Blog: Big Small Worlds
Owner: Padre
Author: padremack
Post: In Search of an Answer
Once mighty, then made small by defeat, he had thrust his way deep into the world, through ever smaller crevices, down and down, as a means to escape his enemies and yet remain in their world.
He had not been ready to leave, to return to the swirling miseries and glories of his own plane. He still desired what this world could give him, but he had tried too quickly to take it and been defeated by those he yearned to enslave. So, fleeing from them, and holding tight to his last possession, he dived through dirt, scrabbled through roots and grit, then slithered between sheets of rock …
… until there was no sound or light from above, and only sharp hardness all around. The deeper he went, the smaller he became, and the closer the spaces he squirmed through. The smaller he became, the simpler his thoughts, until his only urge was to find solitude.
When, at last, there was nothing nearby that crawled or wriggled, no roots slowly worming, not even a speck of mould or a drop of water containing the tiniest crumb of life, he stopped, then stayed.
First, he slept, and, fed by that he had brought with him, he grew, although much more slowly than he had shrunk. As he did, his strength returned to him, while that which he had brought grew weaker, until he was made mighty again, and it had become no different to the surrounding stone.
When at last he woke, his mind was as quick and cunning as always, so that his first utterance was a curse, for he knew immediately that somewhere in his descending diminishment he had forgotten how this world worked: how nuts were wrapped in shells and pearls were trapped in oysters; how a prisoner in an oubliette could only scratch at the enclosing walls and a sunken galleon was hard pressed by the weight of the ocean above.
He was stuck.
His mind raced as he sought a solution, hosting a swirling mass of ideas, yet not a one helped. He tried every spell he could, but they proved useless as he broiled then froze repeatedly. He pushed, plucked and poked at every part of the rock surrounding him, but nothing budged. He philosophised and debated, taking the parts of both questioner and answerer. He considered returning to his own plane, but knew if he did so, he might never find the means to return to this world and so quench his burning thirst. He stayed awake for a hundred years, then slept two hundred more to see if the mere passage of time might offer an escape. He counted the years, then the months, then the days, then the hours, then every moment. When the numbers became too large, and it was impossible to hold them all, they spilled from his consciousness, taking some of his mind with them.
His senses, for want of anything to sense, fell away one by one. Hundreds of years passed with only the same rock to see, until finally he could not bring himself to look at it, and he forgot his eyes altogether. Smell and taste, never changing, were discarded. The silence lasted so long he gave up listening. And without moving he no longer knew there was anything to touch. He was a hair’s breadth from becoming entirely empty, nobody and nothing.
Yet, despite neither waking nor sleeping, he dreamed. His severed mind began to wonder and in so doing gifted him a different kind of vision – momentary fragments of removed places and beings. These glimpses he drank greedily, and ever more quickly, until they swirled furiously, as if he were a scholar reading a thousand tomes all at once, one word of each in turn. At which point, he may as well have been unconscious, for no sense could be derived from such myriad confusion. Time lost all meaning as he lost himself once more.
Eventually, by chance, some of his swirling images conjoined. These he held onto, refusing to yield them back to the maelstrom. Time passed, and his collection grew as he found more moments to put together, then more of the same, until he truly saw again. Creatures moved through this place and that, spoke to each other, laboured and fought, played and plotted, and he understood. At last, now that his visions were arrayed orderly, he was once more able to organise his thoughts. His mind had returned. On doing so, he immediately cursed, because the means of escape was now made obvious by the visions, and it had always been available.
Others must free him.
Allowing the visions to pour through him, he lingered on all those of worth, so that he might understand them, and learn from them, and ascertain what exactly others could do to bring about his release. He learned also of the world above, that he might be better prepared when he returned to it, and so more able to take it for himself. Incrementally, his visions revealed the best course of action, in what order, and he understood what must be shown to his instruments so that they could do all that was necessary to bring about his release. He sought out the likeliest candidates and folded his visions into their dreams. Inevitably, some relished the seeing of them, and it was these who became his servants; his soon-to-be saviours.
He now sees a city where everyone believes themselves to be a lord or lady, despite their ragged linens. Rather than gold embroidery, they have only torn, mud-spattered hems. In lieu of lovelock curls, they wear matted, lice-ridden hair, and instead of staffs and canes, they carry brooms and pitchforks. But their pride makes them swagger, their self-importance induces a willingness to wax lyrical concerning their own wisdom.
And so he recalls an earlier vision which joins with this, of a wizard whose name was the same as the one who taught him: Totto. A foolish name for a foolish wizard who foolishly fuelled these peasants’ awkward arrogance. A wizard who sees the world of men upside down and yearns to tip the city over to match that which he imagines, and who refuses to allow the peasants bow to him, which only makes them more haughty.
Above him but beneath world’s surface, he sees clawed warriors marching, and when he remembers who they are and whom they serve and he smiles, for they are pawns in his game, for their master fawns over him, and will do anything to please him, no matter the cost.
Another vision, of trees and motes dancing in beams of sunlight, where courtly elves forget their painfully cultivated manners in arguments over their beloved forest. One green limb has been poisoned, sickening them too, so now they seek friends outside the forest despite fearing their prospective allies’ greedy intentions for timber and land. Brows are furrowed as servants ponder what such unwelcome novelties, within and outwith, could mean.
And here is another elf, who arrives at a stone city, where masquerades are played daily, to meet with a lord who acts his part on the stage well, emboldened by the applause of his subject audience.
The two greet each other, playing old friends, while both know that they speak the words of a script authored by others.
While on a mountain road, dwarfs argue whether men cannot or will not fight. Past failures have become bitter memories, and the mountain of wrongs to be put right grows ever higher. Yet their confidence is stubborn and deep rooted, and their true grudge is only that they have to do everything themselves.
Here again, his servant’s servants, scuttle en-masse, a rushing tide of hateful hunger, whipped into submission yet ready to claw and bite at anything before them.
And in a town overlooking the sea, an addled lord vents his fears and loathing, but few will listen anymore, for he brought ruin both to them and himself.
His words are old, hateful scripture which few can bear to hear, for they remember lashings, hangings and the murdering of their loved ones, and a fury that burned painfully bright until suddenly snuffed out with nothing to show for it but exhausted regret, and the ravings of a mad man.
In another realm, by a burnt orchard, men far from home curse silently because someone else stole what they had stolen themselves.
Everything around them had been measured, valued, and recorded in neat ledgers, but an adding up now yields nothing.
Meanwhile, in mighty city, a proven genius chuckles at the game that has been played, but then grows serious upon turning his attention back to the puzzling contraption he has been studying.
Wheeled and wired, bearing a rotting corpse, its workings are an unfathomable mystery. Can this maestro find out what it was meant to find?
And now another joining – not of visions but thoughts – for he himself wonders, at that very same moment, can he find what it was meant to find?
Then, at last, he sees that which he wants most to see.
A hulking, grey-skinned pirate, upon a stony beach, framed by a bright blue sky. The pirate’s sea-dogs’ muttering chatter is like a chorus for his growling oratory, their eyes reddened by weariness, partly brought on by the taint of the beautiful stone they are arguing over. But they no longer have it! Nor does it lie on the beach.
Where is it?
Can he find it?
Continue reading on the Big Small Worlds blog
Owner: Padre
Author: padremack
Post: In Search of an Answer
Once mighty, then made small by defeat, he had thrust his way deep into the world, through ever smaller crevices, down and down, as a means to escape his enemies and yet remain in their world.
He had not been ready to leave, to return to the swirling miseries and glories of his own plane. He still desired what this world could give him, but he had tried too quickly to take it and been defeated by those he yearned to enslave. So, fleeing from them, and holding tight to his last possession, he dived through dirt, scrabbled through roots and grit, then slithered between sheets of rock …
… until there was no sound or light from above, and only sharp hardness all around. The deeper he went, the smaller he became, and the closer the spaces he squirmed through. The smaller he became, the simpler his thoughts, until his only urge was to find solitude.
When, at last, there was nothing nearby that crawled or wriggled, no roots slowly worming, not even a speck of mould or a drop of water containing the tiniest crumb of life, he stopped, then stayed.
First, he slept, and, fed by that he had brought with him, he grew, although much more slowly than he had shrunk. As he did, his strength returned to him, while that which he had brought grew weaker, until he was made mighty again, and it had become no different to the surrounding stone.
When at last he woke, his mind was as quick and cunning as always, so that his first utterance was a curse, for he knew immediately that somewhere in his descending diminishment he had forgotten how this world worked: how nuts were wrapped in shells and pearls were trapped in oysters; how a prisoner in an oubliette could only scratch at the enclosing walls and a sunken galleon was hard pressed by the weight of the ocean above.
He was stuck.
His mind raced as he sought a solution, hosting a swirling mass of ideas, yet not a one helped. He tried every spell he could, but they proved useless as he broiled then froze repeatedly. He pushed, plucked and poked at every part of the rock surrounding him, but nothing budged. He philosophised and debated, taking the parts of both questioner and answerer. He considered returning to his own plane, but knew if he did so, he might never find the means to return to this world and so quench his burning thirst. He stayed awake for a hundred years, then slept two hundred more to see if the mere passage of time might offer an escape. He counted the years, then the months, then the days, then the hours, then every moment. When the numbers became too large, and it was impossible to hold them all, they spilled from his consciousness, taking some of his mind with them.
His senses, for want of anything to sense, fell away one by one. Hundreds of years passed with only the same rock to see, until finally he could not bring himself to look at it, and he forgot his eyes altogether. Smell and taste, never changing, were discarded. The silence lasted so long he gave up listening. And without moving he no longer knew there was anything to touch. He was a hair’s breadth from becoming entirely empty, nobody and nothing.
Yet, despite neither waking nor sleeping, he dreamed. His severed mind began to wonder and in so doing gifted him a different kind of vision – momentary fragments of removed places and beings. These glimpses he drank greedily, and ever more quickly, until they swirled furiously, as if he were a scholar reading a thousand tomes all at once, one word of each in turn. At which point, he may as well have been unconscious, for no sense could be derived from such myriad confusion. Time lost all meaning as he lost himself once more.
Eventually, by chance, some of his swirling images conjoined. These he held onto, refusing to yield them back to the maelstrom. Time passed, and his collection grew as he found more moments to put together, then more of the same, until he truly saw again. Creatures moved through this place and that, spoke to each other, laboured and fought, played and plotted, and he understood. At last, now that his visions were arrayed orderly, he was once more able to organise his thoughts. His mind had returned. On doing so, he immediately cursed, because the means of escape was now made obvious by the visions, and it had always been available.
Others must free him.
Allowing the visions to pour through him, he lingered on all those of worth, so that he might understand them, and learn from them, and ascertain what exactly others could do to bring about his release. He learned also of the world above, that he might be better prepared when he returned to it, and so more able to take it for himself. Incrementally, his visions revealed the best course of action, in what order, and he understood what must be shown to his instruments so that they could do all that was necessary to bring about his release. He sought out the likeliest candidates and folded his visions into their dreams. Inevitably, some relished the seeing of them, and it was these who became his servants; his soon-to-be saviours.
He now sees a city where everyone believes themselves to be a lord or lady, despite their ragged linens. Rather than gold embroidery, they have only torn, mud-spattered hems. In lieu of lovelock curls, they wear matted, lice-ridden hair, and instead of staffs and canes, they carry brooms and pitchforks. But their pride makes them swagger, their self-importance induces a willingness to wax lyrical concerning their own wisdom.
And so he recalls an earlier vision which joins with this, of a wizard whose name was the same as the one who taught him: Totto. A foolish name for a foolish wizard who foolishly fuelled these peasants’ awkward arrogance. A wizard who sees the world of men upside down and yearns to tip the city over to match that which he imagines, and who refuses to allow the peasants bow to him, which only makes them more haughty.
Above him but beneath world’s surface, he sees clawed warriors marching, and when he remembers who they are and whom they serve and he smiles, for they are pawns in his game, for their master fawns over him, and will do anything to please him, no matter the cost.
Another vision, of trees and motes dancing in beams of sunlight, where courtly elves forget their painfully cultivated manners in arguments over their beloved forest. One green limb has been poisoned, sickening them too, so now they seek friends outside the forest despite fearing their prospective allies’ greedy intentions for timber and land. Brows are furrowed as servants ponder what such unwelcome novelties, within and outwith, could mean.
And here is another elf, who arrives at a stone city, where masquerades are played daily, to meet with a lord who acts his part on the stage well, emboldened by the applause of his subject audience.
The two greet each other, playing old friends, while both know that they speak the words of a script authored by others.
While on a mountain road, dwarfs argue whether men cannot or will not fight. Past failures have become bitter memories, and the mountain of wrongs to be put right grows ever higher. Yet their confidence is stubborn and deep rooted, and their true grudge is only that they have to do everything themselves.
Here again, his servant’s servants, scuttle en-masse, a rushing tide of hateful hunger, whipped into submission yet ready to claw and bite at anything before them.
And in a town overlooking the sea, an addled lord vents his fears and loathing, but few will listen anymore, for he brought ruin both to them and himself.
His words are old, hateful scripture which few can bear to hear, for they remember lashings, hangings and the murdering of their loved ones, and a fury that burned painfully bright until suddenly snuffed out with nothing to show for it but exhausted regret, and the ravings of a mad man.
In another realm, by a burnt orchard, men far from home curse silently because someone else stole what they had stolen themselves.
Everything around them had been measured, valued, and recorded in neat ledgers, but an adding up now yields nothing.
Meanwhile, in mighty city, a proven genius chuckles at the game that has been played, but then grows serious upon turning his attention back to the puzzling contraption he has been studying.
Wheeled and wired, bearing a rotting corpse, its workings are an unfathomable mystery. Can this maestro find out what it was meant to find?
And now another joining – not of visions but thoughts – for he himself wonders, at that very same moment, can he find what it was meant to find?
Then, at last, he sees that which he wants most to see.
A hulking, grey-skinned pirate, upon a stony beach, framed by a bright blue sky. The pirate’s sea-dogs’ muttering chatter is like a chorus for his growling oratory, their eyes reddened by weariness, partly brought on by the taint of the beautiful stone they are arguing over. But they no longer have it! Nor does it lie on the beach.
Where is it?
Can he find it?
Continue reading on the Big Small Worlds blog
