S. Grove - The Glass Sentence

The woman untied his hands. “Go ahead—please. Look closely.”

Shadrack rubbed his wrists and, after a keen glance at his captor, turned his attention to the globe. It was slightly opaque—cloudy—and about the size of a human head. The metal base was intricately wrought—copper, it seemed—and the glass was perfectly smooth. It shimmered with the uneasy movement Shadrack had observed. For several moments he stared at it uncomprehendingly, and then he realized that the play of motion within the globe was created by grains of sand. They moved with some unseen power, circling gently through a kind of dance. They showered down, grazed the bottom of the globe, and arced upward again. Suddenly the sand fell into a pattern, and Shadrack saw an unmistakably human face gazing out at him.

He recoiled. “This is not a map of the world. It’s a map of a human mind.”

The woman inclined her veiled head toward him, as if conceding a point. “You are very close.”

Shadrack had not yet touched the globe. Now, with some trepidation, he placed his fingertips gently on the smooth surface. The memories that surged into his mind were more powerful than any he’d ever experienced. He was assailed by the smell of honeysuckle and he heard the ring of laughter in his ears; he had been tossed into a honeysuckle bush, and he felt the crush of leaves under his hands as he tried to free himself. He recalled getting up and running over a damp lawn and then tripping, falling headlong into the grass. He felt the wet blades against his cheek and the smell of soil in his nose. The memories were those of a child.

Shadrack pulled his fingertips away with a gasp and gazed again at the cloudy globe. He shook his head. “It’s remarkable.” His voice was frankly admiring. “I’ve never experienced such powerful smells, sights, sounds. I confess to being curious: how have you mapped such vivid memories?”

The woman leaned forward and touched her gloved fingertip to the globe. “You must know from having made memory maps yourself that no matter how much you try, people always hold something back. The memory is still theirs, after all. As the cartologer you only gather a dim echo.”

Shadrack shrugged. “Better a dim memory than none at all. All maps are like that. They only express an outline, a guide, to a far richer world.”

“Yes, but I do not want outlines. I want the memories themselves.”

Again, he stared intently at the blond veil. “That would be impossible. Besides,” he added, with a note of admonishment, “one has one’s own memories.”

The woman didn’t speak. Then she reached out and gently touched the globe again with a gloved finger. She lingered a moment, then pulled away and spoke, ignoring Shadrack’s last words. “It is not impossible. I have accomplished it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The memories are so vivid because they are complete . They are captured whole in those grains of sand.” She spoke as if describing something of great beauty.

Shadrack looked at the globe with consternation. “And what of the person they belonged to? The boy—or man—who had these memories?”

“The memories are no longer his.”

“You stole them?” The woman shrugged, as if she found the word clumsy but apt. “I don’t believe you,” Shadrack said. He faced the veil in silence. “How did you do it?” he finally asked.

The woman let out a quick sigh of satisfaction. “I knew you would be interested. I will show you the process sometime. For now, I can tell you that it involves submerging the subject in sand and then using that sand to make a globe. It is a beautiful method. But the results—even more beautiful. You see, the globe you are looking at is not the map. This”—she indicated the constellation of globes circling overhead—“is the map. This is the map that led me to you.”

“Then you will have to read it for me,” Shadrack said acidly, “because I see no map in that collection of stolen memories.”

“Do you not?” the woman asked, sounding faintly surprised. “Look more closely. See how they move—gliding, drifting away, suddenly drawing near. All those memories are connected. Someone passing someone else in the street. One person catching a glimpse of another through a window. Someone finds a lost book here, someone gives it away there. Someone discovers an old crate full of glass panes, and another person sells them in a market. Someone buys one of the panes and makes a cabinet of it. Someone steals the cabinet. Does this sound familiar? It may have occurred before your time. There is a story—a history—circling over your head, and the map it draws has led me to you. I have taken many memories to find the Tracing Glass, and you with it.”

Shadrack found it difficult to speak. “Then you have wasted your time.”

“No,” she said quietly. “I have learned much. Far more than I expected. You see—people’s memories are richer than they know. They ignore memories that seem unimportant, but to the careful reader they spring out, full of meaning.” She lifted the glass globe and turned it lightly, then replaced it before Shadrack on the desk. “This last one was the key. Read it again.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Shadrack pressed his fingertips to the globe. Immediately he recalled a study filled with towering piles of books. The musty smell of paper closed in around him, and a dim light shone through the window. At once he knew to whom the room—and the memories—belonged. He gasped in dismay.

As if to dispel any remaining doubt, the memory lingered over an engraved sign on the open door:

CARLTON HOPISH

Cartologer

Minister of Relations with Foreign Ages

A face that seemed simultaneously familiar and oddly distorted appeared suddenly beside the sign. It was his own face.

He wanted to pull away from the globe and the horror it implied, but he could not. He remembered this conversation, now, through the eyes of his friend Carlton, greeting Shadrack Elli and inviting him to sit. Shadrack grimaced; he knew where it was headed, and he suddenly understood with panicked clarity why the veiled woman had abducted him.

“Solebury is leaving next month,” Carlton said. “At first he was unwilling to say, but in the end I got it out of him.” He leaned forward and slapped Shadrack’s knee triumphantly. “He believes he has finally found a definitive indication of the carta mayor ’s location.”

Shadrack frowned. “He is chasing an illusion,” he said gruffly.

“Don’t give me that,” Carlton protested. “You, of all people. One of the few who can read and write water maps.”

“It is nothing but a fantasy.”

“A fantasy? How can you say that? I thought you would want to go with him,” Carlton said with an injured air. “It’s not like you to pass up a chance for a great discovery—a chance to find the living map of the world, the map containing every moment, past, present, and future, a map that would show when the Disruption occurred—”

“There is nothing to discover.”

Carlton remained silent, studying the guarded, reluctant face before him. “You would be a great help. Particularly,” he added slyly, “if it’s true that you have the Polyglot Tracing Glass.”

Shadrack gave him a piercing look. “Where did you hear that?”

“It’s true, then!” Carlton exclaimed. “I would give anything to see it.”

“I have it.” Shadrack turned away. “And there is no pleasure to be had from reading it, believe me.”

Carlton’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But you could use it to find the carta mayor . It would be a great service to your country, Shadrack.”