The sound of her voice startled her. “What did I say? Did I say that? Who’s Lydia? Sumpter, I’m frightened. What are we trying to do? What’s happening? What do you hope to find?” Then she felt as if she was falling steadily downward. The last thing she remembered was Sumpter’s voice saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll follow you if I can.”

Then the scene vanished. She was tumbling, helpless it seemed, into darkness.

Chapter Twenty

The Speakers’ Dream Tribunal — The Night of the Soul (Seven and Lydia)

Oversoul Seven began to fall headlong into … himself or his personalities … or something, yet he was losing himself at the same time, being dispersed. Into what? Frantically he tried to recall Cyprus’ last words, but they eluded him. He kept feeling the separate essences of Lydia, Proteus, Ma-ah, and Josef. They were gaining a soul and he was losing himself—was that it? No, he thought, it couldn’t be. I’m each of them, yet more, he told himself. I’m the portion that makes them what they are—not the product of what they are. “Aren’t I, Cyprus?” he called. But there was no answer.

Even his thoughts began to slide away in the most insidious fashion. He felt his consciousness break apart into specks of energy, yet he was aware of his being in each of them—even as they fell away from each other. “Come back, come back,” he cried to his multitudinous parts. For an instant there was just … nothing, and even Seven’s terror was lost. Then he was in the midst of an incredible silence. There was no reference point within it. He seemed to be everywhere equally, yet nowhere in particular.

It was impossible for him to say, “I’m here,” or “Here I am,” because here and I had become impossibly synonymous. He could almost say, “There is no here and there is no I,” except then who was thinking?

And then even his thoughts ceased; or if he thought, he was not aware of it. Instead he felt dragged down, drugged. Even the I who had been doing the thinking lost itself, until only nonverbal emotion remained. Seven fought against falling. He struggled against this great power that seemed to push him down into some indefinable blackness.

“Souls can’t die.” Once, from somewhere within him, the thought surfaced. He tried to anchor himself to it, but it fell away into meaninglessness. All the while he kept falling; and fighting against it, and the harder he fought the faster he seemed to fall, the further down he was dragged, and the weaker he became. Once again he managed to cry for Cyprus. At least he heard his own mental call, and again there was no answer. Nothing seemed to exist but this terrifying descent into darkness.