Page 79 of The Devouring Time

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. Clearly they have written language, judging from the signs on the walls and buildings, the marks already on the paper.

“We learn, we read, what else would we need?” the guard explains, then settles back into his post by the door.

I turn to Khephnes. “I don’t understand.”

In his turn, Khephnes is confused by me. “It’s a guard—why should it need to write? I suppose the scribe it received this from only handed over whatever old junk it had lying around.”

Of course—in Khephnes’s time, most people couldn’t read at all. It was probably impressive if a guard could even do that much. “Did one of their scribes teach you, then?”

“No, a guard brought me a sort of primer and helped me decipher what I couldn’t figure out on my own. Back then, I was afraid to ask for too much, so I just scratched words onto my couch instead of requesting writing implements. I had to give back the primer, but we can go without.”

I suppose it makes sense for guards to know how to read the signs, but not necessarily do any writing on their own. Still, the situation nags at me, though I can’t say why.

Khephnes goes to the pool to get some water to try to reconstitute the ink. While we wait for the dried mess to soften, he reads what’s already written on the papers.

“What does it say?” I ask.

He holds a sheet carefully in his trunk, in a position so that his center eyes—the ones with the sharpest vision—can inspect it. “It’s hard to make out, between the bits that are falling apart and the faded ink.” After scanning it some more, he reads:

…my reward. The worst is the little ones, they…to adulthood and then…should never have agreed, but I didn’t know…nothing, they create nothing…suns…the Outside…”

He stops. “The Outside? The realm of Nyarlathotep?”

“Who?”

“A god of what the ignorant call chaos.” Khephnes seems shaken, though I don’t know why. “My lord Nephren-ka built a great fane for him deep in the Red Land, the desert. I was studying there, learning the magical arts, when I was taken.” He flexes his forelegs. “No wonder the Swarm in my body died. Nyarlathotep would have seen it was not me and struck down the imposter for profaning his temple.”

I struggle to follow his train of thought. “And this Outside is Nyarlathotep’s domain?”

“Yes.” Khephnes slowly lowers the paper. “I don’t understand. The Swarm don’t seem to use magic. Unless their wizards are few and uninterested in us. That would make sense.”

I start to express incredulity at the very idea of magic—then realize I’m in the body of a creature alien to me, trapped in a different time than my own, talking to a man whose own body died millennia before I was even born.

Of course magic exists. For all I know, this god does as well, and my family spends Sundays praying to the wrong deity.

Khephnes flips the paper over to its unmarked side. “I must think on this. For now, let’s see how the ink is doing.”

52

Months pass, marked only by the march of day and night outside the windows. What I assume must be the rainy season arrives, with cataclysmic storms stronger than any I’ve ever seen, filled with great strikes of lightning and roars of thunder that shake the very stones under us.

Khephnes gradually relaxes in my presence, and I discover a wry wit beneath the bitterness. But though I spend most of my time with him, Bianca is my truest friend among the captives.

She refuses to stop learning, to stop trying to discover the why behind all of this. But in quiet moments, she talks about her little son, Cosimo, and about the room where she does her painting.

“The Swarm seem to have lost their own skill at painting,” she remarks one day. “You’ve noticed the clumsy repairs to the older murals, I assume?”

It was one of the first things that came to my attention the day I was stolen and herded down the corridor to this room. “Yes, though I haven’t given it much thought.”

“It drives me mad.” She laughs at herself. “Of all the things to be angry about. The murals are beautiful, skillful…it reminds me of the time when Cosimo slipped away from his nursemaid and got into my studio. He ‘helped out’ with the painting on my easel. The whole commission was ruined, and I had to start over.” The mirth drains from her mind-voice. “I was so angry…why did I care so much about a stupid painting? I wish I could take back the angry words I said to him. I...I miss him. So much.”

My studies with Khephnes proceed apace. Thankfully, I’m a quick student, so he doesn’t make good on his threat to quit and go back to window gazing. I wonder how it will affect him when—if—no, when—I go back. Will he be glad he took the time, or even more bitter because his only distraction is gone?

The crumbling paper and terrible ink make writing hard, but we manage. As I study, I sometimes flip the thick papyrus over and try to decipher the original text. Other than the first paper that Khephnes struggled to read, they’re mostly dry summaries of treaties. It seems the Swarm once had four warring factions, with allies becoming enemies, then switching back again.

There’s no evidence of warfare now. At least we don’t have to worry about being slaughtered by an invading force.

“Where did these old records come from?” Bianca asks one day, as I tell her about this fragment of the Swarm’s history.