ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
February 15th, 1991
On this day, I dreamt, and from the dream I wrote
A winding story, told apart from God's eyes;
For some mysteries may be known,
Yet must cease to be once understood.
When the story has reached its end, I will return to it
And undo in myself what I undo upon the page.
. . .
Hoku closed the book and rested it across his lap.
'This is definitely the most disappointing ending so far. Jiang Hao was right about the second volume… though one of his historical monographs would have been harder to finish.'
Hoku took the volume from his lap, rose from the chair, and walked over to the shelves. Jiang Hao had arranged them by century and region. The novels filled only a few narrow sections between the histories.
During Hoku's first week in the house, Jiang Hao had shown him where the books belonged and which cupboard in the kitchen held the tea.
A couple of weeks before that, the same man had been sitting beside Hoku's hospital bed, introducing himself as his uncle.
Hoku had awakened there following the accident with no recollection of how it had occurred.
The accident was far from the only thing absent from his memory; when Jiang Hao came to see him, Hoku could recall neither him nor anything from the sixteen years preceding that morning.
The volume had come from one of the upper shelves. Hoku pulled the wooden chair beneath it, stepped onto the seat, and placed the book back.
Standing on the chair brought the highest shelf properly into view. Most of the volumes there were older, their leather bindings darkened with age or worn along the edges. Between two of them was a plain white spine without any lettering.
'Did Jiang Hao have this one rebound?'
Hoku reached for it and drew it from the shelf.
Its cover was blank as well. Hoku brushed his thumb along the edges of the pages and opened it. He turned through several in succession, but found nothing written on them. There was no title page, no preface, not even a line of print.
Hoku's brows knitted slightly. He slowed down and continued through the book more carefully. After a few more pages, a small cluster of black print near the centre of one leaf slipped past his attention at first. He immediately flipped back to it.
"The End of Time."
A small cluster of words was printed in the center of the page in plain black print. Beneath it, in smaller type, was a name.
"Dr. Francis Barret."
Hoku wasn't sure what to make of it. He turned the page, only to find another blank sheet. He paused, then flipped back and looked at the name again.
'Likely the "author,"' Hoku quickly guessed.
Seeing a doctor's title on what looked, at first glance, like a storybook seemed rather unusual. But not worth dwelling on.
'If someone put their signature in it, there has to be something to put a name to.'
As he handled the book, he noticed the stitching along the spine was unusually visible, even tugging whenever he opened it wider.
When he reached roughly the twenty-third page, his hand paused.
There, shading the page, was a messy yet detailed illustration, depicting the interior of a cluttered room.
The space was wide, with walls crowded with disorganized bookcases.
A few candlesticks hung along the side walls, their shading heavier than those set along the center.
Observing how precisely the perspective had been drawn, Hoku turned it over.
Surprisingly, there was another that narrowed onto the central wall.
'Is this actually supposed to be like an art piece?' He began to wonder.
As he studied it for a few minutes longer, he finally noticed a rather large painting of a key propped against one of the shelves, the background of the canvas left strangely blank.
Hoku assumed that it was just an unfinished painting.
'It's a damn boring piece, then.'
Hoku eased the book down on the edge of the shelf beside him, intending to set it there only for a moment.
However, the shelf's lip was shallower than it looked.
The cover slid, the weight shifted, and the book fell the instant his fingers let go.
THUD!
The book landed with a resounding noise in front of his feet.
Hoku's mouth twitched. He slowly lowered his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek.
His uncle let him touch nearly everything in the room, but the top shelves were the exception, never to be treated carelessly.
Hoku crouched and snatched the volume up at once, checking the corners first, then the spine's hinge.
The book had fallen open near the back.
At first, he saw only another blank page. Soon, however, a faint discoloration appeared along the gutter, like a bruised wash of ink.
As he brought it closer to the light, short rows of reversed calligraphy gradually resolved through from the opposite side.
Hoku carefully turned the page.
There was indeed another entry, though this one was clearly handwritten:
'Hymn of the Navigator
. . .
O Navigator, far adrift,
Whose eyes have charted sundered rift,
Whose hands have grasped both beast and clock,
Yet found no gate, yet struck no lock.
Through stolen years and hollow lands,
You walk the maps none understand.
The Abundant bids you sail his wreck,
Yet knows: your course will cross his neck.
In rusted tides and broken time,
In realms that toll the ghostly chime,
The Sequel calls its heir to sea
Not to obey, but to decree.
O Navigator, doomed yet free,
May ruin be your canopy.'
On the facing page was a detached note:
"Do not amend their mistakes. You must remain with the present."
Hoku read it through twice before closing the cover between his thumb and staring absently at the narrow gap on the shelf.
"…Navigator…"
. . .
The First Quota
The creator's original narrative has found you. The initial readers have narrowly altered the narrative's 'existence' by imparting a separate title.
Thus, the original telling has been delegated as 'The Memoir.'
What you've just read is the only fragment I was able to decipher from within the contents of this artifact. The only other mystery that has been solved is that 'The Memoir' belonged to The Abundant Creator.
You may refer to me as the editor until we meet.
Lastly, I ask only this: Do not ignore the entries I've left in this book.
I can promise that they may prove useful.
Sincerely,
The editor.
Prelude to the Memoir
Rule 1
Mysteries lie beyond your reality, Navigator. Have vigilance in your choices to tailor the unraveling of your universe.
Rule 2
Only those who have vanished from his path in the Original universe can traverse beyond their dreams and across the Sequel that unifies the existence of infinite sequences and worlds.
Rule 3
There were once three great conditions of existence, arranged for the living, the dead, and the damned.
Yet here, where death has no conclusion and life possesses no true beginning,
what meaning can such distinctions still pretend to hold?