Nothing
1/1
I had always hated Riddle class.
For some reason, my mind simply couldn’t see between the lines and make the necessary links to reach the solution. I supposed I had only taken Riddle class in the first place because it was that or Ethereal Dancing which was even worse; no one was expecting me to pass the subject. Therefore, I could flunk this entirely and I doubted anyone would be surprised.
Nonetheless, it would be a little disappointing if I completely failed this final exam.
I let out a gusty, too loud sigh from the set of small holes behind my ears and opened the uppermost layers of all seven of my eyes.
The exam hall was a small rectangular room with blank ways and only a couple of high slit windows, creating a light I associated with the time just after sunset but before night really arrived. There were small desks separated by carefully measured gangways for the invigilators to stroll up and down, their fifth leg always making an incredibly distracting rustling noise as it dragged – useless as they weren’t currently in battle – behind them.
The seats felt like sitting on blocks of jagged ice.
At the front of the room stood our lecturer, who looked very sour at having to come in to oversee our exam so early in the morning. He made a point of threatening the timetable organisers into giving him afternoon slots for each and every one of his lessons.
He was a small guy by anyone’s standards, something which I theorised was the reason for many of the major flaws in his character, and all of his eyes were an off-putting watery blue. Sweat permanently stood out in little beads on his greasy, jade coloured skin.
All I could ever say in his favour was that he hated being part of the education system as much as we did, which endeared him somewhat to us students despite the fact he graded cruelly.
“You will have six minutes to write an answer once the prompt video is finished.” He explained, his gaze raking around the room, focusing a nanosecond longer on each grim faced invigilator. “Your Riddle is this.”
He pressed the control and a few lines of words appeared behind him, seeming to simply hang in the air: [i[What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil.
My mind went blank as I gazed at the words, trying my hardest to figure it out before the video began and coming up with nothing.
“The prompt will be using Earth Human footage.” The lecturer added as the lights dimmed and the words faded, a square of paused film appearing in its place. The images began to move, the sounds of a soft voiceover – which always sounded melodramatic and creepy, in my opinion – boom out of the hidden speakers. “Begin.”
“Skeletal fingers slide around an empty plate, looking for food that is not there and is not wanted. Dry lips clench together as a stomach rumbles. Her hair hangs lank and thin, framing the bones of her face. If you were to cup her cheek in your hand, to make her look you in the eyes as you asked her ‘Are you really okay?’, the heel of your hand would fit cleanly into the hollows beneath her cheekbones.
She shuts her eyes, the veins stretching out visibly like a map across the surface of their lids, and feels a smile stretch the skin of her face: She has eaten nothing.”
The scene changed.
“A small boy and his mother stand looking out into the road, their hands with chewed down nails and grime in the ridges of their knuckles clasped together. His shoes are three sizes too small, the section where lights used to flash in response to his steps punctured and empty. The mother’s face is lined, her frame layered – shirt over vest, jumper over shirt, jumper over jumper and jacket over jumper.
Their house is behind them, last in a row of genetically identical small grey houses leading straight out onto the grey pavement. Inside the door, behind the unwashed lace of the curtains, there is nothing.”
It changed again.
“The woman’s fingers are plump and discoloured; pink at the tips and bridging connections, waxy white at the joints. Each is decorated with a collection of irregularly spaced, real silver and gold rings with glittering jewels she has forgotten the names of. There is a deep canyon where her skirt clamps into her folds of fat, searching for something hard like bone to touch. Her seat is softly supporting, her feet propped up on a cushioned stool. The room is sparsely furnished; it is worth millions.
Slowly, her fingers reach for the box on her lap, dig into the gap and pluck out a rectangular biscuit – square grains of sugar atop, the biscuits separated by a layer of hardened jam. She raises it to her rose painted lips, takes a bite and sighs. She needs nothing more than this.”
And again.
“There are lines and lines of drizzle, occasionally punctuated by a dash or comma of heavy rain. The pavements are slippery, the windscreen wipers overworked. A man walks slowly, his head lowered and his worn jeans dragging in the constant puddles. His mind is blank but full – he can hear every thought surrounding him, can feel every feeling of every common passer-by. The man can control and manipulate every living and dead and never alive thing nearby as he can with those two million miles away.
If he wants to. If he feels inclined to spice things up or fix every petty problem he comes constantly across. He slips hands into the pockets of his jacket and smirks to himself.
Then another man, equally as ordinary in appearance, passes. His feet slap loudly against the pavement. For a moment, the man’s smirk falters as there is a gust of power from the other with the potential to eclipse his own. He spins to look but there is no one there. The slapping of footsteps has faded to nothing.”
The last change, surely.
“Behind the bars, a huddled figure lets out a croaky giggle. It sends shivers down the spines of the guards and they shift their stance, repositioning their weapons. The figure wheezes then licks its dry lips with a just as dry narrow tongue. Both are a sickly, melting tarmac black. Its eyes are closed, the shadows beneath them deep navy against the sallow colour of its face.
Its fingernails clatter against one another as it stands with a creak of bone on bone, rough skin on rough skin and monster on monster. The body is cloaked in an overlarge shirt and trousers which pool around where there may or may not be feet.
It paces once around the cage, its breathing shallow, then sits once more with its back to the door. The guard’s eyes slide sideways without permission and catch one glance at the figure as it rocks back and forth. There has never been anything in the cage as pitiful; never something more foul.”
The video faded out as the voiceover ended. The lights were slowly switched back on and the words of the Riddle reappeared, hanging again: What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil.
I stared down at my paper, my pen clenched hard between two of my twelve fingers. I shut six of my seven eyes, keeping the seventh on the clock, and let my mind wander over the video prompt. All the different images and the creepy voiceover.
What did all the humans have in common? The emaciated girl, the mother and son, the woman and the man and the… thing.
There was only one line on the sheet for an answer. The silence was so heavy it felt like someone was pressing down on my head and in on my ears. Thirty minds ticking and trying to work out the answer while my mind flailed hopelessly. Why did it have to be humans? They were so strange it was practically impossible to make a single inference.
The emaciated girl, the mother and son, the woman and the man and the thing. What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil…
My seventh eye informed me that already I only had one minute left. My mind was still mostly blank apart from the growing panic. The emaciated girl, the mother and son, the woman and the man and the thing.
Thirty seconds left.
What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil.
Twenty.
I scribbled down a single word and threw down my pen with ten seconds left, silently praying it was right.
For some reason, my mind simply couldn’t see between the lines and make the necessary links to reach the solution. I supposed I had only taken Riddle class in the first place because it was that or Ethereal Dancing which was even worse; no one was expecting me to pass the subject. Therefore, I could flunk this entirely and I doubted anyone would be surprised.
Nonetheless, it would be a little disappointing if I completely failed this final exam.
I let out a gusty, too loud sigh from the set of small holes behind my ears and opened the uppermost layers of all seven of my eyes.
The exam hall was a small rectangular room with blank ways and only a couple of high slit windows, creating a light I associated with the time just after sunset but before night really arrived. There were small desks separated by carefully measured gangways for the invigilators to stroll up and down, their fifth leg always making an incredibly distracting rustling noise as it dragged – useless as they weren’t currently in battle – behind them.
The seats felt like sitting on blocks of jagged ice.
At the front of the room stood our lecturer, who looked very sour at having to come in to oversee our exam so early in the morning. He made a point of threatening the timetable organisers into giving him afternoon slots for each and every one of his lessons.
He was a small guy by anyone’s standards, something which I theorised was the reason for many of the major flaws in his character, and all of his eyes were an off-putting watery blue. Sweat permanently stood out in little beads on his greasy, jade coloured skin.
All I could ever say in his favour was that he hated being part of the education system as much as we did, which endeared him somewhat to us students despite the fact he graded cruelly.
“You will have six minutes to write an answer once the prompt video is finished.” He explained, his gaze raking around the room, focusing a nanosecond longer on each grim faced invigilator. “Your Riddle is this.”
He pressed the control and a few lines of words appeared behind him, seeming to simply hang in the air: [i[What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil.
My mind went blank as I gazed at the words, trying my hardest to figure it out before the video began and coming up with nothing.
“The prompt will be using Earth Human footage.” The lecturer added as the lights dimmed and the words faded, a square of paused film appearing in its place. The images began to move, the sounds of a soft voiceover – which always sounded melodramatic and creepy, in my opinion – boom out of the hidden speakers. “Begin.”
“Skeletal fingers slide around an empty plate, looking for food that is not there and is not wanted. Dry lips clench together as a stomach rumbles. Her hair hangs lank and thin, framing the bones of her face. If you were to cup her cheek in your hand, to make her look you in the eyes as you asked her ‘Are you really okay?’, the heel of your hand would fit cleanly into the hollows beneath her cheekbones.
She shuts her eyes, the veins stretching out visibly like a map across the surface of their lids, and feels a smile stretch the skin of her face: She has eaten nothing.”
The scene changed.
“A small boy and his mother stand looking out into the road, their hands with chewed down nails and grime in the ridges of their knuckles clasped together. His shoes are three sizes too small, the section where lights used to flash in response to his steps punctured and empty. The mother’s face is lined, her frame layered – shirt over vest, jumper over shirt, jumper over jumper and jacket over jumper.
Their house is behind them, last in a row of genetically identical small grey houses leading straight out onto the grey pavement. Inside the door, behind the unwashed lace of the curtains, there is nothing.”
It changed again.
“The woman’s fingers are plump and discoloured; pink at the tips and bridging connections, waxy white at the joints. Each is decorated with a collection of irregularly spaced, real silver and gold rings with glittering jewels she has forgotten the names of. There is a deep canyon where her skirt clamps into her folds of fat, searching for something hard like bone to touch. Her seat is softly supporting, her feet propped up on a cushioned stool. The room is sparsely furnished; it is worth millions.
Slowly, her fingers reach for the box on her lap, dig into the gap and pluck out a rectangular biscuit – square grains of sugar atop, the biscuits separated by a layer of hardened jam. She raises it to her rose painted lips, takes a bite and sighs. She needs nothing more than this.”
And again.
“There are lines and lines of drizzle, occasionally punctuated by a dash or comma of heavy rain. The pavements are slippery, the windscreen wipers overworked. A man walks slowly, his head lowered and his worn jeans dragging in the constant puddles. His mind is blank but full – he can hear every thought surrounding him, can feel every feeling of every common passer-by. The man can control and manipulate every living and dead and never alive thing nearby as he can with those two million miles away.
If he wants to. If he feels inclined to spice things up or fix every petty problem he comes constantly across. He slips hands into the pockets of his jacket and smirks to himself.
Then another man, equally as ordinary in appearance, passes. His feet slap loudly against the pavement. For a moment, the man’s smirk falters as there is a gust of power from the other with the potential to eclipse his own. He spins to look but there is no one there. The slapping of footsteps has faded to nothing.”
The last change, surely.
“Behind the bars, a huddled figure lets out a croaky giggle. It sends shivers down the spines of the guards and they shift their stance, repositioning their weapons. The figure wheezes then licks its dry lips with a just as dry narrow tongue. Both are a sickly, melting tarmac black. Its eyes are closed, the shadows beneath them deep navy against the sallow colour of its face.
Its fingernails clatter against one another as it stands with a creak of bone on bone, rough skin on rough skin and monster on monster. The body is cloaked in an overlarge shirt and trousers which pool around where there may or may not be feet.
It paces once around the cage, its breathing shallow, then sits once more with its back to the door. The guard’s eyes slide sideways without permission and catch one glance at the figure as it rocks back and forth. There has never been anything in the cage as pitiful; never something more foul.”
The video faded out as the voiceover ended. The lights were slowly switched back on and the words of the Riddle reappeared, hanging again: What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil.
I stared down at my paper, my pen clenched hard between two of my twelve fingers. I shut six of my seven eyes, keeping the seventh on the clock, and let my mind wander over the video prompt. All the different images and the creepy voiceover.
What did all the humans have in common? The emaciated girl, the mother and son, the woman and the man and the… thing.
There was only one line on the sheet for an answer. The silence was so heavy it felt like someone was pressing down on my head and in on my ears. Thirty minds ticking and trying to work out the answer while my mind flailed hopelessly. Why did it have to be humans? They were so strange it was practically impossible to make a single inference.
The emaciated girl, the mother and son, the woman and the man and the thing. What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil…
My seventh eye informed me that already I only had one minute left. My mind was still mostly blank apart from the growing panic. The emaciated girl, the mother and son, the woman and the man and the thing.
Thirty seconds left.
What will kill you if you eat it? The poor have it, but the rich need it. Greater than deities, yet more foul than the devil.
Twenty.
I scribbled down a single word and threw down my pen with ten seconds left, silently praying it was right.