Zolantos smiles —

a rare thing.

“This artifact

is called paper.”

he speaks,

a mournful tone in his voice,

“And those marks are words.”

He-Thing is aghast.

“But they do not speak!

I hear no voice!”

Zolantos replies,

“These words wait to speak.”

He-Thing asks, “But why?”

Zolantos replies,

“So they are there

when they are needed.”

He-Thing gasps, and

the old lantern

trembles in his fingers.

“But when is that?”

he asks.

Zolantos laughs,

though not

without bitterness.

“When a man needs them,

of course.”

“But,” asks He-Thing,

“How are such words

impelled to speak?”

Zolantos replies,

“To hear these words,

you would have to learn how to —

a laborious process.

You would rove your eyes

across the marks,

and the words would speak

in the slothful pebble

of your mind.”

He-Thing exclaims,

“What sorcery! But how

was such an art lost?”

Zolantos sighs.

“Such things

are from the Linearity.

Now — we must destroy it.”

Zolantos

unceremoniously

casts the artifact

into the fire.

It flickers

like the sun

between fingers,

and disappears

in effervescent

smoke.

He returns the bottle

and feather to his bag.

“But Teacher…”

He-Thing asks,

despite the meager

crumbs of his wisdom,

“Why do you possess

the feather and the bottle,

and why

do you carry them with you?”

In a flash of time,

Zolantos bridges the gap

between himself

and his student,

striking He-Thing in the face

with his infamous cane.

He-Thing crashes to the ground,

shrieking in pain,

blood in his mouth,

crushing his broken arm

beneath him.

And Zolantos bellows,

“Never question me

about such trivialities again!”