03 Jul Enlightenment

I am Gideon St. James, and I have seen the face of the Divine.

You do not believe me? It is not a surprise. I am a nobody, a footnote in the historical record, a mere scraping of dirt from a brush compared to the great Isaac Newton. And yet, it is because of him that I know the divine gears that turn the universe, though those who turn them are not what we would assume.

And yet, here you are, come to see me in this place, to speak with me. Perhaps I am better known than is to be believed. Or perhaps you have simply been told I am the poor soul, the raving lunatic, who speaks of things that cannot be believed. The young man with dreams of greatness, found in the streets of London, babbling on about the “Might of the Heavens.” You wish to know me? Then sit, please, while I remain in my lucid condition, and allow me to explain how I came to this place.

I was born into a family whose title was not as illustrious as some, though I was certainly not without means. My mother carried herself elegantly, as any proper lady should, though it should be said she hid a great love for science, despite it being a discipline not normally suited for the female temperament. This she hid from my father, a man well-versed in his Puritanical stance, who did not care for the direction of scientific thought. He was not a violent man, nor was he incompetent; however, he had great faith and believed that while good could be done, making life easier for God’s people on Earth, there were things that should not be delved into, matters that were the province of beings beyond our comprehension.

I did not tell him directly, but I used to find his stance remarkably outdated. By the time I was coming of age, society, too, found his viewpoint to be archaic.

Yet now that I am in this position, I cannot help but admire the truth behind his statement. Perhaps we are capable of understanding the underpinnings of the universe, but our natural minds are simply unable to bear the weight of it, whether due to our scientific infancy or our unworthiness as judged by our Creator.

Despite my father’s lack of modernity and his disapproval of my more scientific studies during my private tutoring (which my loving mother approved, if only to see her interests grow through me), I became quite fascinated with the field. It was only after I put my hands on a copy of Principia, only released the previous year, that I knew in my heart this was my calling: to unlock the mysteries of the universe. And Professor Newton would be the man to do it.

I enrolled eagerly at Cambridge, so that I might have discussions with him, to learn and to discover alongside him, and be a part of this new science, the rational thought that would lead us into a new age. It was an exciting time, breathtaking in its scope, and my optimism had no limits. We were potentially on the cusp of seeing the hand of the Creator in this world, making the supernatural natural, so that the mind could see what faith had only let us believe. While many might have seen Newton’s work as dry and dense with the kinds of mathematics that send them rushing back to their newspaper serials, I found myself unable to put it down.

I was not aware at the time that there was scholarly debate about it, and would not have paid attention to it even if I had been. I was enamored with this man, this genius, and would accept nothing less than to learn at his hand.

I say this knowing what I do now, and it shames me to admit that, in some aspects, he is wrong, or perhaps his hypothesis on the universe simply requires further refinement. I do still want to believe in, as he described, a Divinity beyond our universe, a guiding hand that put the wheels into motion and set the physics of the world in place. However, I am forced to conclude that even when attempting to discern the supernatural, rationality should ultimately lead us to an answer. And as I have not seen the benevolent, divine force that purportedly built us all, but have seen something of great power that seems made entirely of malevolence, I can only conclude at this time that this being is either our Creator, or was placed by our Creator to prevent us from knowing the unknowable.

Whatever that being is, if it created us, then, should it desire to, it will destroy us, scattering us to dust and not even lose a wink of sleep.

You wish to know? You want me to reveal how I know these things? A shame! Better to remain in doubt, in the cloud and fog of fantasy, than for me to discuss it! My mind, my beautiful, rational mind, will likely be broken soon, the pieces more than unable, unwilling to be placed back together. My insanity will prolong my life, even if it means that life will be a half one, skulking in the halls of this “hallowed” place, doing whatever depravities my mind forces upon me against my will by my wretched condition. But you may still keep your wits, your joy, your ignorance, which I once tried so eagerly to flee.

To seek enlightenment is the province of fools; and to be a fool, truly the greatest of joys, knowing what I know.

But you insist. You think it possible to cure me of my mania, my state, to restore me to the living world. To do so, you must not believe a word of what I say as truth, but as the story of a madman, should you have any hope at all. For when you realize it is true, it will be too late for you.

Well then, far be it from me to deny you this knowledge.

To say that my belief in Isaac Newton as a man of unique brilliance upon my arrival for study was well earned is, indeed, true. However, as a professor and molder of minds, I dare say he is lacking in that regard. It may surprise you to learn that many do not take his classes, finding his mind incisive but his delivery too much.

When I arrived, I found I was the only one seated for his lecture. When he came and saw the nearly empty room, he proceeded to fulfill his duties as a lecturer as quickly as possible, speaking to the empty walls as if attentive ears were listening, and finishing in half the usual class time so he could return to more important pursuits.

I got to know his sizar well; he was a Newton himself, by the name of Humphrey. I do not know his relation to Professor Isaac, but in temperament, he seemed more mild and took his instructor’s eccentricities in stride. The situation I found myself in was typical for a school day, and if I truly sought to learn properly, Humphrey informed me that I would best find Professor Isaac and ask for direct tutelage when I could.

Naturally, I took this advice to heart and sought him out directly. He seemed put off when I approached him, finding my constant barrage of questions irritating at the best of times and downright aggravating at the worst, but he still tolerated my company, if only slightly, for even he could not deny my interest in his work and my eagerness to learn.

He did not disappoint in what he knew, clarifying the ideas presented in the Principia beautifully. But there were some subjects on which he grew reticent and unwilling to speak, namely, my questions regarding chemical components and the more philosophical inquiries about creation. He would speak in vagaries when he discussed them. The contrast between this and his ebullience on the laws of motion was so striking that I began to wonder if he was hiding some forbidden knowledge from me.

As I would learn, that was indeed the case, or rather, not that he was hiding knowledge beyond the reach of men, but that he preferred to keep certain aspects of life to himself.

I suppose we are all hypocrites, in our ways. Forward-facing Newton was always ranting about the rationality of the mind in solving the greatest mysteries, believing that the supernatural would be uncovered through experimentation. And it was ironic, as well, that if it were not for his secretive, paranoiac nature, I would never have dug too deeply and discovered what I should not have.

Do you recall when the great man fell into despair? I was there when it happened. It was during the Year of Our Lord 1692 that I heard Professor Newton yelling at the top of his lungs while stomping around his classroom. Humphrey sat outside, shaking his head with a sad, nervous appearance. I entered the room. Chalk lines streaked across the board, scratching out numbers and shapes. He shouted something incomprehensible about the heavens and the folly of it, and then tore past me to his office, where there were more noises, as if he were smashing equipment to bits in his rage.

On the floor, scattered under pieces of chalk, were several papers. They, too, were scratched heavily with ink, but there appeared to be something else about them. They looked like a letter, or perhaps a recipe in a cookbook, but instead of a clear alphabet, they were covered in symbols. Unknowable, perhaps, except to the one who had written them.

I did not know why I thought it best to keep them to myself, but I did so anyway. As it turned out, the raving I had witnessed was only the first of many fits of rage and melancholy that plagued him for the better part of the next year. Though he still attempted to conduct class in his usual manner, he did so with a strain on his nerves and soul, harboring some deep-seated horror in his heart.

Oddly, he never inquired as to what happened to the papers I had taken from the room that day, nor, whatever the reason, did I offer to tell him that I had been the one to do so. I am not sure what force or folly drove me in that regard. Did I not wish to disturb his mind further and return him to the state of despair in which I had found him that day? Or did I simply wish to avoid the force of his wrath upon myself for what I had done?

Well, it is no matter. From that time forward, he simply ignored any inquiry regarding the heavens, save for the clockwork nature he so loved. Before his attack, I had believed he avoided the subject because he was reluctant to speak on it. Now, it was as if a part of his mind had closed off, preventing him from even remembering what had disturbed him so. He did not appear to recall the events of that day with any real clarity.

Perhaps that is part of his genius, after all, that his mind protected itself from the horror and wonder that I have seen, that will soon drive my own rationality far from this world.

Despite his inability to tell me directly what had vexed him so, I endeavored to find answers in that most elusive of places: his personal notes. It took time, due to his private nature and suspicion of everyone, friend or stranger. But slowly, surely, I was able to see his books, even if just in glances, and I began to piece things together.

The sheets I had taken, covered in those inscrutable runes, were indeed a type of coded language, though it took longer than expected to fully understand it. You see, Newton had a belief that there should be an order to language: that words should be grouped by their types, and these groupings should all begin with a certain letter, or end with a universal suffix, so that the rational might one day all understand each other.

As these were his private notes, it should be clear that he would endeavor to use such a system, for they were never meant for the eyes of others. I was eventually able to decode and understand the words themselves, and at the time, I was merely grateful he had not combined this code, his artificial structure, and his fluency in Latin in one swift stroke.

In hindsight, if only he had, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

The entirety, the enormity, of what I found there! To discover that this rational man of letters, this scholar of the world’s inner workings, had been enamored, and continued to be enamored, with the forces of alchemy! No wonder he wished it hidden so deeply. To believe in such fantasy was outlawed… not because it was false, but because, if it turned out to be true, society might collapse. Gold would fill our coffers in such abundance as to render the substance worthless.

Ah, now I say something you do not believe. Yes, the man in the madhouse has said something about the man who does not seem to fit. As I said, we are all hypocrites, are we not? Who among us proclaims loudly against something from the ramparts, but in silence within his own abode engages in that very thing? Why, if not all, then certainly a great many.

What, you shy away from me now? There is no need. Remove the beam from your eye, my good man. I am not here to judge, but to inform.

Much of what I read consisted of experiments involving the transmutation of metals, though there were no successes. He performed all manner of tests, the study of which is inconsequential to our talk here, and if I were to elaborate at length, we would be here until nightfall.

But then things became more heated in these journals of his. I do not know when he found it, for all his meticulousness, he did not keep dates in these documents, and this section, more than the others, was harder to read, becoming more chaotic, so unlike the previous pages. There were references to Edmund Halley, the astronomer, and to discussions regarding a strange rock that had struck the Earth, fragments of which were so bizarre in composition that Halley had no choice but to bring them to Newton’s attention.

What was this rock? He did not say. In fact, it appeared even he did not know. It did not react as other elements did: fire did not warm it, and ice did not cool it. It did not react, it seemed, other than how it wished.

It infuriated him. Its very existence mocked the rules of the universe, and as such, it should not even have existed. He bombarded it with every conceivable test, and the results remained inconclusive.

The only thing that had any lasting effect, he found, was to shine a pinpoint of light at it. Only then did it react in any way that could be directly attributed to the stimulus.

It would waver and shimmer, as if the surface were made of water.

The last notes written on the sheet were that he planned to touch it during this strange rippling effect.

Whatever happened in that final phase, he clearly did not commit to paper. That must have been the day I stumbled upon him in his fit; whatever occurred tore his sanity from him in that moment.

However, in the days that followed, though he remained melancholic and distant, he appeared to be slowly recovering his wits. At times, he seemed more like his irascible self during those rare moments when he was willing to see others.

If I were to learn more about this attack, I would need more information than the pages themselves could provide. I would have to see the material itself. But where had it gone? I spent days digging through Professor Newton’s office when he believed it to be locked, but I turned up nothing. His school study yielded the same.

That left only two places to check: his private laboratory at home, or the classroom where he had suffered his agitation.

Knowing full well that checking his university office had already constituted trespass, breaking into his home would be unthinkable, not just because of the high opinion I held of the man, but also because of the repercussions should I be caught. I would receive no invitation to dinner, for almost no one did, so something as simple as a shared meal, which might grant me access, was out of the question. I would have to work with what I had on hand, and that meant the classroom would have to be my first place to check.

Would you say I was lucky, then, that no further need to intrude upon my teacher and hero was necessary? That upon a mere cursory check of the room, buried beneath the window sill and a cabinet, I found what I was looking for?

I no longer know for sure. Then again, I’m beginning not to know anything for sure, especially as my tale grows closer to the end I know it must reach.

It was something of an anti-climax, both in finding the item and in its shape and design. It was but a small piece of what at first appeared to be obsidian, about as long as my finger, and wickedly sharp at one end, resembling a broken tip. I thought so at first, until the more I looked at it, the more I realized it was not the pure black of volcanic rock. It contained swirls of color that forced me to blink. At first, they shimmered with a sort of violet hue, but then the purple heightened into a color that made my brain buzz and my eyes swim.

When the feeling passed, I could not for the life of me recall what the color was. I simply knew it was something I had never seen before, but at the same time, I felt it was all around us, dancing invisibly through the air, a touch of that divine spark from whence it came.

I took the item home. Why not? It was considered lost at this point, forgotten by its current master, and far be it from me to show it to him and cause him renewed distress. This would be my task, and mine alone, to accomplish.

I must admit now that, while I told myself my impulses were motivated purely by concern for his well-being and a desire to solve the strange case before me, a part of me also saw a scientific opportunity: that I would succeed where my teacher had not. While I might not reach the lofty heights of Isaac Newton, I might perhaps find myself feted by the Royal Society, my name written in history books and scientific tomes, as the student who had discovered the nature of the mysterious rock from the heavens!

I see disgust in your eyes as I say this. Yes, for you have no ambition whatsoever, coming here and speaking to me now. And what is it you hope to accomplish with the knowledge I am giving you? To write it down yourself? To make a name for yourself in the medical community? To tell others you have spoken to a lunatic and diagnosed him properly? Am I to become a new disease, named for yourself, no doubt?

The beam in your eye is becoming even larger, my friend.

With the fragment in hand, I returned to my own small laboratory, keen to begin immediately. And what better way to start my task than where the prior experiment ended: with the focus of a beam of light?

That proved to be the most difficult part of the entire endeavor. And once again, I was indebted to my professor. Upon reviewing his private notes, I discovered research he had not yet published on the nature of optics. He was not the only one to propose such ideas, but his knowledge was so elegant and efficient that I was able to dismantle my own hobbyist telescope (a rather expensive affair, as anyone who knows how to design such glass can tell you) and construct a box. With but a single candle, I was able to shine a beam outward that could strike a wall ten feet away. More than enough distance for a mere piece of rock.

And so it was that I aimed the beam, and to my amazement, what Professor Newton had claimed was indeed true. Upon contact with the direct beam of light, the fragment reacted as if stung. Its surface colors swirled away, leaving a shimmering indentation in its small body.

It was entrancing and hypnotic. Within moments, I found my fingers, moving almost of their own accord, reaching toward the indentation, eager to understand what it felt like as it undulated in that peculiar way.

My fingers touched the surface.

And then, I was elsewhere.

Oh, my feet never left my laboratory. I was still aware of my presence, fingers pressed against that rubbery, worm-like texture, in the world we know all too well.

But my mind, my soul, had been launched to a realm far beyond our own.

First, I saw darkness.

Then, shapes. Many of them. Moving in a pattern that was somehow syncopated yet randomized. They swayed to a rhythm I could not comprehend, in praise of a harmony my ears could not detect.

Further still my consciousness traveled, across the surfaces of worlds of unknowable design, fractured landscapes scarred by destruction and… perhaps devoured?

The forms changed as the worlds did. First, they appeared as large versions of the creatures of our seas, then became increasingly unnatural, until they resembled things that could only be called demonic. Yet even amid these many monstrous forms, I saw others, worlds devoid of life. Not that they had never known it, but that life had been uprooted, annihilated.

And then, my traveling mind floated in a void.

I could see the stars, far distant, twinkling around me, but I recognized no constellations. Wherever I was now, it was far removed from the Earth and the heavens I knew.

Some distance below my incorporeal form, I saw a world, a dead surface, utterly uninhabitable. A cratered rock, possibly the size of our own planet. No seas. No greenery. Just a mass of scorched stone riddled with vast, jagged canyons.

Around me floated bits of rock, shattered fragments of this planet, hovering in space. Upon each fragment stood a robed figure, raising appendages to an area above my view. I say appendages, for these were not arms as we know them, nor were they quite like the tentacles of an octopus. They were long and jagged, covered in spiny protuberances, yet still flexible, bending at strange angles.

I could not see their faces, but I knew they gazed upward at something of immense importance. And despite myself, I followed their gaze.

And there, the face of the divine came upon me.

And the seed of madness took root.

I remember every crease, every angle, every feature of the visage that stared down from that void. It was not a face, but something that acted as a face, an approximation, a mask, a function. The multitude of eyes pierced through me, gazing deep into my soul.

Terror cannot describe what I felt in its presence. Awe is far too simple a word. But if the Bible is any indication, I was in the presence of something that could look upon me, could look upon Isaac Newton, and find us both wanting in every conceivable way.

And still, I could feel its emotions.

Hatred.

Pure, unfiltered hatred. It despised me for being there. My very presence diminished its purity.

I knew then I was not in the presence of a loving God, nor in the grip of His adversary, the being known as Satan by one of many names. The former would not allow a mortal into His presence only to treat it with such loathing. The latter, too, would have used us to further his ends, his hatred reserved for the one who created us, not us directly. We are, after all, useful pawns in the pursuit of revenge.

But this thing?

This was something older than anything I could comprehend.

It was a ravager. A destroyer. A being that had razed worlds clean of inhabitants, and would continue to do so until everything that displeased it was gone.

I could feel it probing my thoughts, reaching into me to learn from whence I had come. I knew that, in mere moments, my mind would give it the answer it sought. How could I resist it? Even I, in my diminished state, could see this was not something that could be resisted, not when its very followers were shattered fragments, floating in space, praying endlessly on broken rocks.

I was still aware of my body, still standing in my laboratory, finger pressed against the fragment. That shard, I now realized, was a piece of that world. One of the broken chunks, floating above the void, upon which its worshipers stood. A sacred relic, perhaps, or simply a fragment flung by violence into our reality.

As my mind began to tear under the weight of that knowledge, I forced my hand to withdraw.

I do not know what followed for several days.

They tell me I was found gibbering in the street, filthy, violent, incoherent. I struck those who tried to help me and had to be restrained. I was brought here. That is what they say. I have no memory of it. And now, with my mind retreating further into its brokenness, I wish I could remember more.

I do not know if I withdrew my physical form before the creature could locate our world within my thoughts. Other than a flicker of hope, I cannot imagine that I did. But my ignorance, my blankness, spares me from despair. If it did learn of our world, I can only hope it is physically unable to reach it within our lifetimes. And should it arrive in some far future, I must pray humanity finds a way to resist it.

But I do not believe we will.

How could we ever hope to defeat something as old as time itself? Something with limitless power, limitless charisma? The creatures I passed on my “audience” with it were clearly offering praise, offering sacrifice, in hopes of appeasement. And for now, that appeasement had succeeded. But the hatred it exuded made one thing clear:

It would not accept tribute forever.

And so, knowing this now… what will you do with the information I’ve given?

Will you tell the world a madman may have doomed us all?

Will you speak the truth, that science has indeed unlocked the mysteries of the universe, and in doing so, revealed that physics is merely a veil? A thin, orderly veil hiding the true horror behind the stars?

I once rejoiced in my rational mind. But perhaps only the insane can truly accept the inevitable, that destruction awaits every world once it has decided to end it.

You do not wish to share?

The fragment?

Why would you seek it? It is folly to even consider—

What is that on your arm?

It looks familiar, though I cannot—

No.

I know what you plan now.

You wished for me to hand it to you.

You may not wear the robes of those worshipers I saw, but behind closed doors, you do. Do you not?

You… you welcome the destruction?

Perhaps I am not as insane as I believed. I would not wish the end of mankind, even in my current state. But you… you would welcome this beast, as it has destroyed others, to destroy us as well.

Why? Why do you wish to hasten the end?

What has the world done, in all its history, to deserve such animus?

Murder? War? Famine?

You see only the darkness of humanity.

Even if it is my final act on this Earth, I shall not willfully allow another to bring its end closer than it might already be.

You seek the fragment? You seek to commune with the one beyond the stars?

You are too late.

I asked for it in one of my lucid moments, to have it retrieved from my house, as a keepsake.

It was found on my laboratory bench, just as I left it.

And it was brought to me.

I only pray no one was tempted by it in the meantime.

You may try to use it, if you like.

It now lies in the dust around my chamber.

You see… on the same day I received the stone, I also requested a mortar and pestle.

Good.

Your anger gives me hope that I have acted correctly.

Go on. Do what you will with me. I, Gideon St. James, will not be remembered well. I will be forgotten by history and never see my name listed among the fellows of the Royal Society. But nor will yours.

Professor Newton is just the beginning. He and the others will bring light. He is saved where I am not.

Go.

Go on.

Tie the bedsheet tighter around my neck. Scream that the madman has killed himself, that he choked on his own tongue.

You cannot stop it. You cannot stop the coming of the light.

God help me… May the light shine on us a—