After the thunder rolled and a symbol flashed,
briefly incandescent, a robe appeared, hanging in near darkness. A limp wisp of milky grey, at first, it
billowed and whitened, filling itself out.
Again the rumble, the arcane figure, and another robe hung near the
first, straightened and darkened to purple.
Its folds twisted about itself like a morning glory waiting for
dawn. Then a third time the noise and
passing shape. Both robes seemed to turn
toward a third, fluttering itself into solid brownness.
There was a pause.
Silence, for a space. The white
robe drifted with a look of purpose. The
brown robe fluttered, unconcerned.
Purple never moved, waiting. The
thunder came again, three times, and three times, again, signs hung in the air.
After, the white robe glittered with gold and moved
itself proudly, admiring. The gold
dangled in a clinking line from cuffs and cowl and burst in embroidered whorls
down its front and around its hem. After, the purple robe pulsed with silken
red and uncoiled itself, examining. The
red writhed silently, twisting across shoulders and down sleeves, with
embroidered symbols and signs that marched along the hem in hieroglyphic order.
After, the brown robe rippled with light blue and
displayed itself openly, amazed. The
blue danced in waterform appliqué that covered it in turbulent whorls and waves
until only the hem and cuffs were untouched brown.
Again the pause.
Again the pause ended. Now silver
light, in the shape of two eyes, radiated from the white and brown hoods, a
curious gleam. The white robe, erect,
jingled its trim in dignified perplexity.
The brown robe fidgeted in absent puzzlement. Both turned to examine the purple robe, in
whose cowl two steady brown glows could barely be seen.
“I am I and you are you,” said White in a hearty
voice.”
“Do you think the thunder will come again?” asked
Brown in a dulcet voice.
“Be silent and watch,” whispered Purple in a voice
that came from everywhere and nowhere.
“Remember the shapes if you can.”
And the shapes did come, after the sounds. Purple’s sleeves moved, picking out
embroidered shapes to match. “We are
being created,” the whisper said. “What is different, now?”
“I thought of my home,” said White, “but I know that
I had it before now. It’s just that it
didn’t seem so important before. What
are you thinking, Purple?”
“I thought of success; thought of using these symbols
to give myself power. It will take much
study and planning . . . Brown?”
“What?
Oh! I was thinking of the pattern
of my robe and how it fits me so well.
I’m sure the symbols make a fitting pattern, too. Or they make a pattern and we fit ourselves
to it.”
“Fit ourselves to the pattern?” laughed White.
“Exactly!” hissed Purple. “Watch again.”
Again Purple could pick out the symbols. Two matched one of the last set.
“What is different?” demanded Purple.
“The garden in my courtyard is more orderly,” said
White. “The pool is rectangular rather
than round. The soft piles of pillows
for sitting are now covered with pastel silk, and my self-playing harp is now
carves with a stylized leaf motif. I
hope you learn much from this. How has your live changed?”
“My house in the clouds,” said Purple, “now has
several galleries of art to match the galleries of oddities and curiosities.”
“In the clouds, you say?” Brown was delighted.
“Yes. I am
difficult to reach.”
“I’m not. I
have rooms in a city. The tapestries
don’t match as well, now, but I love them all more. They’re less harmonious to the eye, but their
patterns have meanings that make them quite harmonious to the mind, if one
ponders them. The windows are still wide
and bare and the fireplace is still large.
I think . . . I think I invite a wider variety of people over. Is this helpful?”
“Perhaps,” said Purple. “Watch again.”
This time no symbol repeated from the time before,
though more than one were familiar. From
the sleeves of each robe sprouted hands.
White’s hands brushed the gold embroidery down its front, then toyed
with the jingly fringe at its neck.
“I believe,” it said, “that there is great drive in
these hands, but that this drive is divided.
I will have to watch myself carefully, for I am destined to do great
things and I must not allow myself to fail due to divided energy and
attention.”
“My hands are restless,” said Brown. “They seem to have a life all their own. I’m not sure what to do with them. You, Purple?”
“My hands wish to build myself safety. They wish to grasp and hold tightly. I believe, yes, I can write in the air with
them. I will make notes.”
All of the symbols had been seen before. The first two of them were the same.
“Orderliness is the key,” said White. “A generous orderliness makes life safe, and
makes it worth living, safe or not.”
“Orderliness is
the key,” said Purple, “but secrecy is often wise.”
“I don’t know that orderliness will do any good,”
said Brown. “The Universe is an untidy
place. Get too orderly and you can’t see
any point of view buy your own.”
“So this glyph is order,” whispered Purple, tightly,
“and the first glyph changes White, the second me, and the third you, Brown, in
each cycle. And,” tighter still, “we are
being manipulated.”
“No need to be angry,” soothed Brown,
fluttering. “Orderliness in outlook can
be an advantage.”
“It is orderliness imposed. It may undo me.”
“Only if you let yourself be trapped by it,” the
liquid voice cajoled. “Only if you
refuse to let yourself see beyond it. I
can’t imagine you allowing that to happen.
It wouldn’t be like you.”
Purple relaxed.
Its hem swayed a bit, for the first time. “Perhaps.”
“The silence is long now,” boomed White. “The creation is finished.”
“Perhaps,” said Purple.
Brown lifted its hands and turned and turned and
turned again, in a ripple of drapery.
“If I were orderly,” it said, “I would say that since the creation began
at one time, it would have to finish at another.”
“But you are not orderly, Brown,” laughed White, “so
you must say something else.”
“Brown is not orderly, White,” whispered Purple, “so
he is saying something else.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are implying . . . “
“No, no, no!” hurried Brown, hands flapping to erase
the misconception. “I mean am I a
‘he’? Are any of us?”
“It is standard,” the whisper came, “to refer to
living beings of unknown gender as ‘he’.”
“But Brown is not standard.” A chuckle.
The brown and blue ripples swayed and bobble. “I believe it is standard to refer to robes
as ‘it’. And I believe that, should
another symbol create me female, it would feel better to go from ‘it’ to female
than male to female. More like gaining
something than having something taken away.”
“Nothing will have been taken away.” Purple was testy. “You are not a ‘he’ in fact. You would lose only the word, a mere sound.”
“I would lose the word, an idea. A concept.
A concept is never mere, especially a self-concept.”
“Referring to oneself as ‘it’ implies that one is
less than living.”
“Referring to myself as ‘he’ implies that I am
something more than what I am. If I
refer to myself as ‘it’, however, then I am more than what I imply, rather than
less. I prefer that.”
“I believe Brown is right,” said White. “You prove it.”
“What?”
“You call words mere, but refuse to call yourself
‘it’,
“What?”
“You call words ‘mere’ but refuse to call yourself
‘it’, as if the word could take away your livingness. If a word can remove livingness, then a word
can remove maleness, too, or can imply that maleness has been removed.”
“I am a proud being,” he continued. “I have been pleased with each added step of
my creation. I wish this to
continue. The addition of my sex, when
it occurs, will be a solid step forward, not a step-back-then-step-forward and not
a filling in of a previous pretense.
‘Til then, I am ‘it’ - - a living ‘it’, White pronounced.
“The addition of your sex if it occurs,” hissed Purple.
“If our creators deign to add
it. Do not assume, White.”
“The silence is different, now” said Brown. “Something is gathering.”
“The silence is certainly longer,” said White. “Perhaps we should begin some activity to
pass the time.”
But again the thunder came, and this time it stayed,
rumbling on and on as signs flashed, now here, now there.
“What is different?” the hiss.
“I feel . . . I feel that I am the same,” said
Brown. “But I feel as if I am doing . . . I know it is not, but it
feels as if I am. It feels as if I’m
exerting myself mightily.”
“I also,” said White.
“I would have said that nothing had happened, Brown, but now that you
describe it, I must say that I, too, have this feeling. I recognize it from your description. You, Purple?”
“No, nothing.
There is only a waiting and a . . . “ Purple gasped. “I am hurt!”
The thunder rolled. “I am
injured!”
“I must aid you!” said Brown; then, puzzled,
unmoving. “I am aiding you.”
“I must protect you!” said White; then puzzled,
circling, “I am protecting you. I am keeping them back. It is tiring.
I do not see them or know who they are, but I am fighting them and it
tires me.”
“It feels . . . “ said Brown, “as if I am healing
you. Is that true?”
“It feels . . . yes.
Yes, you are. Oh, alarm. Alarm!”
“Aargh! I am
down.”
“White! I am coming.”
“No, down,” said Purple, and three of the red symbols
upon its hem glowed.
“They are gone,” said White. “I can feel it.”
“I am coming to heal you,” said Brown, unmoving. “I do not understand this. The symbols come and we are controlled. And yet we are forced to do nothing. And the pattern of the symbols seems to be no
pattern at all. Some of them are without
effect.”
“Perhaps they control the others,” said Purple, “the
ones we don’t see – the ones we fight and who fight us. I feel myself busy, but I do not know what I
do an I am doing nothing. Can you guess
what I am busy at?”
“No,” said White, “but it is important and I am
anxious about it. While I am healed, I
am not healed completely. This may mean
that Brown’s healing is used up. I fear
further injuries will be permanent.
Yes. We must leave soon but not
before you are finished.”
“Yes,” said Brown, “my healing is used up and we must
wait for Purple. Purple does what we
came here to do. What we came there to do, though we are here and not
there. There may be others to fight if
we are not gone soon. Curious.”
“Curious,” said Purple. “I have it.
Thought what it is is unknown to me.
It is heavy and we must hurry.”
“I also bear a load,” said White. “My portion is heaviest.”
“I also carry,” said Brown, “and we are leaving,
hurrying to go.”
Purple by now had columns and columns of symbols
glowing in the air about it. During the
leaving only White, and sometimes Brown, fought from time to time. So Purple was not distracted from study,
watching the symbols and listening to their tales.
Soon White declared, “We are in a safer place. We are still traveling, but we are safer,
now.”
“Have you learned the symbols, yet?” asked
Brown.
“Some of them, I believe. These in this column here seem to be symbols
of amount. I have arranged them from
lesser to greater. Often a pair of these
symbols will appear. One will be nearer
to you. If you feel yourself to be
striking and the one nearer is the greater, then the next symbol to appear will
not harm you, though the what-you-are-fighting may disappear. If the nearer is the lesser, while you fight,
nothing else occurs and the fight continues.
If the pair appears while you do not feel yourself to
be striking and the nearer is lesser, you will be injured when the next symbol
appears. The severity of the injury will
be greater as the amount is greater. If
the nearer is the greater while you are not striking, nothing occurs and the
fight continues.
I surmise from this that there are others; that the
amount symbols describe or control a conflict, blow by blow; that we win or
lose, suffer injury or inflict it, according to the symbols.”
“Inflict it?”
“Yes, Brown.
There is no way to be sure. It
may just be the symbols we fight. But
the pattern of the symbols imply ‘others’, imply that they are caused to injure
us or to be injured by us even as we are forced to injure or be injured.”
“Inflicting injury . . . injuring others, others we
can’t see and have to wish to harm. It’s
monstrous.”
“Or necessary,” said White. “We do not know enough to know that this is
not necessary. The sense of purpose I
feel is strong.”
“It is not our
purpose,” whispered Purple. “Remember
that.”
“I feel an ending,” said Brown. “But something is beginning to happen.
Something did happen.
With the familiar jarring growl, symbol after symbol flitted and faded
in the air. Then other things began to
appear: a sword and pouch near White, a
dagger and small wooden chest near Purple, a metal-tipped pole and pouch near
Brown. These things were examined.
“This is called gold,” said White, “and I have earned
it. Earned it and the sword. We gave what we found to someone and kept or
were given this.”
“This in the chest is called silver,” said Purple.
There was a further event, after which symbols
appeared above each robe, symbols that followed them as they moved.
“These are amount symbols,” said Purple.
“It is another thing we earned,” said Brown, “when we
fought. For each defeated foe the amount
increased. Are they real, do you
think? Do they think that we are
real? Are you still injured, White?”
“No. Not now.”
“Oh, good.
Perhaps the others are not, either.
Do you think this will continue?
I dread it.”
It did continue, at intervals, after that. The numerals crowning them grew larger and
larger. The objects that had appeared
were joined by others. There were pieces
of armor and weapons, gold and silver, gems and jewelry, books and magical
items. Though White and Purple and Brown
could touch the objects, there seemed no point to it. Though White and Purple and Brown remembered
their homes, they never saw them.
Everything around them was featureless except for the objects, and for
the symbols, of course.
Purple had sorted and resorted the symbols, had
guessed at their purpose. But the
symbols from the very beginning never came again. Purple was restless.
Brown was resigned.
With each event Brown was quieter and quieter. White was proud. With each event he became more voluble. On the assumption that Purple needed to know,
to explore the meaning of the symbols, White related every scrap of his
knowing, sometimes in the form of reminiscence, long after.
Then came the time when the symbols above them, the
ones that White considered their accomplishment, lessened.
“What is this?” shouted White. “I am not less, I am more. I feel it.”
“Hush,” hissed Purple. “This is new.
Attend.”
Other symbols were added above the others. Different symbols. Next to White appeared a hammer. Next to Purple appeared a dagger. Next to Brown appeared a crystal orb. It ended.
“This is the Hammer of Exact Cleaving,” said
White. “It is a fine prize, a fit prize
for my accomplishment.”
“This is the Dagger of Marking,” said Purple. “It is powerful. I must consider how to use it.”
“This is the Eye of All-Seeing,” said Brown. “It is
powerful. I fear to use it.”
Purple handled the Dagger, considering. Then it used the Dagger to mark a ‘coin’, one
of the flat, blank things from the chest.
Now one side of the coin was a roundness, the other a roundness with a
line on it. Purple handed the marked
disk to White.
“I have decided to use a symbol of my own. Since you always go first, White, you may use
it first.”
“Use it? How
shall I use it?”
“Toss the coin.”
Some small time passed. White stroked his golden fringe importantly
and puffed out its chest. It turned the
coin over and over, examining “What is
it meant to do?”
“Whatever it does.
It is the simplest mark I could think of.”
White tossed the coin. It spun in the air before it, then came to a
rest in mid-air with the mark facing toward it.
There was a shivering of the robe and a shimmering in the cowl as a face
appeared at one end and feet appeared at the other of White, who had been a
robe. White touched himself firmly,
clapping his hands to his chest and arms and belly as he looked down at himself
from a pale face half covered with a golden beard.
“I am HE!” he said, and pulled back his hood to
discover long golden hair and a squarish jaw.
“Your eyes are grey, now.” Brown was interested. “Oh, you next, Purple!”
Purple spun the coin, which ended by facing her,
unmarked. She was brown, very dark, with
black, braided hair and dark brown eyes.
She was taller than White, and slimmer, and her face was very round.
Brown was eager, now.
And soon he was plumb and brown, though lighter than Purple, with short,
brown hair and grey eyes. He was
shortest and least gainly, yet he danced and danced and lifted up his robe to
watch his legs go, humming blissfully.
“Wonderful, wonderful Purple. Your symbol worked and this is wonderful.”
“Look into the Eye, now, Brown.” The whisper was the same.
Brown stopped.
“I am afraid,” he said. “I know
what I must look for first and I fear what I may find.”
“You must look.
We have a beginning of control, now.
We must learn more before we attempt more.”
But the Eye was blank. The Eye remained blank. As Purple gripped her Dagger tightly, Brown
looked and looked and saw nothing.
Purple floated upward in rage, but did not float far. It was unsettling to be too far from the only
things that could be seen.
It was not until the next event that the Eye began to
work. Through the Eye, Brown could see
the battle and grieve. The grief went
deep. “I do not know if I grieve for the
beings we injure and slay, or for the world I see, yet cannot reach.”
“You may grieve for either,” said White, clapping him
on the shoulder and leaning in for a better view. “Or for both.
Though we still do not know if these things are real.”
“How can you say that?”
“It is possible.”
Purple cupped her hands around Brown’s.
“If this world and these creatures cannot be seen in the Eye except
during our ‘battles’, they are perhaps not real. We exist continuously, whether there is a
battle or not.”
Brown continued to watch. “I find I hope that the world is real and the
beings are not. Oh, but I hope that they
are and that I can meet them, but I hope we do no injury, though I see them
injured and slain.”
“We have been injured, too, Brown.” White was reassuring. “The injuries never last beyond the
battle. They return in the next battle,
but lessened.”
“Try to look beyond the battle,” Purple
suggested. “Look for what controls the
battle.”
With that the Eye turned strange. It showed a blur of spinning, many-sided
coins or gems with symbols on each side.
Purple caught her breath: an excited gasp. She clutched the Dagger out of the air beside
her and pressed it to her forehead, eyes closed. She paid no attention at all to the rest of
the battle. White and Brown watched
avidly, thirsting in the images.
After the image faded, they looked up, reluctantly.
“Look again,” Purple’s voice was a warm murmur, “for
what controls the battle.”
Brown looked.
“The image is too murky to understand, and it is fading.”
“I know what must be done next.”
There was a pause.
Silence for a space. White
drifted with a look of longing. Brown
fluttered, agitated. Purple never moved,
waiting.
“It is risk, next.
And for Brown, sacrifice – perhaps useless sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?”
“The Eye of All-Seeing must be sacrificed. White must cleave it.”
Brown cradled the Eye against his breast, a circular
form among circular forms. White patter
his shoulder: consolation and support.
He turned to Purple.
“What can we hope to gain from such a sacrifice?”
“Freedom.
Control. Power, perhaps. Perhaps a world, a world such at the one we
watch through the Eye.”
Wistfulness claimed two pair of silver-grey
eyes. Slowly Brown held the Eye forth,
searching within it, perhaps for an answer.
Slowly White rubbed Brown’s shoulder, watching the search, watching the
search fail.
“White must cleave away the roundness of the
Eye. He must strike with the Hammer of
Exact Cleaving twelve times to leave twelve facets, twelve faces, on the
Eye. There are twelve sigils that have
not been used in our battles, have not been used since our creating. I will scribe these sigils upon the Eye with
my Dagger, then we will toss the Eye and see what is created.”
There was a pause.
Silence for a space. White and
Brown searched within Purple’s eyes, perhaps for an answer. Again, the search failed. Purple never moved, still waiting, sure.
“I am afraid,” said Brown. “I am afraid to lose what I have, what I am,
with this risk.”
“I also have reservations,” said White. “We could be created into three separate
worlds. I have grown used to your
companionship, your support. We could also
create monsters here, in this empty space:
monsters we must fight in actuality rather than as a duel of symbols.”
“Hypothesis:” said Purple, “in absence of facts, we
must guess. Hypothesis: when we tossed
the coin, we answered the question foremost in our minds, filled the lack we
most deeply felt.
Hypothesis:
this will happen again.
Hypothesis: when we tossed the coin separately, we obtained separate
answers, separate outcomes for which, I may add, I am grateful. Hypothesis:
if we tossed the Eye together, facing it from one side, together, we
will obtain a single outcome, a shared outcome.”
“Perhaps,” said Brown, “It is necessary to think of
the question, the purpose of the toss.”
“Stating the purpose aloud,” said White, gaining
confidence, “would be best – most definite.”
There is no way to prove or refute my guess without
sacrificing the Eye. You may take as much
time as you like to consider the risk, the possibility of loss. But I will not forget this. This is what must be done next. I will wait.
Each time you look at me, you will know that I am waiting.”
There was a pause.
For a space, again, silence. White and Brown did many things. Battles began and battles ended and White and
Brown watched them through the precious, threatened Eye. Symbols appeared and disappeared to fading
thunder and occasionally the Eye would show the symbols, spinning in a hazy
blur. Then White and Brown would look at
Purple, would search in her eyes. But
her eyes were more empty than the Eye between battles. Purple never moved, still waiting.
After one battle, many new objects appeared –
appeared and were meaningless. Brown
handed the Eye silently to White. White
studied the Eye. Studied the roundness
of it and the vulnerability. Through two
battles, he studied it. Then he began to
study how the faces might be placed.
Through two more battles he studied, as silent, almost, as Purple.
The Eye rant with bell tones as the Hammer Cleaved
Exactly to create the twelve faces of its surface. Brown collected the fallen shards, finding a
pocket in himself – no, in his robe – for them.
White handed the Eye, silently, to Purple. Purple took the Dagger and began Marking. The Marking seemed to take no time at all.
Purple, smiling, handed the Eye to Brown. She stood behind him, to the left, and placed
her hand on his shoulder. White stood
behind also, to the right, placing his hand opposite hers.
“Speak for all of us, Brown,” said White.
Brown studied the marked and cloven Eye. He lifted it before him. “We seek a world,” he said, “the three of us,
together . . a living world, ongoing and continuous.”
“A living world where are homes are,” prompted
Purple, her voice low with disuse.
“ . . . a living, continuous world containing our
homes and other living beings,” finished Brown.
He tossed the Eye.
They watched it spin in the air before them. It slowed only slowly, as if aware of its own
importance, of the significance of this one, wild act. Gradually, it slowed to a stop.
“A waterform!”
Brown clapped his hands, delighted.
“A wonderful omen for me!”
There was a pause.
Silence, for a space. Then the
Eye dropped to the ground.
“Oh, my!” said White.
“That is new.”
A further pause.
And then the world changed, becoming.
“Ah!” said Purple, satisfied.
