A little less story to this one than most: basically the idea for this one just came to me one afternoon, and I'd written it within a week. The fact that my grandmother had died a few days previously may, or may not be relevant to this moment of inspiration - I've yet to work that one out.

I am an old man now, and soon I shall die in the place that I was born, as is the custom of my people. I write these words to clear my soul and to confess my sins, knowing that the seal which protects my past shall never be broken. It is our way that the ghosts that accompany us all through life may be purged before we journey to meet the Captain, by confessing our sins in writing and then burning the still-sealed note.

The irony is, however, that these words are meaningless. I know that. I am the only one who knows that. I am writing this confession, not to absolve me of my past, but to further compound the lie that I have told. If my people knew that this letter is such a sham, they would fear for my immortal soul. But I lost faith in that particular lie a long, long time ago.

I was born in darkness - both metaphorically and literally. After some weeks my eyes opened, revealing to me a world of murky shadows, not much brighter than my sealed-up view. Of course, when I talk of shadows and of darkness, I use the old words - the words that were passed down with our ancestors. Those who never see the light cannot know the dark, and so such words became synonyms for the evil and sinister of the elders' tales. Only I, amongst all my people, know the true meaning of darkness. Only I have seen the light.

I was an unremarkable child, of reasonable intelligence maybe, but not of the order of the Great Thinkers. I attended lessons regularly, where I learnt the essentials of survival - grubbing for larvae; moss and lichen cultivation; the usual stuff. But I also spent time with the Great Thinkers, and learnt from them the history and legends of our land.

Everybody knows of the Boundary; that sheer wall of coldness, hardness and impenetrability. We all know of the red lichen that bubbles on its surface, and which poisons the water which runs from above. The Boundary marks the extent of the world. There is no way through, no way round, and no way over. If you place a hand on the Boundary, and follow it for long enough, you will eventually end up back at your starting point. If you build a tower high enough you will eventually discover that the Boundary extends even over the sky above us. "Our world is a rectangular box," the Great Thinkers would proclaim. "Do not ask why. Do not question the plans of the Captain. Just accept what is, and be grateful."

And I did accept. And I was grateful. Until that fateful day that the Great Thinkers told us of the teachings of Saint Mirathogol.

Mirathogol sounded much like myself: fairly intelligent, quite well natured, and very inquisitive. As a youth, he spoke with the Great Thinkers of his time, and he too was told of the nature of the Boundary. Yet he was not satisfied. He could not conceive of a world with no beyond. He looked at the boxes that we use for storing food, and he thought long and hard on their nature. Yet no matter what he considered, he could not comprehend the boundary. Some of the Great Thinkers claimed that there was nothing beyond it. Some claimed that the Boundary itself was infinitely thick.

Mirathogol was not persuaded by either argument. No matter how thick the Boundary was, it could not continue forever. There must be something beyond it, something outside our world. And the thought of there being nothing was equally obscene; there had to be something, even if it was only a floor on which the Boundary rested. And if there was a floor, might there not be another Boundary some way further along? Another box, containing another world?

And so Mirathogol undertook a great journey. He travelled for three months to reach the Boundary, then spent a great many years exploring every inch of it for any sign of a weak spot. He was the one who discovered the seam lines within it - which the Great Thinkers now cite as evidence that the Boundary was constructed piece by piece as the Captain made the world for his people. He mapped the thickness of the Boundary lichen, and found the smooth areas where it does not grow due to lack of water. Then, eventually, he found a way through.

It was whilst he was building a tower, aiming to reach that part of the Boundary which lies above the sky, that he found evidence of it. The Boundary had always been considered to be perfect; just flat walls, with no protrusions. Yet at a height of over thirty men, his way upwards was impeded by a column, the width of three tall men, standing out horizontally from the Boundary.

He contrived to build his tower around it, until he was able to clamber up onto the column, and walk its length. With every step he grew afraid that he might reach the end of the column, and fall to his death in the world below. Yet when he finally did reach the end, he did not find the abrupt stop he had expected, but rather another column, this time rising vertically. And more surprising still, growing out from that intersection was a huge expanse, the size of a field, all covered with Boundary lichen. Then, whilst mapping the area, he found yet another pair of columns at the far end of the field - leading him to infer the symmetry of the Captain's design.

It took some time, but eventually he was able to build a second tower, extending upward from the field, and braced against the vertical column. This time he had to build it forty men high, but at the top was yet another field. Months later he found another field above that, then another, then another. The sixth field was yet again accompanied by columns leading back to the smooth wall of the Boundary - as was the eleventh, and the sixteenth.

After many, many years, he finally stepped out onto the column that extended from the twenty-first field, and found that it met the Boundary in a different manner to those he had previously encountered. He explored some more and found that only three men higher up was an enormous hole in the Boundary - a hole whose dimensions he could not even begin to guess at. He walked along it for twenty days, until finally he reached its end.

And here the story of Saint Mirathogol ends. He returned at last to his village, and requested an audience with the Great Thinkers. He told them of his adventures - and most refused to believe him at first - but after many nights of scrutiny, the augurs declared him to be telling the truth.

So he told the people of his journey. He spoke of the columns, and of the fields. He spoke of the enormity of the hole, and of the length of the tunnel that proceeded from it. And finally, having silenced his audience with such tales of awe and wonder, he revealed the greatest truth of all:-

"I have travelled beyond the sky," he said, "aided by columns and fields that can only have been placed there by something greater than ourselves. I have journeyed through the tunnel that joins this world with the next, and I have seen the face of the Captain himself."

"What does he look like," came the cries of the spectators. "How tall is he? What colour is his fur?"

"Let me tell you this," replied Mirathogol, "his face is not for mortals to see. My own eyes were so confounded by his appearance that they stung me and hurt me every time I tried to look upon him. To see him is as to open your eyes, only more so. To look at him is to witness colours that have no names. The pain of his image to my mortal eyes still throbs in my mind. Just to glance at his presence was to blind me for days. That is the power of the Captain. That is his might. We cannot know his true appearance until our lives have expired and our confessions have been destroyed, but he has given me a glimpse of his power, that I might bear witness of it to his people."

So that was what planted the seed of an idea in my mind. A seed which grew fertile over the coming years. If pressed with the question, the Great Thinkers claimed that Mirathogol's experience was unique - a rare audience which was granted by the Captain, and which would not be repeated in the lifetime of my name. Yet somehow this reply did not sedate me in the way that it did my contemporaries. For some reason I was compelled to discover more, compelled to follow in the footsteps of the Saint.

So I set out on my journey, following any clue, no matter how insignificant. Villages by the Boundary all sang with the name of Mirathogol; most of them claimed that his tower had been built just a few dozen men from their outskirts. It took over a year of searching, and of collecting scraps of information, but finally I was sure I knew where his tower had actually been constructed.

I began work on a tower of my own. After a height of ten men I began to fire arrows into the sky, hoping that one would hit the column and confirm my location. After fifteen men I was proved to be correct. After thirty-two men, I could clamber onto the column.

I prayed to the Captain for the remaining towers to be intact. I hoped that Mirathogol had only destroyed the first, in order to prevent mere mortals from bothering the Captain with their petty squabbling. Thankfully my prayers were answered.

The first tower needed some repair, as did the second. But as I climbed from field to field, the towers became stronger and stronger. Unfortunately I cannot say the same for myself, and by the time I reached the seventh, I could barely continue. I returned to the world, a broken man.

For a while I truly believed that it was the Captain who had stopped me. The lightness of my head, the tightness in my chest - all the symptoms indicated a divine presence that did not want me bothering it with mortal questions. I began to despair for my soul, and wrote the first of my confessional letters, fearing that I might be struck down there and then.

But after a few days rest I felt strong again. I began to question my own doubt, and wondered whether it was just excitement that had overcome me. Preparing more fully for my journey, I began by transporting supplies to the first field, then stayed there for a week. Next I climbed to the sixth, taking a healthy stock of food with me, before returning to the first for a couple more days. Now I could climb to the sixth unencumbered, and found the journey far easier. I continued in this fashion for weeks on end, slowly working my way up and down the fields with more and more supplies, ready for my final climb to the twenty-first field.

Amazingly I made it. Mirathogol's final steps, the route to the vast hole in the Boundary, were still intact. I journeyed along the tunnel, turning first one corner, then eight days later turning another. It was then that I saw - or rather didn't see - the sight that had so completely overwhelmed my predecessor.

It was a colour I had never seen before, and was painful to my eyes. I turned my back to the onslaught, only to find that it was strong enough to have knocked my very soul out of my body, and onto the floor. I knelt down and tried scooping it back towards me, but with every movement my actions were mimicked by the golem before me.

It took some time, but eventually I realised that the strange outline was just the part of the floor which was not touched by the strange colour, on account of my being in the way. A vague memory tugged in my mind - something the Great Thinkers had once taught us. The words materialised from deep within me. Something written in the old way. Something that the Great Thinkers had interpreted as meaning evil. But that wasn't the case. I realised now that the old words were right - it wasn't that they needed to be interpreted, it was that they referred to something that had not been seen in countless millennia. I was looking at a shadow.

From that instant fragments of the old teachings came thick and fast. Some still made no sense, and I ignored them, but others gave me a fresh outlook on the colour that was behind me. I knew now that it had a name - a name that was no longer understood because the object it described had ceased to exist in our world. What was behind me, what so pained my eyes, was 'light'.

For so long I had thought of that word as merely synonymous with 'good', but now I knew that it was a real and tangible substance which pervaded the whole of the world of my ancestors. This is where the Old Ones were said to have journeyed from - the world of Light, in the company of the Captain. They must have been saints indeed to have borne the pain that this light presented.

Now that I knew that this was not the Captain himself, I understood that my predecessor had only taken half a journey. I had to press onwards, making my way towards the light, if I was ever to discover the truth.

I tore a strip of cloth from the flap of my satchel, and punctured it twice using my egg-tooth. Then I bound the strip around my head, so that my eyes could see through the two tiny holes. It was far from perfect, but made the light more bearable. Using a rope and hook, I was able to scale the ridge that protruded from the floor, and made my way through the pass that led to the light.

I found myself in a tunnel of bewildering proportions, made of Boundary material which seemed to have been coated with yet another new colour. From the apex of the sky hung a series of machines which were sources of light itself. I continued my journey, through first this tunnel, then another, then another. There was a paucity of food, and I was forced to eat whatever morsels I could find to supplement my meagre provisions.

Eventually I reached the end of the tunnels - and found myself in a world that is barely describable. The sky - if indeed something so different from our own can share its name - was a tumultuous mass of colours. A few I recognised - greys and scarlets - but most were new to me. Several looked like colours I knew, but which had been touched by the light. Others were almost beyond comprehension. And the sound was deafening: I was forced to completely close my ears, and then to re- fasten my mask around them for further defence.

But most dangerous of all was the onslaught of water. I had become accustomed to the violence of the air there. On occasions it moved with such force that it became necessary to tie myself down for fear of being blown away. But worse than that was the constant attack by huge drops of water - almost as large as a man - which characterised my life outside the tunnels. It tasted to me like liquid salt, and each ball of it exploded when it hit the ground. I'd had to build a sturdy covering for myself just to afford some slight protection - but even then it was not uncommon for a well-aimed drop to knock me out for days on end.

At the start of the third year, another attack of water began in parallel with the first. This time the direction was different - as though thrown down from the sky - and there was less of the taste of salt. Between the two it was virtually impossible to move, so I was forced to seek refuge for a whole month before I could continue my journey.

Perhaps my greatest obstacle, though, took the form of the columns and plains. They seemed to exist almost everywhere in this world, and given the ability to see them with the aid of the light, they appeared to me to be something like our own steps, only on a far, far grander scale. As so many of these steps were in evidence, and as the legends speak of the Captain living 'on high', I decided that I had to scale them. Over the years I developed quite a technique, using the Boundary Lichen, where present, to provide hand and footholds.

From such a height I could make out the nature of the Captain's world. The bombs of salt water seemed to attack constantly from a seething lake which stretched as far as the eye could see. The landmass on which I stood - and in which our world is contained - seemed to be some kind of carrier, presumably designed to separate the goodness of the Captain from the toxic expulsions of the evil spirits which surrounded us. It was heartening to know that the Captain had constructed our world deep in the bowels of this vessel, keeping us safely away from the oppressive liquid at large.

The rest of my journey was a mixture of long treks, dangerous climbs, and violent water attacks, but still I carried on, always going up towards the pinnacle of the Captain's construction. Then, after some thirty-seven years of travelling, I saw something - or someone - move. I dared to peek from behind my mask, shielding my eyes a little with the fur from my forearm. Perhaps a couple of weeks walk from my current location stood a rectangular block of Boundary material. If it hadn't been so oddly shaped for a house, I would describe it as a building - though on a massive scale.

The oddest part was that the walls were not there - and yet they were. It was like looking into a house by removing the wall, yet the liquid and the moving air were stopped before they entered. It seemed that part of the wall had been made from a material which could defend against the salted water, yet which would let vision pass through. And there, inside, was an immense creature.

I travelled quickly, scaling ridges as necessary to make my way into the house. It was a single room, with odd markings on the walls, and strange sources of the light all around. There were even tables, but so large that they could only belong to one man. And he was there, too.

He was not what I would have expected. I anticipated finding a normal man, of similar design to myself, only many thousands of times larger. But the man I saw was so different that, had he existed on a normal scale, he would have been outcast as a freak. But he wasn't on our scale.

Bodily, he was similar in general layout to ourselves, but his fur was only abundant on his head and face - and even then there was none around the eyes or forehead. Its colour was nameless, but reminded me in many respects of the sky I had seen - grey distilled with light. Individual follicles sprouted similarly coloured fibres from the backs of his hands, but the rest of his body was covered with fabric.

Yes! Fabric! The same sort of material we would use for making bags and wrapping cheeses was here being used to cover a whole man. And a particularly large man at that. When I thought about it, I realised that the fabric he bore reminded me of the wrapping I had produced in order to protect myself from the salted water, so I guessed that it must be serving the same purpose on the Captain. It was blue, only not-blue in colour.

Perhaps the oddest thing about him was the shape of his eyes. They were small (in proportion to the rest of his face) and ovoid - not the large discs of a normal man. And he seemed to have only one set of eyelids for each eye. And they were not black throughout, but rather a series of concentric circles of nameless colours (principally blue-not- blue and grey-with-light). And he had no beak.

I decided that I had to try to speak to him - my journey would have been pointless otherwise. The sheer quantity of protrusions from the walls of the house allowed me to spend several days in an ascent to the surface of one of the tables. Once there I had no choice but to wait, and to hope that he saw me before placing some object on top of me. Thankfully it only took two more days - and the items he deposited missed me (though the moving air from beneath them sent me reeling).

"What have we here?" he boomed. I screwed my ear flaps tightly.

"Are you the Captain?" I enquired. He seemed to acknowledge my speech, but could not hear my words. "Wait here," he proclaimed, and left the house for nearly a day. When he returned, he had a large cone - similar to that which children use to increase their voices. His was made of Boundary material rather than matted vegetation, and the narrow end was not so pointed, but it was an amplifying cone nevertheless.

He clutched it by a handle that protruded from one side, and as he did so it came to life, hissing loudly. I re-posed my question, this time at the cone's narrow end, and found my voice was amplified as it escaped the wider end. It still barely broke over the hissing, but was enough for the Captain to hear me.

"So, you speak my language," said the Captain. "What are you? Some kind of imp? A gremlin?"

"I'm just a man," I replied.

"Are you now?" And he laughed.

"Are you the Captain?" I asked once more.

It took several years to make my way back to this village. The Great Thinkers demanded knowledge of my journey; wanted to know if I had passed beyond the Boundary. I knew my answer already, had metered out every word in minute detail. There was only one thing I could say. And this is where my lie began.

"I travelled to the Boundary, and I spent years searching for the site of Mirathogol's tower. I have to conclude that the columns, fields and hole of which he spoke no longer exist - having been a temporary concession by the Captain. This I know, because when he saw my efforts, he came to me to put my mind at rest.

"He is, indeed, indescribable. His vision pains mortal eyes, yet it is so daring and so beautiful that it equally pains the soul not to look. The ancients had a word for his appearance, and that word was 'Light'.

"We spoke for some time regarding all manner of things. He told me that he observes us constantly, and that our immortal souls are safe, so long as we continue in the old traditions. He has a plan for us as a people. A great plan which will help us grow until we are ready to understand and appreciate the light. But we must not be impatient. The route to the Captain that Mirathogol took shall never be opened again. Invoking his pity in the way that I have done is not the way to talk to him. If you have a message for the Captain, or if you need his help, then you should pray to him and worship him. He is listening, and he will hear you."

"Are you the Captain?" I asked once more.

"Yes, I'm the Captain."

"Then tell me, please - and if it's not too impertinent to ask - what is your plan for us?"

"My plan?"

"Yes. Your plan for us as a people. Your great plan. The great plan."

"I'm sorry, but I have no plan. Not for your people, anyway. In fact I've never seen anything like you before. I didn't even know you existed."

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