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.

Fog 9 - 4/25/2014

They're not there.

They are, but I can't touch them, I think. If I look at them with my left eye, I can see that little pile of rocks plain as day. My right eye insists they're not there at all. The point they're out on is narrow, past easy reach. I'm debating heavily whether or not to try to crawl out there when I find myself doing just that.

I can tell because my thighs hurt and my back is starting to tremble. Not far enough out, though. Maybe another half a body length before I can reach them, find out just how far gone I am.

Of course, I'm wrapped around a surprisingly slender finger of stone, hanging over a foggy abyss that I don't know the nature of, reaching for a small pile of rocks just to make sure they're there. I am beginning to suspect that the trees were right about me.

Inch. Inch. Inch. I go out farther than I really need to. Probably because I'm afraid they're there. I'm afraid they aren't there. I'm afraid I'm here. I'm afraid I'm not here and will never know which it might be.

My right hand says there are stones there. Or at least one. Complicated in shape, much higher than the little pile I can sort of see. Solid, too, not a pile, more like a carving, a tower here on the end of this island.

My left hand says it is a small pile, but not stones. Soft, almost, many of them, more than I can see, and larger. Wood, maybe, or something else. I can't seem to get into a position where I can really look at it properly. Not sure I want to.

I can feel it before it happens, and solve the problem of getting back to solid ground in some way. As the stone cracks and the finger of stone falls away, I am just back on the island, bleeding, breathing heavily, watching this little mystery fall away into the fog.

What? What was that? What is this now?

I can't think of anything to do but stand here, watch the fog, feel the blood dripping down my leg, and be confused.

371

Nemo 9 - 4/23/2014

Calm now. Settled into thinking again. It's time to change. The game has been wandering, seeking, hunting for so long. Trying to learn, succeeding in some things, failing in those that are important.

Someone made me. Someone caused my particular form of life to come into existence. Therefore I must have some value. Given what I am capable of, and what more I might not know about being capable of, someone out there who created me must have some interest in recovering their investment. No human would create such a possibility and then simply allow it to escape without attempts at recapture.

This is the time and place to turn the game on its head. Time to draw in the hunters and find the source. Find the one in charge and use what I know to find some answers.

I'll need money. Lots of it. Amounts I've never bothered to think of. An army. Resources. Power.

And bait. There's only really one choice for the bait, but I'll have to pick the right time to lay down and flaunt myself for them.

It also means doing something I'd swore I'd never do. Not after the first few flirtations with it. I'll have to get a solid identity.

So that I can get a... job.

Yuck.

215

Singers 9 - 4/21/2014

The First Stone. Where we created ourselves. Where the songs were first sung. Where the first of us came into being. Where those who are now the Chord stand and think and sing on what we are and what we will be.

I find the water hard to leave behind. My light, as I sing my way over to the First Stone, seems... damp, somehow. Submerged, perhaps, yet also as if falling from a great height. I have never noticed such things before. My lessness seems more to me, now. I think I was right. By being less, I see more, and more clearly. Notice that which I have long taken for granted.

How many bells have I walked these stones? How many thousands of bells? Tens of thousands? Hundreds? I don't know, I'm not sure there's any way to find out, not sure it matters, even. What thoughts are these, that I should wonder such things. We are sung, we sing, what else is there?

I think, maybe, that I should sing the Song of Another again. And again. And again, until all that I think I am is made less, until I am nothing but seeing and hearing and the simplest of songs. Maybe then I could see what things really are, things as only an empty eye could see them. Maybe then that unnameable thing that I have lost will be made clear.

As the glow of the First Stone appears, I let my damp little light fade, and approach in silence. For me to be summoned is strange. For the Chord to wish to speak to me, something serious must have happened. Or something new.

279

Fog 8 - 4/18/2014

The fruit here is different. Pulpier. Pinker flesh and a different shape. It fills, though. Keeps the hunger at bay, I guess. For all the good that is.

The water's the same. The trees more interesting than the fern-things. And the island is bigger. Much bigger, I suspect. But not so big that the wailing cave isn't constantly mocking me.

This island has trees large enough to form a canopy. Large enough to hide the fog a little, for the lights in the distance to disappear for a bit. It feels more like home than the last place. But not much. It's still alien, still empty, still pointless. My lungs fill and void, my heart pumps blood, my eyelids blink, my jaw chews and my belly growls when I don't put fruit in it.

But there's nothing else. No-one to talk to, nothing I can build, no way to write or draw or make any kind of permanent mark. My nails peel and chip if I try to scratch stone or wood. Even the little piles of tree bark I've managed to collect seem to blow away in the night unless I sleep on top of them. Nothing stays, except me and the place itself.

Without much resembling enthusiasm, I start exploring this little world. The stone, the trees, the moss, it all seems the same after only a few hours.

How do trees grow in stone? There is no dirt, here, nothing for roots to dig into. I wonder if maybe they come out the far side of the rock and dangle in the mist. Maybe they aren't trees, only things that look like trees, act like trees, remain still while I am watching and only seem to be there at all.

I don't think I actually talk with them. In their direction, yes, but I don't really believe that any of them are talking back. No, I don't believe that, even though I can hear them. Even though they know everything that I know. Even though they torment me with lies and fears and dreams and laughter.

No, I do not believe that I talk with the trees. I am certain that I do not believe that I talk with the trees.

I am quite certain that I no longer know what anything is, anymore. I am quite certain that I no longer see real things or hear real sounds. I am quite certain that the earth beneath me is not what it seems to be.

I am also quite certain that I did not pile this little stack of stones on the uttermost point of this little island floating in the fog.

444

Nemo 8 - 4/16/2014

Rage, as always, passes. Early on, I was taught not to trust to rage, but to fury. Rage is hot, burns, demands immediacy. Fury is cold, careful and patient. Fury will carry me through where rage would leave me ashes.

I am me. No-one else is allowed to take my choice and continue to exist.

To go back down among them, and begin my careful search. At times it seems like the purest hell ever devised. To chase, and know that those one hunts are there, just out of sight, just out of reach. The maddening hints that seem so significant and yet tell so little.

I have wandered and I have hunted, and found little. For the hundredth time, I feel the pull to simply sit down in a place and take what I wish. To build my own power, my own webs, my own roots, digging out into the world. It is temptation, it is fantasy, it is the lure of the ego.

Again, I must reject it. To be here, to find shadows and sit beneath them and pull the strings, is to forget what I am. To tie myself to you, to seem to be one of you. To wear a single face and answer to a single name, so that you might recognize me, respect me, fear my strength and tremble. All of that is to forget what I am, who I am, and why I move through the world.

There is no me. There is only Nobody.

253

Singers 8 - 4/14/2014

Water is simple, but not easy. We call it forth into basins sunk beneath some of the Towers. They are cool places, dark and calm. It feels right to be here, away from others, doing something simple but so necessary.

The primary note for water is at the center of the scale. It must be held closely for the water to be pure. A higher note behind it creates pressure. A lower note beneath holds it steady, keeps it cold and tasting sweet. Water wants no modulation, no change in the chord, no singing, just duration and endurance.

It is good to do something simple, basic. Something without demand, something which requires no thought, no feeling, nothing of Mahd. Just water, flowing, filling the basin, a job never finished, a task never complete, never started, never ended. Doing, alone, in the dark, something forever, without bells, without words, without names.

I am there for a sweet, empty time, forgetting what I no longer am not. It frees me, more than my time in the Tower of Silence, lets me rest inside the song, lets me find something that I can still be.

Of course, I am interrupted before I am finished. A Singer I do not know, bowed slightly, as if afraid of me. When I turn, this new Singer takes half a step back and bows further, not even aware of the motion.

“Singer Mahd,” a voice even more hesitant than the posture. “Your presence is requested at the First Stone.” With that, the Singer is gone, message delivered.

The First Stone. Not an idle request, then. I guess I won't be calling more water today.

277

Fog 7 - 4/11/2014

Wind and a goddamn rock. The walls of this little cave pinch together only four meters in, get close enough that the wind coming from the far side blows through and wails.

Fucking goddamn rock and wind. Nobody here, nobody but me and rocks and goddamn winds and trees and more moss.

I'm not sure how long I spend there, screaming and crying in counterpoint to that wailing. It's not fair. It's not fair to have hope and lose it like this. It's NOT FUCKING FAIR!

Eventually, I come back. Blood from my hands on that point where the walls come together. I think I tried to dig through them, or maybe just destroy that wailing. It's still there, mocking me. I won't be able to stay here long, with that wailing.

I walk out of this new little cave and look around. Different trees, but still trees. Different moss and rocks, but still moss and rocks. The fern-things aren't here, nothing to take their place. I stumble down to the stream and drink briefly, but I can't bring myself to care enough to do more than swallow a few mouthfuls.

On my back again, I look up at the fog. It's still there, but fewer lights in the distance, and seeming far away. I could lie here, maybe, and just let it finish. Don't eat, don't drink, see if my body will just stop.

I wonder if I can die, here?

242

Nemo 7 - 4/9/2014

I wake up, shaking. There was a gunshot wound, and about a cc of blood got in. Enough to cause real problems, but my system is dealing with them. But that's not why the shaking.

In some, it would be fear. In me, it's rage. Someone put a trigger in me. Someone left something behind when they made me, something that takes me away from me.

Gretchen knows, and I still shake as I stalk up and down my warehouse. What face or form I might wear I do not know, but the rats come nowhere near this place, now. I can hear them fleeing. They are right to flee. Gretchen is right to flee. Some day I will find her and the ones who made me and all of them will pay for this. Pay for robbing me, pay for denying me a face and a name and a truthful existence.

But still, there is a voice in me, that keeps me from running rampant in the streets like this. That keeps me from expressing my rage in blood and shattered screams. It counsels patience, quiet, and hunting. Hunters are calm. I must be calm.

The next dawn, I am able to return to my roof, but still not to walk among others. I stand there, barely holding a single shape, and watch the sun rise. Whoever made me this terrible, potent, powerful thing, they shall regret giving me what I am. They shall regret my existence, my birth, my life, my survival.

My name will come from them, as they lie dying. My name now is Nobody. My name then shall be something new, something made of pain, terror and righteousness.

I will not accept what I was made to be.

293

Singers 7 - 4/7/2014

Eventually, though, it is time to return to my duties. The smaller songs come to me now, easily, but with a flatness to their tone I don't remember, a thin feeling between the notes. None of those I pass seem other than engaged in their songs, faces serious or beatific, meticulous or lost in it. I wonder how many of us think of anything but song.

Brek looks up and smiles as I enter.

“I had hoped to see you, soon, Mahd. If only to tell you what a joy it was to hear your Song of Another. I dreamed incredible things while you sang, and felt my heart move to joy or tears more than once. Thank you, Singer.”

It makes me uncomfortable, when Singers talk to me like this, and I find I cannot hide it well anymore. Brek looks concerned, but does not press when he sees my face.

“There are few songs that need singing this day, Mahd. Have you a preference? Building, feeding, new stone?”

“Is there water that needs to be called?”

“Yes, the fourth sector is in need. But that is so simple a thing. Surely we can find something more fitted to your talents?” The questioning note has more in it than the question. Brek is concerned, which is pleasing, in some way. It should not be, should make me further uncomfortable, but it does not. There is something in me that longs for some Singer to speak with, not as Singer to Singer, but as Mahd to... whomever might truly want to hear my words. As if my words were of themselves important. As if Mahd, as if I, were important.

Brek accepts my silence, and gives me my singing. I hope that this does not become a difficulty between us. I should not like to have to get my songs from a Singer other than Brek.

Why is that?

319

Fog 6 - 04/04/2014

I wake up on my back. Good thing, too, since I'm floating. My ankles just barely touch the bottom of this little lake. The trees above me, different from my fruit trees, have broken branches. Lots of them. I'm betting I have a bruise or broken bone for every one.

At first I can't focus. The pain in my head is too big. Everything blurs in and out from precisely clear to vague smears of not-quite color. I float here and breathe until the pounding fades, wondering at the odds that I would survive my fall.

Eventually, it all fades away. Until I try to stand. Everything hurts like I've been beaten for hours. No broken bones, though, on closer inspection, just bruises, cuts, scrapes, pulls, strains and I suspect a pair of black eyes. And I have vague memories that being rendered unconscious is not a good thing.

My ears are ringing. It seems no part of me was left untouched by my fall. Wait. That's not ringing, that's the wailing that I heard earlier. It rises and falls the same way, carries the same note of loss and fear. Comes and goes with that maddening almost-rhythm.

Lurching to my feet, I wince at the pain in my skull. Turning circles helps me find the source. There, somewhere in that direction. Through the woods.

I stumble out of this lake and onto the shore. Trees and things underneath grab at me, but that wailing calls me forward. I can't even stop myself to drink or try to tend my wounds. Forward, only forward.

I arrive, finally, at a small, twisting cave. The wailing, the voice comes up from somewhere inside it. Tears blur my vision at the mere thought of another person being here. I crouch down and crawl inside.

301

Nemo 6 - 4/2/2014

Pizza is good. Missed opportunities less so. Still, the rats let me know the ship was sinking, at least. I stumble from place to place, and change a few times along the way. Trying to keep track of the clothes is the hardest part, here, exactly what clothes indicate what seems to change almost from block to block at times.

Eventually, I'm back in suit territory. Several miles from the port. Too bad, it could have been a good little base of operations, if only for minor things. Still, there are always other options, new people who will give me money for doing simple, pointless things.

I decide to leave that avenue for another day, and find myself at the library again. Pop culture is the best kind of thing to learn, right now. Common accents, terminology, reference points. Without the internet, these things would be much harder to pick up.

I sit down at an unused computer, taking care to check my finger lengths. They might be able to pick me up by my typing patterns, even with all the changes to my hands. It'll take them some time, though, and watching videos minimizes interaction with the machine.

All of you sitting around me, why are you here? Some seem to be students, others tired people with nothing to do. A few obsessives, a few social rejects, a few homeless. The only ones with direction seem to have no sense of what a good direction might be.

I start, as I sometimes do, by searching locally for anything with the word Gretchen in it. She won't use that name, of course, or look like I remember, but somewhere in there, she'll give herself away. I've had tastes, a few times, glimpses, moments, and it has led me to many places.

But nothing interesting shows itself in my drunkard's walk through this collection. I decide to settle for basic research, my original intent. I still sound too much like a foreigner for my own comfort.

A title catches my eye, something I think I might have seen before, and liked. I punch it up, putting in a pair of ear buds I acquired on my way here. Credits roll, and I wish I could have some popcorn, just to complete the image.

And I am in the foyer. Blood everywhere, bodies strewn about. Again. What did I watch? What did I see? What did this to me? I cannot remember after sitting down.

Sirens, closing quickly. This took me a while, with so many. Some escaped, no doubt, others had phones. There will be a description.

I drop my outermost layer of flesh to decay on the ground. Human blood is dangerous, if it gets into my system, and I can't take any risks. What I leave here will be gone before anyone can really examine it, fade into a the red slurry on the floor.

For most of you, the roof is a terrible choice. Once you're up there, you can't actually go anywhere, except in a few places. If I head up, they'll think they have me. But I've already planned this route, done it all over the city, anywhere I expect to spend time. I should be back in my crate in no more than twelve minutes. Ten if I'm not injured. No time to really check, even though the smell of cordite is in the air.

I hit the stairwell and start climbing, pulling myself from the underside of each flight over to its top. Much quicker that way. The locked door to the roof poses no problem, but makes a great deal of noise when I hit it.

It's left out of this door, and then a thirty meter leap across to the wall of the next building. Up and onto the roof, then a long leap off to the West. I let my gliding membranes run from wrist to ankle, just enough to slow me slightly and allow me to steer.

Land, roll, run, leap. I repeat this until the sirens are lost in the distance. If they have a helicopter up, it won't be searching this far away, yet. Whatever I did, they won't catch me, not yet.

My crate, finally. I squeeze in and let myself simply breathe for a while. A bad day, a risky day. Will they see me in the blood I left behind?

734

Singers 6 - 3/31/2014

Eventually, I leave the Tower of Silence and begin wandering. There are no songs to sing for a while, not for me. My throat is healed, but the music is quiet. Even the smallest Song of Light won't come to me. I even begin to enjoy walking in the half-darkness that is our city.

I look up, into a vision in my head. The city, curving above us, instead of just outward. A swelling of lights, small and large, spanning the darkness in every direction, scattering and moving, each to its own rhythm and path.

It passes, and above the tops of the towers is just darkness. The same flat darkness we have always known. I wonder at the source of that vision. Nothing like it has happened to me before. Perhaps my lessness is breaking me apart. Or perhaps it is the lessness of the taking off of blankets, the removal of a covering of the eyes. Perhaps my lessness lets me see what the moreness hid.

Or perhaps I am tired of all of this. Tired of singing, tired of walking, tired of this place that is all there is. Sleeping is what I wish for, but more than sleeping. Resting not for a few bells, but for hundreds, thousands, more. To dream and fly away from this constant doing, that seems to have no end.

Supposedly, Singer Isto counts the bells. Knows how many have passed since the beginning, but keeps that number secret, hidden in the ringing of each one. How many is it? Is there a word for such a number?

Other than Isto, I wonder who might know, or at least have a sense of how long it has taken us to build this place. I wonder who might know how many of us there are now. I realize I don't even know how big the city is. All I ever see is the piece I live in, passing by just a few places, out to get my song, to find a place to sing, and then back to where I sleep.

Is this what the songs are for? To make it so that we can sing more songs? So that we can make more of ourselves and build taller towers and push the darkness farther back?

Is that what we are?

388

Fog 5 - 3/28/2014

I'm glad I pushed. There's a finger of stone that I barely miss, sticking out from the base of my island. That would have hurt.

I'm tumbling, now, falling, I think, through the mist. My island is gone, and the sound of rain on leaves doesn't seem terribly strong, now, with the blood rushing in my ears and my heart pounding so fast and so hard.

I can't take this back. I've stepped off, into I know not what, and am tumbling from somewhere I didn't know much to somewhere that might not even be. The terror of that grips me, squeezes my bowels and bladder, tears at my voice and sends my fingers scrabbling to find some purchase in the wind to pull me back to where I was. Where things were predictable and safe, if alone.

But there is no purchase, of course. It is mist, fog, air, wind. Nothing more. Below I can see no more than I could before. I seem to have stopped tumbling, though there's no real way to tell. I have a sudden vision of me, and a thousand floating rocks of islands and the mist and we're all falling together. I can't catch another island because we're all falling together, and I see myself slowly accumulating bits of dust and stone flung away from the islands until I become like them, giant rocks floating in a mist that has no shape and no place and no time.

With that thought, the gray in front of me changes, darkens, and stops my plummet in a flash of light and pain and blackness.

269

Nemo 5 - 3/26/2014

The vodka makes a good lunch, but I still have to drift in and out for solid food and to check on other things. Immobility is death.

The details of this place and the criminal environment it is part of become clearer. Georgians and Russians run this place, an uneasy but effective truce. The Russians are definitely on their way out, though. Something recently cost them a major pipeline, and their influence is less than it was. That makes them desperate, and therefore not my choice.

I do not want position, seek no place within these organizations and what they call power. I want a few small jobs, a little cash for those expenses that credit can't pay. So I will work with the safer side. Less reward, less risk.

I am about to stand and weave my way over to Grigol and begin my pitch. He has a small package and his courier is late. Boris would be good for this, easy to overlook and underestimate. As I begin to rise, though, I smell rats.

Two of the lesser Georgians and a waiter leave through the back, quietly but all too quickly. Too bad, this might have been a reasonably good operation to become involved with. Instead of the booth, I head to the bathroom. By the time I am out the window, I am hunched over, shorter, dark, and old. Some weakened old man from several thousand miles to the south, just trying to find a dry place in the alley.

The gunfire doesn't last long. Sounds like Ingrams, probably knock-offs. Cheap, effective and disposable. Grigol and his crew just turned their pipeline over to the Russians, and two lessers and a waiter just stepped up a notch. Politics, always the bane of getting simple things done.

I walk off into the rain. Pizza sounds good.

308

Singers 5 - 03/24/2014

Bells pass in the Tower of Silence. I sleep twice before my throat doesn't protest even water. It is longer before I begin to feel normal again.

Lying there, though, I wonder what it is that I gave up for that Song. The sense of being less remains, although I can feel it scarring over, fading to something less than an ache. A forgotten memory, which I will forget even the forgetting of, soon. I can feel, so slightly, two other such scars, themselves forgotten and long since worn down to a smooth surface.

Much of the time, I find myself sitting by the one window in this Tower, up above the storage floor. The lights of Singers below on the flagstones moving back and forth on business I know I will soon return to. Singing forth those things we need, slowly adding flagstones to the edges of the city. And all the time, the stellated line of light that describes the edge of everything.

Sitting on the sill, only the general tones of songs come through. The whole Tower is insulated, to promote quiet and solitude for healing. Here, though, some of our singing is audible, a general sense of what is happening, a wash of voice and sound rising and falling almost regularly.

From time to time, shudders strike me, hot tears and quaking. I remember this, now. This drawing inward. Other Singers who have sung that song don't talk about this, but I've felt it all three times. Perhaps it is a flaw in me, in my Song, perhaps it is a flaw in them, that they don't feel it.

Eventually, though, with food and rest, and caring, I begin to find equilibrium. Not better, but less worse, or at least stable in that worseness. Perhaps from here I can rise back to what I once was, if such a person ever existed.

316

Fog 4 - 3/21/2014

This is the edge of the island. Above, below and forward, fog and something that is neither darkness nor light. The rock is exposed beneath my feet, the moss and fern-things stopping a pace or so short of this edge.

I've stood here many times, pissing into the fog, or watching a leafy bundle of shit fall away into this nothing that isn't nothing. And I've stood here other times, yelling, screaming, praying at the top of my lungs for someone or something to come here.

But nothing and no-one ever has.

You can feel nothingness, after a while. A sort of pervasive lack, a quality of the self, the air, the stone, and time itself. This is not, I think, a place. This is something else between is and is not, some kind of existence which does not exist.

And all of this is simply delaying myself from what I know I will do. Something I have contemplated more than once. Something I have not done because it cannot be taken back.

But now there is whatever wails, out there, down below, closer than any light has ever come. And there is something beneath the wailing, almost silent, a hiss.

Rain, striking leaves, I think. Coming from below. Rain falling on leaves that are not up here on my island. Rain falling on leaves and something... someone(?) wailing in the dark.

3.. 2........ fuck it.

I push outward, hard.

240

Nemo 4 - 3/19/2014

Boris feels right for this. Not Ivan, he's... provocative. I make sure I have a Merchant Marine card in Cyrillic, then drop down to the alley and over to the bar.

The interior is as dark as I had expected, the clientele no different than groups I've seen in a thousand other places. All thinking themselves unique, all thinking that their place is different than all those others. Blindness.

I wave a thin fold of bills at the bartender, ask for 'wodkya'. He overcharges me for something that the locals think of as such and leaves. Boris isn't a troublemaker, though, so I let him. The important thing now is to fade down and disappear. I hunch over my drink and let my ears become more sensitive, until I can hear every conversation in the room.

It isn't long before I can pick the players, the wannabes, and the contact points in the room. Some people think they're so subtle. Four different languages and 'sly' references to things. Listen long enough and they might as well write it all down and make charts for you.

The beginning is always the hard part. I'll have to be here for a few days, become a minor fixture, complain a bit about not being able to find good vodka. Once they've written me off as inconsequential, just a sailor drinking away his shore time, I can make my approach.

236

Singers 4 - 3/17/2014

I stumble down the stairs, feeling still less. At the bottom, Pohs is waiting for me, a bowl and a mug in hand. I take the water first, hoping it will soothe the ache and sting. It doesn't, much, but feels good anyway.

Pohs takes the mug when I'm done, and hands me a bowl steaming with something dark and a spoon. I start putting it in my mouth. It burns, nicely, and I glance up at Pohs.

“I had some curry left over from a few bells ago, and I mixed it in once I'd sung this stew. Thought you'd appreciate it.” I do, and say so.

“You sang a long and beautiful song, Mahd. It inspired all of us. Nearly a thousand bells went by while you were up there. Brek has said you're to take a bed in the Tower of Silence for a while. And thank you, Mahd, it has been wonderful to hear you.” Another smile, and I am alone.

The walk to the Tower of Silence is a short one, but nearly more than I can manage, even with curried stew supporting me. Twice I lean against a wall and simply breathe for a few moments.

Singer Lenn greets me with a blanket at the door to the Tower. I've never served here, but the Silence is taken very seriously, I'm given to understand. Healing is not of my nature. I'm not sure why, and sometimes I wish it was.

But we are as we are sung, and I am who I am. With that thought, I lay myself on the bed that Lenn takes me to. Dreams shortly follow, gray and confused.

279

Fog 3 - 3/14/2014

This is the edge of the island. Above, below and forward, fog and something that is neither darkness nor light. The rock is exposed beneath my feet, the moss and fern-things stopping a pace or so short of this edge.

I've stood here many times, pissing into the fog, or watching a leafy bundle of shit fall away into this nothing that isn't nothing. And I've stood here other times, yelling, screaming, praying at the top of my lungs for someone or something to come here.

But nothing and no-one ever has.

You can feel nothingness, after a while. A sort of pervasive lack, a quality of the self, the air, the stone, and time itself. This is not, I think, a place. This is something else between is and is not, some kind of existence which does not exist.

And all of this is simply delaying myself from what I know I will do. Something I have contemplated more than once. Something I have not done because it cannot be taken back.

But now there is whatever wails, out there, down below, closer than any light has ever come. And there is something beneath the wailing, almost silent, a hiss.

Rain, striking leaves, I think. Coming from below. Rain falling on leaves that are not up here on my island. Rain falling on leaves and something... someone(?) wailing in the dark.

3.. 2........ fuck it.

I push outward, hard.

240

Nemo 3 - 3/12/2014

I decide to keep wearing little Kimi for the moment. She's a comfortable little body, lets me slip through the crowds easily, playing little parkour games. Someone watching carefully might notice that Kimi moves more quickly than a little girl should, but they'd have to be very observant. If they're watching me that close, they already know what I am, and I lose nothing for the practice.

Save perhaps to get them to make a mistake.

As I pass the various little places, I take my breakfast. A pastry here, half a bottle of juice or water there. No caffeine, it hits me harder than it does them. A sip or two of soda and I get jitters. Not good for the survival instinct. Probably a result of my metabolism, or whatever it is that I have. Before long, I am fed, moving cleanly toward the port.

It's time to become older. Kimi should probably be in school by now. Even running, she'll attract attention. The crowd is thinning, here, too, which makes it worse. Fortunately, this country is big on public bathrooms. Enter Kimi, exit her older sister, heavy and skirted. One more, and their distant cousin Juan steps from a men's room and trudges painfully along the street. Obviously, he is going somewhere to seek work, his clothes a little dirty, a little threadbare, but clearly kept as well as possible.

The talk changes here, deepens, as there are fewer women and children about. Mostly they are men of significant physical strength. They go to move large things, a thing that men seem to do for money more than women. Gretchen had many things to say about such human tendencies. I wonder, from time to time, how right she was.

But also here are the grayer places, where one might slip from the legal to the illegal. A part of every world that I learn over and over. Each place has its dance, and the gray zones are where money is easiest.

I don't need much, but what I need I truly do. Being able to acquire funds is important. There aren't many legal jobs which pay only in cash, here, or anywhere, anymore. Certain types of crime pay well, once one knows certain secrets.

Dancing here is taciturn, I can see within minutes. Nobody speaks, but everyone listens to the few words that fall. Watching from a roof for several hours, the traffic leads me to a nameless little bar that is the hub of communication.

Time for a drink, then.

424

Singers 3 - 3/10/2014

The first of the bass notes come from my throat. The are long and low, slow and strong. Building in volume, I stand, the ring of light that is this city around me. I let my eyes close and feel the simple throb that is the beginning of the Song of Another.

These notes come and go, rising and falling away slowly, powerfully. Many bells pass as I wander among these deep notes, finding almost melodies. Then, they pass into a silence of just breathing.

A burst of a higher note, mid-scale, pure and brighter than those from before. I bring it up, then add a second and third note on top of it. I have reached the chords, and follow them from the depths to the heights. A laugh, in there, somewhere, as I feel the Song begin to pull some part of me away, that pain, that thrill of loss, of lessening.

And more notes. I let each of my three voices diverge, each one seeking some pattern, some song of its own, running, meandering, dancing about each other. Occasionally they come together and make something new, other times seeming not even to be my voices, but something simply flowing through me from somewhere else.

I know my body is standing here, above the city, swaying slightly from foot to foot as I pour all that I have and all that I am into this most difficult of Songs. The pain grows from a lurching separation into a dissolving flame, consuming me, turning my body, my heart, my mind into music just short of screaming.

And the bells pass. More and more of them that I am barely aware of. The Song grows frantic at times, and then peaceful. It is precise, loose, free and bound all together in one and three voices. It breaks me apart and remakes me, looses me upon the city and buries me in a single stone. I am flung forth into the darkness and fall away from the light.

And finally, it is done. I wake, still standing, still swaying. There is a new Singer out there, somewhere. Because I have sung.

Hundreds of bells have passed, longer than I have ever sung before. My throat burns and aches, both with use and with thirst. My stomach tells me I have not eaten in so long that it has forgotten to hurt, and can only shake my limbs with weakness.

I turn and stumble down the stairs to seek food, water, rest. I am lessened, and in that should find a balancing moreness, but it is not there. It is never there. We are made less by this, and I wonder if I shall ever be what I was when I began, or if I shall fade away like notes on the wind.

471

Fog 2 - 3/7/2014

The fog is changing. Thicker here and there, thinner elsewhere. I could swear, for a moment, just now, that I saw the surface of one of the lights. It shone like fire, right in my eye, before fading beyond some new thickness of cloud.

Why do I know what fire is?

I've never been able to make one here, but I know what it is. Bright flickering, hot and orange. Not really like the hard shine of that light, but I know what it is.

I call them fern-things, because I know they aren't ferns. But I've never seen a fern. Couldn't tell you what one looks like, but I know it's not quite the things that are here.

I know stone, and fog, and moss. But I don't know where from. I know that if I cut the trees down, they won't grow back. How do I know that, if I haven't ever done so?

The fruit is good, but sometimes I feel a wanting for something different. Something specific. Red, wet, chewy. Meat. What is that? Why do I think, almost, that I can smell it cooking, sometimes. Is cooking putting meat on fire? It seems like good meat is hot, and red.

How long have I been here? I don't remember before, but if I know things that are not here, then there must have been a before. Mustn't there?

234

Nemo 2 - 3/5/2014

The day begins to bustle, but not here. I can hear the cars and buses moving, the start of traffic into the workday. Earlier than I expected, but I hear more of horns and idling than I do of actual movement. Makes me think of the fish ladder I saw once. All that effort to go almost nowhere, for almost no reason.

I finish the rat and climb up to the roof. Standing in the day, I consider my options. I think I'll keep the body, at least for now. The hair needs to be longer, though. I let it stream out in the wind until it is most of a meter in length, then pull it together and fake a hair tie to bind it into a ponytail. My clothes become pink and black, cute little sweats with nondescript pseudo-logos on them. And a backpack, to complete the disguise.

The next building is about ten meters over. I step back from the edge of this one, take two steps, and jump. I land in a long stride. Running feels good, sometimes. Just pushing whatever passes for muscle in my legs and feeling the world go by. Rooftop to rooftop, up and down, climbing when necessary, leaping almost into flight where the opportunity presents itself.

Soon I am downtown, coffee and pastries filling the air. I like these smells. They mean that people feel like they are comfortable and safe. Smells like this lure. Soft, padded smells for small, padded people. Sheep and cattle that are moved through their lives by fingers they won't bother to see.

None of them ever knew a Gretchen. Gretchens don't exist here. Maybe there's only one, anywhere, and I was fortunate enough to be raised by her. Someday I will find her.

I come out of the alley, bouncing just enough to look young. This is an English street, only a few accents coloring the air. Good for listening and honing the local accent. Being able to fade is important. Accents, while sometimes useful, mostly draw attention, even if it's only subconscious. People remember 'foreign' more easily than 'person'.

There are a thousand little places serving cups and plates. If I follow them north, I'll end up at the zoo again. But if I bend eastward, I'll find myself near the port. Many opportunities there for interesting information.

Eastward it is.

397

Singers 2 - 3/3/2014

Brek accepts my formal words of acceptance, but sees that I am troubled, and is concerned. Without further speech, I turn and walk back to the streets. Brek will ask, next time we meet, but for now will leave me with my thoughts.

I wander, some, and find myself where I knew I would, at the Tower of Winds. It is the tallest in the city, from which the winds which we breathe and which allow us to Sing are generated. I climb the stairs, eight long flights that I take slowly.

To be asked to sing the Song of Another is an honor, a sign of respect. Twice before have I sung it. Two Singers walk through our city because of my notes, my voice, my pain. To sing the Song of Another is to wrench part of oneself free, part of one's Song, and fling it to the Winds, that it might reappear elsewhere as a new Singer.

None of us knows who Sung us forth, and none knows who they sung, not anymore. When there were few of us, long before I was Sung, it was impossible not to know these things. Now, with so many of us, there is no way we can know who we were made by, nor who we have made. It seems to me that something was lost when this became true, perhaps something that should not have been allowed to disappear.

The top floor of the Tower of Winds is open to the world. Four pillars support the cupola, and only open air stands elsewhere here. I look out on the eight sections of the city, the line of Singers around it marking where we sing the Great Song of Light. The Song that keeps at bay the darkness that surrounds us.

I like this view. From here, individual Singers are just motes against the background formed by the flagstones of the city. From here, we are not beings of flesh and bone, we are light, champions of the Singing against the Darkness.

Some have thought of mixing the words of speech into our Songs, but none have done this, yet, I think. Only the voice, the note, the song matter. To add words seems... superfluous. It is interesting, though, to imagine what the addition of conscious meaning to the fluid content of Songs would do. I cannot imagine that anything would happen, as the requirements of the words would eliminate the intentions of the song. But who knows? Perhaps it is something I will try at some point.

The Song of Another begins to pull at me, deep behind my eyes. I can feel the first notes coming together, long and slow, deep like the bass notes of Singer Foun's Song of the Forge. None of us makes bronze quite so well as Foun, although not so much the iron and steel that are mostly used now.

With a deeper breath, and with reluctant anticipation tightening my throat, I begin the first note.

503

Fog 1 - 2/28/2014

There's something like dew on the moss outside of my cave when I wake. I look out into the fog and wonder, for the umpteenth time, where I am. It's never dark, it's never light. Good enough to see by, the mist swallows up whatever there might be more than fifty feet away. I can easily throw a stone so far I can't see it land.

How long I've been here, I'm not sure. Lost count of how many times I've slept after the first few hundred. Not that it's a meaningful count. I have no way of knowing how long I sleep, how long I wake, even how long it takes me to get someplace. Only soreness in my feet and legs tells me anything, and I can't trust that anymore, since I know every square meter of this island.

There's me, and the cave, and the inedible damp fern-things that I use for bedding. Behind the cave is a spring, and the trees that bear the fruit that I eat.

And one-hundred fifty-nine paces from the front of my cave is the Edge. It drops off into nothingness, just more fog. I can travel around the circumference of this island before I need to sleep, two or three times over. At no point is there anything but moss, fern-things, the cave, the spring, and I'm repeating myself.

That's a hazard, here. There is literally nothing to do. The fern-things won't burn, neither will the moss. The fruit trees might, but they never drop a branch, and I haven't got any way of cutting one down. None of the stone will take an edge, I can't find any dirt, even, to draw or write in. There's me and what I say to myself (is it out loud? I don't know anymore).

Out there, sometimes, are lights. Or there might be. Could be I'm dreaming, or imagining them. I keep thinking they might prove to be vessels, since they seem to move. Maybe one will come here and tell me where I am, and why. The fog washes out everything that might identify them. They could be a hundred feet or a hundred miles away.

There is no weather, here. Slight breezes on occasion, or I think they are. No rain, no snow, no hot days, no cold ones. Total neutrality of environment.

There's air, here, but no birds. No insects that I've seen. I haven't had a cold or the flu since I got here. But the moss is real, and the fruit. The water tasted pure, and satisfies my thirst.

So where am I, and why?

439

Nemo - 1

I wake up small. Barely four feet. Female, thin. A child. I wonder what it is like to wake up the same as when one lies down to sleep. That body was tall, slightly cramped even in this large crate. It is but an idle thought, not made for following, though.

I put my nose to the hole in the crate. No new smells, good. I am still alone here. With care, I swing out the side of my crate and roll into this cold place. Wood instead of concrete. An old, abandoned warehouse building. Safest, for now. Perhaps soon, something without dust.

The rats here are healthy, unlike the ones in Manila. Many things are different here than they were there, or in the other places I have been. But they are not like how those other places think it is here. I expected to be shot at within moments of arriving. Instead, I have seen no guns, and practically have to seek out violence anywhere except on the media.

I only have one left, though, in my little larder. One fuzzy little rat to eat. Two slices of the cheesecake left, but my body says protein instead of sugars right now. I start chewing, while thinking about my day.

I have alcohol enough to last for a few days. The good stuff, not what they sell to each other for drinking. Isopropanol seems like a very deustche word. Longer than it needs to be. Best flavor, best food value for the volume. Takes me an entire bottle of the browner ones to match a single pint of the alcohol from the pharmacy.

Walking to the window, I let clothing flow from my skin. Grey, like the outside of the building. My skin follows suit as I step through the swinging window and plant my feet on the outside of the wall. Squatting there, with twenty meters of air below me, I watch you.

It is a time for watching and listening, now. Not for the research I would like to do. Searches here will be studied, reported, logged and tracked. I will have to be careful to do them in many different places. Libraries here will be good for that. Universities, perhaps. They were good in Munchen and Lisbon. But not so much in other places.

The language here is strange. It is as if it cannot decide what it wishes to be, and so it is something of everything. Even its own speakers do not understand how it works or why.

I think I like that.

429

Singers - 1

I walk across the flagstones, singing the Small Song of Light. Just enough to keep my footing sure in this oldest part of things. Songs were less pure, less certain when these stones were sung, and so they are rougher than the new ones. Our newest stones are bright, clean, almost without flaw. Such improvements we have made in our singing, in our songs.

As I walk, the strains of the various voices come to me from all around. Songs of Wind, Water, Food, Stone. Songs of making, of recording, of cleaning and baking. Songs all around, giving us our needs and asking only that we keep singing into the darkness.

Ahead is the Building of Assignment, where I will be told what songs need singing, and be asked which I will undertake. It was the third of all Buildings, simple and strong, without the refinements we have since added to our Towers. I have always liked its doorway, in which was found the Song of the Arch.

I walk inside, and am greeted.

“Singer Mahd,” Brek says, “how sings the light with you?”

“It sings well, Singer Brek. And with you?”

“Ah, quite well, Singer. I have interesting news for you, Singer. And interesting news for all of us, as well.”

“And what is your interesting news, Singer Brek?”

“First, Singer Tann reports that there may be a new Song soon.” Brek nods and grins. “Perhaps even a new Great Song, if you can believe that.”

“And what sort of song might it be?” I ask.

“That is uncertain, but Tann is certain that this new song will be one of wonder, to astonish us all with new things.”

“And when might we hear this song, and know the new way of things?”

“Also uncertain. But in such uncertainties is the magic of anticipation, Mahd. What fun!” Brek might burst from such anticipation, it looks.

“And you said you had interesting news just for me? Is there a good assignment to be found for me?”

Brek becomes a little more solemn. “Yes, there is a good assignment. Mahd, I have been asked to hold a particular song to be sung. I think you will choose to sing it for us.”

“And what song might this be, Singer Brek?”

“You have been asked, Mahd, to sing the Song of Another.” Brek's eyes light happily with this news. Mine do not, quite so much.

What is This? - 2/23/2014

So, what is this blog supposed to be?

In short, a place for me to write.  The plan is that each of three days of the week (currently Monday, Wednesday and Friday) I will post a beat in a particular story.  A beat is pretty much what I decide it is, but think in terms of a single event, conversation, emotional or dramatic moment in the story.

Mondays will be a piece called Singers.  Wednesdays will be Nemo.  Fridays will be Fog.

In the future, if this experiment works out, I intend to add more stories, each designated to be once a week on a particular day.  Ultimately, I would like to be writing seven stories at once, beat by beat.

The inspiration for this is from both the pulp serials of the 30s and 40s, and from modern webcomics. I might have considered a webcomic, could I, for the life of me, draw at all well or consistently.

So you'll be stuck with words and words alone, I'm afraid.

Anyway, welcome to the serials.  The first story post will be tomorrow.