Complete Prologue

I have journeyed beyond. I cannot go back, because I no longer speak the language of the past, of my past. No suitable translation could be found. All of the naive bantering about perfection and proof and persuasion melted into a garble of meaningless babble. From tower to tower I have traveled, from that of Babel to ivory. Past the ever- and over-reaching grasp of civilization, past the northern tundra, north into the snow, through the ice, where the earth is unhinged from its sun, through the confusion, into the clarity of Hyperborea I sojourned.

As I came over and between the last crag I saw through an opening a flash of light and of green. To fit through I unpacked the last isms from bag and passed at last into the realm of Hyperborea. The air became no longer cold, but brisk and invigorating like the land itself, at once more wild and tranquil than any southerly scenescape. On criss-crossing hills which nourished the most severe peaks grew thin grasses, thick trees, and various forms of foliage in between. Strewn about were great rocks as of granite and the occasional flowers which might be described as sharp, but few would accuse them of being bright. I saw no sign of human disturbance except a stone tower, but movement like that of animals, though few birds spotted the cloudless sky.

Walking in this land I sensed no left and right, but every direction and none. Refreshing my senses on the delights of Hyberborea, good and evil seemed as but two-dimensional play things to be discarded. When I got to the ancient structure I found it abandoned, apparently an old watchtower to monitor the entrance to Hyperborea. The furnishings were sparse and worn, but ageless as the solitary chamber itself which crowned the cylinder’s spiraling stairs. Above the entrance, etched in the stone it read “The one who here abodes shall be named Victor Eremita” and so I am.