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