The Last Philosopher

Trying to do right

Four months earlier, not long after the ancient sorcerer's first nightmare. Far to the west of the continent, a strange figure was escaping a stranger prison.

Nothing about this baby-faced man gave the impression of a prisoner. For one thing, his ever-changing frown often seemed somewhere between perpetual amazement and doing advanced calculus. But with the weary blue eyes and the grey streak in his hair, he could've been a professor. The only thing missing to complete the image of a scholar was a beard. And not for lack of trying, but his smooth face could never produce more than a slight fuzz.

Herschel I. Pensador was trying out a new idea: non-violent resistance. Just one of many notions this gifted thinker had about how things should be done. It hadn't evolved into hunger strikes or protests. Instead, the non-violent part, only meant that no one else should be put out by his escape. Unknown to this long haired oddity — if he succeeded in leaving Zig-Zig — it'd be the first time an inmate ever left the peculiar prison.

"At least the breakout is almost over, and I haven't even broken anything."

Then isn't it more like a sneak-out? An encouraging second thought tried to ease his guilt about running away.

The previous night, this middle-aged man had waded through the maze that was the prison's sewage system. His gown told the tale, usually they were a bit off-white but his was tainted with every shade of filth. The prisoners had chosen their uniforms for comfort, not for how practical one would be in an escape. And even his jet-black hair, draped over his one exposed shoulder, was soggy with waste.

He'd had long arguments both with himself and his gaggle about his method of escape.

"Why don't you just go over the wall?" One of his friends had suggested.

Indeed, there was little to stop him. Since the low, shoddy prison wall looked nothing like something designed to keep people in.

"That would go against what I'm calling the first principle of escaping," he answered, "which is not getting caught."

That first principle still wasn't as important as his personal motto, trying to do the right thing. Even so, it had never crossed his mind, that doing the right thing, would one day mean, climbing down the stone tube of a four-seat privy. In the middle of the night no less, since that was the only time the inaptly named things were even a little private.

"You're a braver than me baby-face, or dumber," Plaso had said when he'd told him the plan. "I wouldn't go down there, you don't even know if you can get out that way."

The sun's first rays had guided him to the duct out of this labyrinth. Here, the sewer was narrow and cone-shaped, getting tighter the closer he came to daylight. But at least it was a way out.

"The Socks were the first to call me baby-face."

Lets not start missing them just yet, there will be plenty of time for that later, his yearning thought, but his frown turned homesick.

His second thoughts were less helpful than normal, because the gaggle of philosophers had been his first real friends. People he could express all his misfit ideas to. So, squatting there in the sewage-duct to freedom, he already wanted to go back to prison and to the Socks.

The reddish-brown vista of the desert held no allure, even if the colour matched his skin. Leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of the ocean. Now that was alluring.

Then again, what wouldn't be, compared to this trickle of sewage oozing over our sandals, his disgust thought.

In an attempt to avoid the stench, he tried breathing through his mouth.

Okay, so now we can't smell it, but it's still going in our mouth, isn't that more disgusting?

"Maybe... but at least thinking still helps. Even if it's only thinking about thinking, or even thinking about thinking about thinking."

Sure, but that's far enough, his logic stopped him.

By accident, he stumbled onto the best distraction from the odour, thinking about anything else. Among other things, he pondered the nature of regret. This escape had supplied him with plenty of that stuff.

"I should be pleased, the plan is working, I'm almost free." But his frown showed his ambivalence.

Crouching near the exit had made his legs go from aching to numb. But in return, he got the occasional breeze of fresh air. It would flutter in and relieve the stench only for a moment, but even that really helped. So, Herschel stuck to the plan which was either genius, or simple stupidity.

We're going to walk away under cover of night and hope no one notices, his planning thought.

Updated: 04.05.2024