Positive Liberty

“So you don’t know what happens to you after you die here?” asked the Devil’s Advocate. “Well, then that makes it just like the real world.”

“No,” I replied. “I have at least some idea of what happens after I die in the real world.”

“And doesn’t it frighten you? I mean, the possibility that something truly nasty might await you in the afterlife, here or over there?”

“I’m not sure. So far as I know, very few Reals ever come to the unreal world in the first place. I’m not aware of any besides myself who have done it recently. And I’ve never heard of one dying here. As to the real world, I’m pretty sure death is going to be a bad thing. I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, and I don’t accept Pascal’s Wager.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let me try offering it to you.”

“Me? I’m already playing for the other team.”

“Then we’ll have to change the wager ever so slightly. Let me put it to you like this: You are an Unreal; your home is here, in the unreal world–and when you die, we can assume that absolutely nothing happens. You weren’t ever really real to begin with.”

“Precisely. And because I’m Unreal, I’ve got nothing at all to lose by following Satan.”

“So suppose I told you that you should be good today, because tomorrow I would hurt you if you are evil. And besides, you’ve got nothing to lose by being good for a day, even if my threat turns out to be false. You’ve only got punishment to avoid.”

“Would that make you good–or evil?” asked the Devil’s Advocate.

“It’s not about me; it’s about you. How would you evaluate my threat?”

“Well, it certainly is a threat. But I’d want to know how likely the punishment was before I made any decisions based on it. And besides, I would think you were quite a bully–where do you get off forcing me to be good with threats? What kind of goodness is that? I thought Aristotle”–the Devil’s Advocate spat–”said that goodness was that thing which was pursued as an end in itself.”

“That’s more or less how I feel about Pascal’s Wager. As to life after death, I see no evidence for it. And I find it ridiculous to think that anything, short of actually dying, could adequately prepare me for the experience of death. In the end, I’ve quite given up on trying.”

“And there is no guide in all of your philosophy that will teach you about death?”

“Not a thing.”

“Surely, then, you are starting to see the shortcomings of the entire system you are crafting? I mean, isn’t it all starting to look awfully vain by now?”

“To be honest, it is. Worse, all that noble stuff about having a critical, independent, thoughtful mind–a mind that never sacrifices itself to anything–even all of that doesn’t guarantee someone’s virtue, as we’ve just seen. And it certainly doesn’t guarantee anyone’s happiness. I mean, just look around me.”

“I’m sure the Prudent Predator is an exceptional case.”

“Quite the contrary. We all have it in our power to be like him, any time we wish. And you can see the result of that power right here. I’ve lost my friends, I’m imprisoned, and I’m likely to face one of three very nasty deaths in the near future. There’s not the slightest guarantee of either virtue or happiness in life, I tell you.”

“Then being a ‘good person’ or a ‘bad person’ is a meaningless distinction? And then–all life itself would be meaningless!” He seemed far too pleased with himself.

“And at times, my life really does seem completely meaningless. I do some good. Then I do some bad. Then I wonder about where the whole thing is going. But nothing really changes. To try to help myself, I make up some explanations, but I’m not even sure that I myself believe them. Then I go to sleep, I wake up, and I do it all over again.

“I’m at the stage in my life where I’m realizing that I’m never really going to amount to much. Maybe I’ll be remembered as a good person; maybe as a bad person. I doubt very much I will be famous in either direction, and what it all means is that I’m not really going to be anything people will want to remember for very long after I’m gone. In a way, it’s liberating, not having to live for all those other people, not even facing all that much pressure to do it,” I said. “But in a way, well–I guess we all wish we amounted to something. Is that too much to ask?”

“It’s nice to have low expectations. Of course, your life could end in a mere matter of days, if not sooner. And then you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“That’s true of everyone, isn’t it?”

“It’s especially true in your situation, I would think.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.”

“So do we have a deal about the keys?”

“Sure,” I replied. “What’s the worst that could happen? As I see it, I stand nothing to lose.”

“Funny you should say that. So I’ll give you the key to the cell, and you’ll give me the key to the Citadel?”

“I think so. But I want to see, first, that the key you’ve got there is actually able to get me out. No sense having you vanish after slipping me a bogus key.”

“Fair enough.” He inserted the key, and the lock on the cage slipped open effortlessly. Suddenly I regretted our bargain, but there was not a thing I could do about it anymore. At least, not honestly–and I had a feeling I would regret giving the Prudent Predator anything more to work with on this adventure. It was bad enough escaping from his dungeon, even though I had a perfect right to my freedom. The Devil’s Advocate reclaimed my wrought-iron key, and I would just have to take my chances at the Citadel without it.

“Farewell,” he said. “You will forgive me if I do not say ‘Adieu.’”

“Of course.” And with that, he vanished in a puff of hydrogen sulfide.

I surveyed the room around me. The guards were presumably upstairs, as was Mr. Prudence himself. But even his mere presence raised question after question in my mind: If he was after all so prudent, then how did he dare to kidnap a shopkeeper, overrun the shop–and keep it open for business–but expect not to get caught? How did he manage to conduct negotiations with foreign powers, over the public execution of a prisoner, presumably through at least three distinct intermediary channels–and hope to cover all of his tracks? Avatars are clever, but something didn’t add up.

Sadly, I didn’t have time to ponder it: The only other exit from the room was a sewer grate, which seemed rather more promising than having to fight the guards. Just to be on the safe side, I removed the suit of chain mail that I’d stolen: No sense tempting fate. Then I wrenched the grate up and out of its setting, which proved surprisingly easy. I took the torch from the wall and climbed inside, and at that moment it occurred to me that this was, technically theft–where, after all, was I to draw the line? I left a few dollars behind to pay for my transgression, just in case.

Thankfully, there was an iron ladder set into the stonework. It led downward into the darkness, and I followed. The ladder gave out on a long corridor with a sewage trough in the center. All around me was stonework, probably ancient in its workmanship. I could see to the limit of the torch in either direction, and there appeared to be no other entrances nearby. Unsure for a moment which way to turn, I followed the direction of the water, figuring that it would have to let out on the surface somewhere. Now, in a fantasy setting this is not always the case–hollow worlds, portals to alternate realms of existence, and magical water disposal systems all have a way of turning up. But I had little time to worry about such things right now.

I moved quickly to put as much distance as possible between myself and my former prison. More than once, the torch flickered and threatened to go out, which would have been a complete disaster. Little by little, the passageway grew; the stream in the center grew likewise, fed perhaps by inlets below the surface. Never was there a chance to deviate from the path.

At length I could see in front of me that the passage led into a gigantic cavernous opening–and that within it there were structures, artificial lights, and even some flickers of activity. I had no idea where I was. Given where I had come from, though, it hardly mattered. I stepped into a giant archway at the end of the passage which appeared to be a checkpoint of some sort. The drainage ditch emptied discreetly into a culvert just before the checkpoint.

“Halt, who goes there?” a voice asked me. It was a gnome, though the accent was unfamiliar. It came from somewhere in the archway above me.

“I am a traveler, and I am lost. I mean you no harm.”

“Wait here while we determine the truth of your story.”

“I will answer any questions you like.”

“Thank you, but we do not need your help.”

Several moments later, a trapdoor in the ceiling opened, and five gnomes slid down a rope to the floor.

“Your story checks out, and you are free to enter. Welcome to Kingsbarrow.”

“How did you know I was legit? Did you read my mind?”

“We asked the spirits who guide us, for there are things greater than our five senses, and we answer to their authority.”

“You mean you contacted them?”

“Indeed.”

“How? I mean, you just said you can’t just use your five senses, right?”

“You are right. But beyond that we cannot say.”

“And how did they answer you?”

“The same way that we contacted them.”

“You can’t say?”

“We can’t say.”

“How do you know when they aren’t saying anything?”

“We know.”

“What if I told you that I didn’t believe in these things, since I’d never seen them?”

“We would chide you for your lack of faith. Then we would pat ourselves on the back, because faith is a good thing, and we have it in abundance.”

“I suppose I would be free to do the same about my rationality, and that I could doubt your wisdom in turn.”

“Yes, but we are more numerous.” It is always easier, I thought to myself, for the greater number to act more foolishly and to declare itself more noble. The reverse is true for the smaller number.

“That settles everything, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“By no means! It throws everything into confusion!”

“How so?”

“Well, we apprehend the truth through higher methods, exactly as we always do. And we found that it’s permitted for you to enter the city. But there are others who claim to do precisely the same thing, and yet they come to different conclusions. These individuals are liars and charlatans. They must be fought with all available resources. That’s why we must be careful with everyone who enters.”

“I don’t believe in anything that cannot be supported by sensory evidence. Indeed, if something never intrudes into the world of the senses, then what basis do we even have for claiming that it exists?”

“How childish of you. But I guess your prejudice is fundamentally harmless. If you cannot grasp our higher realities, then you are to be pitied, not hated.”

“How exactly do you ascertain the reality of extrasensory beings? Do you sense them?”

“As it happens, we do.”

“Then they aren’t extrasensory, are they?”

“They are.”

“Well, good day to you then. And say, could you tell me perhaps how to get back to the surface–only, not by the way I came?”

“I don’t believe in the surface,” the guard replied. “I’ve never seen it.”

Trackback URI |