42

once we have have swum we I can go back to doing what I've been called here to do. His mind is coming back to him. His thinking is becoming more organized. Less abstract, less stream-of-consciousness oriented. More intelligible and less impressionistic. The sea. Where has this come from? For he is, indeed, standing in front of a sea. What has become of his sanctuary? Where is the church? Where are the priests? A tired, yet recurring question: Where is he? His hand is itching. There is no longer pain. Or, if there is, it is the ... the non-hallucinatory kind. Why has his hand been cut off? Ah yes: he has joined The Committee. Okay, well, ummm... Why has his hand been cut off? He has returned to asking questions of himself, of his situation. He has returned to thinking of himself in the first person singular rather than in the third person plural. He is not, after all, an aristocrat to declare himself through the Royal We. Then why has he been doing so? Hunter. The Committee. Where is The Committee? Why has he joined The Committee? He remembers: He has joined The Committee such that he may, through some level of maneuvering, become a member of The Order. And he wishes to join The Order why, exactly? Well, to be able to ask questions, apparently, without being screamed at by huge horrible monsters. But he has joined The Committee, and has still been screamed at by huge horrible monsters and, what's worse, is that he has lost a hand in the process.
This sucks. Where the hell is he? What has become of his sanctuary? And let's not forget about the hunger. He has eaten he knows not how long ago, with the priests, but now the hunger is returning. Has his sanctuary ended?
A buzzing comes from a pocket in his pants. It is a phone. Somehow. He takes it out of his pocket and answers it. An officious, irritated voice accosts him. Where are you? We have a meeting, this morning, and you are late.