Cathedral 9.3.5
The churches I build do not have spires. In my medium, even the loftiest steeple draws no nearer to heaven than the ground below. Looking out the stained glass, you will find neither city sidewalks nor small-town streets, no sun or moon or stars, no sky at all. Emptiness alone will greet you.
The foundation of these great halls is some deeper point, the next twist around a corner, the hidden singularity at the sacred core. Whereas most constructions rely on a certain exactitude of measurement, mine uphold an opposite strangeness. What appears a single step away is in fact at the distance of many paces, and the slightest nook disguises cavernous galleries. Perplexing warps and wrinkles beguile the beholder forward, further, and beyond, until alternatives ebb and the enchantment falls in full.
All the usual elements are present: polished crosses hang at intervals, bibles and hymnals rest jointly in the pew racks, a few short stairs lead to the altar and pulpit. There are candlesticks and candle snuffs, organ pipes and timbral lights, choir lofts and gothic arts. You might even swing open the fallboard of the baby grand and tap a few keys. And yet... there, pausing for a moment, you will hesitate as you consider the sound. Is this low E really the product of two long coiled copper strings vibrating a foot away beneath the lid? You shake your head slowly... no, no, this must be the sound of a different piano, thousands of miles away, in a moment long since passed, injected into your present situation like so many fluttering butterflies pinned up and epoxied for display. How beautifully, conveniently fraudulent.
Indeed, those who seek actuality will be disappointed. Fountains form leaping horses and dancing warriors in foaming waves. Enormous triptychs illustrate the ancient scenes in action, patriarchs waving and bowing to the audiences outside their canvases. Towering pillars prove excellent walkways to soaring vaults, where frescoes are not frescoes at all but breathtaking sculpture gardens replete with billowing clouds, dancing cherubim, and hovering saints. Should you wish to join their flight, you will meet no resistance – even gravity is but a courtesy here.
The whole world lies remarkably near. Whether in Kathmandu, Riga, Dakar, or Santiago, only a short summons separates you. Visitors from all regions arrive daily for gatherings great and small. All the same, should you prefer solitude, there is no need to be troubled by others. In a blink you are alone, left to meditate and roam to your heart's content. There will be no eyes meeting yours, no polite shuffle past. There will be no trickles of chorus practice, soft conversations, doors opening and closing. Just your own footsteps echoing before you.
At one time my spaces were quite finite, enough that you might discover every candelabra, cupboard, and coffer after a few days' wandering. But then the lab produced an historic advancement, an algorithm designed to generate architecture in real time through the application of user data concerning characteristics, habits, and preferences. This algorithm, which became known as the Infinitesimal Engine, revolutionized the exploratory experience on two fronts. Firstly, generated scenes demonstrated a remarkable affinity and specificity to the user entering them. For instance, a room might contain books in the user's native language, or images of ethnically relevant individuals. Secondly, the extent of exploration was indefinitely extended. That is, no matter how far the user might travel, another space would always await.
The implications were profound. What is more idolized than self, or more revered than infinity? The very notion of divinity hinges on such ineffable vastness as the update provided. In effect, Version 3 attained an unparalleled luster. User interactions with even a single one of our locations might last months, each abounding in introspections and revelation. Pathways lengthened. Pilgrimages could be had within the temple of relics of self.
Not that we intended these relics, or even preferred them. When users began to report dark stirrings, we panicked. Eyes on the mural following your passing? Hooded figures crossing far-off corridors? Family pictures hung at the votive stations? These would frighten off users, we were sure.
Our worries proved founded. But rather than fleeing en masse, users adapted. Those who sought little stayed in the shallows, avoiding deeper realms and uncharted fears. Others, insatiable and desperate, braved the unsettling wilds where their own souls were laid bare before them. For indeed, we found that the frequency of abnormalities scaled quadratically with distance from the origin.
We protected users, of course. There were no indications of physical or psychological harm, but even still we built protections. We carefully studied trends in user interaction to note areas of concern and offer guardrails. Our responsibility, as we saw it then, was never to constrain but to empower with tools for self-defense.
The Infinitesimal Engine was by this point unalterable, so we built around it. We founded the User Engagement and Curation Team, which I chaired, to promote enjoyment, comfort, and safety. Our first step was to closely monitor any users who ventured too far. We established a threshold of ten thousand paces from the origin and recorded the experience of any user beyond this mark. From the audio and video recordings we could document signs of trouble. So many users required monitoring. Watching them all left me dizzy, nauseous, floundering in alien lives. Perhaps this was a violation of privacy. In light of what followed, I wish we'd done more.
When I speak of what I saw, I must describe the movements and actions of these users, their words and prayers, as my own. I can't imagine them — relive them — any other way...
I awake slouched against a wall in a yellow hallway, where red flowers are held by green vines snaking mysteriously in gentle curls. Some overhead lamps hang by chains from the ceiling. The hall is irrationally undersized, ceilings too low for me to stand and doorways I can only crawl through. Every few paces along the hall is another room filled with dwarfish desks and children's toys, an alien school of sorts. I crawl from one room to the next along the hall, following tiny twists and turns, hoping to find a space to stand. Instead, over the course of many days, the hallways slowly and imperceptibly shrink until I am shoving my way forward, crushed by yellow walls. The place floods brown and I scream.
I awake in a forest of columns supporting a roof of multicolored lights, marble tiles on the floor cut into flat profiles of haggard faces. The tiles are tangrammed together so tightly that their seams are only faintly visible, and the faces drift in and out of focus, a mirage above the floor. The white floor and white columns with their white pedestals hold all the apparition and kaleidoscope without the slightest disfiguring of their own hue, form, or intention, and they coat the distant periphery unflinchingly. I stand trembling and wait to become a column myself, sweating in my pretense.
I awake in a jungle of oil portraits and gilded trim resembling Van Gogh's bedroom, though the narrow bed in the corner, upon inspection, is in fact an ornately carved tomb complete with miniature carved mourners and memento mori. As I get my bearings, every pigmented portrait persona begins to talk, scream, cajole, and cry, till I find myself spinning in circles madly seeking an absent exit. The portraits pull free of their frames, climb into three-dimensional figures before me, I pull at floorboards wildly, dive into the tomb, oil-wraiths slam the slab lid down over me.
I awake glued to an intricate alabaster relief depicting rows of kneeling monks. My legs and right arm are pinned by the neighboring figures, left arm dangling uselessly. I try to pry myself free to no avail. My head and neck remain mobile, so I pivot to look up. A gargoyle meets my gaze and cracks a grimy grin. I bring my hands together and assume a praying posture, sobbing.
I awake on a walkway overlooking an immense cathedral hall. A roaring choir fights the churning bellows of the organmaster in operatic sweltering rushes as I stride lightly forward, not turning my eyes to the concert. I turn my eyes and the low stone railing reaches out for me, hooks my ankles, tosses me hurtling to the tessellated carpet below.
I awake hanging in the center of a vast basilica. The round windows stationed every few meters along the base of the dome emit the most violent, burning light I have ever seen, searing my vision, ringing bells clattering through the air.
I awake in a smoldering mass of neon lines alternating on and off between the shape of the nativity and the shape of the crucifix.
I awake careening down the steps of a spiral staircase, passing the same emerald banister-cap every 49 steps.
I awake cradling a globe of burning wooden civilization.
I awake sobbing in darkness.
I resigned last week as chair of the User Engagement and Curation Team. During my six year tenure, I achieved an average user satisfaction rating of 7.3, developed novel methods to divert users from irrelevant or hazardous areas, and compiled a longstanding body of monitoring techniques that continue to find application today.
Let me explain. Cathedral 5.3.9 is not the reason for my resignation. Those rumors are unfounded. Nor do I believe what happened there, tragic as it was, is cause to discontinue the Infinitesimal Engine. If anything, the tragedy was a fluke, unlikely to ever occur again, like counting successive shark attacks or death by bear maulings while simultaneously being struck by lightning.
You seem dubious. I will explain further.
First came the reports of wailing. Our team was responsive and compassionate. We looked into the problem and found little of concern. As you may recall, the new privacy legislation prevented us from monitoring audio.
Then came the floods, which were admittedly troublesome. The floors were stained for months, and more than one user was traumatized. Significant financial compensation was made.
A few of the typical ghost stories, hauntings, and monsters behind the curtains. Nothing too serious. One poor woman reported seeing her recently passed husband grapple with and strangle her. We were adequately alarmed and devoted the proper time and resources.
Then — nothing. All was well. Nine months of quiet.
I remember when I first heard the news. I was shocked, incredulous, perplexed... you must understand, there was no precedent for such a thing. None of our research had even touched on the possibility. I remember asking to see her, then stopping. Surely this was some nightmare, from which I would imminently awake. Why hurry, when it would be over so soon?
I remember the two-story duplex, loafers splashing in the remnant of a light drizzle outside the black airport Vito, siding peeling in patches, thin flakes stirring faintly in the breeze. A small pink and yellow pinwheel leans motionless in the otherwise sterile mulch. In my memory, this is another recording.
There is no cure.
She just sits there, staring straight ahead, blinking every few moments. She will stand if you lead her, or lay down, but she never answers you or acknowledges your existence, a trance of sorts. When the cathedral is loaded and the video comes on, she still moves inside, running down corridor after corridor. Searching for something.
You can still see her every day, we tell the parents. She will not answer you, or acknowledge your existence, but you can still be with her. She won't die, at least not yet. We feed her through the tube. You can tell her about your day, ask if she's made any progress. Who knows? Maybe she still hears. Maybe she still thinks of you.
I imagine her alone in the cathedral of death, taking another hallway down toward the organ music, where the phantom of her silence plays the Hush child, All our fears find rest in thee, Kyrie Eleison, Miserere. I imagine her holding the hand of a father, turning back, climbing up, starting the long journey to a world where church spires still poke the blue light of heaven.
In my heart I admit nothing is real.