章節 38: Gone, Gone, Gone Beyond
Harry woke to sunlight streaming through the window and Chrysa's thunderous purring. The cub had somehow migrated from his side to sprawl across his chest, her golden fur catching the morning light like metallic silk.
"Heavy," Harry muttered, though he didn't actually mind. His strength made her weight negligible, and there was something comforting about her presence. The motes of possibility drifted at the edges of his vision, darker and more numerous than before.
When Harry entered the kitchen, Perenelle was humming softly while arranging fresh croissants. Nicolas sat reading what appeared to be a letter, though he folded it away as Harry approached.
"Good morning," Perenelle smiled warmly. "I trust you slept well?"
Harry nodded, settling into his chair as Chrysa padded silently behind him. "The chamber was..." His voice carried that slight melodic quality again, just for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Like walking through history itself."
"History has a way of surprising us," Nicolas commented mildly, passing the honey.
"Actually," Harry said, almost without thinking, "I had the strangest dream about snow. In summer."
Nicolas' spoon paused mid-stir. "Oh?"
Harry's eyes suddenly brightened, becoming startlingly clear. "Snow that yearns for summer but can only exist in winter," he said softly. The words felt foreign in his mouth, yet familiar. He blinked, frowning slightly.
Chrysa pressed against his leg. The morning light caught Nicolas' spoon as he set it down, casting brief patterns across Harry's face that resembled the motes of possibility.
"Our quintessence experiments..." Nicolas studied the perfect circles in his tea. "The Albedo phase requires absolute clarity." He took a careful sip. "Though I'd want to be certain of all variables first. Have you had any offers that might affect our work?"
Harry paused mid-bite. The urge to share everything - the tears, the visions - rose up, then settled back like disturbed water. "Just the usual things."
"Actually," Nicolas set down his teacup, "Alexandros sent an interesting owl this morning. The Greek Ministry is quite excited about their findings in those chambers."
"Will they need me to help more?" Harry asked, absently breaking off a piece of croissant for Chrysa, who delicately accepted it despite her evident preference for meat.
"No need," Nicolas smiled. "Though your name might appear in the papers soon. Unless you'd prefer otherwise?"
Harry's hand stilled. Chrysa's golden eyes fixed on him as the motes of possibility swirled darker. "I'd rather not," he said quietly.
Perenelle's spoon clinked against her cup. "Even to help your friend?"
Something stirred inside Harry at her words. The motes clustered thickly, but Chrysa's warmth against his leg anchored him. "Maybe there's..." He trailed off as his voice took on that melodic quality again. Chrysa growled softly, and the tone faded.
Harry spent most of the day in the Flamels' garden, Chrysa padding silently beside him as he tried to clear his head. The motes of possibility seemed thicker here, clustering around certain plants - especially the ones Nicolas used in his alchemy experiments.
He paused by a patch of night-blooming flowers. Their petals were still closed against the daylight, but something about them pulled at his attention. The motes swirled differently here, almost like they were trying to show him...
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Perenelle's voice made him start slightly. "They're from India - the mountains there have the most fascinating magical flora."
"Mountains?" Harry asked, watching how the motes reacted to the word.
"The Nilgiris," she said, kneeling to touch one of the closed buds. "Where Nicolas learned some of his earliest lessons about alchemy. About the nature of transformation."
Harry frowned as the motes scattered and reformed. "What kind of lessons?"
"The sort that challenge everything you think you know," Nicolas said, joining them by the flowers. He studied Harry for a moment. "Actually, given our quintessence experiments, you might find those teachings particularly relevant."
Harry brushed his fingers against one of the stone benches, tracing something that wasn't there. "What kind of teachings could affect alchemy? Isn't it already about transformation?"
Nicolas watched Harry's fingers move across the stone. "I learned something interesting in those mountains, years ago. About transformation." He paused, something distant in his eyes. "It changed how I viewed our work here."
The motes darkened around Harry's hand. He could almost see other patterns beneath the stone's surface, like ripples in still water. Chrysa bumped against his leg, and the vision faded.
"I have an old friend there," Nicolas continued. "Something of a hermit now, but his perspective on..." He paused, choosing his words. "On maintaining one's nature through transformation might interest you."
Harry's head tilted slightly. The motes swirled violently at Nicolas' words, as if fighting against some unseen current. His voice carried that melodic quality again: "Nature cannot be changed, only understood-"
Chrysa growled softly. Harry blinked, the strange tone fading. "Sorry, I'm not sure why I..."
Perenelle and Nicolas exchanged a glance that lasted a fraction too long.
"Perhaps," Perenelle said lightly, "it's time we extended our world tour eastward?"
Harry nodded, though something about the suggestion made the motes cluster so thickly he could barely see the garden anymore. Only Chrysa's warmth against his leg kept him anchored in the present moment.
The journey to India passed in fragments. Harry caught glimpses of busy magical markets in Cairo, popular temples in Persia, and finally the green foothills of the Nilgiri range itself. Throughout their travels, the motes of possibility grew increasingly agitated.
Now, in the pre-dawn light, Harry stood before stone steps that vanished into the mountain mist. Each was carved with Sanskrit characters that shifted subtly under his gaze. Chrysa padded ahead, looking around curiously.
"Normally," Nicolas stressed that word as he adjusted his traveling cloak, "one must meditate on each step for days, sometimes weeks, before the next becomes visible."
Harry nodded, already absorbing the first characters:
'Gate gate pāragate pārasaṃgate bodhi svāhā'
The words resonated instantly through his mind. Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone utterly beyond... The motes of possibility scattered violently as multiple layers of meaning crashed through his consciousness. Each syllable carried centuries of contemplation, now flooding into him all at once.
"Harry?" Perenelle's voice seemed to come from very far away.
He blinked. The sun had moved - hours had passed while he stood frozen on that first step. Chrysa pressed against his leg, her warmth drawing him back to the present moment.
The next step bore different characters:
'Form is emptiness, emptiness is form'
Harry's brain grasped the surface meaning immediately, but something deeper pulled at him. The motes of possibility swirled around the carved Sanskrit, as if trying to obscure what lay beneath. Not just words about emptiness, but emptiness itself gazing back through the characters...
Chrysa growled softly. Harry stumbled, catching himself against the mountain wall. The stone felt both solid and insubstantial under his fingers.
"Perhaps we should rest," Nicolas suggested, but Harry was already moving to the next step.
'Neither created nor destroyed'
The characters seemed to write themselves into Harry's consciousness. His understanding of Prima Materia wavered - how could something be neither created nor destroyed when he'd seen matter transform in his own experiments? Unless... unless transformation itself was...
The melodic quality crept into his voice: "All forms are dreams within dreams-"
Chrysa's tail brushed his hand. The strange tone faded, but the insight remained. The motes of possibility churned like storm clouds around him.
'Neither pure nor impure'
Harry's certainty about the Albedo phase fractured. How could anything be purely white if purity itself was illusion? The Sanskrit didn't just suggest this - it demonstrated it through its very structure. Each character contained its opposite, like mirrors reflecting mirrors infinitely.
Time blurred. Steps passed beneath his feet as concepts poured into him at incomprehensible speeds:
'Neither increasing nor decreasing'
One became many, many became one. Numbers lost meaning, gained it, lost it again...
'No eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue'
Perception itself questioned, not philosophically but fundamentally...
'No form, no feelings'
Reality unraveling not through argument but through direct...
Chrysa's growl snapped him back. The sun had moved again - hours lost in moments. The motes of possibility had grown so dense they nearly obscured the physical world entirely.
"Most seeking wisdom take years to reach this point," Nicolas said quietly. "The mind requires time to... understand."
Harry barely heard him. The next characters were already burning themselves into his consciousness:
'All dharmas are marked with emptiness'
Something vast pressed against Harry's mind. Not just understanding emptiness, but emptiness understanding itself through him. The motes of possibility writhed as if in pain.
'They do not appear nor disappear'
Reality itself seemed to flicker.
'Are not tainted nor pure'
Every certainty dissolved.
'Are not deficient nor complete'
Wholeness and fragmentation becoming one concept.
Chrysa's thunderous purr vibrated through Harry's bones, anchoring him as the Sanskrit tried to pull him beyond conventional existence. The melodic quality fought to emerge in his voice, but her warmth kept him grounded in... in whatever reality still remained.
"There," Nicolas pointed through the thinning mist. "Mohan's temple."
Harry looked up. The simple stone structure seemed to both exist and not exist simultaneously, its clean lines describing absence as much as presence. The motes of possibility swirled chaotically around it, as if unable to find purchase on its perfect emptiness.
A figure stood in the doorway, watching them with eyes that saw far more than physical forms.
"Welcome," Mohan said in perfect English, though Harry heard the Sanskrit underneath every word. "Though I see one of you brings more than just questions to my door."
The motes of possibility writhed under that knowing gaze.
"Come," Mohan gestured to the temple entrance. "We have much to discuss about the nature of self... and what remains when emptiness gazes into emptiness."
The temple's interior defied Harry's expectations. No statues, no ornate decorations - just empty space defined by perfect proportions. Bare stone walls caught the light in ways that made shadows seem more real than substance.
Mohan moved like the space itself, and his simple white clothing seemed to both absorb and reflect light. "Sit," he gestured to cushions arranged on the floor.
Harry settled onto a cushion, Chrysa pressing close against him. The cub's eyes never left Mohan.
"Tea first," Mohan smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "Stories should be shared properly." His movements as he prepared the tea were like flowing water, each gesture containing its opposite.
The silence stretched, broken only by the soft sounds of tea preparation. Harry found himself studying the way light moved through the temple. Something about the angles seemed... familiar. Like the Oracle's chamber, but inverted somehow.
"Your companion," Mohan spoke suddenly, watching Chrysa, "sees clearly." The cub's golden eyes met his gaze steadily. "Though perhaps not what was intended."
Harry's voice took on that melodic quality: "The Oracle's sight reaches through-"
Chrysa growled softly. The tone faded, but Harry noticed how Mohan's eyes had sharpened at the sound.
"Interesting," Mohan poured the tea slowly. "You've walked many paths to reach this point. Some chosen..." he paused, studying Harry's face, "most perhaps not."
The tea's steam rose in spirals that seemed to mirror the motes of possibility. Harry reached for his cup, but his hand froze as Sanskrit characters appeared in the rising steam. Just for a moment, he Saw:
'What sees is also seen'
The motes of possibility writhed. Harry's head spun as multiple philosophical frameworks tried to process the insight. Greek concepts of subject and object blurred against Chinese understandings of observer and observed…
"Our friend Nicolas," Mohan sipped his tea, "spoke to me of snow that refuses to melt." His eyes met Harry's. "But what of the one who watches the snow? What sees through eyes that are not eyes?"
Harry's mouth opened to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Different answers fought for dominance - Greek, Chinese, and something that spoke about eternal sight...
"Rest tonight," Mohan set down his cup. "Tomorrow, we will speak of seeing and being seen. Of truth and..." his gaze flickered to where the motes churned most violently, "what merely wears truth's form."
Rising smoothly, Mohan studied Harry with old eyes. "Until then, consider this: when the Oracle showed you visions of friends speaking behind your back..." A gentle smile touched his lips. "Did she show you what was, what might be, or what she wished you to see?"
The question hung in the air like incense, making the motes of possibility shiver. Harry felt something crack - just slightly - in the certainty those visions had built.
"Your room awaits," Mohan gestured to a side door. "We have much to discuss of snow that refuses to melt, and… tears that resonate through time."
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票