Fog 11 - 5/9/2014

Rope.

That's the next step. Wasn't anything I could make into anything useful on the first island. But the trees here yield bark and leaves. Somehow, I'm going to turn that into rope. Vague little thoughts of swinging down underneath this floating rock, or slinging branches on lines out into the dimness to see what's there fill my head. Maybe not the most useful idea, but something to do.

Part of me wants to try fire, but anything I burn isn't available for making things. It's not cold here, but the light and warmth beyond what there is seems somehow tempting.

Enough of temptation. I will figure this place out, I will master it, make it my own. I will find the lights and ride them to somewhere that makes sense, where piles of stones are piles of stones, and not puzzles left by laughing trees to mock me while I bleed.

I don't know how to make rope. Not the slightest clue. It's got something to do with braiding, but I don't really know what.

Still, there's nothing else to do. I start gathering bark and leaves from the trees with the sharpest tongues. Serves them right. They'll be the smartest ones, too, so they'll make the best rope, I think.

Or maybe I've just been thinking too much lately. Perhaps a nap.

224

Nemo 11 - 5/7/2014

In thinking, I realize I'm going to need more than one job. One to learn the basics, one to learn the inner workings, and one to turn into a position of power. I'll need capital, ultimately, more than I can easily acquire from my usual methods. Lots of zeroes.

Of course, to start with, I'll have to find someone who can do serious identity work. Something that will pass deep background checks. Such people tend to be hard to find, and expensive. Which means I need zeroes even before I start.

So, a trip out of town. Never shit where you eat makes sense, even to me. But a few hours north should put me in a place where I can pick up a few piles without attracting too much attention. Gotta love drug dealers. They collect large amounts of easily moved money into one place and don't call anyone when it goes missing. And very few regret their sudden passing.

And strangely enough, State Patrol rarely pulls over 65 year-old grey-haired lady in a neatly maintained luxoboat.

The nice part about being Nobody is that there is rarely any preparation time needed for a journey of this sort. I can even run the distance, if I have to, although it means staying out of sight.

In fact, that sounds nice. A quick jaunt through three hundred miles of woodlands and rivers. A few climbs here and there, all out of sight of you. Free to be whatever I might have been, wild.

253

Singers 11 - 5/5/2014

The Tower of Song is some ways from the First Stone. Long enough to think. Singer Tann sleeps in that Tower, lost in kes singing. There are days when ke does not drink, does not eat, thinks only of songs new and old. It was ke who sang iron, it was ke who sang wine, and who broke three towers six bells later with a song none can remember.

Speaking with Tann is unusual. Word after word bounces in different direction, as if kes thoughts were trying to escape, but always found Tann waiting for them. It is probable that the word 'confusing' was created simply to describe Singer Tann.

Somehow, it even describes my path to the Tower of Song. Three times I find myself at one part or another of the edge of the city. I even feel a small urge to kneel and sing the Great Song of Light, just for a bell or two. But I turn away from the new Singers and their task, so that I might do mine.

As I finally approach the Tower of Song, I find my small light bouncing like Tann's words. Watching the shadows it throws becomes somewhat enthralling. Another irrelevancy that keeps me from my task. Still, I must ask Tann if kes light does the same.

With that thought I turn finally to the Tower of Song. Which, I realize, is silent. A pang of fear runs through me. This Tower, of all, is continuously filled with song, with lights, with... us.

Now it stands dark, silent, still.

261

Fog 10 - 5/2/2014

It's the trees that bring me back, of course. Not the talking, I've gotten used to that. Mockery and derision is easy to ignore when you know it's only your own head talking to you by grabbing the trees and beating them together.

I shake my head. No, the talking isn't what does it, it's the dripping. The fog has congealed enough for a little mist to form on the leaves. Just enough for the smaller leaves up top to drip slightly down to the larger leaves. Drinking water that hasn't been scooped out of the rock sounds strangely enticing, right now.

I stand under the increasing streams in a place where several leaves converge. It's enough to bathe under, not just drink. I don't know why this feels so good, or how it's really happening, but it is good. I take some of the bark and small branches on the ground and start scrubbing. I haven't really gotten dirty here, but it feels good to peel away whatever is there, even if it's skin.

The sort-of-rain doesn't last all that long, but it is refreshing. Totally unlike anything that's happened here, alien, unknown. But familiar, too. I think I've done this before, some time. I think it was good then, too. When it drifts to a stop, it is almost as good, like a starting point has been crossed.

230

Nemo 10 - 4/30/2014

You just laughed a bit. Admit it. But let me tell you what a job is, for me.

It's picking a form. That includes gender, skeletal structure, ethnicity, features, hair, the whole thing. I have to know that form, down to the last epidermal imperfection. I have to know the name, the voice, the accent, the history, the walk, the little habits that you all notice so easily.

Everything there is to know about this person, I have to know. Things that will never come up in conversation, things the likes of which I have never experienced. I have to know what this person likes for breakfast, for pastries, how to make sure they can avoid coffee, tea and soda, how to make sure I can consume alcohol while around others without arousing suspicion.

And I have to maintain this lie that extends down into my bones, this fakery, indefinitely. Most of you wouldn't notice a rhinoceros at your dinner table, but you will notice if I forget whether the mole was on the left or right side of my throat. You will spot inconsistencies in my stories, in my behaviors, will focus in on them, become obsessed.

I always have to pick a history that allows me to be uncomfortable with people. Orphan is good, or Fostered. Shy away from questions about family in that situation and people backpedal faster than an Olympic sprinter. Claim to have grown up in difficult circumstances and they'll allow you some small deviations from the norm without question.

But then you run into the other side of the problem. The compassionate ones who want to help, or the smart ones who are looking for places to slip knives, for levers and pressure points. Those last I understand, and can deal with. But the helpers, they mess me up every time. I get the genetic impulse towards co-operative or supportive behavior, but only as an intellectual exercise. I was born a hunter and a killer, and such I shall remain.

So don't laugh when I shudder at the thought of a job. Don't smirk when you hear me say that this is something I dread, no matter how much I need it.

In fact, consider that I might be the person at the next cube, the next manufacturing station, in the office just up the hall. You know, the odd one that never quite fit. The one nobody knows how to read. The one that, just a little bit, gives you the creeps.

You can't know whether that's me or not, can you?

429

Singers 10 - 4/29/2014

The Chord. Three who stand at the center of the city, surrounded by music, silent themselves. With stilled voices, they speak to us, though I cannot describe how. They are not as I remember, nor as others have described them. Brek says they stand back to back to back, but I see them facing each other at arm's length.

Though they do not move or indicate recognition of me, I can feel their regard. I do not hear their words, but it is as if I know what they have just said without words being spoken.

“Singer Mahd, our thanks for your attendance.”

“I am honored to receive the summons of the Chord,” I reply, bowing slightly.

“There is a new thing. A thing that involves Singer Tann.”

“What is this new thing?” I ask.

“We do not know. We ask you to go and observe. To discover what it is that has happened.”

“You do not know? Then how should I be able to understand what the Chord cannot?”

“The Chord sees differently than Singers do, and in most things, this is good. However, the way that the Chord sees prevents us from understanding this new thing. The Chord sees what is and what has been. Singer Mahd, we believe, can best see what might also be that is not yet. Hence we ask you to observe and understand.”

Why would I see better than another Singer? Or than the Chord itself? I have the feeling of standing at the bottom of an abyss, with something about to crash down on me from all sides.

“I thank the Chord for their faith in me,” I reply, bowing again. “I shall seek Singer Tann and observe this new thing, and attempt to understand.”

“We thank Singer Mahd. Until such time as you have completed this task and spoken of it with us, you are released from all songs. It is important that we come to understand the new thing.”

With that, I am dismissed.

334

Missing a Day - 4/28/2014

Singers part 10 will be delayed by one day because I am too incoherent to write it right now.  Good night.