Comments on the Fiftieth Beginning

[It seems like I ought to make some comments about the fact that I've reached the 50th Beginning.  It does seem like a milestone.  But I found come comments on The Game in my files and if I post them here, I get to throw them away.  That's irresistible.  So I'm going to post them first and see if I have anything to add after.

Fifty beginnings.  And the old files are still looking full. That's 1/20th of a thousand.  I'll get there.  Oh, and both The Game and the comments are from the eighties or early nineties.]

The Game was an experiment in rolling up characters, characters with definite personalities, without using the background of an given game system.  [Yes, I was referring to games like Dungeons and Dragons.]  I decided to use a personality description system with which many people are at least vaguely familiar, one from which a personality could be generated using a twelve-sided die.  In other words, I used astrology to roll up horoscopes for my characters to match.

It's not that odd an idea, when dealing with magical game systems.  In fact I've been trying to imagine what a world in which astrology worked as palpably as divine/arcane spells, a world on which the stars actually compel, would be like. [Among other things, I assume that there would be government control of astrologers and a black market in at least false or incomplete predictions.]

Using this system to generate personalities does not require a belief in astrology, nor is it only useful in fantasy systems.  This method is useful for players who enjoy getting into a role and being someone different while gaming, but who have difficulty creating a complex character.

The characters in The Game were generated by rolling signs for the following 'planets':  ascendant, sun, moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, and Jupiter (the ascendant is the sign "rising" on the horizon). There are many different ways to interpret the effect of the planets.  If you check out three different books from the library, you'll get three different interpretations.

If you don't want to wade through the literature, or even dabble in it, I'll provide a quick list.  It doesn't exactly match any system I've ever read about, but then it's meant to create characters rather than to reveal them.  Also, in the story each planet had to be represented by some immediately noticeable change in the characters.  The effect of the planets is therefore different in the story (and is listed in parentheses).  

Ascendant:  impression given to people meeting the character (color of robe).

Sun:  main need, goal, or personal ideal (decoration on the robe).

Moon:  unconscious motivation, what pulls at the character without being noticed rather than the goal the character pushes for - the filter that colors the character's perception (eyes)

[There is either a missing page or I didn't finish the comments.  I'll get back to this.  But let's complete the list.

Mercury:  mode of communication (type of voice)

Venus:  what you delight in and surround yourself with (basics of house)

Mars:  drive (I'll have to re-read and reverse engineer)

Jupiter:     (changes in house details)]

[The file also had a list of the Characters and their traits.]

Character 1 - Outgoing, romantically fickle, charming.
White robe with rich, gold trim; silver eyes 
Drives divided but perceptive enough to know this, restless, cheerful but aggressive.
Home has courtyard garden with fountain and pool and fruit trees.  House full of plants and soft pillows.  Thinks of home often.  Self-playing harp.  Hearty voice, almost a growl.

Character 2 - Blunt, intelligent, tightly controlled.
Purple robe with red trim; brown eyes
Slow to move, stubborn, but quick thinking
House of clouds, difficult to reach, galleries of art and curiosities, mystic laboratory.  Voice is a powerful whisper.

Character 3 - Brown robes with light blue applique.
Adaptable and eccentric.
Home is an apartment in a city with lavish tapestries and a continuous, changing stream of friendly visitors.  Has a big fireplace in a hot, sunny climate and big, bare windows.
Plumpish.  Melodious voice.

[Then there's a table of the planets vs the signs for the three characters.  I'll post that later, possible along with the table of traits for rolling up characters, which I've lost and re-written several times over the years.]

[No further comments on The Game being the 50th Beginning posted.  Maybe later.]

Fiftieth Beginning: The Game

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.

Forty-Ninth Beginning: Death of a Freeway Flyer

Death of a Freeway Flyer

Chapter 1

In which I relax after a hard day.

I sat in the holding cell, having flashbacks and wondering if that was the right word for them.  There was no visual component, you see, and, teaching rhetoric and communications as I do, I have learned to be very precise about words.  The recurring sensations were mostly auditory:  the sound of music coming from my car radio coupled with the drone of the engine.  In fact they had been auditory alone, almost a recurring melody, and no cause for comment earlier in the day, when I was fresher.  Well, fresher wasn’t the proper word, either, but one inconsistency at a time, please.

Now there were moments when I could almost feel myself in the car.  As I attended to the sensations, I noticed definite tactile and kinesthetic elements.  I could feel the steering wheel in my hands and the sagging bucket seat under my- - -self.  I could feel the shape my body assumed during my commutes.  And was there smell as well?  What did my car smell like?  I spent half my life in it, anymore, and I cannot, at the moment, recall how it smells.  For some reason, that seems significant.

Looking back, I’m fairly sure that I was trying very hard not to think of things.  I was trying, for instance, not to think of Harry Eyeball (not his real name), bludgeoned to death two classrooms away from where I should have been diligently overseeing a midterm at Yuba College.  I was trying not to think about being a suspect.  And I was trying not to think about my companions in the holding cell, some of whom were from Yuba College, but others of whom were not.  The smell from some of them would be something I remembered clearly for some time.

Those were the understandable, almost laudatory things on my list of things to try not to think about.  Mostly, though, I was trying not to worry about the class I was missing at American River College (which meant rescheduling the midterm there, because today was supposed to be the final review), worrying about how I could ever manage to re-give the midterm that had been interrupted (since writing it the first time had taken me two weeks), and worrying about my wife, Dolly (short of Dolores – I’ll explain later), who would be calling around and begging a ride to get the kids home from school (since I had the car and would not, now, be back in time). 

I was also, heaven help me, worrying about whether being a suspect in Harry’s demise would kill my chances for occupying his recently bestowed and now sadly vacated position on the tenure track at Sac State.  Not a laudatory thought at all, that.  I was so worked up with not thinking about all of those things that I homed in on the vibration and sway of driving over the West Sac Causeway and fell asleep before I could decide whether flashback was really the right word.

-------

A Sheriff’s Deputy, or maybe just an aide, poked me awake.  As I untangled myself and swayed to my feet, a damp chill on my shoulder notified me that I had been drooling in my sleep.  One more ray of light in a day that was, in the immortal words of Dan Akroyd playing Jimmy Carter, “screwed, blued, and tattooed.”  Not all literary references are highblown.  If literary is the right word.

I adjusted to consciousness as I followed the blue suit with the clipboard down a hallway.  As I walked, my mind welled with images from television cop shows.  I wanted Jack Soo to take my statement, I decided, and wondered if Ponch was still flogging fortunes.  It had been years since we had locked the TV in the closet, but the images persisted.

[Two whole pages.  A freeway flyer, by the way, is a young teacher who works part time at two or more colleges at a noticeable distance from each other.  It is cheaper, you see, for a college to hire part time, temporary teachers, who just teach one or two classes and whose contract does not need to be renewed if attendance wanes.  Some of them also put together classes for businesses.  Those can vary from one or two days to six or eight weeks. 

Of course, part time means no benefits.  Part time at three or more colleges also means less sleep than a person strictly needs.]

Forty-Eighth Beginning: Cloud Between

Cloud Between

Whirlwind / Cloud Between (Thamewi)

Bookwoman / Sharonelle Martha

Carries About (Obasha’wa)

Open Basket

Rolling Rock

Mountain Grandmother

“You should go faster.  We will be late.  And we are bringing food.  It is bad luck for food to be late.”

“It is worse luck for food to be damaged.  I know these roads.”

As if to prove her right, several potholes appeared in the gravel-and-pan way stretching before them.  Carries About had to steer sharply to the right and travel with her wheels close to the sand.

[There was a good deal more that rattled around in my head for months, but never got written down.  There were also physical props that had acted as nucleation points for the story.  I may still have one of them, but I haven’t seen any in years. 

I may add some of the rattling around bits later.  Right now, I’m giving myself permission to stop here and throw away the 6”x8” Blue Book (college test ingredient) that this single page came from.  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to mention that the story included space ships, a tribal sweat lodge on another planet, an uninvited stranger, and the politics of Naming.

Oh, and this was probably written in the mid to late eighties.]

Forty-Seventh Beginning: Buckles and Lore Daggers

[Written in the late 1980's or early 1990's.  It's an incomplete conversion of an uncompleted D&D campaign.  You have been warned.] 

If Spark had been a lesser man, he would have grumbled as he stirred the acorn mush.  Living in a hollow log in the deep woods, at least eighteen days’ walk from the nearest theater, and wearing scratchy, baggy homespun was not the life to which he had aspired.  And the less said about the current cuisine, the better.

But Spark was cheerful.  He was young and full of optimism, determination, and magic.  He knew which spells he meant to learn and how he would make his way once he had mastered them.  When that unfortunate series of events back at school had left him certified as an apprentice but unlikely to be accepted by any academy, sorcerer, wizard, or dwoemercrafter, Spark had explored the talents of the unallied magickers, disconnected though they usually were.  That the exploration had been conducted in bars and inn kitchens had been gravy on the goose at the time.

It had been unfortunate, of course, that his exploration had revealed only one tutor likely to meet his needs:  Fralk the Forester.  Spark referred to him, mentally, as Fralk the Quiet, Fralk the Eccentric, and, occasionally, Fralk the Fool.  But Spark spoke no angry or ridiculing word.  Spark smiled and did as he was told and practiced his magic. 

He had given Fralk, when he arrived at the log, a list of the spells he wished to learn in exchange for his service. He was sure that the wormy old fart would get around to it sooner or later.

In the interim, he would make the best of things.  Aunt Min had discovered his certified but unapprenticed state two weeks before his departure and had summarily revoked his allowance.  There was some finicking clause to his mother’s will about continued progress of some sort or career intention or whatever.  The could sort it all out when he turned twenty-four.

It would sort out more easily if he were a practicing wizard when he did the sorting.  Lawyers tried to look down their noses at wizards, but not with any real success.  Meantime, it was just as well that his living expenses were low.

Spark gave the mush a final stir.  The consistency was perfect.  He used a stick to shove the heavy clay pot off of the coals and onto the cool dirt floor.  He ladled mush into two wooden bowls with a wooden spoon.  The he smiled, held one bowl in each palm, and settled back into himself.  He always enjoyed the first magic of the day.

-----

Fralk was out by the brook, eyes unfocused, when Spark brought him his mush.  Spark plied his wooden utensil with as much grace as the clumsy thing would allow.  He watched out of the corner of his eye as the old man scooped his mush to his mouth with a casual two-finger hook.  After a few bites the old man paused, focused on his surroundings and scooped another mouthful.

“Nuts,” he said.

“Walnuts,” Spark supplied.  “Ground ones to match the texture.”  He gestured grandly with his spoon and bowl, unconsciously lounged back into a properly casual symposium posture, failed when his back encountered no chair back, smiled wider as he straightened, and continued. 

“It’s impossible to change the texture of food with a simple cantrip, only the taste.  The trick is choosing added tastes with known textures close enough to the existing texture of the base food.  Then not just the senses, but the entire mind is fooled.  Admit it, you almost feel the slightly different texture that the taste of the ground walnuts suggests, don’t you?”

Fralk scooped silently.  Birds twittered and darted over the brook, snatching bugs which, Spark felt sure, tasted nothing like walnuts.

“The base is acorn mush,” said Fralk, considering.  “That’s plain.  It’s shifted to taste like oat porridge.  And there’s something sweet, but it isn’t either sugar or honey.”

“Shagbark Syrup.”  Spark was obviously pleased with himself.  “Gingered shagbark syrup.  Most students can’t get the blend right.  Or rather, they’re forced to blend any added tastes completely.  This was a particularly successful spell.  Each component taste remains distinctly – “

Fralk tapped a forefinger to his lips and made an open fingered waving motion.  Spark took the hint and faded to silence with just the slightest shrug of the eyebrows.  Both men dug in.  It had been, after all, a particularly successful spell.

When Fralk’s bowl was empty, he stared back at the brook.  Spark crossed his legs and settled his backbone into comfort.  He had begun joining the old man in his long silences.  He did not, however, make the least effort to still his mind.  It jumped from old memories to future plans.  From the feel of a good oil massage after a sauna to the crisp taste of thick-skinned Veradney grapes. 

He considered what he had learned about the fish in the brook and how he had determined to fish, even though he knew not the first thing about fishing.  The idea being, at the moment of decision, that such pottering about would be restful and amusing even if it was unsuccessful.  He considered his recent success rate, which still surprised him when he thought about it, then he considered how much water to use to cook chopped fish in order to make it the same texture as a good ceviche. 

That thought captured him.  He was deep into consideration of whether to add cukes of cattail root, cooked, or slivers of wild fennel stalk, raw, and how best to layer the spell to give the illusion that the lime juice had permeated the fish without becoming the fish when Fralk roused and handed him his bowl.  Spark took it and stretched before rising.

“You know, they called me the King of Cantrip, back at school.  they meant it as an insult, too, but they were foolish.  The cantrip is a very versatile spell.  And applying it creatively takes . . . well . . . creativity, I suppose.  And subtlety.  I’m still finding new wrinkles to it, even out here.”

Fralk snorted to himself.  Spark smiled and turned to wash out the bowls.  He sat them on rocks to dry and sat back down by his mentor.

After a bit, Fralk spoke.  “Brook says that fish are sniffing it, down by the sea, but they’re not serious, yet.  Be another month before they run through here, making for the mountain shallows to spawn.”

“Mmm,” said Spark, with intelligence.  He was rather relieved to hear it.  The old man had had a store of smoked fish in his log when Spark had arrived.  It had taken them through the winter.  Spark had been reluctant to ask after it, once it was gone, but had had the remembered store in mind when he had begun his experiments with fishing.  It was good to hear about a seasonal spawning run.

The behavior sounded like bloodfish, probably, which were excellent eating, fresh.  Spark licked his lips.

“Go gather sticks today.”

Spark did not see a connection, but smiled amiably and asked, “Green?  Dry?  Supple?  Stiff?”

“Bit of each.  It’s for drying the fish.  Go rustle together a good collection of sticks and I’ll pick out the kind we need.  Then I’ll teach you that locator spell you wanted.”

“Right.  Right.”  Spark beamed.  He jumped up, straightened, clicked his heels, and bowed an elaborate coutier’s bow-of-excessive-gratitude.  “I’ll just stash the bowls before I go.”

Spark bounced with youth and good humor as he headed for the log.  Behind him, Fralk watched him go, blank as ever.  For a moment, though, his eyes twinkled.”

“There are many creative and subtle twists to a finding spell as well,” he said to no one in particular.  The brook babbled on and he turned to listen to it.

Spark ducked his head to fit through the burned and weathered hole in the side of Fralk’s log.  It was a big log.  Though Spark was tall for his age, he could take a good two steps from side to side and not need to duck or hit his head.  Lengthwise, well, it was about as long as three of him. 

Not that three of him could spread out.  There were trunks and boxes and sacks, and a fire-pit at one end. Spark stacked the bowls by the fire-pit.  Then he strode over to renew the flea repellant cantrip on the furs and the mosquito, gnat, and fly repellant on the door.  There was a branch boll at the top of the log that let in a few every day, but Spark left that unspelled.  The hole acted as a chimney and for some reason the mosquito spell messed up the smoke. 

Spark tried not to scratch at his few bite welts as he plucked two straps out of a pile.  These, he thought, could tie the sticks for transport.  He crouched, crossed the threshold, and all but danced into the woods.

He returned, later, with two bundles containing a fine assortment of sticks, to find a visitor at the brook.  The visitor was a whiffy collection of rags and would have looked like a smaller, younger version of Fralk if a few notable differences hadn’t interfered.

First, the youngster had a dark avidity to him, even in repose, that contrasted sharply with Fralk’s unconcerned calm. Second, he somehow gave the appearance of a town bum and layabout rather than a ragged forest hermit.  Spark could tell how, but the impression was clear.  Last, the stranger had no magic.  Not a thing that most would have noticed, perhaps, but definitive to Spark.

“Ah, guests,” he said, tucking the bundles to the side of his third favorite brook-sitting rock.  His first favorite was currently under a rag-covered bottom, while his second favorite was clearly down wind of the same.  “And I forbore to collect wild asters I saw on my meanderings thinking [fragment ends here]

-------------------

This was an attempt at the novelization of a D&D campaign.  Sadly, the campaign was never played to completion.  It started with Youngest Son.  After a session or two, Eldest Son and Middle Son joined in and Youngest and Middle got into a distraction.

While Middle Son’s character was unconscious, Youngest Son’s character removed a ring from his hand.  There was a Long Discussion about how Middle Son’s character couldn’t take revenge for something that he didn’t know had happened.  I’d say that it was a quintessential D&D moment, if it had only stayed a moment.  Unfortunately, it dragged.  It recurred.  It eventually closed down the campaign. 

-------------------

Loot so far –

2, +1 swords

2, +1 daggers

2, locate spelled buckles

neat clothes and boots

6 gold, 7 silver, 4 copper

------------------

donkey basket (right  [note unfinished – page continues as different note]

for underground –

black pudding trap

carrion crawler

centipede

goblins

imp

larva

lich (phylactery?)

hell hounds 4-7 die, 1-10 AC4

fury(?)

--------------------

map

--------------------

The Adventure So Far . . .

Spark, living in the woods, studying magic with the hermit Fralk, agrees to go to Davidsville to see if David, the Squire, a local landlord, has been possessed by a spirit.  David’s behavior had changed some months back and Flea, a local bum and ne’re-do-well, suspect it’s something more than greed causing it.

Fralk gives Spark the sheath to the Dagger of Lore, along with instructions and a scroll to enable him to use the sheath to construct the dagger.  Flea goes with him back to town.  The journey to town is supposed to take two days:  one day in the woods then one day by horseback.  Spark is supposed to borrow a horse from Farmer Dale, who owes Fralk for past favors.

Unfortunately, Spark and Flea encounter giant centipedes, which attach them, and giant spiders, which attack also.  In both cases they win, but are bitten and poisoned.  The spiders at least had treasure.  Our heroes had to take time to rest and heal.

On the second day in the woods, Spark learned that it’s pest to leave giant skunks alone.  He was hit hard and hurt bad, while Flea decided to flee.  Spark’s clothing disintegrated.  He ponged rather badly.

Out in the meadow, finally, Spark caught several geese and a pheasant.  Then they did the spell to create the dagger.  Since the spell was not done exactly as written, the dagger talked a lot and liked limericks instead of answering questions yes or no.  It was kind of a flake.

They encountered zombie eagles and took a chain from one.  Spark cast detect magic and found divinity magic on it.  He tried to use it to scry and failed, so he put it away.  The detect magic spell also revealed that one of the copper coins was ensorcelled.

Farmer Dale was tight and inhospitable.  Fortunately, on the way to his farm, the heroes had met a farmer’s son looking for a cow.  They had walked with him and he and found it and headed for home.  Later, testing the dagger, they had found the cow again.  So they took the cow to Farmer Brown, its owner.

When they discovered that Jack, his cow-finding son, had not returned, they sought him with the dagger and discovered he had fallen down a hole.  The whole family went into the night to find him.  There was a tunnel at th bottom of the hole.  Out of it came magic-distorted bats, which became puddles of acid when killed.

Jack was saved, though his leg was hurt.  The dagger scanned a magically shielded space at the end of the tunnel, with an unshielded tunnel beyond it, heading in the direction of town.

They stayed the night with Farmer Brown and returned to Farmer Dale’s the next day.  They paid him for the meal they’d eaten and for new clothes.  They later discovered where he buried his money.  They returned to Farmer Brown’s to borrow a donkey.  Dale wanted to charge too much for the horse.  They headed to town.

A prune merchant named Zeke met them on the road and they discovered a tombstone with the epitaph “Here lies an ungrateful daughter.”  But the dagger could sense to sign of a body.  Later they all camped with a dried fig merchant named Giles.  Zeke and Giles knew each other well and argued constantly – mostly about the relative virtues of figs and prunes.

Zombie crows circled the camp in the night, but with the dagger’s warning, were driven off easily.  During the night the dagger found a wandering, glassy eyed woman.    They tied here up for the night when they couldn’t snap her out of it or keep her still.  They decided to take her to town, tool

A farmer met on the way could not identify her.  The blacksmith in town would not stop work to talk and his assistant all but threw them out.  A cloth merchant next door recognized the girl amid a plethora of “oh, my stars!”  She was Belinda, the soap merchant’s daughter.

When taken to her father, Belinda tried to scratch out his eyes.  At her touch, there was a flash from her fingers and he fell dead, leaving the new guys in town with a body.  They tested the town for magic and sought David.  Two houses beyond [another abrupt ending]

------------------

map of town – street with shops on each side

soap /  banker / Squire’s house / City Hall /    /    / stable

street --------------------------------------------------------street

blacksmith / cloth /         /          /         /          /            /

notes:

meets Mrs. Squire – chain for dog – story of wizard and cursed shoes

meets City Hall – two guards

removes shoes – Squire convulses – guards attack, chase

fight and flee – killed guard – destroyed shoes* - that frees Squire

takes Squire – guard yells kidnap and murder – townspeople gather – killed other guard – tries to get to Mrs. Squire, settles for servant boy

Squire in house – comes to – been a long time – appalled at money spent – goes to City Hall to study papers – discovered money siphoned off – dagger discovers tunnel under City Hall

checks on Belinda – finds love potion and plot – Blacksmith’s assistant and Belinda will join the adventure

(guards had magic swords, daggers, and belt buckles)

* curse on shoes would be broken if they could be immersed in water – guards were chasing party too closely to find well, so Spark waited for them to have a bit of a lead, dropped the shoes, and peed on them.  Hey, it worked. 

-----------------

different notes:

40% chance that zombie crows have fireball amulets

spider amulet on tree under main next, find if detect magic

Fralk’s log spelled to prevent scrying

Falk is missing.  His stuff has been ransacked

Dagger may have noticed skeleton’s or hell hounds

Magic mouth inside of log.  Message:  It swims and eats salad at dawn, crawls and eats meat at noon.  (Pause)  Tiny barrel, metal hive, is filled with meat and the meat’s alive.

Skeletons wait for all to come back out.

If Belinda sleeps and dreams (5 rounds)  hell hounds will destroy skeletons.

----------------

may be from another campaign –

Brackthane’s wand teleports randomly whenever it’s used, thus losing itself.  (Long list of silly results from casting with the wand.)

The Enspelled Object will hum or sing its owner to sleep if requested to do so.  Requests for Huey Lewis and the News will cause the item to shatter.