XIII [PART I].

The corridor. Without end, without measure. The faster I hurry the further the old guard’s Table becomes. I pass cell after cell. Though I cannot make out what’s inside—for even the flame does not enter—I hear sounds overlapping. Frantic whispers, low babbling, an interminable, monotone laugh. They gather, one atop the other, without recognition.

I hasten, my bare feet slapping against the slick stones, each step returning only to itself.

The Table arrives all at once.

I slide to a stop before it. It seemed near because I had mistaken its scale. The surface extends well beyond the reach of the nearest light, the far edge withdrawing into darkness. The grain is visible in long, uninterrupted runs, each line wider than my hand. A cup stands near the edge, its rim level with my head. I approach the nearest chair and find the seat rises above my waist.

From the corridor behind me: movement—more than one body, all arriving together.

They step into the light. The old guard first, unchanged in his stature. He takes his place as Head of Table with a downcast look and a sigh.

The others follow.

They do not appear larger at first. It is only when one of them reaches for the cup that the proportion becomes apparent. The hand that encloses the porcelain would take my head entire. A fat child trots past me, the gust of his movement nearly tipping me over. He pulls out a chair and the seat receives him without adjustment. His feet reach the floor.

“Ah,” says the guard, noticing me. “There you are.”

His wife inclines her head in greeting. “You must sit,” she says. “Sit, sit. It is nearly time.”