“Then how?”

“Exactly how Old Works functions is mysterious,” Pheel said, “One day I'll tell you the story of how all this began, with the proviso that it is a story - ad hoc, pasted later onto what was already a functioning institution that had need of one. A story. In reality, we don't really know. - How it started; why this works on Shensh, this reality - how the connection of a head writer – it wasn't surgery, so much, but – I'll explain this to you so you have a feeling for it -”

He paused, seemed to see something - he saw something, internally, and then continued, “There is a part where conscious ideas are required, but that's not the meat of it: - I'll tell you the meat of it.” He paused again. “There's a room. In Old Works. If he's still alive, and hasn't just dropped dead, the previous head writer, in my case Hill Cassons, a good guy - he takes you into the first space. You're surrounded by Cyclops. All the Cyclops in the world, that see anyway, that aren't the minimum required to keep the rest functioning. They see you in space that is...”

The burn [which was a word meaning stream in Art's particular dialect,] was chatting away to itself in the near-distance.

“It's all angles, the space: they turn you around and you cannot see, nor understand anything, where you are. In relation to – the rest, anything else of it; I'm explaining to you the impressions one receives. It's almost at the direct centre of Old Works; though not exactly because, that room, is apparently for another purpose - they say technical, but who knows, and you are seen in a very specific sense you'd have to ask a Cyclops to describe. If they even could. And I'll tell you they can't. Afterwards. The world, the hero, the symbols, if they really are that; if they're anything,.. if they're not just weird ideas, or obsessions or whatever - if they are not just that, after that - they're pulled directly out the back of your head. You become Old Works. You become it - and the story is you.”

To Art, Pheel looked like a man who had finally explained something to himself, in terms adequate enough for him to continue living.

“So you have a particular relationship, not just to me - let's say in terms we hope aren't overly effeminate, but to here, this place; to Shensh itself, no?”

Thinking about it, “You could say that.”

“And how did you get here?”

“I told you.”

“By means of a supernatural cunt - right? Forgive my abrupt approach to language and ideas, I'm not a sophisticated person, I massacre demons.”

“No, no, no by all means, let's speak as if we know each other.” Some sort of understanding was exchanged. I don't think, thought Pry, either man had ever exchanged with another being of any: kind/sex/nature. Mostly we just see past each other. Their gazes stopped against being, impenetrable.

“Okay. What are you saying?”