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What’s the difference between a Raven and a writing desk? Writer’s block.
The perfect Break joke. Gilbert might’ve thought that was funny. But as the hour chimes midnight and the gaslamps burn low, blotchy inky pages mock him.
In the yellow glow, he turns the polished mahogany and silver-plated fountain pen between his fingers. His first Name Day gift after Oz’s return from the Abyss.
“To make up for all the ones I missed.”
Gilbert blushed. “I expected a ladle.”
Oz laughed. “Nightrays don’t cook.” He winked. Both of them knew better. “You’re doing all that paperwork for Pandora. You need something more sophisticated.”
“Did Reim suggest this?”
A bittersweet chuckle rises.
Having been raised by noble families, Gilbert’s education could not be doubted. But his learning stems from hard work and dedication, not a deep love of bookishness. After the tumultuous last five years since Oz and Alice left, Gilbert puts this pen to use for the king’s “fact-finding” mission: another suggestion by Reim.
“I wish I had more photographs of us,” Gilbert had said. “Too bad Uncle Oscar was the only fellow we knew who owned a camera.”“Unlike nowadays, with photography studios in every town square.” Sharon placed a hand on her rounded belly. Other baby shower guests had already departed, leaving them to reminisce. Gilbert poked his apple tart. Expectant parenthood only discomforted him because of time’s passage.
Reim lingered over a formal office portrait of the Pandora staff in its prime. Behind him, Break smirked, a lollipop between his lips, making rabbit ears behind teenage Gilbert’s head. Gil stood awkwardly, and Sharon had her fan primed over Break’s head.
“I can almost hear that laugh.” Reim smiled.Birds twittered in the modest, sunshine-filled garden. The Rainsworths had given up their title and lands, like all of the Dukedoms during the nation’s recovery. Lady Sharon Lunettes served as head of the household once Lady Sheryl went into retirement by the sea.
“Yeah…” A hitch in his throat halted Gilbert chuckled. “I can’t remember him being serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sarcastic or rude as hell, yes. But sincere?” Gilbert recalls a rainy evening, being asked to become “his left eye.” Break’s attitude even then remained elusive.
Sharon murmured, “I still think of his last words. How he didn’t want to go…” Reim kissed her crown and took her hand.
“What are you going to name the child?” “Kevin. Or Emily.” Sharon softly smiled. “Did he ever-?”
“No. If only I asked more about Kevin Regnard. But he never wanted anyone’s pity.” She picked up Break’s worn patched-up doll from among the albums.“We should do the same.” Reim squeezed her palm. “Speak. Before our stories, too, are lost.”
Sleep being a lost cause over not knowing the right words, Gilbert thinks being surrounded by them would help.
Shadows stretch across tapestry walls; scattered dust itches his nose. As a Baskerville and Leo’s right hand advisor, he has full access to the entire Baskerville grounds. His footsteps echo upon marble floors until he arrives before the archive doors. The Baskervilles hid their books and records in secret caches across the nation and abroad; only in recent years were they retrieved to rebuild the estate.
Gilbert enters and sees light beyond the threshold. A gleaming black sword – the last relic of the Nightray House – is propped in a lit alcove beside a set of polished armor and a first edition set of Holy Knight . Fragrant blue roses sit before Elliot’s final portrait, taken before he had left for sophomore year at Lutwidge Academy. A memento mori, more appropriate than the ignored family tomb.
Though no librarian sits on-duty, Gil is greeted by a familiar face.“Evening. Or, rather, good morning.” Leo emerges from his reading corner. “What brings you here?”
“Insomnia.”
“Then we share the same malady.” Leo has aged into adulthood, becoming lanky instead of short, his face lean and angled, his untamed hair in a knot. “Y’know, when you proposed this fact-finding mission to the monarchy, I didn’t expect you to spend weeks in your room instead of researching.”“I’m writing. That’s what writers do.”
Leo starts to push a finger against his nose, then stops: a physical tic from his glasses-wearing youth. “I swear I won’t tell the king. I don’t think Oz would’ve approved either.” A thoughtful expression. “What's the hardest part?”
“Maybe I’m trying to do so much. It’s… overwhelming. So I figured, why not seek historical context?”
He rolls his eyes. “I would’ve come to this realization sooner, but the muse strikes when it strikes. Here.” He unloads a stack of books from behind his desk. “Oof. Thanks, Glen.”
The rose-tinted fingers of dawn reach the windows by the time Gilbert finishes the stale histories. Then, he sees a dog-eared set of leather volumes. His bedtime tales from Lord Oswald: lessons about the Abyss disguised as fairy tales. Gilbert had assumed he made them up, but the author is named Evil B.
Different from the musty language of professors, many tales are told in a witty, self-deprecating voice. Wild musings and aphorisms. All hand-written, wandering in tone and subject. “Subject L” and “Subjects A1” and “A2” pop up in his scientific records; names translate into Lacie, Alice, and the Intention of the Abyss in his personal journals.
In the first diary, a single line is underlined thrice.
“Stories become our private realities.”
His brain exhausted, Gilbert falls asleep in his chair, Evil B’s last will and testament ( “Burn it all.” ) in his lap.
Finally, Gilbert dreams. A shadow world, movements in smoke. A chorus of hunched figures, a skeletal hand and cloudy eyes. No. A panicked rabbit runs through his chest. Jori, the crone woman, this world’s storykeeper. Her toothless mouth opens and she says–Brightness. He wakes. The book tumbles.
“Brother, sleeping in is unlike you.” Vincent, elegant in crimson robes, pushes the curtains apart. His shorn hair shows off green jeweled earrings. They catch the light. He smiles.
“So unlike you to disturb me.” Usually, Gilbert finds Vincent slumbering, Dormouse hovering protectively. He yawns.
“Take this, brother.” A steaming cup of black coffee and tea cakes on a tray. Before, he’d be the one fretting over someone–whether Oz or Alice or Vincent. Gil wasn't used to having others care for him so openly.
Vincent glances toward the heaps of papers and books. “Any progress?”
“Not much.”
“You weren’t ever the studious one.”
Gilbert thinks, Who would know all the answers? One who witnesses the Memories of the world, while trapped in the darkness… “Hey Vince… couldn’t I… well…. You… speak to the Core? There are some gaps in the record…”
Melancholy flickers in his eyes. “Why?”A silent answer. For Oz. A sharp ‘V’ between his brows. “The Core can’t help. It only understands narrative through the eyes of a human. The Core has visions, flashes of different worlds, different times, our futures, everything. But it requires a human body must filter it. Without one, it’s only jumble and noise.”Gilbert’s fingers twist around the handle. “That’s the power of the Children, is it not? To act as a filter?”
A knot of tension forms between them. Gilbert sips. Bitterness on his tongue. “Forget I said-”
“Only a few minutes.” Vincent stands.
The Core resides beyond the Baskerville gate. Gilbert arches an eyebrow. “Don’t we-?”
“The Children’s connections are always present.” He hesitates, then: “If it gets too much, wake me.”
“What?”
Immediately, the afternoon rays dissolve into drops of amber. Gilbert blinks in recognition, but it’s as if Vincent yanked the curtain between realities apart.
Vincent turns paler than usual. His eyelids dip, flashes of wine and gold. “A pen,” he snaps.
Gilbert shoves pen and parchment. Immediately words pour forth:
once upon a time a sunny afternoon oswald your new home oswald
Pages begin to slip, then fly.find her bloody rain levi this is an experiment jack just jack i finally found you i’m sorry oswald i’m sorry i’m alice i name him oz you’re like me noise my cute little servant
The pen nub breaks and still Vincent writes. Ink splatters across the desk, his hands.
alyss how would you like to go outside i’ve waited jack i’ve waited no the world its falling we have to stop it and i can’t save them alice your memories
The words scrawl over each other; the broken pen scratches toward his arm–“Stop!” Gilbert shakes Vincent’s shoulders. He gives a pained cry, throws the implement, and clutches his temples. Blackness splotches his hair, his neck.
His brother grimaces. “Too much.” A ragged breath. “The Core doesn’t understand and I can’t intercept this.… I’ll get them wrong, Gil.” Anguish darkens his face.
“Get what wrong?”
“Everything!” Vincent shuts his eyes. “Even if I write verbatim. My perception will marr every vision.” He slumps downward, grabs the drapery tassel, and wretches the braid. “Why remember stories if they’re so malleable, so subjective! Not a single story that’ll bring Gilbert happiness. They’re only stuffed with lies!”
“Vince-”Tableware rattles as Vincent kicks a wooden leg. He rises in a swirl of crimson and fading sparks as he exits.
Later that evening, Gilbert finds Vincent and apologizes. They’d never speak about contacting the Core like that again.
Many decades later, Gil recalls this conversation, once Vincent departs for “a worldwide tour.” Vincent remains incognito for several years. But on occasion, lithographs, prisms, dreamcatchers, foreign maps, exotic flowers, and elegantly-crafted nesting dolls arrive in the mail: his unwritten stories translated into gifts.
In the packed lecture hall, Gilbert waits for almost an hour as Ada patiently meets every academic, student, and dignitary. Lady Ada, the world’s leading expert on the metaphysic workings of the Abyss.
Officially, the nation believes in the Baskervilles’ their mythical ways. But the younger, more rational-minded generation believe the impossible can be measured.
“Master Gilbert, your patience is sublime.” Crow’s feet crinkle the corners of her eyes as she smiles. When the crowd departs, she wipes away her calculations from the chalkboard.“I have the time.” Thirty years ago, Gilbert helped her clean out the old Vessalius townhouse and auction off her occult vintage collection. It now holds her vast collection of laboratory equipment and awards.
At her podium is an array of photos. Herself as a young lady, wearing a witch’s hat and a sheepish grin. Her wedding. Her family. Ada and Gilbert at her sixtieth birthday party. He appears the same age as her oldest grandson.
They chatter: about Gilbert’s ongoing research, her upcoming publication about the analytical engine, the new scholarship the Baskervilles are funding, Ada and her husband’s planned travels after retirement.
Around her neck is a ruby onyx, a repurposed earring Gilbert recognizes as Vincent’s. Her life had changed by accepting the lie about his death. Was that the right story? Gilbert still doesn’t know.
He reflects upon her children (his godchildren’s) photo. “Do you miss them? Oz? Alice? Uncle Oscar?”
She acknowledges the name he excludes. Her green eyes sparkle.
“I miss everyone. But my life goes on.” A pause. “Truth be told, I’m happy you’re doing this, Gilbert. You’re looking for a beginning, middle and end. I mean, I don’t know how I’ll die, how I will be remembered. You’re giving Oz his legacy. It’s a beautiful gift.”Gilbert sees the gray hairs on Ada’s head and the soft folds in her face. The words, “ This is your legacy too, ” get stuck in his throat. Ada secured hers long ago.“When Oz and Alice return, say we were happy,” she says. “That we had enough. And that’s all we want for them.”
He takes her arm in his and helps her up the carpeted steps past the leather seating. They have a lunch reservation to meet, and Ada’s knees aren’t what they used to be.
Time passes. Drafts are written, edited, rewritten, thrown away. Something always feels missing.
So he reads. Gilbert, who never likes reading outside of cookbooks, spends hours and hours reading. Diaries, letters, history books, government records, Pandora reports, Uncle Oscar’s daily estate logs, Arthur Barma’s confessions. So he records. Sharon talks about her childhood with Break and Reim. The gramophone lectures on Lord Rufus’ northern ancestors. Interviews with loquacious Lily and laconic Doug. Lottie’s admittance on how she adored Oswald too quickly and loved Fang too late.
Still, not enough.
And so he lies. Gilbert lies and lies, to cover what’s lost. He doesn’t know about how Echo saved Noise and defeated Doldee, or Alyss’s madness, or Zai’s political bargains, or a thousand details outside the margins of memory. One night, driven by inspiration and sorrow, Gil writes about a tea party, one just for Oz, and calls it a dream. I am a Baskerville, Gil thinks, Time and history moves at my will. The fountain pen spouts waves of words, rising like the determined tide.
By the end it feels impossible to distill dozens of lives into one tale, trying to remember the light that was Alice and the wonder that was Oz.On the 100th anniversary, Gilbert visits Lacie’s memorial cross. Her body isn’t there, of course, yet there is one.
Jack smiled using Oz’s face. “It’s your choice to make. Do what you want to do.” Then, the body that was Oz and was Jack fell amidst the swirls of the Abyss.
Gilbert gasped. Horrorstruck, Vincent clutched his arm.
Eventually, Leo nudged the still form. “The bastard’s gone.”
After much discussion, the new Glen decided to bury it under Lacie’s cross in Sablier: Jack’s false reunion. Gilbert visits over the years, knowing the thing beneath the earth holds no meaning. Only that the spot has become as ageless as him.Ageless, yet not immortal. Gilbert clutches Vincent’s jacket as the golden sparks float skyward, fades to join the other sparks, that had once been Jack and Lacie too, long before.
Suddenly, a voice calls. “Hey Vincent… you there?”
Bitter and sweet is Vincent’s last gift. When Gilbert sees the young man and woman, he is astounded over their resemblance to their past selves. Alice’s smirk. Oz’s laugh. When they embrace, Gilbert feels a homecoming inside his chest.
He who once was Oz says, “We haven’t remembered everything yet. Vincent also said something like this rarely happens… But it’s been awhile, Gilbert.”
Gilbert hugs them tighter and sobs.
Evening, again. Gilbert sits at his writing desk. He holds a leather-bound volume – first of twenty four self-published editions – and thinks it’s not enough.
When the boy who was Oz and the girl who was Alice fully remember, what would they say? That it’s all true? Or would they point out the wishful fantasies, the omissions, the adjustments and outright fabrications?
He had spent over a lifetime trying to put Oz's legacy into words, but this fact-finding mission was never for Oz or Alice, not really.
He flips through a middle volumes and finds Oz’s declaration: “There is only our will.”
Eventually, he goes downstairs to the den. Before the fireplace, two young teenagers slumber in a pile of blankets.
He offers the first volume.
“What’s this?” asks the young man.
Gil replies, “Nothing much. I like to collect people’s stories,” Gilbert replies, “inspired by a brave friend I once knew.”
“I see.” Eagerly, he cracks the binding and reads the dedication.
“This is for us. All of us.”
End.