Showing posts with label Latticework. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Latticework. Show all posts
Thursday, September 10, 2026
Sunday, June 16, 2024
Latticework: 14 excerpts!
A
space lattice, in the three dimensions, is any of fourteen possible geometric
arrangements of points, at which, at the very least, the components of crystals
may form.
A
space lattice, in the realm of sorcery, is all of fourteen possible and
impossible arrangements in the geotic fields, and includes the laws of
necromancy and the location of high magnetic energy points of sacred sites.
A
space lattice, in the fourth dimension and those beyond, is the fourteen
impossible arrangements of will and thought, where the continuum is temporal
and spacial simultaneously, at which point space-time unfolds and space-folds
are beyond measurable time.
In
this lattice lie all possibilities, where not even imagination has ever been.
Watch
yourself, friend.
(Quoted from the LORE Series)
14 excerpts from the 14 stories - enjoy!
THE PILLAR FELT rough and pitted under Callie’s fingers. She knew it as
rock, although she could not see anything in the blackness. She also knew the
feel of this particular standing
stone; it was akin to a friend, a haven, a beacon in the dark. There were no
night noises, not even the resident frog to confirm where she was. She always
listened for him when she came here in summer.
She had been here before. She was not lost.
Biting the inside of her cheek to contain hysterical
sounds, Callie put her fingers to work. They were her eyes now and she could
trust them. They reached up, sensing, exploring, and, yes, there it was. The
small voice of doubt was stilled.
SEVEN YEARS AGO I was thirty-eight and considered young among those who
walked the corridors of power and felt
young and empowered, all-powerful. You may laugh, but let me tell you politics
and deals can make one old long before due time, while imparting a sense of
omnipotence.
I was also foolish, very ambitious, without scruples and
morals, and utterly selfish. I looked out for number one only. Hard lessons had
to be learned; I understand that now.
SHE LEANS ON her elbow, chin in hand, and stares out over the bay. The
sun is bright on the water and the sun worshippers are out in full force on the
narrow strip of beach, their colourful umbrellas and sunshades drawing the eye.
Bronzed bodies languish amid reddening skins. She, however,
is uninterested in people silly enough to burn to crisps in such heat; she
watches the water intently, staring through the hot silver stripes upon the
waves.
LISTEN UP.
Stop a moment for this.
There is a place I used to pass on my way home every day in
another country, another time. For whatever reason - no place to pull over, I
am not the one driving, time is of the essence - I never stopped. This place is
nothing special in the grand design of nature and yet I found myself preparing
to really look every time I
approached, and did.
Every time. I wish I followed an initial instinct to begin a
photographic record to capture the moods and seasons day by day, but … ah,
well.
SHE IS THE
silent watcher. She has no name, and is without feature and visible form. Her
task is to watch and to know.
Why?
The simple answer is that someone has to. We require a
witness, always. This is the nature of sentience.
SHADOWS SHUTTER LEAF behind frond until sight is hallucination. A forest in
sunlight during a windstorm deludes the senses. What should be ordinary leaps
into something else entirely.
Scarlet is not fooled. Sharp blue eyes pierce the veils of
shadow and light. Hearing is impaired in the sliding, grating, rustling dryness
of a forest in movement, but sight never fails her. And neither does taste.
THERE IS A
small glade in a forgotten forest and in its centre there is a tree so ancient
it no longer resembles a tree. Where this is, is unimportant. For this is not
about place; it is not even about time. It is about worship, and it is also
about remembering.
A long, long time ago, a lone wolf, starving and desperate,
slaughtered an innocent boy out walking the countryside. The boy was loved well
by his parents and they planted a tree in the place where his blood was
spilled, a memorial to stand the test of time.
“BACK IN VALARIS’ beginning, once it became a habitable world, there was no
sentient life. The humans of today did not evolve here; they came from faraway
worlds, much the same as happened elsewhere. One starship came and saw it was
good, and then there was another and another, a familiar tale. This was, and
is, a paradise world and the humans who settled were happy, but, being human,
being sentient, they were selfish also - another familiar tale - and denied
entry to other races.
“Now, around the time that selfish mind-set began to take
root, a space warp materialised in the heavens above, which made it impossible
to travel the stars again, the same warp still in position today. It also, of
course, denied entry to other settlers, and permanently put an end to other
races interfering with the humans already here. Thus, without any great effort,
the humans got their wish, and the Valarians were born as a people apart.
MIRRORS MAKE ME.
And mirrors break me.
Shards of shiny glass, reflection pond, polished metal,
ornately framed, it is of no import.
As you read this and I play the role of storyteller, a new
looking glass rises from the mercury I wade through. I have not seen one like
it before and momentarily its existence stumps me. Only momentarily, for a
mirror is a mirror and here, now, another lesson awaits.
HERE WAS A
man who had just lost the woman he loved and he was now either suicidal or
hyper aggressive. This man was a king, although uncrowned. This man was a
sorcerer, although unwilling in the talent. This man was of another race,
although he passed for human with his fair hair and grey eyes.
This man sought distraction. Now.
He went to Lax, that underbelly world of crime and
corruption, and the one who nominated himself as this man’s personal guard
accompanied him. The companion appeared less human, for his eyes were tawny.
HALLOWEEN.
All Hallows Eve.
Some call it a pagan festival. Others know it as an evil
feast. Time and technology has not yet forced it into the recesses of memory
and myth. Some see it as a carnival of fun. Others regard it as the worst
manipulation humankind has confronted, and continues to face. Relegate it to
the past, bury it in layers of legend and let us be done, they say … and are
ignored.
This is the greatest night of all dark nights for the dead.
WHEN HUMANKIND tore through the fabric of space they came in vast numbers
on ships the size of cities.
This was a one way journey, for they left behind a planet
ruined by war, pollution and over-population. Perhaps those abandoned would
discover the courage to find solutions for Earth’s varied problems, but those
that left travelled too far to make their way back. The ships were indefinitely
self-sustaining, but man needed solid ground beneath his feet and a friendly
sun on his face. His mission always was to find a land to plant and root and
grow and prosper and conquer.
MERRY HEFTED the rucksack by jerking at the shoulder straps. The weight
pulled at her neck muscles and she swore under her breath.
A whack on her upper arm nearly paralysed that side of her
body from head to toe. She glared at the woman a step behind her, to see the
offensive cane complete its downward arc.
“Ladies do not cuss, Merry.”
IT SMELLS OF
INK and
parchment, and ancient dust. The corners furl inward as if once someone rubbed it
repeatedly between a sweaty thumb and forefinger. I know this, because I have
the same habit.
Look over there at my
shelf, pull that book to you and note the thumbed edges. I know, wrong of me,
so sue me. Of course, mine isn’t always clean sweat; probably a few jam rubs,
possible biscuit crumbs …
Sigh, I am off subject.
A latticework creates a mesmerising
pattern, to please the eye and draw the onlooker closer. Emotional lattices connect
strands to amplify the human experience; our melancholy, our mistakes, and our
residual power.
Fourteen lattices by a diverse author makes
Latticework an occult treat, worthy of fans who dip into the disturbing and
diabolical. This collection of soulful tales embodies the macabre and the
metaphysical, with insights so serrated it cuts to the marrow.
Fallen from the Sky
Confession
Stop!
Awareness
Repeating History
Sunday, September 17, 2023
Sunday, August 13, 2023
Chapter 10: Latticework
LATTICEWORK is a collection of short stories, thus is chapter 10 in fact a full story - Gordon Grey. It's quite lengthy, but do enjoy :)
A latticework creates a mesmerising
pattern, to please the eye and draw the onlooker closer. Emotional lattices connect
strands to amplify the human experience; our melancholy, our mistakes, and our
residual power.
Fourteen lattices by a diverse author makes
Latticework an occult treat, worthy of fans who dip into the disturbing and
diabolical. This collection of soulful tales embodies the macabre and the
metaphysical, with insights so serrated it cuts to the marrow.
Lattice 10
HERE WAS A
man who had just lost the woman he loved and he was now either suicidal or
hyper aggressive. This man was a king, although uncrowned. This man was a
sorcerer, although unwilling in the talent. This man was of another race,
although he passed for human with his fair hair and grey eyes.
This man sought distraction. Now.
He went to Lax, that underbelly world of crime and
corruption, and the one who nominated himself as this man’s personal guard
accompanied him. The companion appeared less human, for his eyes were tawny.
They arrived together in a public square with their swords
drawn, for here one had to be ever wary. Twilight fell soon after their appearance,
but did not hide the squalor. The place was filthy with rubble lying in
uncaring piles, and it stank of piss and dead rats.
Dark blotches on the cracked concrete paving exposed the
sites of murder. There were many blotches. Not a building front on the square
was whole; every façade showed the jagged teeth of broken glass and splintered
doors. Lax had been in decline for generations.
The public area seemed deserted, but stealthy sound
revealed they were marked.
“My Lord, why here, this cesspit?”
“Here there is no status between us, and I am therefore not
your lord, understood? Say it again in the wrong place and we’re both dead. If
anyone asks, your name is Adrian and mine is Timothy. We have no other names,
understood? Why here? Challenge.” Timothy lifted his sword to point it. “Four
of Lax’s lowlife behind you.”
Adrian swore under his breath and whirled around. There were
indeed four scrawny, scruffy men hurtling at him. No doubt they regarded two
strangers as easy targets. The first and second went down via dagger - he
always has a blade in each boot - and the third had his teeth knocked out
before he even looked at his fallen companions. The fourth rushed forward and took
a hit in the jaw that laid him out cold.
Adrian, his breathing even, said, “What are you trying to
prove?”
“Nothing, and that would be the point. I seek distraction.
The only expectation here from anyone is how long one can survive. Black and
white. Live or die.” Timothy closed in and clasped his companion’s shoulder.
“Let us find the principal criminal in this hole and force upon him a change of
heart. This dump requires cleansing. Are you with me?”
A brother in arms to a king? Adrian nodded. He would not
miss this for anything.
Timothy grinned and together they set off into the
underbelly of Lax.
A FEW MONTHS ago a friend went about the taverns of another place,
stating that decent folk were ever willing to open up to a healer. Recalling
that as he and Adrian ducked into a basement drinking-hole, Timothy reflected
that it will be almost impossible to find anyone decent on Lax, and he doubted
they knew what a healer was now. Lax had too long been in the grip of crime.
Here the intent behind his sword would have to open them up.
The place was disgusting, stinking like an open sewer, and
it was crammed with silent patrons. Vacant eyes stared into filthy tankards
filled with diluted ale. Ugly whores sat together at a table staring at broken
nails; no one paid them any heed and they did not attempt to solicit attentions.
It was an eye opener; Laxians clearly possessed little in the way of hope.
“Gods,” Adrian muttered behind him.
Wrong. Here there were no longer gods, other than the god
of absolution found in a flat tasteless brew.
“Who do I have to kill to put a smile on your faces, even
if just for an hour?” Timothy demanded of the room at large.
Heads swivelled immediately, and hands convulsively gripped
tankards as if afraid he would take them away.
Nobody said anything.
Timothy sauntered in and sat at the whores’ table. Passing
coin to Adrian, he said, “Get these lovely ladies a decent drink. Ask for
whatever is the most expensive.” He studied the women as Adrian moved off. “I
have never seen a stranger sight in my life. This is place for fun, not so? Yet
here is no movement, no music, no laughter …”
“Shut up, mister,” the woman opposite him hissed. “You’ll
get us all killed.”
Timothy leaned back. “Talk costs nothing.”
The same woman made a disbelieving sound. “Where you from,
idiot? Talk is expensive.”
Ah. They were afraid to say even the most basic things, in
case someone had been paid to listen.
“Who pays the most for information?” he asked.
“Why do you want to know?” a thin man at the bar countered.
“I think a change in paymaster is due,” Timothy shrugged.
“You want to take his place?” the man demanded.
A laugh. “Friend, look at my face. See my companion over
there. Does it seem likely we’ll remain long in this shithole?”
“I’ve heard of men like you,” the whore muttered. “You come
here looking for a badass to kill, to prove you’re not as soft as your clean
nails and sweet-smelling skin suggests.” She stared at him. “Most end up deader
than the rats in a cooking pot.”
Adrian returned with the drinks, shoving the tray onto the
table. “Not sure if one can call this decent. Bottoms up, ladies.”
The whore snorted and looked away. Not one of the women
touched the offering.
An old man at the bar cleared his throat once, twice. “Try
the Precinct two blocks up. The Grey stronghold. Someone should cut the head
off that snake. Maybe we’ll get a breather before the next viper comes along.”
“Shut up!” thin man hissed.
Timothy stood and in a low voice said to Adrian, “Watch the
door. Someone’s going to run with this to said snake.” Aloud he said, “I need a
name.”
“He said too much already,” the thin man snarled. “You have
enough from us. Go away.”
Peripherally, Timothy noted Adrian slipping out after
someone. The rat, no doubt. He bowed mockingly. “Thank you for your time.”
Outside dusk was a memory. The dark hid more furtive
movements, but he ignored that for Adrian, who had hold of a skinny young man.
Scars marked the youth’s face. Someone once played butcher on him.
“What now?” Adrian asked.
“Get a name.”
Adrian stared at him, and hauls the man into deeper
darkness. The sound of meaty thuds and terrible groans followed. And then there
was the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground.
Adrian returned flexing his fingers. “He’ll be out till
morning. The name is Gordon Grey.”
“Good. Now to get into this Precinct.”
“This is your definition of distraction? Why are you really
doing this?”
“If there’s a real answer to that, I can only tell you
after.”
TIMOTHY LAUGHED helplessly when he and Adrian were thrown into a
windowless room. Both had bloody noses, puffed eyes and cheeks. Both had broken
skin over knuckles, results from the brawl for entry. Both had lost all
weapons. Neither used sorcery as coercion.
“Gods, I haven’t had to fight like that in a century,”
Timothy laughed.
Adrian muttered under his breath.
Timothy laughed harder. “Where’s your sense of fun?”
“Don’t see the point. What now?”
“They’ll let us stew here for a while and then hit us with
something more, and then they’ll take us to this Gordon Grey. We accept our
punishment. We wait.”
GORDON GREY WAS a tall man. Grey indeed, yes, as in hair, but not old. He wore
an expensive silk suit, although multiple gold chains around his neck somewhat
spoiled the effect. He awaited them inside a glass cube squatting in an empty
warehouse.
Bright halogens bathed the whole in absolute light. Timothy
and Adrian, after suffering yet another beating, were stripped naked, bundled
into sacks with holes for arms and head, and hauled here in chains after days
of waiting.
Four guards dragged them into the transparent cell.
“Remove their chains,” Grey commanded.
Two did so and left, taking the restraints with them. There
was a whoosh of sound - the cube sealed.
Sitting comfortably with one leg crossed over the other,
Gordon Grey impaled them with ice blue eyes. He did not speak and neither did
they. A half smile appeared and he lifted a remote control. Wordless, he
pressed a button on the device.
The remaining two guards instantly gargled and gripped at
their throats, eyes bulging. Timothy and Adrian drowned in otherworldly sounds,
and belatedly realised the man had at the command of a finger removed oxygen
from the sealed chamber. They proceeded to swiftly mimic the actions behind
them.
“Ah, so,” Grey murmured.
He set the control down and watched the two guards die in
throes of agony, eyes flicking curiously over his two prisoners, watching them
attempt to follow. An eyebrow lifted.
Timothy straightened from an ‘agony’ crouched to tap
Adrian’s arm. Together and stoically, they faced the man.
Gordon Grey pressed another button that restored breathable
air to the space. “If you are able to withstand lack of air, there is something
special about you.”
“We are not human. We possess added biology that allows for
breathing of foul air, even vacuum,” Timothy revealed.
“Ah, not human. Intriguing. Explains how you seemed not to
mind the lack of water.”
Besides the repeated beatings suffered in the other place,
they were left without water and food.
“We minded. We simply hold out longer than humans are
able,” Adrian said.
“Interesting. You are perfect for the task I have in mind …
but I do wonder what leverage I have to force you to my will.”
Timothy spread his hands. “The truth.”
Gordon Grey fiddled with the chains around his neck.
“Explain that.”
“You are not like us and yet lack of air did you no harm. A
shield? A witch’s charm? This is knowledge. We would do your bidding for that truth.”
Adrian turned his head to look at Timothy in some surprise.
Really?
Grey stared at them, and then selected a button on his
device that opened the glass wall, and told the other guards to remove the
dead. In silence they did so. Once they left, he resealed the transparent box.
“Sit. Let us deal.”
Potato sacks that ended mid-thigh did not conceal all bits
when sitting, but Timothy and Adrian sat as if decently covered on the glass
floor, ignoring the cold that travelled instantly from anus to neck.
“One completes the task. One stays. A report of success
from one secures the release of the other.”
Timothy shook his head. “No.”
Adrian again looked at Timothy.
Grey realised who the leader was and pointed at Adrian. “He
goes.” He shifted the finger to Timothy. “You stay.”
Gordon Grey’s prisoners merely stared at him.
“What is your name, soldier?” he barked.
“Adrian.”
Grey’s attention returned to Timothy. “If he’s the soldier,
you’re the captain. What’s your name?”
“Timothy.”
“Single epitaphs?”
“Generally.”
“Why are your eyes different?” Grey asked of Adrian.
“We’re not human.”
“Where are you from? What are you?” Grey demanded of
Timothy.
“Another place. Another race.”
“I’ll allow that to pass for now. How did you come here?
Few ships now land on Lax and I am aware of every passenger. Why are you here?”
“We transported in and we seek diversion.”
Again Adrian glanced at Timothy. “We?” he mutters. “This is
all about you.”
Timothy winked at him.
“Transported,” Gordon meanwhile echoed. “You are sorcerers
and that means I have no leverage strong enough to waylay you, do I? Holding
one of you as a hostage achieves exactly nothing.” He tapped his chin
thoughtfully. “Although it does occur to me that you could be claiming the
talent in order to wrong-foot me.”
Timothy and Adrian both shrugged.
“Prove it,” Grey snapped.
Timothy lifted a hand. A moment later he was properly
dressed in breeches, tunic and boots. A moment after, Adrian was likewise
covered. Adrian sighed his relief.
“Ah, so. Very practical of you. Are you able to kill a man
merely by lifting a hand?” Grey challenged.
“We have no need of hand gestures; I employed it only to
signify I am the one achieving the manipulation,” Timothy said. “And, yes,
killing is as easy as dressing.”
“Prove it.”
There was no movement inside the cube, but outside of it
every guard in attendance collapsed. “They are not dead, merely temporarily
paralysed,” Timothy said. “I am not a murderer.”
“I am the vulnerable one in this cube right now,” Grey
murmured, “and I suspect you allowed yourselves to be captured to get to me.
Are you here to kill me?”
“Cut the head off the snake, yes,” Timothy said, without
expression. “Lax is a dump. Had I the time, I’d cleanse this entire planet.”
Adrian shook his head. “He has a shield.”
“Hmm. I must therefore alter my strategy,” Gordon Grey said.
“I seek to keep my head and I have nothing to offer you as a bribe, except
this; I am able to offer a man seeking distraction some serious diversion. It
involves my shield.”
An eyelid flickered over a grey eye. “Speak,” Timothy said.
BEYOND THE RUINS of the city lay more ruin. It was a stretch of open land
between cities, but was as rubble filled. In fact, it was hard to call it
‘land’, as it was almost impossible to tell where the city behind ended and the
next one began. Once this was farmland, but those days were over. Crime and
every kind of perversity now paid for food brought in from other worlds.
In the midst of shattered masonry and rusted girders,
wrecked vehicles and broken toilet bowls, there was a concrete platform Gordon
Grey kept cleared of rubbish and the sneaky lowlifes of Lax. This was his
private landing place for his small shuttle, an expensive and swift little
carrier able to skim the surface. There were no longer traversable roads on
Lax. A bunker alongside was guarded every moment of every day and night.
Grey led Timothy and Adrian across the small concourse and
into the secure shelter.
They were airborne soon after.
An hour later they landed in the hills to the south. The
slopes on both sides of the landing pad teemed with movement.
As they alighted, Grey said, “They dig for diamonds. Soon
these hills will be flattened and manmade piles of rock and soil will take
their place.” He shrugged. “This is not why we’re here. Come with me.”
Leading the way, he strode towards a bunker similar in
every way to the one they left from.
Inside were shelves laden with small jagged rocks.
“Possible diamonds,” he said, waving airily over the array.
In back was a strong room, but it was for something other
than a collection of crystals confirmed as valuable.
“There.” Gordon Grey remained at the door as if afraid of
entering.
Timothy shifted past him to an oblong cabinet. Adrian
joined him and together they studied the contraption. It appeared much like a
coffin standing on its foot.
“Apparently the material is onyx and the trims are of
platinum,” Grey murmured behind them.
“A master craftsman made this,” Adrian said.
“A long, long time ago,” Timothy added. He glanced over his
shoulder. “All you did was touch it, you say, and after you noticed how usually
fatal situations no longer affected you?”
A nod from the doorway.
“You attempted to open it?” Adrian asked.
“Of course. Nothing works.”
Timothy turned. “Why are you afraid of this, Grey? It’s
probably no more than a long sealed coffin.”
“It’s unnatural. While I like that I am invincible right
now, I’m afraid that when the effects desert me I’ll be left a husk. I am also
wary of something able to achieve this much by virtue of touch alone. Open it.
Negate its power. And if you cannot, please take it away. We have discovered it
will not move either.”
“How did it get here? Where did you find it?” Timothy asked.
“It was buried in the hill back there and we were able to
lift it easily, but once we set it down here, it would not again budge. I’ve
had experts in, a costly exercise, but it remains a mystery.”
Timothy laid a hand upon the stone.
“Now you are invincible,” Grey murmured.
Adrian snorted. “He is already that, idiot.”
Timothy placed an ear against the coffin. He took a step
back a moment later and grasped the handle set to the right. If it looked like
a door, open it, not so? He pulled.
“My Lord!” Adrian blurted.
The thing opened.
Gordon Grey slumped to the cold concrete floor, a graceless
thump.
Dust billowed from a dark interior. The smell of antiquity
wafted out also.
“Here is an answer for you, Adrian,” Timothy said, staring
into the empty blackness. “I rely too much on my power and status, and others
rely on me being there for them with these talents at my fingertips. This is a
multiple pedestal I must one day topple from. The woman I love threw me off
hers, and I shall crawl on my knees to secure her regard once more. You begin
to notice how yours for me is constructed of clay rather than stone. I am a man
also, after all. The man just opened this door.”
“My Lord?” Adrian was at a loss.
“Anyone can expose this, if of the will to do so. Mister
Grey over there didn’t really seek the truth bared and thus it resisted him.
Reality has now paralysed him.”
“What is the truth?” Adrian whispered.
Timothy smiled over his shoulder. “The truth is that we are
all of created of mistakes and experience and the people who move through our
lives. Some teach us new ways, others remove from us our energy.” He returned
to his study of the empty coffin. “The truth is that fear is not real. It is a
construct of the mind.”
Timothy reached out and closed the onyx door. He murmured
inaudibly.
It vanished. Gordon Grey had his wish granted. Negate it or
vanish it - both granted.
“It is time now to leave this place,” Timothy said.
Adrian gestured at the senseless Grey. “What about him?”
“When he awakes he will believe his ‘shield’ removed and he
will proceed with caution for some while. For a time he will desire to know who
this ‘lord’ is, the one a soldier inadvertently revealed to him just now, but
soon he must face the truth of his vulnerability in a crime-ridden society.
Perhaps that truth will drive him off planet or the belief of weakness will see
him dead within days. It’s up to him.”
“We’re just leaving him? You wanted to …”
“What I wanted to achieve in the name of diversion is no
longer relevant. We’re leaving him, yes, for his fate is his to decide. We are
each of us responsible for a path taken.”
“And Lax?”
Timothy smiled; a cold grimace. “Lax will be dealt with, in
time, once our priorities change. Let’s go home, my friend. I have amends to
make.”
Friday, October 14, 2022
Chapter 1: Latticework
A latticework creates a mesmerising
pattern, to please the eye and draw the onlooker closer. Emotional lattices connect
strands to amplify the human experience; our melancholy, our mistakes, and our
residual power.
Fourteen lattices by a diverse author makes
Latticework an occult treat, worthy of fans who dip into the disturbing and
diabolical. This collection of soulful tales embodies the macabre and the
metaphysical, with insights so serrated it cuts to the marrow.
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Here's the full first story in this collection:
Lattice 1
THE PILLAR FELT rough and pitted under Callie’s fingers. She knew it as
rock, although she could not see anything in the blackness. She also knew the
feel of this particular standing
stone; it was akin to a friend, a haven, a beacon in the dark. There were no
night noises, not even the resident frog to confirm where she was. She always
listened for him when she came here in summer.
She had been here before. She was not lost.
Biting the inside of her cheek to contain hysterical
sounds, Callie put her fingers to work. They were her eyes now and she could
trust them. They reached up, sensing, exploring, and, yes, there it was. The
small voice of doubt was stilled.
She had been here
before.
She was home.
Callie slotted her fingers into the depression and used it
as leverage to drag herself upright. Her bones ached and she was cold,
shivering in the cool air, but she felt better, more confident, and ignored the
discomfort. The cold was more than physical; it was inside her. Perhaps she
instinctively came here to find warmth. She leaned against the monolith to take
in deep breaths.
Old friend, you
have rescued me once more. I have missed you. I have ignored you
recently to keep others happy.
Callie always thought, and still believed, that the stones would
protect her, particularly this one, the tallest in the ring. It did not matter
what people said. Aw, Callie, they’re
just stones (her uncle Ed when she was seven); Girl, those things are putting ideas into your head (her mother
when she was twelve); How can silly rocks
save you? (her older sister Cassie at least twice a year), and worst of
all, the denouncement, What was is no
longer, Callie, accept it (her father, recently, the one who believed with
her for so long).
Her father gave up, she understood, because her mother
insisted, and yet it hurt. She stayed
away to keep her mother happy.
Her father brought her to the ring first as a little girl
and leaned against this very rock to tell her the tale. How she loved the
expression of happiness on his face then.
Listen carefully,
sweet pea, listen well now. A long time ago there was nothing here, not even a
blade of grass or a bird to sweeten the atmosphere with music.
Her father, the birdwatcher.
There was no one
to see the desolation, until one day a man fell from the sky. He was hurt, I
think in a battle, and had not the strength to return to his home, and he knew
he would die in this place of nothingness. His pain upon seeing such emptiness
was terrible; it was an affront to the powers, he thought. That pain was worse
than his physical injuries.
He needed to explain ‘affront’ to her, and ‘desolation’.
She remembered now his smile on doing so; it meant she listened well.
Sweet pea, the man
crawled for a long time looking for something, anything, to fill the emptiness,
but soon he would surrender because he needed water and healing more than he
needed to find that something.
He did not find
those things either and death found him eventually, but he did not die as we
know it. We believe our bodies die and our souls go somewhere else, but he
willed his body to become the building blocks of the something he sought, just
as he willed his soul to remain to watch over the process of renewal. He
possessed strong will and upon his death nubs of new rock sprouted from the
barren ground.
Much time has
passed, sweet pea, and the rocks grew and are still growing, and when the winds
turns just so and if you’re lucky, you hear the sighs and soft murmurs of the
soul standing watch to this day.
Callie wanted to know why the man from the sky would
remain; when the grass was green and the sky blue and flowers grew and birds
sang in the air, why would he still watch?
Because it will
never be finished, sweet pea, not until the powers know of his sacrifice.
She understood sacrifice, but she wanted to know how he
fell from the sky.
There are spaces
like pathways out there, sweet girl, but we can’t see them. The man may have
strayed off a path and fell over the edge. We know so little.
The most important question then was how her father could
possibly know the tale. If nothing had been here and no one had seen it, how
did he know?
I have been lucky
enough to hear the murmurs, sweet pea. The tale was revealed to me.
And thus she wanted to hear the murmurs also. Now, standing
here, Callie imagined the emptiness the man found.
Is emptiness
black?
And yet the stone was at her back, she felt the rough
surface, thus the darkness was not devoid of everything.
Where is the
light?
She came frequently; she had since the day her father spoke
to her about the man fallen from the sky. Always there was light, even in the
darkest weather, even at night when it was starless. She measured the stones on
each occasion, but now understood her time was too short to mark the growth.
She came during the sighing of the wind, and had not heard the murmurs, but was
not disappointed; she had to be patient.
And she felt safe here, sensing a presence that did watch …
and protect. When she scraped her knee on the wall after falling from her bike,
she came here to cry; when her little brother died with the all the kids in
that bus accident, she came here to grieve; when her mother changed into a sour
unbeliever thereafter, she came here to mourn the woman who was before; when
her sister got married to a man she did not love, she came here to pray for
her.
When her father stared at her with his big soulful eyes,
trying to tell her something without words, a message she could not fathom, she
came here to unravel it. She thought she might have understood once or twice,
and glimpsed truths on other occasions.
Her father asked understanding for her mother’s surrender,
just as he tried to tell her that Cassie needed to leave the depressive
atmosphere at home, even if it meant further unhappiness. She, Callie, was no
longer a child; she understood the ways of the mind.
Her mother rediscovered the fact that she had a daughter
and tried to ‘sort’ her life out; the stones had no place in that new life. Her
father wanted desperately for her mother to be sane and whole once more and was
prepared to sacrifice his beliefs … and his daughter’s.
But no more. This time she fled to her haven to get away
from the pain in her father’s eyes, the accusation.
She told her mother to cease her interfering, days ago, and then was forced to
watch her father witness her mother slide back into the void she created in her
mind.
What was she supposed to do? Marry the vicar’s son? When
she did not love him? She did not require escape as badly as Cassie did. The
man was a bully, besides. No, this was her life, and sacrifice only went so far
before it became insanity.
Callie sank to her knees as hysteria returned with thought
of the events. She rested her forehead against the stone and it was cold to
her, alien, as accusatory.
Her mother slit her wrists earlier today while they were
out in town. Her father found her upon their return, already too late to change
that fate. An initial scream gave way to paralysis, and she called the doctor, the vicar, the police, and hours later they
took her mother away, while her father stared at nothing at all, unmoving.
And then, when all was so silent, a grave within the house,
he turned those eyes on her. He told her without words who he blamed for this
death. She denied her mother a second chance. She used the stones as a defence.
She fled.
For she blamed herself, too.
Outside it was dark, but whether night or day she did not
then know and could not care. Her soul was black, a void, empty, alien. She
stumbled to nowhere, but her feet led her here. Here, in the black, her fingers
saw and her mind stilled … and then raced ahead once more. Her fault, her
fault, and she lost her father along with her mother this day. Cassie would
blame her also. Those dammed stones rule
you, Callie! She could hear it already.
Her tears flowed then and she was lost.
There was nothing worth believing in.
The sound was loud in the stillness and she lifted her head.
An instant later her scream was as soundless as the blackness was lightless.
A gunshot.
She knew without seeing that her father had taken his life,
had followed her mother, had sacrificed everything. And a moment after that she
understood he did so to protect her. How she knew, she could not say, but she knew
it utterly.
He loved his daughter well and wanted to spare her the same
kind of pain they lived with in the years since her brother died.
Callie drew breath, and another and another, and each was
steadier than the one before. She could cope. She would go down and she would
find what was left of him, and that would be harder to deal with than her
mother’s suicide, but his eyes would not accuse her - that was his final gift.
She rose and pushed away from the monolith. It was time to
finish this chapter so that she might go forth into the next, whatever it brought.
She would leave, for nothing held her anymore, not even the stones, the silent
stones. They would never murmur. Her father gave her magic and took it away; he
lied and now the truth was revealed. Life is. What you see was what there was,
no more.
It hurt.
There was nothing.
What an affront that was, really.
And then, as her fingers were about
to leave the stone forever, she felt a hand stroke over her hair. She froze.
The hand brushed her cheek and lingered there a moment before withdrawing. She
could not move.
Yes, it is an
affront, Callie, but the greater affront is to turn away from the magic and believe
that there is nothing more.
“This isn’t real!”
The light returned then, as if it awaited the sound of her
voice. It slid in softly and revealed a world bathed in evening glows. Down the
rise her house was pink in the setting sun; tranquil.
No smoke curled from the chimney, no life resided there in
the present, and yet it was serene, still, quietly accepting, waiting for the
breath of newness. She frowned down at it, aware that pain had left her. She
lifted her gaze to the mountains yonder to see them traced in brilliant gold,
like a sign for the future. Was she being fanciful? Had freedom, and the
terrible cost, warped her mind?
She turned. Her fingers abandoned the stone. She had no
need to touch them more, because she knew.
There were eight of them, roughly of equal height, with
only her stone higher than the others, taller than her - the watcher embodied.
She saw the latticework, the spidery traces of amber sparks that connected the
ring, making it one, a whole, complete. There was magic. No one had lied. She was uplifted and grateful. This was
a wonderful gift.
“How? Why now?” she asked but did not expect an answer. It
was enough to see the truth.
As long as one
remains to feel the magic, the stones remain, an answer came. Your
father knew and his mother before him and her grandmother before her, her
father, his uncle, right back to the beginning of human life here. You are the powers, Callie, and thus I am
completed. My sacrifice had value then and has value now. For as long as you
remember.
She touched the stone … and smiled.
As long as I remember.
All was quiet then … and the
resident frog burped. Life was about to be. Normality was a figment of the
imagination, for all were on different paths.
Callie stared at the ring of stones. The amber connections had
vanished, but she knew now they were there always. There was no further
murmuring, but she knew now it was never silent.
She turned then and walked down to gift her father a final
resting. One day, perhaps, she would hear the full tale, or her daughter would,
or her grandson … or a descendent not even imagined.
As long as there was memory there would be magic.
Sunday, September 25, 2022
Chapters 1: African Moon & At the End
Tomorrow she will go on with her life …
It’s a hot day in Cape Town but a woman holds the vigil at a
window overlooking the beach. She has repeatedly dreamed of a sailing boat, a
lost soul perhaps, entering upon silver streaks on the water. Is this merely
dreaming or, as she believes, a vision?
She will watch, she will give it this one day and night, and
then go on with her life, and waiting with her is Barney, her beloved dog, and
Fantasy, her snooty cat. Man, a girl and her fur babies get hungry while
waiting for something to happen, and yet her instincts keep her there …
watching … waiting …
Lattice 3 from Latticework: 14 Lattices from Space and Time
SHE LEANS ON her elbow, chin in hand, and stares out over the bay. The sun is bright on the water and the sun worshippers are out in full force on the narrow strip of beach, their colourful umbrellas and sunshades drawing the eye.
Bronzed bodies languish
amid reddening skins. She, however, is uninterested in people silly enough to
burn to crisps in such heat; she watches the water intently, staring through
the hot silver stripes upon the waves.
Twice now she has dreamed
of the yacht and both times the images were so real she can no longer ignore
it. She sees sails dancing upon a beam and with it there is a feeling of
sadness. Such sadness that she is in tears when she awakes.
She will look and watch
until she either dies of eyestrain or something happens to prove her night
visits are more than dreams. Or, she thinks in amusement, she will die of
starvation, just sitting here.
The screams of frolicking
kids rise up to reach out to her through closed windows, but she barely hears
them. The drone of a jumbo jet overheard faintly rattles the glass and is then
gone. The subdued sounds of slow traffic vying for right of way along the
crowded street do not even register, and neither does the periodically jarring
siren of an angry driver leaning on the hooter. Her mind is engaged in the
soothing notes of Mozart at his absolute best.
Barney snuffles at her
feet, gives a loud moan and thumps his tail resoundingly upon the wooden floor,
and then sees that his mistress is not about to budge yet. He releases an exaggerated
yawn and sinks to the floor with a long-suffering sigh. The great big fur ball
is asleep in seconds. Lucky sod.
She leans down to scratch
him behind his ears and then props her chin up once more, all without taking
her eyes from the water. At least Barney adores Mozart too.
Alex did not. Alex
thought loud rap was music, the louder the better, and scoffed at her love of
classical music. She kicked him out eventually, more because of his musical
tastes and his love of inflicting it on others, than for any other reason.
He was a distraction for
a while, but not enough to warrant putting up with that noise. The peace after
his railing mode of departure was worth billions. And Barney hated Alex; what more proof did a girl need? Barney, for
heaven’s sake, puts up with Fantasy, her I’ll-take-you-on-hell-on-four-paws
Himalayan cat. That is saying something for Barney’s nerves.
Mozart delves into his
famous clarinet concerto and she feels her body relax. Out of Africa indeed. That is African sun out there, although in
cosmopolitan surroundings.
Cape Town on a hot day.
Sun worshippers and cell phones, bling and gourmet treats. It could be the
French Riviera, for pity’s sake. Karen Blixen would turn in her grave, for
certain. Karen Blixen probably never dreamed of a modern sailing yacht.
We should all do the
best we can with what is given us,
so that one day we too
can look back and say,
‘I lived a good life’.
At the End is an insight taken from FingerNale Tales and
tells the story of a woman looking back over the years of her life.
I NEVER THOUGHT
I would get old. It comes as a surprise to sit here at age ninety. Really it
does. This, for me, is merely a number, for I do not feel nine decades old and,
despite those sets of ten and the various injuries sustained over their
progression, my body tells me it is a lie.
Is my mind as sharp as I
believe? You be the judge of that. Base it on these ruminations, perhaps.
Let us see. I remember
being lowered headfirst over the font in church and having water sprinkled upon
my head. My mother in later years told me I was three weeks old.
The time I skinned both
my knees after slipping on wet paving - I was eighteen months, and put up quite
a racket. Another tumble, this time from my tricycle - two and a half years
old. First day at school. High school. First boyfriend. Tenth boyfriend - he
was the one I married, at age twenty-two, bless his now departed soul.
I recall every birth
also, four of them, two boys and two girls, although I doubt a mother ever
forgets, no matter how old she is, no matter how old her children are either.
Unless you are unable to remember.
This is not a maudlin
trip down memory lane, though, and I am not about to discuss those diseases
that befall some of the aged (and sometimes much earlier than old age). My
point is, I do remember all of it, and I believe my mind is as sharp now as it
was when I juggled job and studies.
Do you agree?
Monday, September 27, 2021
Tuesday, September 7, 2021
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