The Last Philosopher

The hows and whys

Shifting from side to side, Herschel tried to wake his numb legs. The sun was setting at last and with the clouds rolling in, the light from below created every hue of red imaginable.

"Beautiful," he said, "but I'd rather have a cloudless night."

No kidding, his reason added, we'd rather not go walkabout in a pitch-black desert.

His frown took on an isolated, regretful look. Sure, Zig-Zig was a prison, but to him and the other philosophers, it was also a home.
Had Herschel known he was the first ever to leave, living or dead, he would've found the fact interesting rather than disturbing. Because this ochre-skinned weirdo could find the interesting in anything.

Attempting to ignore the dull ache that crept into his legs, Herschel focused on why he needed to get away. It had all started so innocently, with pure theory. Like all Socks, he gravitated towards the practical side of philosophy. Even so, he enjoyed the odd thought experiment - the odder the better.
In this one, he'd theorised about the cause for a prison filled with opinionated men in gowns, who weren't guilty of much except over-thinking. Why would such a prison need to exist?
He couldn't have foreseen the conclusion, but the only reason for a place like Zig-Zig would be to kill an idea. The shock of the prison's purpose hit him like a bolt of lightning from clear skies, painful and confusing. But even after the idea of 'the what' came to him, he still couldn't bring himself wish he'd never gotten involved.

Before that, we would've never considered doing anything as underhanded as escaping, his honour considered.

Lets not get into that again, his practical side interjected, we agreed the need was great enough to cover your cost.

At first, he'd tried to find some flaw in his deduction, but he only became more sure. A philosopher's sure: pretty convinced, but with lots of room for doubt. He still wasn't satisfied that one could kill an idea. Even so, he had watched the warden with new eyes. That chiselled figure, the cultivated ideal of a man's man, that strolled casually among them became damn suspicious. Until then, Herschel had considered him a friend - or at least as friendly as one could get with one's warden.

"Which it turns out is surprisingly friendly." Even with his throbbing legs, he managed another smile.

Herschel had stayed for a time, to keep watch, and to get a better understanding of why someone would build such a prison. But no such luck, not that he believed in luck.

"The whole thing made me so desperate, I almost convinced myself I'd seen the warden before Zig-Zig."

Who knows? Maybe you have, his conviction added.

The man's statuesque features were familiar, but now they seemed wrong. As if his slick blond hair and brilliant green eyes weren't supposed to exist on Huom. Or perhaps, weren't supposed to exist anywhere? That idea gave Herschel another shock. He'd always been in favour of the theory that all living beings had the same right to exist.

Even if we had known both why and how of the warden's plan, we still couldn't have stopped it from the inside! His multi-thoughts came to cheer him up, but his frown remained unconvinced.

It bothered Herschel that he couldn't find a better way to help than running. Because he was the kind of special who would stop and help someone waving him down with a sword. Even if they were holding a freshly severed head in the other hand. And he had to do something, no one else would, because guards and prisoners were both under the warden's influence.

"We all idolised that long black robe as it strolled among us!" The idea made him cringe.

Well, the warrior type is often revered among scholars, his objectivity pondered. And he is a likeable figure. Insightful, amiable, and a world-class listener. All traits that are cherished among those of us who like the sounds of our own voices.

Once he'd observed for a while, the illusion of the warden's pleasantness had shattered. Sometimes, when he turned away from speaking with a prisoner, the façade would come down, leaving nothing but contempt. At one point, Herschel even imagined he saw the glimmer of dark-green scales sticking out through his high collar.

Could he be hiding more than motivations under that robe? Herschel's intuition wondered. With the gloves, it covers everything but his head. Why would anyone dress like that in desert heat?

It was another thing about the warden he couldn't explain. The scales looked nothing like the dull grey of the lizard-women. Still, it would make a strange kind of sense. The Akri were disdainful of everyone who wasn't on the scalier spectrum, but they seemed to worship the warden.

Once Herschel made his final decision. He discovered the real problem with escaping would be the gaggles. In a prison dominated by gangs of philosophers, nothing was ever decided easy. Discussions with the Socks were rough on his non-confrontational sensibilities. That was until he found the right question.

"What kind of warden can walk unguarded among his prisoners in absolute confidence?"

"Only a master manipulator!" The Socks had agreed.

After that, his gaggle was more willing to accept the little he choose to tell them. But even then they hadn't agreed it meant his escape, or them keeping it a secret, was ethically valid. So, it regressed back into discussion. This time about the principles of deception. Finally, he convinced them that all they had to do was not tell anyone he'd left.

"The truth is, I got them to lie for me, when I wouldn't even tell them the whole truth." This time no helpful thought came to cheer him up.

Updated: 08.03.2024