The Passage

Obsessed with a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace. – Eugene O’Neill

I
I am in many ways blessed, for I could have been very different. I could have been birthed in the plains of Africa, dancing for the rains or performing the devil-infused practice of voodoo. I might as well have been born not as a God-fearing rational man but as a Godless atheist kept away from his radiance by the ignorance of parents who had never felt his warmth on their cheek. In short I was lucky to have been born in civilized Italy the year 1899 by a catholic Mother. While some may take pity on me that, unlike the great Joseph who still could find it in his heart to stay and care for virgin Mary, my mother’s husband could not. It is true that my mother, unlike virgin Mary, is nowhere close to being perfectly moral. But it is also true that it was her faults in morality and her faults in that which would be unseemly, that drove her into God’s warm embrace. If it wouldn’t have been for her early teachings I might have had a very strained or even non-existent relationship with God, I shudder at the thought. I am also blessed in the fact that while we lived in squalor, my mother still did everything in her power so that I could have the option of receiving seminary studies with the Jesuits order. At the time I admit I mostly followed along out of love for my mother; She did so much for me that I felt I owed her this. The studies were her wish after all.

Indeed, it was to avoid the very possible horror that my youth would be spent working simply for our survival that she was working three jobs at the same time. And it was despite her promiscuous past and apparent flaws that she proved herself to be a remarkable woman. To this day I simply don’t remember an interaction with her where she wasn’t wearing that old tired smile. While it was comforting, with age I have come to realize the terrible strain that she was under. It is only now, after thirty years, that I recognize that in her actions she devoted her life so that I could have ample time to focus on academics, so that I may have a life she could only ever dream of. I recognize that she did this out of love and affection, yet my greatest sin on this earth is that I, for a very long time, resented her for not loving me enough to not work herself to death, leaving me alone. Despite my poignant reflections I still recognize that this was God’s plan, for if she hadn’t met this tragic fate then I would never have found my driving force. The reason for my being, which was to guide others out of that darkness I myself was lost in for such a long time. Recognizing this desire in me, I was accepted for my very first job at the age of 26 in the summer of 1925 as a local priest in my hometown of Florence. How very simple life was back then. Before the revelation, before I witnessed the Passage.

It was during the great depression of the early 1930s when I felt I was needed the most. Perhaps it is strange to say that I was, in a way, happy during those times for I had never felt as candidly needed. But eventually the state of things got better, much better, in fact they got so much better that I secretly started to long for days where I felt I was truly helping. Confessions had in a way become dull since the things people confessed was so ordinary and meaningless. The people that confessed as well as the people that came to my sermons did so simply out of habit. None of the people here truly needed me anymore for they already had their own personal relationship with God. It was after years of meaningless confessions, and sermons that fell on half listening ears that I found that somewhere along the lines I too had started to listen to confessions and lead sermons simply out of habit. I knew that change had to come. As stated before, I am very privileged to have been born in civilized Italy by a catholic mother but many are not so lucky. This is why I, in the spring of 1939, brought up the question to my bishop to be released for missionary service. It was strange for I do not scare easily, but I remember the weight of my sweat running down my brow as he looked me over. Looking back on it I think it should have been clear my reason for being nervous; I had never wanted anything more. In that initial judgement he considered my health, temperament and loyalty to classical doctrine. I really shouldn’t have been nervous for my bishop knew my commitment, he knew my calm and collected nature and he had never seen me miss a sermon for a cold. The same could not be said for the Vatican’s congregation for the propagation of the faith. And unfortunately, I needed their approval as well.

By this time I already had just shy of 15 years of priesthood under my belt, which is why my hopes of being accepted as a missionary was quite high even if I could be considered a bit old for the taxing job of missionaries. When I first arrived outside of that great wonder of architecture, where the judgement of the Vatican’s congregation would take place, I marveled at its grandeur. The building had a gothic sense to it and the two towers that erupted out of the building had, what seemed like, fantastic statues on all sides of them. The statues were almost too far from view from where I stood. “So far above me” was all I could muster at the time as I let out a deep sigh.

My fear of rejection was indeed more well founded this time along since unlike the judgement of my bishop, this judgement also included discussions of general unsuitability. Something inside me darkened when I realized that this included moral concerns. What if they found out about my mother and, more precisely, her time dabbling in sex-work? I cannot say that I would not understand that being the reason for objection but I am not my mother and I do not have her flaws. Further, they did not know my mother and how she struggled to put food on my plate. They did not know her warm embrace. All they would know are the worst parts of her and perhaps they do not care for the rest.

As the day dredged forward I had to speak with many men, some of which seemed interested in my psychological frame, some of which asked about my commitment to God and some who simply wished to pray with me. After these conversations I was sent to a waiting room with beautiful portraits hanging on the wall framed with gold. The portraits depicted men such as St. Ignacius of Loyola, the founder of the order of Jesuits, and Saint John Boscoe who founded the order of the Salesians. What really caught my eye however was the massive portrait dominating a whole wall. I immediately recognized the man as Pius XII, the pope as of this year. “They work fast”, I thought to myself. As I approached the masterpiece to simply touch it I thought I saw some scribble in the bottom corner of it. I assumed, of course, that it must be a signature of the artist; Which is why it shocked me a bit to just see some kind of rectangular scribble in white. I remember it feeling strange, inviting almost. It felt like the symbol held light. As I felt my feet move closer, I was interrupted by a harrumph, “They will see you know”. It was a woman’s voice that erupted behind me. My hand immediately retreated back to my side as I noticed it being reached out towards the symbol. I turned around and nodded as the woman looked slightly annoyed.

As I entered the room I noticed three men sitting behind a mahogany table. The rest of the room had a feeling of a perfect cleanliness. There was no clutter and the backdrop was of a dark green wallpaper with no cuts or bruising; Only broken up with portraits of various saints. The floor was a kind of checkered wooden floor. The three men had curious looks as they viewed me up and down. They were all dressed in black robes and two of them seemed plainly unimpressed. I remember how my heart sank to the floor as I noticed this. It is only when I recognized the third evaluator as my past tutor and mentor that I breathed a sigh of relief. We were quite close and I am almost sure that his personal recommendation was the one thing that saved that otherwise awful interview. I still left that day with the feeling of a large stone in my stomach, that felt like it wanted to sink deeper than physically possible. That feeling lasted for about a week until I finally received the letter that brought me the news that, if I wanted the position, I would be a probationary missionary. I actually jumped with excitement at that very spot.

II
With this news my training started almost immediately. As I was already an ordained priest, my training would not be as intense, but necessary all the same. Specialization, they called it. I remember the joy of my first day in that church, since they fortunately decided to send me to Rome to witness the Gesù church. Beforehand I had heard great things; It trumped even that. While the Gesù church was the Jesuits main church of operations, it was still a valid center for missionary training for a non-member like myself. What filled me with delight was the realization that I was going to study under and, I eventually learned, work closely with my old tutor and mentor Mark Saviano. Saviano also happened to be the same man who I owe my position as a probationary missionary to since it was he who gave me a recommendation, when the other two evaluators were ready to kick me out at the spot. As happy as I was to speak with him he did not seem to share this interest. He was quick to give me a destination and seemed solely focused on the work. The destination, which ultimately proved to be my last, was to be India. More precisely they were going to send me to the small town of Draauger. I remember my abrupt protest, “Sir this is further than I’ve ever dreamt of going!”, I mindlessly blurted out to Saviano. Perhaps what gave me strength that day and perhaps what firmly positioned me as loyal to my new task was simply that warm smile he gave me as he said, “greatness is for those with the courage to seek it”.

As my studies progressed I was given a great many books in order to drill in the culture of India but most importantly the language. While India is a country riddled with languages, Saviano assured me that the small town of Draauger mainly spoke Hindi. A language Saviano had taught to many missionaries before me. Apparently the people there worshiped something called Hinduism. It appeared to me to be some kind of heathen belief in multiple Gods. I remember muttering to myself in disbelief, “You shall have no other Gods but me, Exodus 20:3”. It was then that I realized just how badly they needed my help. I did however find out the small prevalence of other religions, christianity being one of them, which gave me hope that the region could eventually be saved.

Eventually I felt I was able to hold extremely limited conversations with Saviano in Hindi. It did however prove remarkably challenging to learn since its relations with my own tongue of Italian was very distant. After months of sleepless nights poured over books and many conversations with Saviano that went well over respectable hours, I finally felt that my ability to express myself to Saviano in Hindi was less obstructed than previously. Sure it was stilted and awkward but I understood most of what he said to me and was able to respond. But most importantly, after these months of pouring myself over its culture I simply wished to experience it for myself. The actual town of Draauger was quite humble, a small town with serious economic instability. Vagrancy and unemployment was rampant and beggars roamed the streets. Saviano was wise to wish to send me there, for when do we need religion more than when we’re penniless and hopeless. From my time studying the town one thing did pop out as odd. They’ve had quite a bit of history with a poor economy but around the turn of the century the state of the town was actually turning around. And it was all due to the discovery of gold. Yes apparently there was quite a bit of gold under the earth of the town which led to a rather vast mining operation funded and led by philanthropist Rohan Hadek. This rather positive uptick of the town however stopped rather suddenly back in 1920 with the sudden disappearance of Hadek. I understand respecting the dead, but condemning a whole town to poverty because of the respect for one man made no sense to me. Why not continue the mining operation instead and save the town’s economic growth? “No matter”, I told myself, I had to focus on the mission.

Later I told Saviano of my progress with the language and his usual look of focus lessened into what I could only interpret as a smile. Saviano was a tad older than me, having reached the prime age of 65. He was a respectable man that had devoted his life to the Jesuits and was the only one of the order to see me for me, and not the sins of my mother. He placed his warm comforting hand on my shoulder, “You have been ready for quite some time, I simply needed you to see it”. His smile disappeared and he removed his hand before continuing, “You will leave by plane at the start of next week, you will report back to us of your progress at the end of each month. Are we clear?”, I nodded and could not contain my smile. He sharply inhaled and muttered, “May God be with you”, as he turned around and left me with my own stupid grin that reached from ear to ear.

I continued my studies as best I could that week and I was sure I would continue them on the plane over to Draauger. Unfortunately I didn’t stop to consider the fact that I had never even seen a plane before yet been inside one. The experience was wonderful and magical. I was sure it had to be an invention of God himself. On that bumpy ride something fantastic happened, as I forgot for an instance about my duty of learning in preparation to bring God’s salvation, I felt my eyelids grow weary. They always were from my many sleepless nights hunched over my books of culture but this time I allowed the weight of my eyelids to win and thus fell into deep slumber.

Now, I am a man not too accustomed to the art of dreaming. Of course I had some nightmares as a child but as I grew older my nights started to consist increasingly of uninterrupted darkness. I did not pity this since all it meant was more of my efforts going into waking life. But this slumber was different. I still to this day remember it vividly. I don’t think I remember a single other dream I’ve ever had but this one. I found myself in a pitch black area. I could hear the dropping of water and echoes of said droppings. It sounded almost like the insides of a cave. I reached out my hands in the hope of grasping anything to aid me forward and after a few seconds of clumsily reaching I felt my hands caress some gelatinous and slimy surface which seemed to be quite thin, just barely covering the hard and sharp rock underneath. Most intensely I remember the smell. It was, to my surprise, not awful; It didn’t smell like death or decay yet smelt like how I’d imagine a sunrise to smell in those very early mornings. It smelled like a smiling baby’s head but most importantly, it smelled like home. I remember being overcome with the urge to bathe in its splendour. Looking back at it, the dream must seem quite disturbing for you but for my dreaming self it felt like the only possible recourse. I rubbed the gelatinous substance over my arms, my chest, legs and finally my face. As the substance reached my closed eyes, I felt the dark fade away. And as I stood there in that dim lighted cave my eyes were entranced. For my head would neither turn right or left but could only hold forward, for what I saw demanded an audience. I saw a white wooden door, lacking any finer details, held upright by nothing. It rested there, suspended in air, right in the middle of the cavern. The door was almost closed, almost. As it was standing there, slightly ajar, I could swear to you that through the door something was slipping out. Partly light and partly matter, It seemed to me to be consisting of strange, almost viscous colors. And trapped in those colors was a twinkling of dim stars. As this mass was creeping out of the door I only partly felt fear; For the emotion that ravaged me more predominantly was comfort. The smell of a loving home where there was always breakfast readied in the morning, intensified. With God’s grace that was the moment I woke up, for I don’t know what would have happened if the dream carried on for but a moment and my impulse to reach out to its embrace would have won. I remained thankful that my nights usually are dreamless. As I regained my bearings I was pleased to hear that we had just crossed the borders into India.

III
And just like that, the plane had landed. I took a deep breath and looked out of the window to my left. To my surprise my first reaction wasn’t that of anticipation or of marvel but instead I felt a slight dread. The town felt darker than I had anticipated. I was still quite a bit away from the actual town but I remember seeing a sort of smog or perhaps shade loom over it, which at the time I found odd since I could not think of a real good reason for the smog. The town isn’t exactly clean but there were no large industries or factories to my knowledge active in the area, but yet the smog persisted; And it persisted deeply. The buildings seemed to be mostly made of stone, and most roofs seemed to be gambrel. I remember being a tad confused since I expected the whole place to seem like it was covered in a thick blanket of despair but the architecture seemed almost western. But there was one thing that stood out from where I was sitting and it seemed to command my eyes toward it. There was that tower in the middle of the town, it was dark and long with material consisting of some black stone reminiscent of black onyx. It seemed to rise over the thick smog that loomed over the rest of that town. At the time I remember seeing something in that tower’s construction that sparked my interest. Perhaps I was still tired from the journey but I remember, at least for a second, seeing a sparkling of different colors in the black stone, like a shimmer of strangely colored stars stuck in black rock. I was a bit shocked, so much so that I rubbed my eyes and checked again only to discover the sparkling gone. But that dark tower still loomed over the town. At the top of the tower there was an open area just under the pointy roof where there was a bell fully encased in stone. “Perhaps the bell was a replica made of stone”, I wondered since the thing didn’t seem to have a purpose. How could immovable stone ring out to the town? Perhaps I had gotten lost in thought, as I pondered this I got a slight nudge and an awkward smile from a flight attendant showing me the exit. I shook my head, smiled at her and made my way out of the plane.

As my feet landed on Indian soil that feeling of slight dread grew, I knew not why. I was here, finally at the destined opportunity to help and to do good but all I felt was anxiety and dread. I knew that as I arrived I was supposed to send word back to Gesù to let Saviano know that I arrived. I could do this from the temple in the middle of Draauger which I only at this point realized must be that strange building with that strange tower and stone-encased bell.

As I got closer to the town’s edge it kept getting increasingly hard to see. As my eyes adjusted to the thick smog and my first initial coughs were out of the way I still seemed to only recover partial vision. But God what a town it was. I now saw that the material used for the buildings was not ordinary stone but seemed to consist of magnetite, if I have my ores right. This mixed with the smog had the effect that the buildings seemed pitch black to my eye. As my eyes wandered I noticed the residents. I saw many sitting outside of boarded up buildings, some were sitting on porches, and some were leaning against the hard stone of the buildings but what they all had in common was that stare. The stare did not seem welcoming nor did it seem hateful; It did not even seem curious. All I felt through their collective many eyes was malevolence. Many of them had little clothing on. They mostly had shorts and t-shirts and some didn’t even have that. The heat in that town soon showed me why. As I got closer the residents all stood up and went back inside to their residence. The worst part had still to be that lingering feeling of eyes laying over me. I constantly felt watched in that town, from the moment I set foot in it. If I hadn’t seen people I would assume the town was abandoned for who would want to live like this? If I only knew why they truly stayed. At the time I assumed in my ignorance that this was why they sent me here, they have been led astray without God’s light. “You can almost feel the devil’s influence over this town”, I murmured to myself as I made my way through that thick smog.

The temple, as Saviano had explained to me, was a place of unbiased worship; Meaning that the people who felt the need to pray and to worship could do so to any deity they saw fit. To me this felt a bit blasphemous but if it brought them comfort then it was a good necessity up to the point of my arrival. I had been told to seek out a worker in the temple, a sort of monk working there for the good of his people with the name of Kiaan Malik. Honestly at this point I could not wait to get a chance to rest since I was weary from my travels. I also could not help but feel a bit saddened since when I looked out at the residents, who were quickly dispersing with my arrival, I saw some uncommon physical traits. I saw plenty of people with a few too many fingers, some eyes that differed in color and some had entire limbs missing or grown different from custom. At the time, this only strengthened my resolve “How badly they need me” I thought.

When I finally arrived at the temple and stood in front of that large double wooden door I felt nothing but weary. The door itself was as large as two of me in height and perhaps 3 meters in width. As I raised my fist to grab the metal ring used for knocking, the door started to open wide before my hand reached the metal. I was greeted by a man who was perhaps another head taller than me. The man was dressed in a sort of brown robe with a white belt around the waist. He had the usual brown complexion of an Indian man and on his forehead was drawn a rectangle that was upright in white colors. “Strange”, I thought to myself, as I tried to remember why that symbol seemed familiar. I could not see his hands as they were, assumedly, interlocked in front of him under his robe. His head was shaved bald but I was most pleased to find the man having kind eyes and a warm smile. I started to introduce myself as I uttered my first words of Hindi in India, “Hello! The name is Gordon Ro-”, but was quickly interrupted by the man, “Gordon Rossi from Florence. You have been expected. We are all so pleased you could make it”. The man stepped aside to let me in as he introduced himself as Kiaan Malik. I reached out to shake the man’s hand but he simply nodded and turned around. As I looked over the insides of the temple I noticed influences from plenty of different religions and worldviews. I noticed symbols scrawled all over the walls like the cross from Christianity, the Aum symbol consisting of three sanskrit letters to represent Hinduism, the menorah for Judaism, the star and the crescent for Islam and even some heathen symbols for old religions like what I could only assume to be Thor’s hammer for Æsir faith and many more that I have yet deciphered. I remember being quite mesmerized by the collection of symbols from so many faiths that I had to take a while before pressing onwards. The main hall didn’t look like I expected either. There were no rows of seats looking up at the altar but instead there were many small booths in rows alongside the left and right walls only interrupted by hallways on both sides. Strangely there was however a form of elevated altar in the front only it did not have a stand nor any book to be read from. Instead there was a white wooden door seemingly held upright by chains from the roof. As I looked upon it I got a strange feeling of déjà vu. My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by Malik, “I understand you are to report back to your superiors. We have no shortage of envelopes and paper will not be a problem. You will be staying in the hall to the right. Follow the hall and open the last door on the right”. He walked in the middle of the hall almost up to the upright white door suspended in the air by chains but turned right towards the hallway. At this point my curiosity got the better of me so I opened my mouth to ask, “Excuse me but if I may inquire, what symbolism is that door supposed to have? What worship is it connected to?”. Malik stopped at the beginning of the right hallway and gave me that same warm smile, “There will be plenty of time for enlightenment later, you must be weary”. Not entirely pleased with that answer I opened my mouth to speak again but was quickly interrupted as Malik gestured for me to get moving. I begrudgingly accepted, not wanting to cause commotion the first thing I did. My mission was important after all, and my relations with these folk are close to a necessity for my mission to be fruitful. As I started walking down the hallway Malik’s words echoed through it, “We sure hope you will be happy here.”

IV
My room was simple, which was what I was accustomed to. Not much more than four walls, a roof and a bed. The bed was rough but I’ve slept in worse. The walls were covered in paintings of religious figures and symbols. The option for light was low but there were several candles in the rooms you could light for a reading aid before bed. The first thing I did when I got in that dank room was to light one of the candles at my disposal and begin the writing of my letter to Saviano. I wrote about my first impressions of this town and of all my assumptions of it. I wrote of the smog that seemed to me like an unequivocally malevolent shade looming over the town as if it was a piece of Lucifer’s spirit himself. I wrote to Saviano about the fear of the town’s people and how they seemed to avoid my every step. I wrote not of the evil in their eyes, assuming it to be a flight of fancy on my part. As well I considered writing to him of my dream and it’s correspondence with the altar at the temple yet felt it to be insignificant. I ended the letter with my first assumptions of Malik being seemingly quite wholesome and knowledgeable on the subject of faith. When I arrived I feared my longing for the intellectually stimulating conversations between Saviano and I would be too much to bear but as I sat there I figured perhaps Malik could be a good substitute. I signed the letter and gave it away to a passing nun to deliver it to the closest mission station post office for my ability to manoeuvre the town was so far severely lacking.

As night fell I learned that with nighttime, the doors were strangely to be locked. Even my own door was locked from the outside every night from 8 PM to 6 AM. The walls were thin however, so thin in fact that on some nights, if I really tried to listen, I could hear murmurings, hymns and slight commotion from the main hall. I didn’t wanna pry but one morning my interest was too piqued not to ask any questions so a week from my arrival I remember asking Malik in those early hours of the morning what the last ceremony was. He looked down at me with those kind brownish eyes and told me in his deep voice, “Faith takes all shapes and sizes dear Gordon”. At this point I had to ask, “Malik, wha-”. He interrupted me, “Please. Call me Kiaan”. I cleared my throat and nodded, “of course, Kiaan. If I may, I understand your tolerance of different views. In fact I admire it. But what do you personally believe in?”. Malik placed his hand on my shoulder and asked, “Gordon. Would you call yourself an open minded man?”. I didn’t know what to say. Perhaps I felt a bit surprised or even attacked by this question. Looking back on it I am pretty sure the next words that came out of my bearded lips were lies, “When the situation calls for it”. For I was a very closed minded person back then. Before I had seen what I have now seen. Perhaps if I would have simply told him no, my life right now would have been very different. Perhaps if I just wouldn’t have told him this small lie, I would have been spared from the revelation of the Passage.

Malik seemed pleased and as he leaned over me, he told me, “I believe the truth is complicated. Perhaps not meant for the likes of you or me. Look around you dear Gordon. Look at all these symbols. So many people with so many beliefs that they know are right. So many ideas of what God is and isn’t. So many stories of his or theirs wrath, kindness and love. Perhaps they are all wrong, perhaps they are all right. You ask me which one of these I believe in and all I can say is none. But make no mistake Gordon, God is very real. I hope one day, you can feel him like I feel him, but I’m afraid the passage to true enlightenment is arduous and long”. I must say that at this point I was intrigued. I could not say whether the man was mad or perhaps just strange. But the thing is, I have met mad men before and they never carried themself like Malik. They were erratic, prone to anger and sometimes just mumbling buffoons. Malik carried himself with grace, compassion and with a true teacher’s love. I must say that, despite my assumptions of these townspeople, I admired the man. So I nodded, “Well until then, where do you think I could do the most good?”. Malik smiled, “follow me”, and walked out the double doors of the large temple.

I remember the smog of the town rush down my lungs and over my eyes as the doors to outside the temple swung open. It was only me and him, walking down the road. It was uneven and cobbled together with stone. The buildings seemed to loom over us like an overwhelming shadow and I felt that feeling of dread rise once more but Malik’s presence strangely soothed me. What I noticed this time, as we were walking down that poorly cobbled road, was that the malformed townsfolk didn’t scurry away to hide but instead approached to offer up goods to Malik. I saw them give what little they had in terms of bread, coins and even art. This time as I was walking with Malik I felt incredibly relieved that I didn’t feel the heavy layer of watching malevolent eyes upon me; Instead they were all focused on Malik as he slowly swept down the road, greeting everyone that came upon us. The people here were desperate, but they looked at Malik as a savior, they looked at him like he was the messiah. I knew I had to show them a better way.

Suddenly we stopped and Malik turned around. “We are here”, he told me. I looked around and asked, “where is here?”. We had gone but a few blocks from the temple and now I found myself standing in front of what looked to be a large cave entrance with tracks coming out of it. Malik bent down and picked up a sign that had been knocked over. On the sign was written “Draauger mine”. Malik made a deep eye contact with me and said, “This place is a site of great sorrow for many of my people. Many lament that Rohan Hadek could not finish his work and save this town. It is my wish for you to lessen their pain, just a little bit”. I remember a feeling of pride that he entrusted me with working at such an important place. I accepted wholeheartedly. Malik smiled and started to glide back up the street shortly but then suddenly stopped and turned around, “Oh and remember Gordon, that old mine is dangerous. We wouldn’t want your work to be cut short over some loose footing would we? Don’t go down there”, and he turned back and continued his glide.

The work began. I spread my truth as loud and far as I could but the people were distrustful and shy. No matter how hard I tried, they kept their distance and watched. Once more I felt the cloak of malevolent eyes loom over me. I looked around and sure enough they were there, between the boards of windows, in the dark alleys and from the people scurrying over the streets. After about an hour I felt a specific set of eyes approach. They had been eyeing me from an alley across the street since Malik left me here. As his hunched over form left the darkness of the alley, a part of me wanted to scream in fright. For if I wasn’t as educated as I was I surely would have mistook the man for a monster. His hunch was so bad that he almost walked on all fours, his right eye was bloodshot and twitched something furiously and the right side of his ghastly face was hanging loose with saggy graying skin. He spoke with a soft nervous voice, “Y-You’re with the temple right? With him right?”. I remember being taken aback a bit but answered as truthfully as I could, “Yes, how are you feeling, my child?”. The man, if it truly was a man, responded with his quite heavy stuttering, “Please i-it’s getting b-bad! Did not help, did not help. Made worse. Why am I not worthy!? M-mister please! Why am I not worthy!?”. I remember assuming him to be delirious so I tried to convince him to seek medical help, yet admittedly I was not aware of the level of medical help available to these poor folk. As I tried to touch his forehead to see if he had a fever he lurched back and screamed, “Why aren’t you listening! It did me wrong! It changed me wrong! I was not worthy of the Passage!”. At this point he had visible tears. I was a bit unsure how to handle him so I tried to place my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. This unfortunately provoked a violent reaction as he tackled me to my side and ran past me into the mine. I screamed after him to come back but the darkness of that decrepit old mine swallowed him whole. Shaken and exhausted, I stood up and walked back to the temple.

On my walk back shock was beginning to be overtaken by frustration. This town was odd, the people odd and even the damn smog was odd! Why don’t they want my help! Why won’t they listen to my truth!? At that moment I thought back to that poor malformed man who had quite clearly gone mad. What was he even babbling about? What change? What was he not worthy of and what was this damn Passage? I surely would have simply dismissed him as mad on the spot if it wasn’t for his desperate questioning of my allegiance with the temple? He asked if I was with him. I wondered if he meant Malik. The people here seemed to treat him with a great deal of reverence and since he questioned if I was with the temple he had to have gotten that assumption from seeing me with him. I shook my head and decided that while the man was clearly mad, perhaps Malik knew of him and would be interested in the man’s well being.

As I entered the main hall of the temple and stood before that white wooden door held upright by chains a sneaking curiosity started growing as I wondered what kind of religion this would be a monument for. As I stood there, lost in thought, I felt the warm placement of a hand on my shoulder. Malik stood there next to me, admiring the white wooden door. “I’m sure you have many que-” He stopped once he noticed my face, “Oh dear, Gordon, you look as pale as death. Is something wrong?”. I told him a brief version of the incident without the specifics of the hunchback man’s madness and asked him if he knew of whom I spoke. He shook his head and some sorrow showed on his face. “I am sorry Gordon, I know not who this man is but clearly he needs help. If you were to find him again, show him to us and we will do our best to alleviate his stressed and burdened mind”. I nodded and started turning back to my quarters when suddenly I stopped, overcome with curiosity I asked, “Sorry, this is most likely a bit of a strange question, but you wouldn’t happen to know what the man could have meant when he mentioned something of a Passage?”. As I said this I noticed something I never expected to notice in Malik. For but an instance his calm face betrayed him and a very brief flash of pure rage showed only to disappear a moment later. “No, sorry. Men in that state say all sorts of things.”

As night fell I retired to my chamber. The hour when all the doors were locked and would not be unlocked until the sunrise, including mine, had fallen. I lit a candle and pulled up a pen and paper to try to write a letter back to Saviano. As the candle was lit however I started to hear mumblings from the main hall. Mumblings then turned to chantings. This time however I recognized one more voice other than Malik’s. There was a certain twinge of nervousness and stuttering when the man spoke but this time he did not only sound nervous, he sounded terrified. Yet there was no mistaking the voice, it was the hunched over man that approached me in front of the Draauger mine. I could not make out any of the words except one, “Passage”.

As morning came and the doors were unlocked, I found myself worried. What happened in the main hall? Why was he terrified? Did Malik lie to me? I rose from my bed with a quiet worry. I had felt it to be my duty to alert my compatriots at home of my worries around this town. So I lit a candle and picked up a pen and paper and began my writings of warnings in paper. I mentioned the hunchback man and my fears for what had happened to him. I mentioned the hymns at night and how strange they seemed and I even mentioned their seeming reverence for this Passage. I must admit I had a looming fear that they may deem me mentally unfit to continue my work but I felt it necessary to let them know. It was quite helpful that India was currently under British colonial rule, for without their postal services my job would be a lot harder. As I got dressed I figured I should investigate the altar a bit closer before delivering my letter to the nearest mission station post office. I left my room and went down the hallway to the main hall and passed a woman robed in black on the way. She smiled with that same smile I’ve seen on Malik’s lips a hundred times. I looked back to follow her with my gaze. She pulled out a keyring and unlocked the doors opposite my side of the hall. Realizing the main hall was going to be full any second with other temple workers, I hurried up towards the main hall.

When I got there I found myself yet again mesmerized by that strange white wooden door held upright by chains at the elevated platform. I looked around and seeing nobody around I stepped up on the altar and looked around the door. The door looked weathered, like it’d been there a while and had started to smell a bit of mold. Looking down at the floor behind the door however I found a small puddle of dark red sludge. I knelt down for a closer look and touched the small puddle with my index finger and my middle finger, blood. I rubbed the two fingers together as I looked closer around the puddle. As I was looking around, it was getting increasingly obvious that there had been more blood clumsily cleaned away with a mop. I noticed that there was a slight layer of watered down blood smeared over the wooden platform. “Good morning!”, I quickly flew up and turned around with a slight fright. I saw Malik standing there with that same pose he always had, his hands presumably interlocked in front of him covered by his robe. “Good morning”, I answered with a weakened composure. As I responded I instinctively hid my two bloodied fingers behind my back. Malik approached, “Are you alright Gordon?”. As Malik grew closer, my worry grew exponentially. I feared that he would see the blood and realize that I knew. So I lied. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”. The second those words left my lips I could tell they landed wrong. It could have been the slight quiver in my voice, the sweat dripping off my forehead or perhaps my tone was slightly off. I don’t know what sparked Malik to ask what he asked but whatever it was, I think it would be the start of my doom. Malik stopped and raised his eyebrows, “You wouldn’t lie to me… would you Gordon?”. I took a step back in my terror as I wondered… was I next? Was he going to do to me what he did to that poor hunchback man I met the other night? “Why would you ask such a thing?”. As I said this, I straightened my back and tried to grasp for any resemblance of stoicism to prevent me from crumbling and spiraling completely into nothing. Still standing there, inspecting me from head to toe, Malik spoke once more, “I am sorry Gordon. I have been in quite some stress as of late.” I breathed out and thought that perhaps I was safe after all as I responded, “Why? Is something troubling you?”. Malik turned around, “Come on Gordon. You are not blind, I know you’ve seen it. The people scared of daylight, the eyes darting at you from shadowed alleys and the horrible mutations this town has suffered. The people here live with a feeling of failure. They have lost hope, or perhaps faith. I need to save them, Gordon, but I can’t do it alone”. As he was turned around I took my chance to wipe off my bloody fingers under my robe. “Of course Malik. Whatever it takes”, I said with a forced smile hoping he wouldn’t see the fear under my shallow facade. Malik’s gaze met mine, “Thank you Gordon, you have been a true confidante as of late. I appreciate it. Now, are there any letters you would like delivered?”. It appeared my rhythm of writing letters had become quite foreseeable. “No, I think I would cherish the walk over there myself. It would do me good to go out and see the people anyways”. Malik’s eyes narrowed as he pondered what I said. To this point I had never delivered a letter myself, instead relying on the nuns walking the temple. Yet I felt like I would feel safer knowing this letter never crossed the temple’s hands. “Of course Gordon. You enjoy your walk”.

As my feet landed in that crooked cobbled street and my lungs were filled with that heavy smog of that God forsaken place, I felt eyes filled with ill meaning land on me once more. The heavy large wooden doors behind me closed and I resumed my walk. The postal office was on the edge of town but the town wasn’t large. I felt my step quicken as the peering eyes from the alleyways multiplied. The paths always seemed darker without Malik’s presence, it is as if him being there calmed the very town itself. I walked past the people and tried my best to ignore their mutations, walked past buildings until I found myself stopping before that looming entrance to an abandoned mining cave. “Don’t go down there”, Malik’s words echoed in my head. I think a part of me wondered, why not? But I had other business to attend to other than my childish curiosity, so I carried on and eventually delivered my mail. I did so even if I had to endure a passing squabble with the workers there. They seemed surprised by the fact that I chose to deliver my own mail. For a second I almost interpreted their surprise as them taking issue with this. They quickly dropped it however and accepted my mail.

V
The turn of the lock was fast and purposeful; Once more I was locked in my small room filled with nothing more than symbols, candles and one half moldy bed. I had regrettably started to view my room as less of a kindly given accommodation, and more of a cell where they threw me in every night. I had been in Draauger for almost a month now, and still I had no real knowledge of the local rituals they took part in every night. And was there always blood involved? I had only found traces of it once, but it’s hard not to let that get to you. As these thoughts swirled in my head, the nightly hymns started once more. The hymns took shape as low and almost out of earshot, but definitely there, chanting. I must admit, while the terror of what happened to that hunchback man a few weeks ago still lingered, I found myself growing curious of their rituals and symbolism. Why wouldn’t Malik answer my questions about that damn door? What was it? And what could it symbolise? A door? An entry? A Passage? I stopped my train of thoughts. What did that mean? Why have I heard that so often? And God help me, what happened to that hunchback man!? My candle was reaching its end as the wax stick melted away. I quickly lit another one and decided to take another look at the walls of symbols. I held my candle tight as I lifted it to illuminate the madly scrawled on walls. The symbols quite literally covered all four walls, in some places they were neatly organized and in some they were more erratically placed. Some I could identify, and some I could not, but one stood out; I felt I had seen it before. A white rectangle standing upright. That was when it hit me, the same symbol was neatly placed on Malik’s forehead. It meant something here; A passage, but a passage to what? I felt myself growing agitated as I saw more and more of that same symbol cover the walls. It was more than I thought, and seemed to be the symbol most prevalent among the others. But I still felt I had seen it somewhere else. I thought back to that strange large painting in Italy. That large portrait that was crafted so quickly of the latest pope, and that strange inviting symbol in the right hand lowest corner. It seemed to almost be… No, it could not be. I dismissed the thought, but felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I thought back to that hunchback who had mumbled something about the Passage. He said he was not worthy, and worse, that it changed him; It changed him wrong. And he did look wrong. Was there… Was there some truth to his words or just some strange blame placed upon a local deity to make the suffering of their everyday life make more sense? Was this Passage just their local scapegoat for their suffering? The hymns and chanting from the main hall got a little louder, and I could now distinguish Malik’s voice. He knows more, but he refuses to say. If I wish to truly help these people, I need to know what Malik knows even if he wishes me not to.

I had been here long enough to know that Malik has his own sleeping chamber that he retires to after his nightly ritual, I had heard the movements from outside my door, seen him go in and out of a specific room during the day to rest and grab specific attire or pencils and other miscellaneous items. If there was more to find out, I think it would be in there. Powerful men of such stations and with such obligations can’t keep it all in their head. I realized that while such an excursion would be best tried during the cover of night, such a possibility wasn’t available to me because of that cursed eight PM lockdown. I was expected to be locked in my room from 8 PM to 6 AM and commotion would start if I wasn’t in there at the appropriate time. I feared they might even just keep me in here if they had reason to suspect my suspicions. “Tomorrow” I whispered to myself as I sat there in that cold room holding my one stick of quickly melting wax, listening to dying hymns of strange rituals I had never seen.

That night I remember laying in my bed waiting for a slumber that kept eluding me. I repeatedly checked my wristwatch as the time just kept nearing sunrise, it read 3:30, then 4:45, and then 5:25. As morning was approaching, I eventually gave up, got dressed, and just sat in my bed. I kept thinking of my plan for today, of how I was going to gain access to Malik’s sleeping chamber. I knew the nuns had keyrings. Perhaps I needed to steal one. Perhaps… My thoughts were interrupted by murmurings outside. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. I checked my wristwatch, 5:45. People weren’t supposed to be out except for maybe one nun to unlock the doors. I tried to listen to what they were saying but only managed to make out one word… My name, uttered by Malik. I checked my wristwatch once more as it read 6 AM. They were always punctual so I expected to hear that turn of the key any second now. Yet the murmurings persisted and my lock remained locked. Seconds became minutes and my worry grew. Why are they keeping me here? The murmurings died. I checked again, 6:14. They had never been this late. I stood up from my bed as I decided to knock on my door. As I made my way to the door, I heard the lock quickly turn. The door swung open and I stood before it, startled. For never before had it been Malik who opened it. “Gordon! I do apologize, friend. One of my sisters felt quite a bit ill and needed to rest. I hope I didn’t scare you”. I tried to regain my composure as I straightened my robes, “Of course not Kiaan, it’s quite alright”. Malik smiled, but as I viewed it I could not seem to feel that same warmth as before. It could have been my imagination but to me, it seemed more hollow than before. I thought of asking him about the conversation I almost overheard but didn’t. Looking back on it, I think I was afraid. For the thought felt like an icy river piercing my skin. It felt like a risk to let him know I even had thoughts. I could not take chances. So I smiled and acted like nothing was wrong until I heard him utter the words that shattered my facade. “Gordon”, Malik took a step closer and furrowed his brows. “Something has felt different lately. You have felt it too, yes?”. I felt I wished to take a step back but managed to remain still. “Yes”, I uttered in my most steady voice that I could muster. Malik spoke once more, “I am afraid, Gordon. I am afraid that I’ve been most unsuited as a host. I feel as if I have not made you feel as welcome as you are. The locking of the door every night does not help I realize and keeping you out from our most sacred rituals alienate you. It is natural to feel worried, suspicious or even scared. But I do not wish for it to be this way Gordon”. I realized my acting abilities had quite obviously betrayed me as I tried to bridge the gap, “No, Kiaan. It is quite alright. You have secrets, as is natural and I am an outsider who writes letters to more outsiders. I understand. Malik shook his head, “No Gordon. This is a problem, one that I seek to amend. You have done well so far, I see you out there. You wish to help, to aid. This is all that I want. I respect you as a fellow man of the cloth, but more importantly, as my friend. Therefore I would like to extend to you an invitation”. I was still worried but that icy piercing feeling was slightly loosening. Perhaps, I thought to myself, He would truly let me in. Perhaps this was better, no more suspicions for I would know the truth, and could decide for myself what to do with that truth. Malik continued, “There is one caveat though”. Malik’s eyes grew harsher as to issue a warning, “Some things stay off the written paper”. The icy feeling rose once more, “Yes”, I shook out of myself. “Of course Kiaan”. Malik looked pleased and loosened his harsh expression, “Tonight, you will take part in the sacred ritual. You will learn of and, I hope, embrace our beliefs”. He smiled once more with a bit of a warmer smile than before. Perhaps this conversation pleased him, I hoped. Malik turned around and left my cold and scribbled room, although the room felt warmer without him.

That could have been it. I could have taken Malik’s word and simply waited for nightfall to be invited into the nightly ceremonies and discover what awful truths were on display, every night, right outside my door. If it only were not for that sneaking voice in the back of my head whispering that even now Malik lies. The words of my mentor rang in my head, “Greatness is for those with the courage to seek it”. I shook my head and just like that, I felt my legs starting to move me out of that accursed dark room.

Finding myself in the hallway right outside my room, I looked around. I was immediately greeted by a steady stream of men and women of the cloth pacing steadily down into the main hall. To my right I saw Malik just finishing up unlocking the very last door to the left. At the very end of that narrow hallway made of stone, now next to Malik, was a door that seemed larger than the rest. In my mind it seemed dark, almost menacing. If I was not as firm in my convictions that God watched over my shoulder, I might have turned my back on it all. But I did not and instead took one last glimpse of that great door at the end of the hall before turning into the main hall. My line of thinking being that I could later sneak in there when Malik was not standing besides it.

My stay in the main hall was not long for the mere room had started to cause a deep rooted fear in me. I could not help my breath from quickening the moment I set foot in there and was in view of that white wooden door at the altar. I quickly got in the closest booth to my left which was situated right next to the opening of the hall to the right, the hall in which mine and Malik’s sleeping chambers resided. The small booth meant for solitary praying to whatever deity you saw fit was perfect for my purpose of remaining unseen from Malik. I could see very little outside of the main hall yet this brought me nothing but comfort. After a minute or so I heard another pair of light footsteps glide right outside my booth to my right. I assumed it must have been Malik walking past me. I looked out of the small slits in my front and could only see someone wearing a robe that looked like Malik’s. I waited another ten minutes to feel sure that Malik had left and would not see my exit. I took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm my raging nerves and stepped outside. I quickly sidestepped back into the right hall and made my way down it. With each step I took down that, now seemingly, long and dark corridor I felt a growing dread. One not unlike that which I felt with my first steps into this blasphemous town. I reached the door and to my surprise I felt the handle budge under the weight of my hand. It was actually unlocked. A part of me wished this daring attempt was nothing but foolhardy, “it would be safer for me not to open this door”, I thought. Yet the words of my mentor Saviano still rang in my head. I surveyed my surroundings to make sure no one was watching and thus proceeded to pull the great dark door open.

With my breath, still at a pace that was much faster than healthy, I quickly closed the door behind me. The room was dim with a, still lit, candle sitting on the desk in front of me. The floor was sparsely decorated, leaving the dark wooden floor room to breathe. The walls were draped in mysterious tapestries filled with an array of colors and seemingly portraying dim stars. Behind the strangely beautiful tapestries there lay a dark red wallpaper. On the right lay a very simple bed. As I approached the desk upon which lay the ever flickering light, slowly burning into oblivion, I noticed a book laying out in the open next to a used pen. At that moment I felt a familiar feeling. I could not help but feel the same as whenever I travelled alone out on the poorly cobbled streets of Draauger. I felt the stare of eyes. My eyes darted around the room but all I saw was again a bed, strange tapestries and the contents that lay upon the desk. Even though this troubled me, I could still sense that the eyes were not malevolent like the ones outside, yet held a certain warmth to them. I tried with all my might to shrug the feeling off and reach out towards the book. It appeared to be a journal, containing Malik’s thoughts and prayers while working in the temple. I hesitated to open it, it seemed sinful. Yet I know that I have come so far, and only in absolute truth can I trust Malik once more. The entries appeared to be very few and far between and the book naturally opened at the end. Most of the entries were containing the daily work within the temple and how it weighed upon his soul. He spoke of certain tales he had heard of people in the city that troubled him especially. I turned a page and I saw one entry where he mentioned me. The book read, “I know not, which path Gordon’s rigid soul will lead. Yet I know it is my purpose to lead it right. I sense potential in him, yet a great deal of confusion, born from trauma. If I can succeed in this purpose of mine, I wholeheartedly believe his change will be glorious”. I reflected on the words, “Change? Does he… Am I to be his next victim?”. Panic gripped my heart and all I could focus on was not to let out the scream building in my throat. Still I kept turning the pages backwards. He spoke some more of normal work within the temple, seemingly mixing the mundane with horror of the highest calibre without caring to notice the difference. In another entry he spoke of the mining operation in the town and how mournful he was over its “necessary end”. I kept going backwards in the book, “Hadek lies. He spends all his time down in the mine, but won’t even let his workers down there. Worse yet he refuses to pay us for we are not working! I’ve tried to plead with his guards to let me down there, I just need to explain to him. If Hadek could see my need, surely he would not let my family starve. There are no religious leaders I can turn to and there is no one I can speak to; All there is, is currency, shelter and food. And he keeps it from me!”. The writing becomes more illegible as it goes on “To the depths with them! I will […] I’ll show him!” – Signed Kiaan Malik 1919. I turned the page to the very next entry, “I see now. My family has changed. They love me still, guiding the lost with a warm embrace to change. They helped me. They help us find meaning. They could not help Hadek for he changed wrong. To be the loving hands that guide through the glory of passage, is there any greater honor?”

Before any further time for reflection passed, there was a low hum of a voice rising behind me, “I had such high hopes for you”. Startled, I turned around yet despite the voice, there was no one present. “You write letters, filled with poison to violent people governed by dogmatism”. All that was in front of my eyes were those strange tapestries draped all over the walls. The voice continued, “I accepted that it would take time for you to see truth, you had been brainwashed and ruled by fear for so long that change must seem horrid to you”. Terror set in before anything else yet what awaited was far worse than anything that had preceded. The still tapestries were still no more, for I swear that I saw movement. The stars, ever so dim, twinkled and the colors, they moved towards me. And in that moment, for having no better alternative I likened it to what inviting horror I saw in my dream, a month before. The colors were viscous like a malicious slime yet, strangely beautiful. “I knew the poison you spread must be contained until such time that you could be reasoned with. As such, your letters have been read by no eyes, other than mine”. My mind had no other recourse but to freeze. I stood still and struggled to breathe as the viscous colors shaped themselves into what looked like appendages, then a torso, a head, the facial features and finally a full body; That of Malik’s. All that remained were his blasphemous hands, for they could not change yet remained sublime. All I managed to stutter out was, “W…what are you!?”. My gaze went over to Malik’s face which even now contained only warmth. “Still, I only wish to help shed your shackles.”. Malik reached out his right arm so that the viscous colors filled with dim stars could twinkle ever so invitingly to me. I could not think. Overwhelmed with fear and a startling realization that no one was coming for me. I was so alone, if not for Malik. He continued, “Gordon, let us try again. Let us trust again.” The ooze that was supposed to be his hand now changed in front of my eyes. They seemed to form something reminiscent of a hand yet still consisting solely of those strange colors with that thick viscosity filled with the twinkling of dim stars. “You wished to know what I believe in. Let me show you”. At that moment, all I could think of was not wanting to be here. This is why, I think, the hand seemed so inviting. It offered to be my guide to something else. My body was still frozen, yet I felt my right hand grasping the ooze. Malik seemed relieved. As my hand grasped the ooze as in a limp handshake, the ooze started enveloping my hand with the warmth of a mother’s embrace and I felt love and panic contest within my heart. The sensation was mesmerising. With a gentle pull I felt my feet start to move forward harmoniously with Malik as he glided before me. I followed him almost in reverence in my hollowed state. We walked across the hallway into the main hall. In my continually dulling panic I let my eyes wander around the room. I saw the disapproval stares and could hear the gruntings of the fellow nuns and monks who did not have the patience of Malik. Malik guided me out of those great doors to the outside. I was – am terrified yet mesmerised by such a thing of beauty. Malik’s very essence or perhaps his change seemed so far above me that I felt compelled to oblige, yet I do not know if the feeling stemmed from fear or awe. As I felt the poorly cobbled streets beneath my boots I once more felt the eyes of the town stare at me, yet this time they seemed devoid of malevolence. I suspect I know why, for they knew what was to become of my fate and thus could feel only jealousy.

I now realized where we were headed; Towards the mine. I looked at his determined yet kind face and asked, “Am I to join your family?”. Without stopping Malik responded, “If you are worthy and I believe you are. Yet I suspect that is of less importance to you Gordon. Is there nothing you wish for? You can have it. If you are worthy of it. The change is not only of the metaphysical, but of your soul, your surroundings and who is around. Change is everything Gordon. If you are not happy then you should change! I will help, but the final steps Gordon. That, I can not do for you”. We stopped in front of the mine. To my left was that damned sign laying in the ground, that read – Draauger mine. To my right stood the ever proud Malik with an expression that I could only attribute to awe. He said, “I still remember my first time seeing it. It was so strange to me then. I have no doubt you will fear change. But I implore you Gordon. Cast aside your fear, reject your dogmatism, embrace the Passage”. It would be a sin to lie to you so I will only tell you the truth, I was curious – yet terrified. Malik looked at me once more,“It is time Gordon”. And then he turned around and started walking back to the temple. To my surprise there was no one obviously there. I still felt eyes, mind you but there was no one insisting on my entry to the cave. Malik went home leaving me alone with the surrounding curious eyes from boarded in homes.I took five steps away from the cave, towards the place where my airplane first landed. No one stopped me – No one at all. My mind wandered and I fell into prayer. I asked what the right recourse was but felt no answer in my heart. Is it true? Had Saviano gotten none of my letters and never thought to send aid? Did he care so little? Was there no love within my community? Was there no love within God? The thought occurred that my misery at home perhaps did not stem from a lack of helping of others but that no one cared for me. My mother was dead and the people I saw only wanted my help and even I, dulled to the feeling of helping them. It all seemed so dull. Perhaps I needed to change. I turned around and took five steps towards the cave. No one stopped me. I thought to myself, “Perhaps just one look. To see what my choice is to be”. With this final thought, I felt my feet moving downwards into the dark interior caverns.

As I went further and my vision darkened, I started to hear droppings of water. The droppings echoed and got louder as that eventually became my sole sensory input. Seeing nothing, I reached my hands forwards in hopes of grasping onto anything that could aid my step forward. In my luck they found their way to a sort of hard and sharp rock, that was generously covered in a gelatinous and slimy surface. As my hands made contact with the surface I was overpowered by a smell. It felt welcoming and I knew it instantaneously. It smelled of my mother. And as the slime rested on my fingertips it felt like holding hands with her loving grasp. As I let my left hand trace over my right arm the feeling of a full embrace rang clearer. And as the slime made its way over my body I felt her love more until the need to see her again became unbearable. I held my hands over my eyes and wondered if this was lunacy or simply love persevering. Perhaps the line between the two could be so vague that there was no point in making a difference. As the gelatinous substance connected with my eyes I felt the need to blink over and over until a twilight emerged. It was in that twilight that the twinkling of stars was made visible to me. It was now all over the walls in that once dark cavern. And the slime that lay, covering the jagged rock, was a strange array of colors. But what my eyes locked into was the thing the room was centered around, a door. The door was not wooden yet composed merely of what appeared to be twinkling stars surrounded by darkness which stood out in the now twilight of the rest of the room. It seemed that the twilight died as it touched the entryway – the Passage.

I am writing this now for I know naught what to do. I am scared. What will become of me if I enter the Passage is unclear but I fear I can not live a life where I do not enter. I feel nothing but love emanating from behind that veil and I know in my heart my mother is there, waiting for me. For what else could be so loving? If I am something else when I return from it and if my motivations were to be different, then it falls to you to spread the word; You who found this confession. You must tell Saviano what happened here. The order must know of the wickedness and the beauty that lies within the small town of Draauger. They must know that there is more. God’s miracles extend further than I could ever have anticipated! If this wonder truly is that of God. Regardless, this is it, at this very moment I feel my legs move me forward. I know the choice is but an illusion. There is no world where I do not join my mother in change. I see it now! The door opens for me. It is beautiful! And I hear it! The bell from high above! It rings! Wailing of hundreds reaching down from the streets of Draauger! Rejoicing my transformation, my reunion! I am coming, mother! I have miss-

Credit: Charlie Myrén