had personally offended her. "I said, you do not understand. What you just did, I mean." She paused. "I mentioned Sisyphus earlier?"
"The guy with the labor?"
"That guy," she confirmed. "He is a character in an ancient Overland legend who incurred the wrath of the gods. Thus, he was punished in the afterlife to perform a monotonous and impossible task for all eternity."
"To . . . roll a boulder up a hill with a sharp summit?"
Kismet nodded. Her misted gaze was on the hill, and the boulder balanced on the no-longer-edged peak, and Henry asked himself if she could actually see it or if she perceived it otherwise.
"Henceforth," she said, "the term "Sisyphean labor" has become a synonym for "impossible task"."
"But I have accomplished your Sisyphean labor!" shouted Henry. "So, now we talk."
Kismet turned to him with an irritated expression. "About what do you wish to talk?" she hissed. "I have already told you that I would not teach you."
"No." Henry shook his head. "You have told me that I should get back to you when I have accomplished this." He pointed up the hill.
"You were not supposed to—"
"But I have," hissed Henry. "And so, I will not yield."
"You should," she hissed back. "For your own good."
Henry scoffed. "Why are you so adamant, anyway?" he asked. "You know why I am. But you? What . . . is even the worst thing that could happen?"
Kismet snorted. "Why, he asks. Have you a year or so?" When Henry did not reply and only continued to stare at her with his hands on his hips, she groaned. "Because," she said with emphasis, "I have better things to do than attempt to teach a stubborn pup who thinks he knows everything when, in fact, he is utterly clueless. But even if we disregard this one . . . you realize that this would be anything but a good time for you?"
Henry only raised an eyebrow.
"See," she said. "Staying here would mean doing things that seem pointless and tedious. Unlearning everything you think you know about perception and orientation and go far, far out of your little lazy comfort zone." Her eye was a narrow slit. "How about it?"
"Please!" scoffed Henry. "Comfort zones are for people who can afford them. Threaten me with something that exile hasn't thrown at me yet."
Kismet actually showed something like a grin. "You like playing by your own rules, no?" she asked. "Well, if you stayed, you'd be playing by mine. Every second of every day, you'd be doing what I tell you to do and when. Doesn't that sound fun?"
Henry swallowed. He had not considered this side of things yet. "I would do it," he said, not even sure whether he meant it. But he had to. Henry gritted his teeth. He had to do it . . . because it was what he had to do to get what he wanted. Crazier things had been done for that reason.
Kismet stared at him with so much exasperation that Henry almost broke into laughter. "You cannot deter me," he said resolutely. "No matter what you say." Because I have nothing to go back to, he added in his mind. It was either staying and learning to be useful again . . . or going back to the island. And he would rather submit to every whim of this rat than do that.
A silent moment elapsed. "Think you I will work for free?" she finally blurted out. "While your charms may be entertaining, they fail to compensate me adequately for the tasks you require me to undertake."
"What do you want?" Henry asked grimly. "I can pay you. Just name your price."
Kismet stared at him for another second. "I don't know," she shrugged. "Is subverting expectations not your forte? Surprise me."
In the flickering flame of his torch, Henry held his gaze on her. She would not be satisfied with a regular payment, he thought. What she wanted was something that would have value to her, despite her solitary existence. Maybe . . . he inspected her hunched-over shape and the way she squinted to be able to look at him. He hadn't really planned on leaving anymore, but maybe this was something he could ask Teslas about.
"Fine," said Henry after another moment of silence, pivoting on his heel. "But if I do surprise you, I shall hear no more excuses!"
***
The astonishment of the mice and Teslas upon seeing Henry and Thanatos return so soon was immense. However, the inventor was even more taken aback when Henry revealed his request. They then proceeded to spend the remainder of the day in his workshop, meticulously planning, sketching, and crafting well into the night.
Sleeping on the hard floor of Teslas' workshop left Henry stiff and sore, but he forgot all about it when the inventor proudly waved the fruit of their labor in front of his face.
"I will not forget this!" called Henry, wrapping the nibbler in a tight hug. "You're incredible. And one day, the world will see it as well."
"Oh, you," grumbled Teslas. "Just deliver this to that gnawer and hope that she finds the bargain fair. Though if it is as you say, she would be a fool not to."
"She is not a fool." Henry wrapped his payment in a cloth and stored it at the bottom of his backpack.
"A fine teacher she will be then."
Henry turned and grinned as he spotted something like melancholy in Teslas' eyes. "Oh, you're not feeling envious, are you?"
"Not envious," said Teslas. "A bit nostalgic. It seems only yesterday that you were as eager to learn from me as you are to learn from her now."
"And well, you taught me!" Henry stood, shouldering his backpack. "I shall return soon, and when you see me again, I'll have learned well from her. And I'll be a changed man. For the better."
But on his way out, Henry felt it too—the nostalgia Teslas meant. He felt it so pungently that it was almost uncomfortable. And he found that, mere seconds after he and Thanatos departed, he was already missing him.
But he had no time for such concerns. With Thanatos now familiar with the way, the return flight to the Firelands was a mere two-hour affair. During most of their time in the air, they remained still, leaving Henry's mind to wander through a multitude of potential future scenarios—from the moment he handed Kismet her payment to the nature of her training and what exactly she might teach him.
Thanatos landed in the same spot where they had first encountered Kismet, and Henry slid off his back.
"You are certain that you are doing the right thing?"
Henry, who had already approached the narrow tunnel that led to what he presumed to be her dwelling, froze in his tracks. "I have no choice."
Thanatos did not respond for a while, and Henry turned back to him uncertainly, tugging at his backpack. He felt paranoid that his payment had taken any damage, but before he could check, Thanatos raised his voice again: "Why have you no choice?"
Henry stared at him, bewildered.
"I mean . . ." He beat the air with his wings agitatedly. "You are impulsively committing to something you know nothing about. You know nothing of her, Henry, except that she knows Ripred."
"And?" Henry swallowed the notion that the flier had a point. But it didn't change the fact that he had no choice.
"And," hissed Thanatos, "you are being careless. You do not know her. You do not know under what conditions you will find yourself or how long this will take. I know you like following your impulses, but . . . is this matter not too grave to not give it any thought at all?"
"But I have given it some thought," said Henry. "I have given this matter much thought. The matter of what you told me on the island." He paused. "I reiterate: You were right, and so I have no choice."
"What if I was wrong?" whispered Thanatos. "What if you do have a choice? You do," he repeated emphatically. "You do not . . . have to do this. I know that you value your skills and that you mourn them. That you feel weak and that you believe you must be strong to have any value, but that is not true." He cast his eyes down. "Perhaps I should not have been so paranoid about leaving the island," he conceded. "Perhaps all of this is my fault. But you do not have to do this," he repeated. "No one will judge you, or . . . or love you any less if you are no longer as capable as you once were."
"No one except myself!" exclaimed Henry. "Don't you understand how much I hate this?" he spat, and Thanatos winced from the sharp edge in his voice. "It was not that we were stuck on the island. It was . . . it is that you are right. I cannot even defend myself adequately. I cannot . . . be proud of myself the way I am." He wiped his face angrily. "Like this, I'd be dependent on the protection of others forever. Is that what you want for me?!"
"No!" exclaimed Thanatos. "No, I—"
"Why do you even speak like this?" Henry cut him off, suddenly seething. "Why are you trying to talk me out of regaining my skill? I will not be contained!" he yelled. "I have not submitted to stagnation when I first became an outcast, and I have no plans ever to be stagnant. I am stagnating!" Henry slapped his hand against the cold stone wall, his voice cracking. "I have been for months, and I cannot stand it for a second longer! I know you did not support me last time, but now? Now that we are—"
"That is not what I meant," Thanatos said with an unreadable expression before Henry could utter the word "bonds".
"Then what did you mean?"
Thanatos did not reply, and Henry, to his horror, found himself sobbing. "I feel like shit, you know?" he mumbled, blinking rapidly. "Like a pathetic, worthless piece of shit. I just want to feel better again. I want to feel better." His voice broke, and he sobbed again. Not because of how uncomfortable it was to acknowledge his vulnerability, but because the one he had trusted to support him unconditionally was letting him down.
"And you truly believe the key to your feeling better lies with her?"
Henry crossly wiped his face again and looked up. "I already told you," he said numbly. "What will make me feel better."
A moment of silence elapsed, heavy with countless unsaid thoughts, the meaning of which Henry struggled to comprehend.
"In that case, you really have no choice," said Thanatos eventually, lowering his head. "If she holds the key to your happiness, go to her and seize it."
A wave of immense relief washed over Henry at his words. "I will!" he exclaimed, even managing a grin. "I will go, and—" But then, already having taken the first step, he stopped again. "Wait." He turned back to Thanatos. "What about you?"
The look in the flier's eyes sent a dreadful shiver down Henry's spine. "This is your path, your happiness," he said. "Not mine."
"No, wait!" Henry barely prevented his voice from breaking. "What do you mean?" He hated the notion that this felt like he had to . . . choose. Hadn't he just promised himself that he would not give Thanatos any reason to want to leave? Was committing to this the exact signal he had wanted to avoid sending?
He would not choose. He gritted his teeth. He would not let anyone force him to choose. "We are bonds," he said with conviction. "Does that not mean that our paths are one?"
Thanatos shot him an almost bemused look. "Obviously, I do not mean that this will be a permanent goodbye. But I cannot even fit the tunnel."
"But you—"
"Stop making this harder than it already is," Thanatos cut him off. "I see now that you must do this. You must stay here, and I . . . what would I even be doing here besides being in the way? I will wait for you elsewhere," he said.
"But where?" exclaimed Henry. "And what will you do? And—"
"I am unsure," admitted Thanatos. "Perhaps I can go back to the colony and wait for the arrival of our outstanding plague vaccine."
"You would not be in the way," mumbled Henry.
"But I would," said Thanatos with a voice so numb it caused his every hair to stand on end. "This is your thing. Yours and hers. I have no place in it."
The words hit Henry like a blow to his gut. His mind raced with thoughts of Thanatos' conversation with Hamnet and how the flier may be using this as an excuse to leave him. He had only just promised himself that he would not allow that. And . . . And he wasn't, Henry thought desperately. He wasn't sending him away. He wasn't choosing. They were bonds, and for as long as they were, there could never be a justifiable reason to leave each other's side. Not . . . permanently.
"You can only go if you promise to come back," he said adamantly. "To visit! Only if you come back!"
Thanatos hesitated for such a short moment that Henry barely caught it. "If that is what you want me to promise, I promise," he said eventually.
"You don't have to promise," whispered Henry. "You already did." He suppressed the fresh wave of tears. When we bonded, he promised, thought Henry. Promised . . . Our life and death are one, we two.
Henry inhaled deeply, pushing aside all negative thoughts about Hamnet, doubts, regrets, and conversations. "Don't have too much fun without me!" he teased.
"I doubt I will."
"I—"
"Should she refuse despite the payment, I will wait at the citadel," the flier cut him off and Henry's mouth shut, despite all his still unasked questions. Now they would remain unanswered. "Take care."
It was the last he heard of his flier before he leaped into the air and swiftly disappeared into the tunnel they had come from.
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