Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a darkly reflective queen.
There are no maps to the Mirrorlands. Some people say that all crossroads can lead to the Mirrorlands, but they are wrong. Only the road that splits into two and both sides look the same, their paths identical, leads to the Mirrorlands. It does not matter which path you take. Both will lead you there. There is no road not taken.
Once you reach the Mirrorlands, you will start to notice certain things. The road will become sinuous, each bend curving around obsidian hills, their dark edges sharp like knives. Do not attempt to climb the hills -- they do not allow anyone except for the Queen of Glass on their dark slopes and peaks.
Across the jagged chasms, you can see an identical road with identical obsidian hills. If you look close enough, you can even see yourself walking along that path, looking across the chasm at you.
I would not recommend doing this.
Reaching the middle of the Mirrorlands is a difficult journey. There are many places to get lost, places of confusion and obfuscation and bifurcation. There are alleys of antipodes, corridors of counterpoles, and roads of reversals.
There are some who say that the Mirrorlands are merely an expanse of desert, that the Queen of Glass created a storm that ground all of her glass mountains into sand, but they are wrong.
If you do reach the center of the Mirrorlands, you will find a place where the sky mirrors the ground and a palace so tall that it connects the two. If you walk into this palace, its huge double doors darkly gleaming, you will find that you have already arrived. The other you from the other road has opened the opposite door and also walks inside.
In-between the doors, in-between both of you, is the Queen of Glass. She smiles at both of you. She has two faces. She has infinite faces. Looking at her is like looking at a mirror reflecting back at itself.
Her scales shine luminously.
You are all around her now. As you approach her, more and more of you appear. Every piece of you, every moment of your life is here. Here is you as a child. Here is you as an adult. Here is you right before death.
If you reach to touch her, you will feel a cold serpentine tendril wrap around your body. It lifts you up and you can see it doing the same for every single one of you. And you will realize: every single moment of your life now leads to this. Every moment is mirrored within the Queen of Glass.
She is you.
The light will leave your eyes. This is the way out of the Mirrorlands. This is the way forward. This is the way to leave a reflection. There is no light.
If you choose to go the Mirrorlands, you will find the only way out is to replace yourself. The only way out is to choose the dark mirror. There is no way out at all.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
The Quiet Kingdom
Once upon a time, there was no kingdom ruled by a nothing king.
You
You were walking along and
You were walking along and thought about hitching a ride on the next wagon when
You were walking along and thought about hitching a ride on the next wagon when you looked up and you saw
You saw
You saw the sky.
Not the sky. The No Sky. The Nothing Sky. It wasn't white or black. It wasn't any color, for what color was nothing? It was nothing at all and it spread out as far as the eye could see and farther, for can the eye see nothing?
You looked up and saw nothing at all. And then it fell, the sky, the No Sky, was falling all around you and everything was turning into nothing.
You reached out your hand and it was gone. Like it had never existed.
You wished for one more hour, one more minute, one more second, but you knew there were no more left. No more minutes, no more stars, no more wishes. There was only nothing left.
Only nothing left.
Only nothing.
Nothing.
N
9: fqjc rb cqn vnjwrwp xo pannw
You
You were walking along and
You were walking along and thought about hitching a ride on the next wagon when
You were walking along and thought about hitching a ride on the next wagon when you looked up and you saw
You saw
You saw the sky.
Not the sky. The No Sky. The Nothing Sky. It wasn't white or black. It wasn't any color, for what color was nothing? It was nothing at all and it spread out as far as the eye could see and farther, for can the eye see nothing?
You looked up and saw nothing at all. And then it fell, the sky, the No Sky, was falling all around you and everything was turning into nothing.
You reached out your hand and it was gone. Like it had never existed.
You wished for one more hour, one more minute, one more second, but you knew there were no more left. No more minutes, no more stars, no more wishes. There was only nothing left.
Only nothing left.
Only nothing.
Nothing.
N
9: fqjc rb cqn vnjwrwp xo pannw
Sunday, February 3, 2013
The Land of Do-As-You-Please
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled a...well, a ruler. Sometimes this ruler was a king and sometimes they were a queen. Sometimes they were both and sometimes they were neither. They always, however, wore a red armband with a heart tied around their sleeve.
You are tired and you are hungry. You have traveled many miles to get to this city, but you have nowhere to stay. Up ahead, you can see a motel with a flashing neon sign -- probably not the best place to stay, but certainly the cheapest.
You enter the motel and get a room. As the proprietor hands you the key, you notice there is a flier on his desk, a flier for some performance art theatre called 'The Land of Do-As-You-Please.' "You wanna go there?" the proprietor asks you. "I hear they do some freaky stuff there." You politely decline and go to your room. In your room, you crash on the bed and quickly fall asleep.
It is dark when you wake up. The lights of the neon sign illuminate your room. Someone is knocking on the door.
Groggily, you get up and walk over to the door, but by the time you open it, whoever was knocking is gone. You do find that they slipped something under the door: another flier for The Land of Do-As-You-Please. You decide that you might actually want to check it out -- at least to see why someone was knocking on your room in the middle of the night. The next performance, per the flier, is in thirty minutes.
The city looks different at night. The regular stores have closed and new ones have opened in their place. Stores festooned with the letters XXX and the words 'live' and 'nude.' You finally find the theatre called The Land of Do-As-You-Please and enter.
There are velvet curtains across the stage and row upon row of empty seats. As you walk down the aisle, a woman peeks out from behind the curtain. "You're early," she says. "We don't start for another ten minutes."
"Someone slipped this under my door," you say and show her the flier.
She smiles. "You want the King and Queen," she says.
"Who?" you say.
"The King and Queen of Hearts," she says. "They always choose someone from, you know, outside. They want you to be a part of it."
"A part of what?"
"This!" She waves her hands around. "It's going to be so exciting! I'll go get them."
You try to stop her, try to tell her that you don't really want to be a part of their play, but she's already gone. You shake your head and turn to go.
And then you hear the voice. It's beautiful, enchanting, exotic. It flows through the air and into your ears like music. "Leaving so soon?"
You turn and look to the source of the voice. The velvet curtains have parted and there is a man standing on the stage. He is tall and handsome and you can't help but imagine what kissing him would feel like.
And then a woman emerges from the side of the stage and drapes her arm around him. You would feel jealousy, but the woman is just as beautiful, just as enticing. She says, "Don't leave now. We're just going to start soon."
The man and woman both wear an armband with a red heart on it. Your own heart beats faster as you approach the stage. You can't help yourself. The man smiles at you and the woman beckons you with one finger. "You must be the King and Queen of Hearts," you say, your mouth dry, your fingers trembling.
"We are," the woman says. "We are many things to many people. We can be yours for the night."
"What?" you swallow nervously.
"If you want it," the man says. "Every time we perform, we like to choose one member of our audience to...dally with, shall we say. We've had so many dalliances."
"So many," the woman says.
"I," you say, "I should be going."
"Don't go," the man says. "Don't go," the woman says. Their voices blend together and pierce your heart and you are pulled forward against your will. You cannot remember how you got on the stage, but the man and woman are circling you now, showering your body with kisses. You can feel their hands and their breath and you realize that you have slept, but you are still hungry.
Angrily, achingly, you kiss them. They strip you and themselves and together on the stage you have sex. You are just a tangle of bodies, of limbs, of white heat waiting to escape. You cry out in ecstasy and
and
and you open your eyes and you are all alone. There is no one on stage with you.
But every single seat is filled. There are people in every chair, people watching you, people judging you, people shaming you with their stares.
You grab your clothes and run. You run so fast, you can't even remember leaving the theatre. You run and run until you find yourself back at the motel, back in your room.
Why did you do that? Why did you let them do that to you?
You get in the shower to try to wash the shame off of you, but it stays there like a foul stench. The water mixes with your tears.
You close your eyes. You know there is only one way to get rid of it. The shame is inside you. The shame can only be cut out.
So you do. You cut and let it bleed.
You are tired and you are hungry. You have traveled many miles to get to this city, but you have nowhere to stay. Up ahead, you can see a motel with a flashing neon sign -- probably not the best place to stay, but certainly the cheapest.
You enter the motel and get a room. As the proprietor hands you the key, you notice there is a flier on his desk, a flier for some performance art theatre called 'The Land of Do-As-You-Please.' "You wanna go there?" the proprietor asks you. "I hear they do some freaky stuff there." You politely decline and go to your room. In your room, you crash on the bed and quickly fall asleep.
It is dark when you wake up. The lights of the neon sign illuminate your room. Someone is knocking on the door.
Groggily, you get up and walk over to the door, but by the time you open it, whoever was knocking is gone. You do find that they slipped something under the door: another flier for The Land of Do-As-You-Please. You decide that you might actually want to check it out -- at least to see why someone was knocking on your room in the middle of the night. The next performance, per the flier, is in thirty minutes.
The city looks different at night. The regular stores have closed and new ones have opened in their place. Stores festooned with the letters XXX and the words 'live' and 'nude.' You finally find the theatre called The Land of Do-As-You-Please and enter.
There are velvet curtains across the stage and row upon row of empty seats. As you walk down the aisle, a woman peeks out from behind the curtain. "You're early," she says. "We don't start for another ten minutes."
"Someone slipped this under my door," you say and show her the flier.
She smiles. "You want the King and Queen," she says.
"Who?" you say.
"The King and Queen of Hearts," she says. "They always choose someone from, you know, outside. They want you to be a part of it."
"A part of what?"
"This!" She waves her hands around. "It's going to be so exciting! I'll go get them."
You try to stop her, try to tell her that you don't really want to be a part of their play, but she's already gone. You shake your head and turn to go.
And then you hear the voice. It's beautiful, enchanting, exotic. It flows through the air and into your ears like music. "Leaving so soon?"
You turn and look to the source of the voice. The velvet curtains have parted and there is a man standing on the stage. He is tall and handsome and you can't help but imagine what kissing him would feel like.
And then a woman emerges from the side of the stage and drapes her arm around him. You would feel jealousy, but the woman is just as beautiful, just as enticing. She says, "Don't leave now. We're just going to start soon."
The man and woman both wear an armband with a red heart on it. Your own heart beats faster as you approach the stage. You can't help yourself. The man smiles at you and the woman beckons you with one finger. "You must be the King and Queen of Hearts," you say, your mouth dry, your fingers trembling.
"We are," the woman says. "We are many things to many people. We can be yours for the night."
"What?" you swallow nervously.
"If you want it," the man says. "Every time we perform, we like to choose one member of our audience to...dally with, shall we say. We've had so many dalliances."
"So many," the woman says.
"I," you say, "I should be going."
"Don't go," the man says. "Don't go," the woman says. Their voices blend together and pierce your heart and you are pulled forward against your will. You cannot remember how you got on the stage, but the man and woman are circling you now, showering your body with kisses. You can feel their hands and their breath and you realize that you have slept, but you are still hungry.
Angrily, achingly, you kiss them. They strip you and themselves and together on the stage you have sex. You are just a tangle of bodies, of limbs, of white heat waiting to escape. You cry out in ecstasy and
and
and you open your eyes and you are all alone. There is no one on stage with you.
But every single seat is filled. There are people in every chair, people watching you, people judging you, people shaming you with their stares.
You grab your clothes and run. You run so fast, you can't even remember leaving the theatre. You run and run until you find yourself back at the motel, back in your room.
Why did you do that? Why did you let them do that to you?
You get in the shower to try to wash the shame off of you, but it stays there like a foul stench. The water mixes with your tears.
You close your eyes. You know there is only one way to get rid of it. The shame is inside you. The shame can only be cut out.
So you do. You cut and let it bleed.
Friday, December 28, 2012
The Kingdom & The Kingdom
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by many and varied kings. There were so many kings of so many sizes, with so many legs, so many joints, so many eyes.
You have traveled across mountains and valleys and fields. You have seen great deserts and vast oceans. You have witnessed the most wondrous of things, bright green lights in the sky, and you have experienced the most terrible of things, the almost eternal darkness, both, paradoxically, in the same place. You have traveled far.
You now come to a field. A grassy field, like so many others. You can hear the humming of insects on the earth, in the grass, and it feels right. You feel content. You feel like you could lay in the grass and stare up at the deep blue sky forever.
And, best of all, the field seems to go for quite a while. You begin walking across the field, intent to see how far it really goes, when you see a patch of brown grass, dead grass. You think nothing of it until you see another and another and soon the field you are in is completely brown, completely dead.
You wonder what could have caused this. Your curiosity outweighs your fear. You trek onward.
Soon, you realize that the humming you are hearing is not from the insects in the grass. It is a deeper hum, a lower hum. It is coming from under the earth. It is coming from the roots of the dead grass, from beneath the roots. Before, it was a gentle hum, a hum of insects going about there business. Now, it is an ominous hum, a hum of things moving and feeding and waiting.
You move on, hoping that the hum will go away, hoping that the grass become bright and green again, but it doesn't. The soil now is loose and you can feel things pulling at your feet. You think it's your imagination at first, but then you see the beetles, fat and black, on your shins. You brush them off, but there are more of them. And then you see:
There are more of them and more of them and more of them. There are so many of them, rising up from the dirt and topsoil, that they make the ground turn from brown to black. They aren't on the ground anymore; they are the ground.
You run. You have no other options. You run and you can feel every insect beneath your boot, every squish of every exoskeleton and then you can feel them on your legs and you can feel their tiny legs climbing and if you stop to push them off, that just means more will show up, so you keep running and they keep climbing and now your legs are covered and so is your stomach and you arms and your shoulders and your neck and your mouth and your eyes.
The Many-Legged Kings feast on you. You are a tasty snack for them. Your skin is soft, your muscle chewy. Soon, you are just white bone against their black bodies.
You would serve as a warning to others not to step into this field, if the Many-Legged Kings didn't drag your skeleton underground to be fossilized with the others.
You have traveled across mountains and valleys and fields. You have seen great deserts and vast oceans. You have witnessed the most wondrous of things, bright green lights in the sky, and you have experienced the most terrible of things, the almost eternal darkness, both, paradoxically, in the same place. You have traveled far.
You now come to a field. A grassy field, like so many others. You can hear the humming of insects on the earth, in the grass, and it feels right. You feel content. You feel like you could lay in the grass and stare up at the deep blue sky forever.
And, best of all, the field seems to go for quite a while. You begin walking across the field, intent to see how far it really goes, when you see a patch of brown grass, dead grass. You think nothing of it until you see another and another and soon the field you are in is completely brown, completely dead.
You wonder what could have caused this. Your curiosity outweighs your fear. You trek onward.
Soon, you realize that the humming you are hearing is not from the insects in the grass. It is a deeper hum, a lower hum. It is coming from under the earth. It is coming from the roots of the dead grass, from beneath the roots. Before, it was a gentle hum, a hum of insects going about there business. Now, it is an ominous hum, a hum of things moving and feeding and waiting.
You move on, hoping that the hum will go away, hoping that the grass become bright and green again, but it doesn't. The soil now is loose and you can feel things pulling at your feet. You think it's your imagination at first, but then you see the beetles, fat and black, on your shins. You brush them off, but there are more of them. And then you see:
There are more of them and more of them and more of them. There are so many of them, rising up from the dirt and topsoil, that they make the ground turn from brown to black. They aren't on the ground anymore; they are the ground.
You run. You have no other options. You run and you can feel every insect beneath your boot, every squish of every exoskeleton and then you can feel them on your legs and you can feel their tiny legs climbing and if you stop to push them off, that just means more will show up, so you keep running and they keep climbing and now your legs are covered and so is your stomach and you arms and your shoulders and your neck and your mouth and your eyes.
The Many-Legged Kings feast on you. You are a tasty snack for them. Your skin is soft, your muscle chewy. Soon, you are just white bone against their black bodies.
You would serve as a warning to others not to step into this field, if the Many-Legged Kings didn't drag your skeleton underground to be fossilized with the others.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Port de Peste
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king who was a physician.
You are going to a new land, a land of plenty and opportunity, and you are going there by ship. And it is hell.
The conditions of the ship are brutal and sickening. Those on this coffin ship are packed tight, without regard to safety or sanitary conditions. The plague has struck many times and each time, you must give money to the sailors for them to even toss the body overboard, but it is better to lose money then to let the bodies fester in the heat. You try not to breath the noxious vapors, you try so hard to stay away from others, but there is no room, no room at all.
Until, finally, the ship lands. You are here. You are free.
Joyously, you rush to the top of the ship and prepare to leave. Until you see the men on the dock, the signs that they hold, the word that fills your heart with dread: quarantine.
You have traded one ship for another. Now, you and your fellow passengers must stay in this port for who knows how long. You don't even remember seeing this port on the map, but it must have been set up specifically to serve as a pest-house.
The workers of the port speak barely a word of your language. All you recognize is "quaratine." "Quarantine," they say repeatedly as they lead the sickly passengers away. "Quarantine."
One of the other passengers sidles up to you and says, "I hear they serve the Physician King. That this whole place was set up by him so that he could observe how fast those carrying the plague die."
You don't respond. You don't even want to open your mouth, the miasma is so thick around here.
Over time, more and more passengers of the ship disappear. You see each one being lead by one of the port workers, big hulking men and women wearing white cloaks and bird masks. You never see them again and you know why: the plague has taken them.
Finally, you are alone. The last passenger before you had to be dragged away, all the while screaming about how he had been "careful" and how he didn't have the plague at all. You shake your head and silently curse God.
And then they come for you. Their cloaks are still white and clean, so clean you don't even know how they have kept them in such a state. "Come with us," they say.
"Why?" you ask.
"Quarantine," they say. "Come with us."
You don't want to be dragged like the other man, so you slowly walk along with them. You have never felt the touch of the plague, perhaps they will finally let you go. Yes, that's it, they're going to let you go now, it's all over, you hope.
They lead you to a wooden door and slowly push the door open. Inside, there is a man. He is wearing a cloak like the others, but this cloak is black, as black as the deepest well you've ever seen. He wears a bird mask, too, but you can see there are actual feathers on this one, and the eyes are made of a shiny black glass. And above his mask, he is wearing a small wooden crown that looks like a snake wrapped around a stick.
You realize that this is the Physician King.
"Please," you beg. "I don't have the plague. I don't. Please."
The Physician King steps forward, his movements swift and sudden. With one gloved hand, he touches you on the chest and then moves away.
The port workers grab you and drag you outside. You cannot move, but you can see the sun on your face as they drop you. You stand up, unsure and afraid, and look around. You are outside now. You are free.
You long to ask why, but you know you would never receive an answer, so you simply thank God you are free and alive and start walking.
Until you feel a cough heaving in your throat, a fever burning in your blood, pustules bubbling on your skin.
If you didn't have the plague before, you certainly have it now. You look back, but the port is gone. No more quarantine.
The Physician King has work to do.
You are going to a new land, a land of plenty and opportunity, and you are going there by ship. And it is hell.
The conditions of the ship are brutal and sickening. Those on this coffin ship are packed tight, without regard to safety or sanitary conditions. The plague has struck many times and each time, you must give money to the sailors for them to even toss the body overboard, but it is better to lose money then to let the bodies fester in the heat. You try not to breath the noxious vapors, you try so hard to stay away from others, but there is no room, no room at all.
Until, finally, the ship lands. You are here. You are free.
Joyously, you rush to the top of the ship and prepare to leave. Until you see the men on the dock, the signs that they hold, the word that fills your heart with dread: quarantine.
You have traded one ship for another. Now, you and your fellow passengers must stay in this port for who knows how long. You don't even remember seeing this port on the map, but it must have been set up specifically to serve as a pest-house.
The workers of the port speak barely a word of your language. All you recognize is "quaratine." "Quarantine," they say repeatedly as they lead the sickly passengers away. "Quarantine."
One of the other passengers sidles up to you and says, "I hear they serve the Physician King. That this whole place was set up by him so that he could observe how fast those carrying the plague die."
You don't respond. You don't even want to open your mouth, the miasma is so thick around here.
Over time, more and more passengers of the ship disappear. You see each one being lead by one of the port workers, big hulking men and women wearing white cloaks and bird masks. You never see them again and you know why: the plague has taken them.
Finally, you are alone. The last passenger before you had to be dragged away, all the while screaming about how he had been "careful" and how he didn't have the plague at all. You shake your head and silently curse God.
And then they come for you. Their cloaks are still white and clean, so clean you don't even know how they have kept them in such a state. "Come with us," they say.
"Why?" you ask.
"Quarantine," they say. "Come with us."
You don't want to be dragged like the other man, so you slowly walk along with them. You have never felt the touch of the plague, perhaps they will finally let you go. Yes, that's it, they're going to let you go now, it's all over, you hope.
They lead you to a wooden door and slowly push the door open. Inside, there is a man. He is wearing a cloak like the others, but this cloak is black, as black as the deepest well you've ever seen. He wears a bird mask, too, but you can see there are actual feathers on this one, and the eyes are made of a shiny black glass. And above his mask, he is wearing a small wooden crown that looks like a snake wrapped around a stick.
You realize that this is the Physician King.
"Please," you beg. "I don't have the plague. I don't. Please."
The Physician King steps forward, his movements swift and sudden. With one gloved hand, he touches you on the chest and then moves away.
The port workers grab you and drag you outside. You cannot move, but you can see the sun on your face as they drop you. You stand up, unsure and afraid, and look around. You are outside now. You are free.
You long to ask why, but you know you would never receive an answer, so you simply thank God you are free and alive and start walking.
Until you feel a cough heaving in your throat, a fever burning in your blood, pustules bubbling on your skin.
If you didn't have the plague before, you certainly have it now. You look back, but the port is gone. No more quarantine.
The Physician King has work to do.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Big Sky Country
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king with many wings.
You have traveled a great distance to be here. You have traveled across seas and mountains, through small villages and large cities.
And now you are in the country of big sky. You haven't seen anything like this before. The clouds a perfectly white, the breeze is soft and gentle, and the sky seems so large that it dwarfs anything you can think of. You always wondered why it was called Big Sky Country, for other countries have certainly had skies and big ones at that, but now you know: it's not that the sky seems big, it is big. You just never noticed it before, but here, you can see just how immense it is, how magnificent it is. It's almost overpowering.
Luckily, the people who live in Big Sky Country are friendly and hospitable and they share with you their meals and ale and stories of life. It sounds like perfection - there are no roofs here, so at night, they sleep under the darkening sky and can see the morning sun when they wake up.
You decide to stay for the night just to experience it. After all, it sounds wonderful.
They give you a room and tell you that you are free to stay however long you want...provided you work for their king. You agree that this is a fair trade, although you only want to stay the night right now.
And as you fall asleep under the starry sky, it seems like you can hear some of the others whispering, but you cannot make out what.
When you awake, the dawn is breaking and it is beautiful. You are glad you stayed the night, until someone enters your room and says, "It is time. The king is coming."
"So soon?" you ask. "Can we not break our fast first?"
"We will eat with them," the person says, eyeing you uneasily.
"Them?"
"Our king," they say. "If you wish, you can watch their approach. You can see them on the horizon."
You go outside to try and catch a glimpse, but at first see nothing. And then you notice that the sky is darkening somewhat. The sun is still rising, but a dark cloud appears to be catching up with it. "What is that?" you ask.
"That is our king," they say. "The Many-Winged King. They have come to fill the sky and fill our bodies."
"'Fill the sky'?" you say and, looking closer, you noticed that the cloud appears to be made of black feathers. "But those are birds. They can't possibly be so many to fill..." You stop and your eyes widen. The cloud grows and grows and soon overtakes the sun, so that it is night all over again.
You rush, trying to get away from this place, but the cloud is faster than you could ever be. The Many-Winged King is above you now, a dark thunderstorm of claws and feathers and sharp, wicked beaks. You can feel a hum above you and see the crackle of lightning and then the boom of thunder and you fall to your knees.
"We all work for them," the others say. "It is the price to pay for living in Big Sky Country. For the sky to be so big, we must let it be filled. We must let ourselves be filled by them."
The birds that make up the Many-Winged King start to break up and the inhabitants of Big Sky Country each open their mouths and let the birds fill them up.
You gaze in terror, but eventually they hold you down and lift your face upwards to face the storm of birds.
And before you become a simply nesting place, you can hear them say, "Open wide."
You have traveled a great distance to be here. You have traveled across seas and mountains, through small villages and large cities.
And now you are in the country of big sky. You haven't seen anything like this before. The clouds a perfectly white, the breeze is soft and gentle, and the sky seems so large that it dwarfs anything you can think of. You always wondered why it was called Big Sky Country, for other countries have certainly had skies and big ones at that, but now you know: it's not that the sky seems big, it is big. You just never noticed it before, but here, you can see just how immense it is, how magnificent it is. It's almost overpowering.
Luckily, the people who live in Big Sky Country are friendly and hospitable and they share with you their meals and ale and stories of life. It sounds like perfection - there are no roofs here, so at night, they sleep under the darkening sky and can see the morning sun when they wake up.
You decide to stay for the night just to experience it. After all, it sounds wonderful.
They give you a room and tell you that you are free to stay however long you want...provided you work for their king. You agree that this is a fair trade, although you only want to stay the night right now.
And as you fall asleep under the starry sky, it seems like you can hear some of the others whispering, but you cannot make out what.
When you awake, the dawn is breaking and it is beautiful. You are glad you stayed the night, until someone enters your room and says, "It is time. The king is coming."
"So soon?" you ask. "Can we not break our fast first?"
"We will eat with them," the person says, eyeing you uneasily.
"Them?"
"Our king," they say. "If you wish, you can watch their approach. You can see them on the horizon."
You go outside to try and catch a glimpse, but at first see nothing. And then you notice that the sky is darkening somewhat. The sun is still rising, but a dark cloud appears to be catching up with it. "What is that?" you ask.
"That is our king," they say. "The Many-Winged King. They have come to fill the sky and fill our bodies."
"'Fill the sky'?" you say and, looking closer, you noticed that the cloud appears to be made of black feathers. "But those are birds. They can't possibly be so many to fill..." You stop and your eyes widen. The cloud grows and grows and soon overtakes the sun, so that it is night all over again.
You rush, trying to get away from this place, but the cloud is faster than you could ever be. The Many-Winged King is above you now, a dark thunderstorm of claws and feathers and sharp, wicked beaks. You can feel a hum above you and see the crackle of lightning and then the boom of thunder and you fall to your knees.
"We all work for them," the others say. "It is the price to pay for living in Big Sky Country. For the sky to be so big, we must let it be filled. We must let ourselves be filled by them."
The birds that make up the Many-Winged King start to break up and the inhabitants of Big Sky Country each open their mouths and let the birds fill them up.
You gaze in terror, but eventually they hold you down and lift your face upwards to face the storm of birds.
And before you become a simply nesting place, you can hear them say, "Open wide."
Monday, July 2, 2012
The Gardens of Glossolalia
Once upon a time, there was a king who spoke all languages.
Have you ever heard of the Gardens of Glossolalia? They lie about ten parasangs from the edge of the eastern desert and are in the center of a stone city that has been completely abandoned. Come, why don't we visit it together?
You wish to know why they were called the Gardens of Glossolalia, don't you? Well, the city had always been known for its beautiful hanging gardens, gardens that covered terraces and plinths and pillars and which extended for hundreds of plethra within the city. But then something happened to those within the Gardens; they began to speak in a myriad of languages, both known and unknown. Some spoke in wild tongues that none could understand.
The inhabitants of the stone city said that the "seeds of the Garden" had caught these people and they were led to the edge of the city and made to wander the desert. Eventually, as time passed, more and more inhabitants fell to this strange affliction and were forced to leave the city until finally there was no one left.
Now, of course, you and I don't believe such a story. It's a tall tale, designed to keep visitors from finding the Gardens and its treasures. I mean, people gave gifts to the Gardens, as if it was their king. They left tokens of gold and silver, tokens which could still be there. Ours for the plucking, my friend.
Ah, here we are. What a magnificent sight. And look, there is the Gardens, just as I said. Well, all the plants have died out, of course, without anyone to water them and care for them. Look, all that's left is this gray mold substance - the effect of age on stone, I suspect.
And look, here's some writing on the wall. It's written in various languages - even Latin, I see. I wonder why. Let me see if my old school lessons still work. "Rex omnes Linguae." Ah, it's a warning. It reads: "The King of All Tongues will make you speak. The King of All Tongues will make you weep. The King of All Tongues gave us the word and can take it away. The King of All Tongues sang life and sang death. Leave now before the King of All Tongues sings again."
What was that? I didn't quite hear you. I'm sorry, I don't understand. Quit fooling around. I mean it, stop talking like that. Where did you learn how to speak like that anyway?
What are you doing? Don't sit down, we have to find that treasure, we have to...what is that gray substance doing? It's...it's growing on you. Come on, we have to move, we have to leave this place. I was wrong. Don't just sit there and babble on.
Oh god, oh god, it's on me, too. Get it off get it off bekommen sie ab fá það burt af mér núna voi luoja se kasvaa nire azala da gauza honekin estalita åh gud ho dio Ó Istenem ela-hando-satelay-eek-condele-mosandrey-aseya-sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaa
Have you ever heard of the Gardens of Glossolalia? They lie about ten parasangs from the edge of the eastern desert and are in the center of a stone city that has been completely abandoned. Come, why don't we visit it together?
You wish to know why they were called the Gardens of Glossolalia, don't you? Well, the city had always been known for its beautiful hanging gardens, gardens that covered terraces and plinths and pillars and which extended for hundreds of plethra within the city. But then something happened to those within the Gardens; they began to speak in a myriad of languages, both known and unknown. Some spoke in wild tongues that none could understand.
The inhabitants of the stone city said that the "seeds of the Garden" had caught these people and they were led to the edge of the city and made to wander the desert. Eventually, as time passed, more and more inhabitants fell to this strange affliction and were forced to leave the city until finally there was no one left.
Now, of course, you and I don't believe such a story. It's a tall tale, designed to keep visitors from finding the Gardens and its treasures. I mean, people gave gifts to the Gardens, as if it was their king. They left tokens of gold and silver, tokens which could still be there. Ours for the plucking, my friend.
Ah, here we are. What a magnificent sight. And look, there is the Gardens, just as I said. Well, all the plants have died out, of course, without anyone to water them and care for them. Look, all that's left is this gray mold substance - the effect of age on stone, I suspect.
And look, here's some writing on the wall. It's written in various languages - even Latin, I see. I wonder why. Let me see if my old school lessons still work. "Rex omnes Linguae." Ah, it's a warning. It reads: "The King of All Tongues will make you speak. The King of All Tongues will make you weep. The King of All Tongues gave us the word and can take it away. The King of All Tongues sang life and sang death. Leave now before the King of All Tongues sings again."
What was that? I didn't quite hear you. I'm sorry, I don't understand. Quit fooling around. I mean it, stop talking like that. Where did you learn how to speak like that anyway?
What are you doing? Don't sit down, we have to find that treasure, we have to...what is that gray substance doing? It's...it's growing on you. Come on, we have to move, we have to leave this place. I was wrong. Don't just sit there and babble on.
Oh god, oh god, it's on me, too. Get it off get it off bekommen sie ab fá það burt af mér núna voi luoja se kasvaa nire azala da gauza honekin estalita åh gud ho dio Ó Istenem ela-hando-satelay-eek-condele-mosandrey-aseya-sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaa
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