The Enemy of the World Chapter 8 Table Conversation

A Detention.

Elsewhere, an old couple owned a farm and sat at a long wooden table that had once been filled with jostling children. The lamps were lit because it was night. The two old people sat motionless in their chairs, and there was a third figure.

After a long stretch of undisturbed silence, the farmer stood.

"Sit down!" barked the third person at the table. He was neither son nor friend, acquaintance nor traveler. He was an intruder.

An albino intruder who had recently killed their two guard dogs. "What do you want?" moaned the old woman. It wasn't the first time she had asked; the albino had arrived, tearing apart the animals and beating her husband, not uttering a word. He had merely ordered them to sit at the table and be quiet.

The albino, dressed in ragged clothing that left long parts of his arms and legs exposed, cradled his head tightly with both hands. His elbows rested on the old, smoke-stiffened wooden table, and his body arched. His temples throbbed. There was so much noise! The albino felt his fragile body ache (and his head even more so) from all the racket that the inhabitants of this land made. He now desired some calm—calm and answers—and would force these two specimens to provide both.

He refocused on the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. He remembered: it was hunger. Yet another weakness he was slowly coming to terms with. He ordered them to bring food. "What do you want to eat?" the woman whimpered again.

"Food!" shouted the albino. Stupid people: they had a word for every type of substance used to satisfy that need. The albino detested words, for it was difficult to remember them all. Moreover, the mind encased within that pathetic body was elementary and poor, capable of far less profound thoughts than those he was accustomed to. He struggled to comprehend how these mediocre beings could memorize all their codes.

The old woman hesitated, grimacing as if she expected to meet the same fate as her dogs at any moment, and rose to fetch the food.

"If you try..." the albino shook his head, searching for the word. "If you try to escape," he remembered, "I'll devour him," pointing at the man beside him.

The old woman's body shook with dull, rhythmic noises, and the salty water characteristic of weakness poured from her eyes. Another habit of these beings. The albino rose, grabbed the old woman in his arms, and licked her face. He paused to taste her tears, realizing they were, indeed, salty. It was important to confirm his findings.

She disappeared into another simple room. The house was solid and modest, exuding the trustworthy frankness of the honest poor. The albino had searched every corner, looking for any other inhabitants (for some reason, he had dragged the carcasses of the puppies, leaving a trail of fetid blood throughout everything), but there was no one else. Which was good, for when faced with large numbers, the inhabitants of this world had a tendency to create noise and disorder, forcing him to kill them.

"Why don't you have any puppies?" he suddenly addressed the old man. He spoke carefully, pleased to see that his words came more naturally. The gray-bearded man shivered at the inquiry. For a moment, he merely blinked his mismatched eyes (one blue, the other gunmetal gray, matching the thick hair and beard that covered his face). Then he stammered something before finally replying, "They've grown up. They left."

The albino nodded, understanding this: even in his land, substitutes were created, born much weaker than their parents. But here, the offspring were born useless and protected from dying. Where he came from, someone unable to survive on their own—and evolve—was discarded. Why would someone watch over a rival, a being destined to take their place? After all, the new always tends to kill the old.

"What are your puppies?" the albino inquired. His voice, though guttural and burdened by an unaccustomed tongue, was far less hostile than it had been toward other, less compliant beings.

"One is a soldier," the old man replied, ensuring he understood the question. "The other is a scribe." There were more, but the old man felt as though speaking of them to that man was akin to betrayal. His noisy troupe of healthy young men felt like blasphemy to mention.

The lady returned with the food. The albino devoured bread, sausage, honey, dried meat, milk, and raw potatoes. It took him a while to realize when he was full, and as soon as he stopped eating, he felt a wave of nausea. He gestured for the old woman to sit.

"What is a scribe?"

The couple exchanged glances. The man attempted to reassure his wife with a look, though he was just as terrified.

"Someone who writes," the old man finally said. The albino leaned in closer, his food-stained face hovering above the old man's strong, wrinkled visage. In a moment of delirium and racing heartbeats, the old man thought he would die right there. But the albino merely stared into his disparate eyes, and when he opened his mouth again, he unleashed a foul breath and spittle. "What is writing?"

Someone who holds power over another is extremely dangerous if they intend to use that power. Even more dangerous if that power is unknown and impenetrable. And more dangerous still if you are ignorant. The old farmer realized that his interlocutor was the most dangerous type of person, and he sought a way to explain something so obvious without provoking anger or confusion.

"Write... draw sounds on paper. Draw what we say."

The albino offered an almost foolish smile, which could have been comical if it hadn't come from a murderer. Now he understood how they could remember words—they had a means of recording them. But after a moment of contemplation, he grasped the power this knowledge held.

"Do you have this knowledge?" he shouted, slamming the table and knocking the jug of milk to the floor. "Why didn't you tell me? Do you wish to deceive me?" He slapped the farmer's ear, blood spilling from it, running down the old man's earlobe and jaw.

"Sir," the old man whimpered. "But if everyone knows..."

It wasn't far from the truth. Although they lived in a peaceful, well-structured kingdom (and Collen could not complain about a lack of calm or prosperity), these two peasants were no exception to Arton's reality. Through the efforts of the church of Tanna-Toh, the Goddess of Knowledge, literacy had spread to every corner of the Kingdom. It was not uncommon for even the poor to be able to read and write.

The albino surveyed the two useless creatures (why had they never evolved?), pondering the incredible power they possessed. His long, hard nails scratched the wooden table, splinters embedding themselves into the soft flesh of his fingers. This discipline was impressive—the ability to capture concepts, ideas, and immaterial thoughts from the air and render them visible through coded movements. It was such a monumental concept that he struggled to keep it in mind.

"Teach me how to use that weapon," he growled.

"It's not a weapon," the farmer attempted.

A second blow knocked him out of his chair, three teeth flying from his mouth.

"Isn't something as powerful as that a weapon?" the albino would have laughed if he had known how. "Don't try to fool me."

"We don't use it for that," the old man defended, raising his guard to protect his face.

"Ideas can be transformed into objects," he declared, a difficult phrase that took him time to articulate. "Why don't they use it as a weapon? What do they use? Religion?"

"Yes," the woman interjected, believing she understood something of the intrusive visitor's pragmatism. "We use it for religion."

The albino nodded. While the people's relationship with their gods was peculiar (marked by devotion and respect), religious practices were something he could comprehend. "Is it a ritual then?" he asked, directing the question toward the old woman.

"Yes. A ritual."

"Exhibitions."

Asking permission and announcing each movement, the lady unearthed a long-unused piece of parchment, a quill, and a nearly empty bottle of ink. Deliberately slowly, she wrote some shaky letters. What she scrawled was: "Run away. I distract him."

The man read the note and bit his lip, holding his breath. "What did you capture there?" the albino barked. The old woman was at a loss for words. "A god," she finally decided, hesitantly.

"Is there a god there?" the albino shouted, rising from his seat and knocking over the chair. It was an impressive power.

"He can't leave," the old woman pleaded.

"But it can be taken..." the albino muttered to himself. If they were devotees of Tanna-Toh, the couple could have been fascinated by the discovery of their tormentor's alien mind. They could also have marveled at the learning process unfolding before them. But they were just farmers, more concerned with surviving. The man took the parchment and quill.

"No. I distract him; you run away. Get a horse and try to get to town."

The albino watched as the parchment filled with symbols. He asked with each stroke of the pen what was being captured and appeared satisfied with the responses. "If I do this, you will die."

The old woman held back her tears. "If I don't do it, we will both die."

The albino, possessing the power of life and death, stared wide-eyed.

"I'd rather die with you."

"I want you to take care of the boys." The old man struggled to write, his hand trembling.

"You know I love you."

The albino contemplated how that prodigious knowledge would benefit his masters. "I love you too."

And while the couple captured their entire lives in a few farewell sentences on the parchment, the albino looked on. The quill fell from the table in an infinite moment, seeming to make a loud crash.