Gri Leven

<h1>. . .</h1> The inside of a large sphere, lined with tiger skins. It seems to be slowly rolling, yet "down" stays underneath you, as if "down" is rolling as well. [[Look down at yourself.]] [[Soft suggestions of something else sift in from outside.]] [[Sit up, whatever that may mean, and think.]] [[Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

You appear to be a scribble, like in this picture: <img src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/11/Gri-leven.jpg"> [[Soft suggestions of something else sift in from outside.]] [[Sit up, whatever that may mean, and think.]] [[Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

There are sounds of rushing, like waves of the sea, or gusts of wind, heavily muted by whatever the sphere is made of. [[Look down at yourself.]] [[Sit up, whatever that may mean, and think.]] [[Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

There is an idea in your head, something you have always wanted to see. Rain is the idea, and you feel a poignant stir welling up from deep within in response to it. If there is any chance of finding out what rain looks like and feels like... there is something dreadfully important about it. There does not seem to be anywhere to go inside this sphere, except [[around in circles.]]

You are in a passage made of stones, with a [[warm light]] coming from ahead, and a [[cool darkness]] coming from atail. [[Look at yourself.]]

As you move, "down" still remains underneath you, as if you are rolling the vast sphere like a rat's exercise wheel, though the movement of the globe is hard to notice, and it still seems to be rolling in a direction of its own. However far you go in any direction, you always feel you are walking along the bottom of the sphere. The tiger skins that line the inside of the sphere seem the same at a distance, but moving across them you begin to notice that some are rough, and others are smooth, or even soft and downy. Some are very old, and even have bare patches which are striped like the hair they lost, but thankfully none of them are... new. But however different they are, there is no possibility of finding anything recognisably different at a distance, which could be used as a landmark for you to try to reach. It is hard to see how the skins are held down, and they seem almost loose, so that sometimes it feels as if you are only ruffling and rumpling them instead of moving yourself anywhere. But at one point you trip, having caught on one of the skins. Though of course falling over makes little difference to you, since you have no top or bottom, [[it does hold you back a moment.]] There is little accomplished by trying to keep track of a point above you, it only makes you slightly dizzy. But at least you have not started to think that everywhere you go is somewhere you have been before. The size of the sphere keeps that feeling away. You are almost tempted to think that you will never reach a place you have been before. But even if you did, you would hardly recognize it. Placing your weight on a skin, you find it giving way [[beneath you.]] [[Fly.]]

You find that the edge of one of the skins is actually loose from the inside of the sphere. It is one of the oldest of the skins. You begin to wonder what would wear out the skins, whether anyone has walked over it before. You pull at the little bit of free edge, and discover that the skin seems to grow directly out of the stone which you see underneath. However you are able with great force and patience to get a large enough part of the skin detached, so you can see clearly what is under it. Crude stone blocks it seems, older and more deteriorated than the skin that covers them; probably another reason you were able to tear the skin from them at all. One of the stones is loose enough to move somewhat, and with further tedious effort, you begin to work it out of the floor. The moment the block comes free you feel an odd, sideways gravity drift [[through the opening]] like a cool breeze.

You let yourself down through a [[ragged, stone rent,]] and find yourself in soft light. The air is extremely cold and dry, and filled with an overwhelming scent of copper. Now that you can hear it more plainly, you find that the rushing sound is that of machinery, rather than water or wind. But it is not like any other machinery: there are no snaps, or grindings, only whirring, sliding, locking, rolling, tapping, slipping, and spinning. You cannot tell if everything you see is silver or gold, but everything you see is spotless, polished, and metallic. It is from these shining surfaces, curved or level, that the light comes. There are no gears, chains, bolts, wires, belts, rivets, sprockets, screws, or hinges. There are only wheels, cups, blades, rods, tabs, discs, pipes, bowls, rollers, funnels, plates, fans, sliders, and magestic levers of every discription. There was nothing but the metal, there was not a speck in the air, not a stain of grease or rust on anything. The cups and trays you see are all empty, the fans make only gentle movements of air, the blades cut nothing, and there seems to be little done or accomplished except their movement. Everything is like stars, existing simply to exist, and move ceaselessly in the paths laid out for them. Also like stars, there seems to be innumerable gravities in various parts and directions, and the arrangements and structures would be impossible a thousand thousand times if there was a single gravity encompassing the whole. With the way your perspective of these things changes as you fall among them, you are not at all sure that you are even falling in an entirely straight line. A gentle wind [[seems to usher you]] in a new direction, offering another option rather than the gentle, non-linear gravity. The wafting is too light to carry you unless you try to be blown by it though. As you pass downwards through a more crowded array of machinery, there grows a sense of expectancy, as though you are about to come out of cloud and see what is below. A few blades pass through you, which matters little as you are so flexible. You are brushed by a swinging lever, and seem to fall into and back out of a tremendous bowl without touching the inside of it. Then you see below you, laid out like an arial photograph, a wide field spangled thickly with trees. You soon alight in the long, wilderness grass, and look around at what seem to be olive trees, all lit by the gleam reflecting from the still moving mechanisms above. In contrast, the trees and [[grass]] are unmoving in the windless air. [[Those trees.]] [[The other trees.]]

As you leave the unstable floor behind, you begin to see further and further around you, as if the floor was curving down on all sides instead of curving up. Then you begin to realize that the far side of the sphere you thought you were moving towards is not coming any closer than before. It comes into your mind that the sphere growing larger as you move towards the center. Already it seems that there are far more tiger skins than you thought at first, which must be needed to cover the now greater immensity of the strange globe. When they appear like the skins of striped red ants, or cruelly colored rice husks, you begin to see something ahead of you, suspended on the emptiness in the midst of the sphere. As it comes more clearly into view, you see a punctilious planet, with all that it needs and nothing more, and you recognize each item as if it was included from a checklist: a sun, a moon, [[a cloud]], a sea, a mountain, a river, a tree, a field, and a sandbox. It also has a road, a house, a man, and an animal; but it could not decide which animal, so it has a multi-animal, like a Swiss army knife zoo.

Looking back up, you can see that the outside of the sphere is entirely covered in deep moss, nearly as deep as a human arm is long in places, and nowhere less than several inches deep. You can hardly see the crack you came out by. Here and there seem to be tiny flowers that smell like water. "Down" seems to have left you behind, as you walk among the moss plants, enjoying the deep, warm feel of it. As you seem to be on a small planet or moon, you begin to wonder what is over the horizon. Someone who lived on earth might be tricked into thinking this horizon is further away than it is, but you can tell the distance by how much the ground curves towards it. The sky beneath you is filled with colossal, perfect mechanisms of some metal like silver or gold, from whose gleaming surfaces comes the light that surrounds you, as if from a sky crowded with intricate moons of polished brass. The journey as you travel around the outside of the sphere is slower than on the inside, but somewhat easier, as the moss is more interesting, and the sky provides mainly reliable indication of your movement and direction. As you [[shliffer]] through the soft, green threads, you smell a mingling of a smooth, heavy, metallic smell from the sky, and a rough, warm, earth smell which your movements stir up from the thick moss. There hangs another mingling in the air, of the clean, clear sounds of the mechanical sky, and the quiet rustling of your progress through the moss. You have gone far, and the sky is wholly different than when you began, when you find, scattered in front of you, several large, unhulled [[sunflower seeds.]]

Your drifting tour is curious, like floating through a [[cyclopean]] Christmas tree, without the tree, or candles, or garlands, or even more than one or two colors. Something non-metal comes in view, a curve that eventually is discernable as a sphere, which must be larger than the one you came from. It is bare, seamless wood, whether carved by incalculable labor, or grown in a sphere like a planetary oak nut wasp gall. Settling deliberately against it, you find that the wood does not give off enough gravity to let you press against it. You have to waft yourself along, like swimming in air, which is easy enough since you are so light. A small variation in the smooth, wooden surface draws your attention, and you direct yourself towards it, now feeling a growing impatiance now that you have a destination. You find it is [[a small, round hole.]]

After looking through the grass a little, you see it is full of fleas, which do not disgust you, because they cannot crawl on you. You have nothing for them to crawl on. [[Those trees.]] [[The other trees.]]

The trees seem slightly thin for their height, perhaps because of a lack of gravity (which you would not notice), or because of a lack of wind. There is a distinct stillness involved in everything, further emphasized by the quietness of the now distant machines of the sky. On one tree you find some passages carved in Arabic, which seem, from your limited knowledge of Arabic, to be a love song. No other sign of human presence is to be found. The long, pale leaves hang like beautiful ornaments as you pass under them. You sweep through the grass like someone looking through a heap of disorganized documents. A dusty, dry, and slightly sweet smell grows in the air. You begin to notice a film of brown dust on the grass blades, and, further along, small heaps of the same brown dust weighing the grass down. The slightest touch against grass bearing even an invisible accumulation of the dust sets a little cloud of it rising in the air, greatly increasing the dry smell. Soon there is an incessant, nebulous trail following you. You come to places where the brown dust is piled in shallow drifts around the bases of trees. It does not have any of the ripples that are in windblown sand, either because the texture is different than sand, or, of course, because there is no wind. Later you come into places where the brown dust makes an unbroken ground cover, and grass tips rarely show through, even in the trough you leave behind you as you stir along. Then the trees begin to be fewer and smaller, and if they were men they would be waist deep in the brown dust. The brown of this dust is more brown than dust usually is. By now there is so much in the air from your moving through it you can taste that it is [[carob powder.]]

You are surprised by a small breeze, making the leaves fumble like the hands of lovely troll girls, and the grass wavered like the antennae of so many groping moths. When the wind disappears again there seems to still be a sound [[some ways ahead.]]

"Shliffer" being a motion similar to shuffling and slithering, nicely adapted to your unique physique. [[Alright.|ragged, stone rent,]]

You pick up and shake each one, and all you hear is rustling. The sound is like rain, but wrong. They are empty, and each one has a hole in it. One you pick up is not empty, and feels as if it is filled with water, though it also has a hole in it. Out of the hole and onto the ground darts a small garden snake which had been coiled inside the seed. It is thinner than a fat pencil, and longer than a small child's arm. It has a tiny mouth like a split almond, and eyes no larger than one of its miniscule scales. It is dark green, and glossy as glass on the moss, and starts to eat you, since you are the perfect shape for being [[eaten by a thin snake.]]

The carob powder has now risen into a sort of erg, and the trees had dwindled down into it as the grass had long before. There is still a suggestion of vegetation away back the way you came, but nothing ahead. Except a sort of speck. It is hard to reach, not merely because it is far away, but because if you try to move without great carefulness the dust sifts up into the air and makes it impossible to see the speck. As it comes more into to view you do not have to be so careful of the dust to see it, and can move slightly faster. You are sure now that it must be something thin and upright [[stuck into the ground.]]

It is hard to tell whether the hole you have made is more like a gap in a wall, or a seaside cave. Probably this is because of the clashing gravities. To put a stop to this effect, you slip dexterously down, or through, [[into the outside.]]

Now it is clear that it is a sign post, dark and worn as an old broom stick in a corner. It has two, small pointers on it, the one saying [[Help me]], and the other pointing in a different direction, saying [[Help me please.]] As the sign post is so old, you think it quite probable that whoever put up the signs on it are no longer in any immediate need of help. You touch the post and find that it [[tips a little,]] and no wonder, since it is stuck into such loose powder. And at least there is no wind to blow it down.

You hope it is not far to go, as it would be hard to tell if you were still going the same direction that the sign pointed. It does start to seem like a long way, and you are not very apt to travel in a straight line, being a wandering line yourself. But as soon as it starts to seem long, you slide down a steep slope in the powder, carrying a great deal of powder down with you. The slope seems to surround a place on a level with hard ground, but the powder has thoroughly colored it brown. In the middle of this more or less flat place is a wooden structure suggesting [[the entrance of a mine.]]

You decide to wander off in the direction the more plaintive sign indicates. You seem to see something in the distance. You are not moving again very long before the dust obscures it, but eventually you approach [[it.]]

You wonder if you could stick the post in more firmly, or if it would simply keep going down into the powder till no one could see it. But when you push it down, it does not move, though it moves from side to side quite easily. When you stop pushing it even springs back up a little. It cannot stand upright anymore, and leans so far over that you are sure it will eventually fall down if you leave it. There is clearly something underneath it, so you pull upwards this time, and scoop away the dust from around the bottom. You find a place where rough, old fibers of blackened grass or faded twigs are bound in great number to the lower end of the post. You start to suspect, before you dig it up entirely, that the post for the signs is actually a broom. It is a broom, rather large, and very old. You wonder if the broom was originally intended to sweep up this vast mislocation of carob powder, and you begin to sweep it up yourself, at least [[where you are standing.]]

Of course most of what you sweep goes into the air, but as you have no lungs to suffocate you are not worried. However, when your sweeping uncovers something other than more carob powder, the brown obscurity of the air makes it hard to tell whether it is grass or trees or a collection of books. In fact, it is a collection of books: the top of a pile of books, almost level, so there is no guessing how large it is; some books lying flat with vertical books inbetween them and in rows, some of them spine upwards. After sweeping off an area the size of a small restaurant, and finding no downward incline of the books, you tiredly lay down the sign post broom, and start to glance about at the dusty volumes you have uncovered. There are some titles you recognize: [[The Edward]], Happy Lowfoot's Lands, [[Lisa Bean]], Parbicke's Compendium of All Nothings, Henwhill to Aton by Lacy Longgate, [[Locus of Acuity]], and Arching Arthurs Angers. There are some others you do not recognize, like Oefield's Law, Cunneng Al Bal, The Wickerstike by Adon Bale, [[The Whale of Bricken]], Our Skrimm Pile, Lucille's Plod by Anthony Howard, An Alligrater's Dole, and Hard Dip by Paul Hall. As there usually is, there are [[a few without titles.]]

*"Withhold not from the hands of a child The masterful things of yesterday's wild, Take not out of the hands of a man The willing pieces of future's plan."* *-Blihelm* <h3> Chapter first: the coming to Waithaven.</h3> Columns of dust followed the wagons; it was that time of year. In the fields wandered dust devils here and there, as if stirred up by the carriages of day time ghosts. In a carriage on the road sat one sadly like to a ghost, a boy of twelve with a face of thirty, wrapped in a gray mantle of cropped wool, as if the searing sun was cold to him. Beside him he who drove the carriage was a young man who looked younger than the boy, though he may have been twenty years. He bore a shallow moustache and white sleeves, and an expression of self-contained kindness. He glanced up as a whirlwind passed rather close to the road and died out. The boy did not move, but must have said something quietly, because his elder companion responded. "What? Yes, that is Waithaven this time. I hope you... I hope it agrees with you." The boy's shoulders shook because the carriage shook. They went on in silence. Inside the carriage was a single figure, clothed as darkly as the shadow inside the carriage, which was ironically at its darkest because the sun was at its highest. All that could be seen of the dark passenger was a sharp-nosed female profile, and the outline of a broad brimmed hat. You turn over [[the soft and cracking page.]]

*"Taken all together, I am not sure my life is worth more than another's, except in that I have taken it all together."* *- Abraham Fierwell* **T**he Edward will live in my memory as indefatigably as he lived in his own body. This book is written almost as self-defense against the frank displeasure I would no doubt have been subjected to by him if I once gave any reasons for not writing it. He had a deft way of poking you where there was a hole, and he must have considered the opposite of life to not to be death, but excuses. You nod (at least in sentiment, since you do not possess a head) and [[stuff|where you are standing.]] the book back in a crack.

You stand in front of a wall bordering a moonlit golf course, with a prestigious castle in good repair on the far side of it. Turning, you see that the so called hole you came through was actually a small, dark crack in [[the wall.]] It is an admirable, well kept golf course, gentle slopes as smooth as a green rabbit's back, some of the green visible even in the pale night time light, and the flags stood as significantly as pennanted lances in a field after a battle, only straighter. A few dark trees form a backdrop to the field, separating from it the [[imposing form of the castle,]] which seemed taller in the [[dim light.]] It had at least four, square towers, and perhaps another lower down behind it. Above the towers there floats some small clouds, as pale in the moonlight as the castle walls, but more bright. They bring back the thought of rain. In the surrounding silence you feel an itch to hear the sound of it, which you can never get clear in your mind. A few more dark trees stand along a path which runs past you, along the line of the wall. You see something giving a slight gleam, leaning against one of the trees down the path a way. You venture out to investigate it, and it is an abandoned golf club, with an empty bag below it. But the bag is not empty, having in it two golf balls. All these things are not old, and could even be new. The handle of the club even seems to retain the warmth of someone's hand, but this may be your imagination. You decide that you can risk borrowing them for a shot, since you are [[quite good at golf,]] and can simply return them to the place you found them.

The wall is somewhat tall, but easy enough to climb. When you come down on the other side you find yourself among some privet bushes that line a gravel path. You look around and see that you are in a walled garden, well tended, though it looks more faded in the moonlight, and the ragged shadows cast a sense of disrepair. You move across the garden to the back of a house, which has a glassed in sun-porch, partially shadowed on the right by one of the few trees there. The door is open a crack, which is enough for you, but you wonder if you should go inside. Looking back you see a black cat walking the wall where you climbed over. You [[do not want]] to knock or call. You look down a little longingly at the mat inside the door, and you cannot see part of it. A shadow of something seems to be falling on it, but thicker than any other shadow in that place. Then there is a breeze, and you see a glint of something as the shadow changes shape, like the flicker of a coin in the darkness of a deep well. The shadow is a cat, and the glint is an eye, and the cat is closer now, and says in a deep, creaking murmer, "There is nothing in the house now but me. [[Come with me inside.]]"

You are drawn to the looming, stone edifice, and you move across the wide golfing green like a figment of an umimaginative person's imagination. After you pass under some trees, it is still a long way to go around the castle untill you reach the yard before the gate. The gate is not open, but there is plenty of room underneath [[to enter.]]

Above the towers there floats some small clouds, as pale in the moonlight as the castle walls, but more bright. They bring back the thought of rain. In the surrounding silence you feel an itch to hear the sound of it, which [[you can never get clear in your mind.|into the outside.]]

The club glimmers in the slim light. The sweet tick of the stroke and the dim form of the ball gliding away over the field. It is not a hole in one, but it was close. It rolls down a gentle slope. You line up again, and this time the faint, white circle neatly sets behind the rim of the hole. You feel good, and go to get the ball. You find that this hole is deeper than you thought, you cannot see the ball inside. [[The darkness]] inside looks thicker than you are comfortable with, but it was someone else's ball, so you go down into the hole, lower and lower. The hole is [[very deep.]]

It is certainly an old, abandoned shaft. You get between two of the boards that cover it, and slither down, vanishing into [[the darkness.]] You find your way to place deep in a back passage, where a simple candle sits in a crevice in the wall, and on the floor beneath is a large, soft earthworm, curled like a snake. The worm curls itself tighter as if it is cold, and asks in a damp, mournful, flutelike voice, [["Have you seen any rain?"]]

You are somewhat afraid of dark, because you do not exactly exist in darkness, but it makes it easier to move about. It has something to do with rain: the opposite of darkness is rain. [[I see (figuratively speaking).|the entrance of a mine.]]

"People say we come up in rain to keep from drowning. It is nice to not die, but the true reason is that we love the rain. Will you [[help]] me look? I cannot carry the candle."

It does not trouble you to be eaten, only you are a little afraid of the dark. You do not exist in the dark very much, so that you vanish quite well into the small creature, through the black pinhole of its tiny throat. You can tell that it finds a sunflower seed that is not empty, and empties it. You can see out when the snakes mouth is open and empty. You cannot feel the sunflower seed flesh once it has passed into the darkness inside the snake, but you can smell it overwhelmingly. The snake empties a sunflower seed and leaves a rustling shell four more times. Then you can tell that it is worming its way deep into the moss, and you can smell a deep, green smell more and more. Then it is sliding through [[a little, lightless, stone hole.]]

"Cyclopean" means gigantic, and comes from the Greek word for "round-eye", because of Greek myths about giants that had only one eye. [[Interesting|seems to usher you]]

The little hole is full of [[darkness]], but you do not mind too much. Going in feels like going inside a towering pyramid. The tunnels inside are long and with few corners or divisions, but, as a whole, they are as complicated as the inside of an ant hill. Sometimes you feel some scratches in the wall, most of which are too hard to read merely by touch, but you think you can make out, "When? Year 1870", "This job This pie", "Jimm bought it", "Table legged spider foot", and, "Joy got in my ear". You come across a solitary light bulb, a wire leading into it and out of it stapled to the wall. There is nothing around it though, not even a scratch on the smooth, wooden inside of the tunnel. After this spot of amber glow has faded from recent memory, you catch a whispering echo of [[a sound.]]

As you draw nearer, the sound is clearly that of an old fashioned phone ringing. The strident bell sound repeats twice every four seconds or so. You find the telephone on a hump of the tunnel wall and floor, and above it shines a lightbulb. You pick up the receiver, and hear the voice on the other end saying, [["Let me tell you a story."]]

You pass through the various rooms of the house and find them all empty, as the cat said. The beds are not made, but at least the dishes are washed. Despite a few minor things, everything in the house seems in order. The plants seem to have been maintained, but there is no food, and no pictures of people. Crossing the sitting room again, the cat bats you a few times, then paws you wildly, then sits bolt upright. You pause, wondering if the cat wants to tell you something. It does not seem to have anything to say, but after you wait it does speak, in the same soft, grinding tone as before. "I will not apologize for playing with you. My actions were entirely honorable." It looks away slightly, and, seeing that it has nothing more to say, you find your way to the front of the house, and the glass front door. This door is sealed so that you have to open it to pass through. Once you have it open, and are closing it behind you, you hear the cat speaking again, and see it in the entryway. "Have you ever had a bubble bath? Let me give you [[a bubble bath.]]"

You climb up more or less easily onto the slick glass, and cross to the end spangled with gray shadows. You climb into the tree, and thence onto the concrete roof tiles. Up to the ridge, and you can see over the fine neighbourhood. The meagre light from the roofs with the shady gloom beneath gives it a significant, aprehensive air, as the kindest face can be given a grim look when a torch is shined from the chin. A block away there is a glow of firelight from a window, and a slight progression of smoke disappears into the dominion of the moon. Settled there on the cool, ridged tiles, [[you fall asleep.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

The snake exits the hole through a crack in the pavement of a ruin. You emerge from between the snake's little, hard lips. The ruin is very bare. Not a single weed, not even a small heap of dust. The walls are erect, many of the Grecian pillars as well. Though all is cracked, chipped, and worn to the last degree, there is little mess. It is mainly courtyards, in places with roofs extending from the tops of walls to rest on what pillars are left. The shade under these is not very dark, but pensive. You find some stately statues still recognizable, gazing it seems blindly with their smooth, pupilless eyes. [[You wonder]] if they would rather see the state of their dwelling, or if they would rather be blind.

There is not a light in the place, nor anything but the more permanent furnishings. Yet it is perfectly clean. It is as if everyone had moved out of this castle only last evening. But after some time looking here and there, you hear a sound of someone singing, high up in some room of the upper levels. You find a [[winding stair.]]

With the quiet but distinct singing to guide you, you come to a room that may have been an upstairs drawing room, for it is slightly too large for a bedroom. It has a beautiful view over the countryside, but what draws your attention is a stone wall table with an ornate, silver chalice resting on it, from which the music seems to be coming. You approach to it and find it empty, yet the metal vibrates with the clear song nontheless. The voice is feminine, and the song in Arabic, sung in the manner of a Latin chorale. You lift the chalice, and feel it ring, and though you have no mouth, you drink deep and large of [[the empty cup.]]

You feel the sound resonate through you, as if you were a harp string, and the voice is swellingly joined by others, and you can now see the singers, men and women in pale robes in the dim light of the tall, narrow windows. Their hands behind their backs, and their mouths like so many "O" shapes, make them look like singing children. After a sweet, lingering harmony, the song dies away. The choir looks at you, and one and all smile beautifically. From behind their backs, where they were hiding them, they present rakes, bug nets, hoes, and other such items, then one and all run towards you. [[Slip away out the window.]] [[Slip away back down the stairs.]]

As you float away from the castle on the breath like wind, the choir clusters at the windows, and all begin whistling for you like you are a dog. But now you probably could not get back to them if you tried. And it seems you have no way of getting down to the ground. You see the beautiful view spread beneath you, in the dim colors of night. The fields, the walls, copses, gardens, and sullen gray roof tops, with one chimney letting out a little, shifting phantom of smoke. All this becomes smaller and everything becomes wider, and you see with some surprise an object standing out like an abandoned doll house of minimalist and grim aspect: the castle from whose window you left. You are floating upwards, and soon are bathed in the white and then dimmer and dimmer gray of [[a cloud.]]

You resist the temptation of jumping off the stairs, knowing that you can [[pull yourself down the steps]] faster than you can slither down through the air.

You come up out of the cloud on a fishhook, and across the little field of fog both softer and whiter than snow you see an old, fat man in a robe sitting cross legged like an Asian, with a beat up, olive brown waterproof hat pulled down so you cannot see his face. It is he who holds the simple fishing rod. He picks you off the hook, and looks at you closely, though you still cannot tell what he looks like. He intones, "Vanity of vanities." And he tosses you higher into the night sky [[above the clouds.]]

They would have been hot on your heels if you had any heels. At the gate more than one of them makes a stamp at your end as you [[slip underneath the great doors.]]

But as you emerge on the other side, something falls on your middle with a clanging boom. You would have been crushed [[if you had not been so thin.]]

You look back and see an old, iron bell has fallen from above the gate, and landed squarely on top of you. How it kept from falling until just that moment [[you cannot fathom.]]

As you are squirming from underneath it, your pursuers open the gate, and the swinging door knocks the bell aside. You might escape if you think of going back among them, where they would lose you in each other's robes, but you do not think of that in time, and one of them snags you with [[an antique spaghetti scoop.]]

They wind you around a wooden spool, and carry you to a tailor sitting in a window seat. He is young, and does not even have spectacles. He takes you, and says you are something that will match. He threads you onto a needle, and uses you to stitch a dark patch on a small, white blanket. At least they do not use you as a candle wick. You are incombustible, and would be trapped forever in a waxen prison. Then one of the choristers brings out a fake infant, which smells powerfully of an uncomfortable amount of soap. They wrap the blanket around the doll, and begin to sing an ancient lullaby - or dirge, but you hope it is a lullaby. The haunting tones of a full choir by moonlight in an empty castle very soon, and quite understandably, sink you in [[unconsciousness.|Anise]]

Now you can see further than ever before, though now places are blotted out with the purest drifts of white vapor, on one of which you see the little dark speck of the old fisherman, still fishing. You feel a little sad for him, though he called you a "Vanity of vanities". The moon is not noticeably larger in the sky, yet it seems nearer, and the stars are like luminous grains of salt scattered in the path of a dark witch, to keep it counting them till the sun returns on its beat. Like a spider's parachute thread without a spider, you float still higher, till, slipping across the thinnest part of the air, you come to the [[rising of day.]]

The sun that pulls up the tides as nicely as the moon licks you off the upper atmosphere into the vacuum of space. Out here the sun looks a little more [[angry]] than it does on the other side of the blue. After some weeks, you wonder if you should even try to aim yourself for that little [[dark spot]] that seems too round for a sunspot.

The sun's horizons encircle you long before you are near the surface, so that you begin to feel as though you are falling into a vast hole. When you do reach the surface it is hard to tell what it is, it is so angry. The heat is intense enough to stand on, and gives very direct hints that the intensity goes on increasing into the depths. A solar prominence rises like a sun's son in the distance, though nowhere near the horizon. A female figure approaches. "Excellent, a visitor to [[paradise!]]"

After some months it is obviously Mercury, a helpful little circle, like a moon of the sun which is almost three times larger by now. The planet seems to say, "This way! I'll catch you!" and after several more weeks it seems that it will actually do it. But as you finally drop within the circle of its horizons, which have long before eclipsed the sun, you realize as you stick to the frozen ground that this hemisphere has never seen the sun, and probably never will unless something kicks it. There is still some light at least, star and planet light, reflecting rather weakly off the ice. Nothing else happens for so long that [[you fall asleep.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

You soon come to a place where you can look out into a stone chamber that is filled, almost up to the hole where you sit, with [[hot spaghetti.]] The warm color of the pasta and tomato sauce was the light you saw, and the smell is very sleepy and spicy. There are also meatballs, larger than you are. There are [[some notebook pages,]] pinned to the stone wall somehow. [[Bark.]]

You enter a winding, stone stair. Cool air comes from [[above,]] darkness comes from [[below.]]

You are a beaver, a fine beaver. [[Oh.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

You see they are recipes. [[Jordan Fry]] [[Lighthouse Cakes]] [[Blacksmith Cakes]] [[Erstwhile Platter]] [[American Soup]] [[Joseph Rolls]]

A dozen or so magpies come from somewhere you cannot see, and alight on the [[spaghetti.|hot spaghetti.]] They peck it, perhaps eating some herbs, or perhaps trying to stir it with their beaks. Satisfied, or disappointed, they fly away again, though there is no sky, only a stone roof. The [[papers|some notebook pages,]] are still on the wall somehow.

Fearlessly you jump in, and make for a good sized meat ball. A bread colored octopus rises like a krakan from below the noodles and drags the meat ball [[under,]] and you see it no more. You make for another meat ball, and succeed in biting it, only to be confronted by a tail. You take it, and pull out of the meat a jackrabbit covered in gravy, who spits in your eyes and says, [["Good morning."]]

It is the upper part of a round tower, the rest buried in the carob powder. You call out, asking if anyone is home. From the single window an aged lady looks out. "Please do not leave me. The dragon is gone because he preferred chocolate, but I cannot open the door or jump from this window. It is my belief that saving me has gone out of fashion, especially now that the dragon himself has gone to seek his fortune. If someone came who could wield a broom as well as the sword the door would soon be clear. My hair is quite long, but I have already been forced to cut away the greatest length of it to spin and weave new clothes. That is why you now see me clothed in plain white. I now have nothing to lower to you that you may [[climb up to me.]]"

As you make your way up, even before the light gets to be full, recognizable daylight, you start to find pictures on the walls, and hanging plates. Then there is [[dark red tapestry]] and carpeting with intricate, light patterns. At [[the top...]]

As you descend the darkness grows thicker, really thicker, as if it is turning to water, and making it harder for you to push your way down. Every now and then there is [[a rumble]] that quivers the rock.

Jordan Fry 1 Large Cabbage chopped 3 Medium Onions cut in rings 1/2 Cup Flour 1/4 Moths 2 Tbsp. Oregano 2 Tbsp. [[Peas]] 1 Tbsp. Cedar Wood Chips 1/4 Tsp. Salt 1/4 Tsp. Sand 1/4 Tsp. Larkspur 1/8 Tsp. Thyme 1/8 Tsp. Barley Fry in 1 Tbsp. oil, and eat with great deocrum and display, in due respect to the culture.

Lighthouse Cakes In a circular vessel mix the following: 7 Cups Glass Oil 4/5 Cup Chickpeas 1/2 Cup Soda 1 Tbsp. Gross Domestic Product 1 Tsp. [[Edelweiss]] 1 Tsp. Water 1 Tsp. Grain Form into six cakes. Bake in a cool kiln, and hold high above the head, to guide ships into port.

Lighthouse Cakes 3 Cups Salt 3 Globules Black Resin melted 1/3 Cup Raisins 1 Tsp. Clove Tea 1/2 Tbsp. Pine Charcoal 1/2 Tsp. [[Yeast]] 1/2 Tsp. Melaleuca Powder Shape into oval cakes, and serve on iron.

Erstwhile Platter Phinson's Relish Dried Beet Slivers Snowglobe Snow Chopped Echoes [[Rosemary]] Minced Lettuce Evening Salad Tossed Boat Leaves Rocket Coriander String Liquorice Crushed Potatoes with Hardly Sauce 1/2 Cup Canola Oil 1 Tbsp. White Bean Flour 1/2 Tbsp. Peanut Flour 1 Tsp. Paprika 1/2 Tsp. Onion Film 1/4 Tsp. Salt 1/8 Tsp. [[Smoked Cranberry Powder]] 1/19 Tsp. Tea Serve with pickled Spanish sausage and toasted baguette sliced lengthwise.

American Soup 5 Cups Liquid Water 2 Cups Canola Oil 1/4 Cup Drained Dwarves 2 Tbsp. Black Pepper 1 1/2 Tbsp. Ghee 3 Tsp. Baking Soda 2 1/2 Tsp. Stevia 1 2/3 Tsp. Granulated Salad 1 1/2 Tsp. Basil 1 1/2 Tsp. [[Anise]] 1 Tsp. Alphabet Place all ingredients in a stomach, and regurgitate as needed.

Joseph Rolls 2 Spherical Eggs 4 Cups Sifted Flour 1/2 Cup Beeswax 1/2 Cup Juniper Berries 1/4 Cup Fine Oak Sawdust 2 Tbsp. Rice Flour 1 Tbsp. Event Horizon 1/2 Tsp. Salt 1/2 Tsp. Bees 1/5 Tsp. Water Shape into balls using airguns, and garnish with dried water chestnut leaves, or [[coriander.|Lancelot]]

Lost in the spiralling labyrinth of a sunflower head you are, a galaxy of lesser seeds opening between every seed. You find [[a door]] in the side of one of the seeds.

You discover that one reason it may be more difficult to go down is that the stair is making it more difficult to go around it. It is starting to turn itself. The thunderous sound comes again, but does not die out. The stair turns faster, till you feel yourself driven to towards the wall. You hear another rumble, softer and looser, and growing louder. A sharp smell of soil reaches you, and you realize the stairway is being drilled into the earth. You gallop giddily up the stone steps. As slightly more and more light filters down, you see more and more clearly the [[grim flood of churning earth]] mounting the steps behind you.

The revolving stairs come to an end beneath the revolving light in the top of a lighthouse. Knowing that the rising ground will not wait, you leap and climb into the girders of the roof. You find a missing section in the roof, and climb out on top. There are several ravens here, placidly roosting, or strolling to and fro. You see the beam of the light dim and vanish as it swings through some light mists in the air. The rumbling ceases. You look down through the gap, and see that the lighthouse has filled with dark earth from deep underground. The ravens go down inside, and walk here and there on the loose soil. They find worms, of a translucent, milky color, the size of plums, rumpled as a pug's neck, spangled with sparse, horrent scales. The worms when found sedately allow themselves to be picked apart and pointedly discussed and swallowed. You wonder if it because they are dizzy. A nearby bird looks up at you, and sagely intones in a gravelly voice, "We draw the deep ones up." When they have all eaten, the ravens get up through the gap again with a great waving and clapping of wings, and fly away through the clouds crying, "We are wise now!" And you are left [[alone.]]

There is something large and round through the trees. Coming into a small clearing you find a hot air balloon, of the most antique fashion. The envelope and car are ornamented with large, extravagant images of the sun and moon and elephants smiling and dancing in frames and garlands of large, curling, white leaves, all on a background of vivid blue. The car is spacious and circular, with a great fire burning in the center. The vehicle is straining at its ropes. Tending it is [[a black monkey]] with long fur and tail, and white shoulders.

Since you clearly have no money, the monkey allows you to ride his balloon for free. The inside of the round car is floored with varnished wood slats. The monkey stokes the fire which sits on a sort of round pyre in the center. He releases the balloon, and you see tree branches passing downwards all around, and the streamers of flame pour and dance upwards into the envelope, as if trying to push upward the air inside. The balloon reaches its level, and begins [[to sail]] with the wind you felt earlier, only it is a little more insistant above the trees. The monkey fixes a woven wall beside the pyre to shield it from the wind. You look over the side, and the trees look like the tops of unruly boys' heads, with some glimpses of the shivering grass even further below. [[Scream.]]

"A man is to die soon and has a large fortune to give away. Two men arrive who each claim to be his eldest son, but the elder of the two men arrived several days later than he should have. Should the man leave his fortune to the man who was born first, or to the man who arrived first?" [[The man who came first.]] [[The man who came to be first.]] [[Do you know where I can go to watch the rain?]]

"You have given the correct answer, your fortune will arrive shortly." Almost immediately you hear a sound like distant thunder, growing quickly louder. By the time you see what it is in the not-so-far-reaching illumination of the light bulb it is [[too late.]]

"You have chosen the correct answer. Your fortune is [[on its way.]]"

The lightbulb flickers bright and dim, and you hear a roll of thunder over the phone, the sound distorted and scratchy in the old machine. You hear another, lighter rumbling in the distance, and the air begins to move past you faster and faster, growing cooler. The sound clarifies into that of water rushing along the wooden tunnels, and as soon as you see the glint of it you are carried away in a dancing, shooting hurry [[through the dark.]]

You catch a glimpse of swirling coins, rolling mounds of banknotes, crowns, candelabras, mahogany furniture, stretch limousines, private yachts, and several story mansions crashing and cascading through the narrow, wooden tunnel towards you. Then you are swept away in a wild race through the dark, little holes, with the occasional flash of a approaching light bulb that vanishes with startled tinkle when you and the opulent torrent that carries you reaches it. But at last a flash of light that does not go out, [[a flash of daylight.]]

You are floating in the cold air of a cave, watching your unruly inheritance pour in an astonishing cataract from the mouth of a heathen looking wooden statue. It is skillfully carved but not very decorative, and represents a bald man with pointed ears standing with one foot resting on a upside down orb. Its mouth is formed to look like it is blowing, but with the gold, silver, chrome, documents, stained glass windows, and Victorian architecture pouring from it, the statue looks somewhat sick. You settle down on top of the tremendous pile as the flow reduces to a dribble of jewelry and motorcycles. Then you hear a thunderous but silky voice echoing in the cave, "It is long overdue, but gratitude is in order nonetheless." You see a vast, wingless wyrm, like a cross of a giant, a weasel, and an alligator, come into view from another part of the cavern. It shakes hands with the statue - whose right shoulder is jointed for that purpose - and then the incomparable reptile begins to settle its voluminous coils onto your treasure. You do not mind so much except that it sits on you as well. It is not as dark as you would expect, there being a chandelier glowing somewhere in the cache beneath you, but it is intensely hot. You do not have a chance, as the giant is, according to custom, unlikely to move for any number of centuries. In this modern era, it is probable that it will be left undisturbed, perhaps even made into a tourist attraction. Eventually, you succumb to the heat and the boredom, [[and faint.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

You are swimming in a pitcher of water. Something flashes on the bottom, and you dive for it. It is a curved piece of glass. When you shift it, the light focuses and lights the water on fire. You flee to the surface and rise on the water's smoke, which is not at all like steam. It shuffles like papers, curls like petals, and makes varied shades of brown like burning paper. It smells like raw, oxidized potatoes. A hairy butterfly carries you away because [[you are a beetle.]]

A cave of boiling wax, both the walls [[and roof,]] and there is no floor, at least it is not visible, as the cave filled with the most fluid portion of the substance. The cave is lit with its own heat, and the glow emphasizes its translucency, highlighted by the bubbles that wander up and down and out of the walls to release a burst of yet more intense heat. Liquid as it is, the wax with which the cave is filled does not allow you to move at all. The heat radiating from all directions makes the surface shiver as if with sound, and makes the depth shiver like the distortions in the air above a fire. The heat coming from every side seems to pin you down, keeping you from changing [[your original position]] in the slightest.

Then down comes the candle flame, burning down the wick, like a house burning down, and you are picked up into it, and threaded into the dancing ribbon of beautiful smoke. But before you get clear, down on the flame comes the snuffer, big as a steeple, black as a tomb, and you are [[caught.]]

Every now and then some of the most liquid wax solidifies like a surfacing whale, or part of the wall slides away like a curtain falling, so that the cavity you remain in gradually changes shape. Then everything is poured away, and the boiling wax fills an ornate chalice, which is then raised to great, bearded lips, [[and drank.]]

All is black, like the backs of your eyelids. You open your eyes, and you are lying in heaps of cotton in a wooden box. You used to be a dragon's egg, now you are a dragonet. You kick your eggshell pieces with your whip like tail, and cry because you want pearl necklaces, thrones, and jacuzzis. A wooden man with pointed ears look in at you, and shrugs its shoulders - its shoulders are jointed for the purpose. You would fly in its face, only you are not the sort that has wings, so you climb in its face. Its mouth is nicely round, and you slide [[into it,]] as it rapidly and desperately shrugs its shoulders.

You climb like an inchworm up the side of the tower. You take apart the lady's spinning wheel and loom, and take the largest pieces of metal from them downstairs to the door. You scrap away the wood from behind where the hinges and bolt would be on the other side of the door. It is days of work, but of course the lady is patient. Once some of the backside of the hinges and bolt are exposed, it is comparatively easy, pounding from this side, to force them outward, prying them off the door. At long last the door can be worked inward, and taken out of the archway. At a touch the carob drains into the lower part of the tower, until daylight shows at the top of the door. The lady never minds covering her snow white robes with brown, crawling out to freedom. It is only then it occurs to you that you could have taken a piece of wood, climbed down from the window, and dug away the powder from outside the door with less trouble. The lady's name was Rachel Heartlet, and she makes you the chief butler in [[her mansion.]]

She lives on a vast plate of the finest china, under the dome of a bowl, of even finer china. On these is depicted here and there in warm colors idyllic scenes of rural life. The mansion itself is made of agates, moonstones, carnelians, and garnets, with mother of pearl doorknobs and taps. She owns pleasant gardens of holly and cotoneaster, and flocks of polite cats. Lighting the whole estate is a mighty gathering of fireflies in a paper lantern on the highest tower, giving out a pale and soft but bright gleam. As her chief butler you sleep in a faberge egg, and try to wear hats. One day, going round her border, you see a chip in the edge of the inverted bowl she lives under, and you hear some interesting sounds through the tiny, triangular gap. You poke yourself through [[a little ways.]]

[[...]]

Other than a few slight breaths of cool air out of the darkness that seem like accidents, and a few clicking sounds from the lightbulb, you have had nothing to keep you company for uncounted time. To pass the time, you start to call some numbers you had found scratched on the wall when you were first exploring the tunnels. [[777-2035]] [[969-3008]] [[603-8807]] [[000]]

"You have reached Miss Heartlet's residence, I am sorry but Miss Heartlet is not at home. Do not leave a message, as it would be absolutely useless, just listen to the tone." You listen to the tone, and try another number. [[679-5932]]

From the receiver comes in the tinny tones of the old phone the sound of a Latin choir singing a slow, haunting song, in an echoing chamber. The music overpowers you, and you drift [[into sleep.|Anise]]

All you hear is a droning sound, like a disconnection. You hang up the receiver, and hear someone speaking from your left: [["What is it that you wanted?"]]

You hear the sound of sizzling, and a black, crackling fluid wells out of the holes of the receiver, gathering in long, shaky drops like fingers of a greased toad, before it finally dropped and drizzled onto the wooden hump on which the telephone rested, and formed into a circular, bubbling stain. You can tell that the snaps and bursting of the bubbles are making voices, many voices in many conversations. You hear catches of them, "...let them..." "...the weight of which..." "...breath out..." "...duplicitous..." "...without..." "...hard to see..." "...welcome in..." "...overheard us..." "...by the hand of..." "...the times are upon..." "...away to..." All at once the boiling substance seems to slip from the wooden dome, and glides quickly [[out of the light.]] You try dialing some of the other numbers, but the phone seems to be disconnected now, and [[is silent]] as an undiscovered tomb.

You follow the speaking blackness into the blackness. You can tell where it goes by the slight hiss it makes, like a shrew giving a baby shrew a belly blow. You can tell that the black thing is moving fast, as if it is falling along the floor and around corners, and it slips far ahead of you whenever it crosses a patch of light, which you cannot move through as easily as through darkness. But at a certain opening, [[you hesitate.]]

You leave the useless telephone behind and continue through the tunnels. You come upon even longer tunnels, and though the walls could not be smoother, they are straighter and more regularly round then before. You come upon lightbulbs more frequently, though they are still all but out of sight of each other. There are less scratches on the walls. The air is warmer, but there are cold smells in it, like mildew and decomposition. At least there are no bats, but occasionally a paper airplane glides silently past in the gloom. Some of the tunnels seem like ramps, or you being followed by an unfriendly gravity that stealthily tries to hold you back. After a time there are fewer choices of ways, and you start finding corners rather than turns. Then you come to a tunnel so straight and long that though the lights are so far apart you can see many of them. The foreboding smell fills it like marrow in a bone. You cross each interval of darkness as easily as subtraction, but crossing the light patches one after another becomes tedious. At the end there is a sharp corner almost pointing back the way you came, and you see no more lights. It is on the same plane as the tunnel you left, but seems to slope [[steeply upwards.]]

The perceived slope comes to an abrupt end, though the tunnel is straight, without any change of angle. Here there is a light that is not even a tenth the brilliance of a lightbulb, and you cannot see where it comes from. It faintly illuminates two things. [[A bell pull, and a coffin.]]

It is a young man standing as if he had just stepped into the light. He wears a black dress coat, open to show a white shirt with many small buttons that seem to be made of pearl. He is clean shaven, but his hair is somewhat unkempt. You tell him, [["I want rain."]]

"I will see to it." the man replies. You can hardly hear his slippered footsteps as he turns and goes the way he came, vanishing like a shadow into shadow. You wonder what he meant by seeing to it, and whether [[he will return.]]

The room seems to be changing shape like an optical illusion, though it is too dark to see. You sense rather than see the form of a speaking mouth, speaking incessantly, and the sound of the voice is that of many millions of voices in many hundreds of languages, distant, and distant from each other. The dance of the speaking mouth lures you as a serpent lures a deer. Entering the Voice you are joined into a world of thoughts, overloading your mind instantly, as a string would vanish on the surface of Betelgeuse. Your cognizance attempts to smear over a universe, snapping out of recognition, and leaving you in [[complete unconsciousness.|Peas]]

The coffin is a heavy sarcophagus of dark, hard wood, and unlike the rest of the wood in this place, is polished till it glistens sleekly. The bell pull is simple, and [[you pull it.]]

You hear the doorbell ring deep inside the coffin. You pull again, and hear it ring again. But nothing stirs in response. You see that the tunnel goes on past the coffin. It occurs to you that you have not found any of the tunnels to come to an end anywhere. You edge your way hesitantly around the coffin, and start into the darkness on the far side. You feel someone looking at you from [[behind,]] but [[the darkness ahead]] seems the source of every foreboding you felt in your coming to this point.

You flee into the tunnel ahead, and can tell by how limitless your speed becomes that this is the deepest darkness you have vanished in. You have already passed beyond the greatest length you think could be contained within the wooden orb you entered, and you feel that this tunnel does not exist in the same reality as the rest of what you have seen. As you pass immeasureable distances you soon suspect that it is a bottomless pit, or endless tunnel; you do not know up from down, or whether such things exist any longer. You cannot tell if the walls of the tunnel are made of wood still or they are now made out of the darkness itself, existing only to mark your unimaginable rapidity, as quick as light leaves a room when the candle is snuffed. You do know, without seeing or hearing or feeling, that passing and surrounding you as you stream through the dark are grotesque beings of indescernible, wild shapes, and no good intent. Then you hear a distant voice call, as if echoing over a grassy pasture, "Stop!" And somehow [[you obey.]]

You turn back, if only to weigh your options. The coffin is open, and on the side sits a five year old, European boy, with his head shaved like an African, or like an Asian monk. He is holding his finger to his lips in sign to be quiet. He is dressed in a long sleeved, plaid shirt, leather waistcoat, boots, and chaps, with spurs on his heels, and a red handkerchief around his throat. [[He beckons]] with his finger.

In the dark around there are no longer any walls, or any evil, indistinct companions. Entirely undefined and separated from anything clear, yet now also separate from anything malicious, preserved in perfect safety, [[you deliver your thoughts to sleep.|look around.]]

He steps out of the darkness again, with his hand cupped. "There it is." He bends down and empties his hand onto the floor, making a little, dark puddle on the wood. Then he leaves again. The smell of the water tantalizes you, but though it may be rain water, it is not rain. You decide to try some other number. [[777-2035]] [[969-3008]] [[000]]

Unfortunately this man possesses a gizzard like an avalanche. You dance between the boulders like a seagull in a crowded asteroid field. You seem to be getting out of the thick of it, when you perceive a rising glow like an oven beyond the rolling rocks. As you feared, a pool of liquid fire awaits you. Thankfully you land on a mat of digesting salad, and leap to an unwell buffalo as the salad goes under. The bovine lasts a little longer, and you have time to choose between half a camper van or a rather wilted, floating flowerbed. Some pretty dicey moments later an iron tub comes alongside, piloted by a man like a train engineer, rowing with the fin of an airplane propeller. Without a word you spring from a sinking bag of concrete mix into the makeshift boat and help the man row between hugs. A leak springs up like an angry candle flame, and the man plugs it with a nail, hammering it in with a charred eggplant. When you reach the fleshy shore, the man drags his boat out of the fire, and ties the painter to something like a stray uvula. He points the way out: a round but [[ragged hole]] in the fleshy wall, sloping up with foot and hand holds dug in it.

You find something hard and metal, and curiosity overcomes you. You pull it out, and find that it is an antique spaghetti scoop. Yet a single noodle of this spaghetti is larger than it. A person wreathed in white, with gravy colored skin, rises from the spaghetti and clutches the scoop in his arms. He turns away and begins to return to the depths, but you bite his robe, and he drags you swiftly down and through many strange places, till the robe tears, and you find you are a dog with a mouthful of white stuff in [[a dark alley.]]

You are a jackrabbit trying to leap up to the hole in the stone chamber. You finally catch the edge with your teeth, and pull yourself into the passage. You race down it towards the light at the end, and it does indeed seem like you are racing down the side of a pit. The view from the end of the passage is of looking down on the tops of sunlit trees. You plunge into the top of the tree, and look up to see the stone passage in the air that you escaped from. But all you see is the eagle that had been trying to carry you to its eyrie. You try to climb down the tree, but as far as you can see through the branches the trees go down forever. After climbing for a long time (and jackrabbits are not supposed to climb very much at all) you find [[a hole in the side of the tree.]]

You are sliding down the inside of the hollow tree. The hole you came in through is out of sight, yet the inside of the tree is lit from below, and it is dark above you because you block this light. The light is warm, in color and in feel, and somewhat worrying, especially with the cloudlets of smoke that push rudely past yo uon their way up. At the height of your suspense the tree widens out and you have no hope of stopping yourself. You fall the rest of the way, and land astride a whole horse roasting on a spit above a fire as if it was a pig. You off before it rolls you off. A large person sets aside a chalice and wipes his bearded lips. He reaches for you, but you dart between the legs of him and his chair, and run blindly through the forest. Running blindly leads you through a hole into someone's basement, where a bear is thrashing around in a pile of cupboards. You run out again. But you must have run out through [[another hole.]]

You pad along until your reach a half door, and beyond it is light, the smells of wholesome foods, and sounds of merriment. You push on the door, but it is fastened on the other side. [[You spit]] the bit of white robe out of your mouth to bark.

Her face is nearly as white as her hair, and she wears a rustic, green petticoat, quite incongruous with her fine and queenly form and demeanor. You ask why it is paradise. "I am here! Do not be impertinent, or I shall cast you in a sunspot." She gives you tangram pieces, and several tangram pictures of herself to solve. Her conversation soon becomes [[impossible]] to follow.

[["Yes."]] [["No."]] [["..."|wake up]]

[["Yes."|1]] [["No."|1x]]

She spears you with an indignant glance. You are hurled into a sunspot, and the darkness [[closes around you.|"Good morning."]]

"Wake up!" she cries, and throws you in [[a sunspot.|Yeast]]

[["Yes."|2x]] [["No."|2]]

You are flying through the searing heat [[into the blackness of a sunspot.|Edelweiss]]

You glimpse the deathly flash of her white teeth, and you are flying into the deathly blackness of [[a sunspot.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

[["Yes."|3x]] [["No."|3]]

You are a small child cautiously exploring the cave of a butterfly, and you are frightened when you see a beetle hung on the wall. You hide in a hole in the rocks when the butterfly returns, but it finds you by smell and puts you on a high bookshelf to decorate it. You cry because you cannot get down, but soon fall to admiring the great snowglobe, and wonder if you could [[crawl underneath]] and get inside.

She shakes her head at you sadly, and throws you in [[a sunspot.|Smoked Cranberry Powder]]

[["Yes."|4]] [["No."|4x]]

You are a good, bald gentleman, and you hug your greatcoat closer against the blizzard. Fear not, a knitted cap tied on to keep your head warm. A grating in the sreet moves: something is coming out of it. A small boy comes out of it, and huddles by the curb, crying because of the cold. You take the child and hurry into [[the nearest building]] warm him up.

You are an embryonic wild boar, cowering in the grass for fear of the mower that is coming. You cannot find a hole to get into the ground. You find a hole in a hollow, green, grass stem, into which you climb, and curl in the bottom. The mower comes and whips off the top of the stem, and the swish of air sucks you up and out like a mouse out of an organ pipe. You land in a cup of warm water on a table. You suspect that someone is trying to poison someone else, because you see something on the bottom of the cup. You dive for it, and find that it is a bomb. You disarm the bomb, and in reward you are given [[a private yacht]] to sail in the warm water.

Once the child is happy, and a policeman is taking him home, you [[look around.]]

You seem to be in a garden, or a library. You are inside a large and perfect cube, from every part of which you see growing many vines like wooden conversations. Great trellises span the space from floor to ceiling, bearing many more vines. These vines are covered with blooms, in various stages of opening or closing, and these blooms are books, the pages arranged like petals, and the covers arranged like sepals. As you look in this blossom or that, you start to see things you recognize. [[Tiger Sphere]] [[Walking|around in circles.]] [[The Misstep|beneath you.]] [[The Golf Course|into the outside.]] [[Knock or not|the wall.]] [[Slipping away|the empty cup.]] [[Eyes|You wonder]] [[The Story|"Let me tell you a story."]] [[The Telephone|...]] [[000|000]] [[The Coffin|you pull it.]] [[The Solar System|rising of day.]] [[Yes or No|impossible]] [[The Balloon|a black monkey]] [[The Signpost|stuck into the ground.]] [[Books|where you are standing.]] It occurs to you that flowers open in the morning.

There is a leak in your private yacht, so you call a plumber to repair it. He installs a shower above it. You take a warm shower, and when a fish blocks the pipe you eat it for supper. You find a sunset, [[and sail into it.]]

Sunsets are hot and sticky, like a hungry octopus, and they make poor conversationalists. Once you find your way past it, there is a secret, floating city disturbed by your intrusion, and the inhabitants intend to keep you prisoner for fear of your betrayal. A procession of beautiful people yelling angrily carry you to [[their securest place.]]

Once they put you in, and their shouts have died away, you [[look around.]]

Every sound is muffled by the water, though not as much as it would have been if you had ears. The crisp washing sound of the water thooping along the wood sides of the tunnel makes a continuous background. Either the power is out, or you are being carried through unlighted parts. It is the speed of a subway train. Then you shoot out, quite unexpectedly, into a half daylight. Out of a knot hole high in a tree to be precise. It takes a long time to untangle yourself from a branch, particularly with a steady stream of water flooding over you. As if inconveniencing you was its sole purpose, the water ceases moments after you escape from under it. At least you do not soak up water, as you would if you were a string. As you look about you notice something unsettling, and look again. You see that a small owl is looking out of the darkness in the knot hole you and the water just flew out from. It opens its beak and makes a twittering sound. An elderly wind stirs the branches, and tosses some of the wet from the branch you rest on. While you are distracted, the owl descends upon you with a soft flapping, and takes you back inside [[the hole.]]

You hear a noise as if a flock of meanly cackling fowls were approaching the phone on the other end. Then a flock of black, flying creatures rush past you in the tunnel, and you realize that they only sounded like their noise was coming over the phone. Finally their foul laughter vanishes in the distance. [[708-3303]]

"What are you doing with my telephone?" the man on the other end asks. Surprised, you put the receiver down, and wander away from it [[nonchalantly.]]

You leave the light behind and continue through the tunnels. You come upon even longer tunnels, and though the walls could not be smoother, they are straighter and more regularly round then before. You come upon lightbulbs more frequently, though they are still all but out of sight of each other. There are less scratches on the walls. The air is warmer, but there are cold smells in it, like mildew and decomposition. At least there are no bats, but occasionally a paper airplane glides silently past in the gloom. Some of the tunnels seem like ramps, or you being followed by an unfriendly gravity that stealthily tries to hold you back. After a time there are fewer choices of ways, and you start finding corners rather than turns. Then you come to a tunnel so straight and long that though the lights are so far apart you can see many of them. The foreboding smell fills it like marrow in a bone. You cross each interval of darkness as easily as subtraction, but crossing the light patches one after another becomes tedious. At the end there is a sharp corner almost pointing back the way you came, and you see no more lights. It is on the same plane as the tunnel you left, but seems to slope [[steeply upwards.]]

The diminutive bird of prey takes you into a gourd shaped chamber half full of nest and eggs, and uses you to repair a less than perfectly secure patch of nestwork. Then it settles for a roost, and you fall as [[asleep|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]] as the eggs that share your circumstances.

As you run your fingers along the soft, richness of the textile, you feel something underneath. Taking your knife from your pocket you cut it away and uncover a door like a [[trapdoor]] in the wall.

...you come out in a grand dining hall, and all the majestic ladies and gentlemen at the long table stand up shouting and screaming at the sight of you, and throwing their food at you, since you are a bear. The ice cream and soup is first rate, the knives and candlesticks are tolerable, and someone even throws roast pork, but unfortunately he misses. A stew rains down, which would have been excellent if it was not boiling. You step on a broken bowl, which is uncomfortable. Then a fork alights all points foremost in your left eye. You cannot help rushing, or roaring. You slip on gravy, and plunge under the table. There you fall headlong [[down a long stair.]]

You adjust your suit and comb your beard, for you are sure that a great occasion waits on the far side of this door. You step through it with a spark in your brogues and a spring in your eye. It is a good thing that you still had the knife in your hand, or the red carpet might have turned a darker red. With flourish you drive the cloaked assassins from you, and chase them as they flee down a secret passage hidden between a wall and a ceiling. This is indeed a great occasion. You round them up as they flee across the countryside, tie them to sheep, and stampede the whole flock over a waterfall as a final touch. A barge comes leaping up the waterfall like a salmon, and drifts serenely upstream, filled with wet sheep and assassins. The boatman complains of the unwanted passengers, but consents to drop them off in the next whirlpool he meets. Lying back on the warm meadow by the river, a horse steps on your head, and complains of your thick skull. You [[run inside,]] crying.

You pick yourself up from the wreck, and rummage through the fallen cupboards you landed in, looking for an eye patch. You find a lot of garlic and marmalade and a fossilized crab, but when come across a chess board you forget about your original purpose, and sit down to play a game. You play one side, and put all the pieces on the other side to make it fair. You take out three of the rooks, send the knights running like rabbits, and reap a harvest of their pawns. But the bishops outrun you, and release the black king you hold hostage. Then the two queens checkmate you and they all carry you away to lock you up somewhere. You fold them up in a rug and lock them up instead, in a freezer you found. For good measure you roll the freezer into a closet and over the edge of a well. Once their muffled shouts and imprecations have faded in the abyss, you start to [[look around.]]

Sitting atop a lighthouse full of dirt, there is much to see but few places to go. The sky is mainly overcast, the crashing waves sounds only a murmur from this distance, and there is only the slightest wind. Nonetheless a yellow [[kite]] floats neatly in the air, within jumping distance.

A man is sitting on the hole of a large anthill, and the ants are asking him to move. He is an old fisherman in a robe and a beat up hat, and he does not hear them, whether because he is old, or because his hat is pulled over his ears. The ants bribe a lion to play taps on a trumpet at the man's head. The old fisherman falls asleep and rolls down the anthill, and falls [[through a trapdoor.]]

You are a caterpillar in an empty birdcage in a grassy field like an arena. Several birds assail the outside of the cage trying to get at you. You cannot see very far, but you think [[a bull]] is charging this way and that in the field as well.

You are a stork stepping cautiously across a mincemeat pie, hoping not to fall through the crust and add your own meat to the number. A fly stops to dip its head in one of the holes. Your goal is an apple on the far side of the pie: you hope there is a worm in it. Another party seems to have the same object. A knight in full armor rides along a loaf of bread crying in a stentorian bellow, "Show thyself fiendish worm and meet thy well deserved end!" When he reaches the end of the loaf he plunges into the pie. The worm puts its fiendish head out of the apple, breaths fire at the knight, and pulls its head back in. You hurry delicately to the knight, thinking he might have something to bequeath. All he gives you is a letter, which tastes rather bland, and his sword, which does not go down well. Last of all he gives you a key to [[the heart of a giant.]]

At a central place - at least it looks central, from its demeanor - you find a standalone wall, with eight pillars supporting a roof and a pediment, decorated with relief sculpture that no doubt used to be heroes and metaphors and histories, but at present represented stone mashed potatoes. In the shade of this structure sat a statue of moderate size but of mighty grandeur. You look in its face, and find that it has living, human eyes set in stone eyeholes under its stone brows in its stone face. They stare more fixedly than any full human could stare, yet there remains the inescapeable, minute tremor, a resonance of life. Incidentally, they are brown eyes. You would never have thought it at first, but after a time it grows on your mind that the [[left eye]] and the [[right eye]] seem to be of two different people.

It seems that the darkness in the center of the eye would receive you, but instead you seem to have entered the reflection in the eye, for you find yourself where you were before, but facing the opposite direction, away from the statue. But now, though nothing appears to be changed, it seems less blank. Then you realize this is because there are sounds now, whereas before there had been an impenetrable silence seemingly over all the world. Now it seems that life has returned to all the world except this one place. The noises are distant and confused, like those of a small city. Eventually some individual confused murmurs separate and come nearer. Then people begin to come in sight from time to time. A family, speaking Arabic, a couple apparently on honeymoon, and a man with a spanking good moustache, who comes closer than the others, and raises his eyebrows at you. A few others come wandering through, and you start to lose interest. Then a young man comes and sets up a large camera on a large tripod. His shirt has horizontal bands of blue and white, and his hair is ruffled. He takes pictures of you and the statue. Then he considers you. "This must be the spirit of the ages, or some such." He puts you in [[his pocket,]] and, peeking out, you see him nod amicably to the statue.

It seems that the darkness in the center of the eye would receive you, but instead you seem to have entered the reflection in the eye, for you find yourself where you were before, but facing the opposite direction, away from the statue. But now it is evening, and many people in fair garments are gathered at tables there. The changed shadows, and the light of lamps and braziers, hides for a few moments another difference: the stonework is now in good repair, though it still looks old and worn. It is refreshing to see and smell the living people, the rich food, and the green plants growing from pots and over trellises and arbors. It is pleasant to see the joyful, beautiful faces of the men, the radient, lovely faces of the women, as they sit laughing at the tables, stride from friend to friend, or stand conversing by a pillar in the light of a tremulous fire. You venture forward, to see if the relief carving in the tympanum above the statue is of a more defined shape, when you are distracted by a more general but subdued stir among the humans. You see a man preparing to play on a gleaming [[harp.]]

The poet brings forth enchantingly sweet sounds, then threads in his voice among them, singing a slow, storied song of loves. The people sit solemnly, leaning forward and on each other. The majestic tenderness of the music falling like keen snow, mingling with the purfumed smoke of the somber fires, works on your senses strongly, and [[you fall asleep|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

The darkness in his pocket makes you uncomfortable, so you are glad when he gets to his hotel room and takes you out. He slips you in a plastic cover in his scrapbook, which he closes and leaves on his bed. It is dark again, but not so dark, since some light gets in the side, reflecting along the plastic. And there are some smells from the other things in the book with you, like flattened tea boxes, flattened coins, leaves, an eyebrow shaved from an ascetic, a foreign banknote, a thumbprint. They keep you company, and start to make you feel rather [[sleepy.]]

[[You sleep.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

There is a turn to a level run, but you do not find the ball, then there is another turn, straight down, and it has not yet become any wider than at the mouth. It goes on like a pipe. You tend to underestimate distances since you move so quickly in the dark. You are not sure that you have not gone down more than a mile, when the hole begins to get hot. You hope the ball can survive heat. The hole deteriorated from a kind of pipe to a winding fissure in rock. In the end you find yourself in a vertical crack, and come to molton stone glowing sullenly in the gloom, filling the lower part of the crack, so that you cannot go further. A rather elaborate golf hazard. No doubt the ball is incinerated. Then you see a spot silhouetted against the grim illumination. Looking closely you see it is the golf ball, floating like a swan on the magma. You take the ball, and begin [[finding your way]] back up.

Darkness is irksome to you, as you do not exactly exist in darkness. But you can move more easily through it. Darkness is the opposite of rain, rain is the opposite of darkness. [[Oh.|quite good at golf,]]

You realize you have been going up the fissure further than the pipe came down. You try to find it in the dark, but you get to less and less familiar places. The golf ball cannot move as fast in the dark as you, and the dark makes it hard for you to hold it at all. Finally you only thought is to get up again. Then, you see moonlight seeping through a crack above you. You thrill with relief, then you almost lose patience, realizing you can only slip through the crack if you leave the golf ball behind. It seems in your wandering you are forced down even further down than where you found the ball. But unexpectedly you find an opening, and you emerge through a gap between the curb and the street in a moonlit neighborhood. You fold an envelope from a piece of more or less intact packing paper, borrow a pen from one of the houses, and mail the golf ball to the tree in the golf course where you found it. You leave your pack tucked in a mailbox. Going back to return the pen to the desk you got it from, you somehow trip on a cradle, fall in, and go [[to sleep.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

You are in a narrow, apparently endless passage made of wood boards, and all along it are fine and detailed portraits, of rich, antique mode, but framed simply. One and all they are portraits of men and women dressed out in lace and velvet, but without any plumes or extravagant gems as you would have preferred, and they are all frowning hard down on you. You notice a kind of metal catch under the frame of a painting, and, releasing it, you discover that the painting swings away from the wall, revealing an opening to another world. You find the catch underneath every painting you come to, they are all doors to many, wonderful worlds. But you do not see any diamond rings or hot tubs, so you do not care. Then, as you slam a painting on the sight of a luxurious, utopian garden, a bald man with a hooked nose steps out of the painting behind you, takes you by the nape of your neck, and carries you down the passage as you squirm, flail, and whip your tail. He opens a painting of a newborn baby frowning more vigorously and effectively than all the rest. The man with the hooked nose [[throws you viciously]] inside and carefully shuts the painting after you.

The kite crashes to the ground, and you wonder what else you thought would happen. You broke at least one leg jumping like that, and your tail seems flatter than before. The owner of the kite is a black monkey with a long tail and white shoulders, and he is not pleased. He scolds you furiously, in Arabic, for a full minute. Then he sighs at his fallen kite, and begins to take pity on you. He makes you a splint out of the rods and string from the kite, then takes some coins from a pocket in his fur, and pays himself for his kite. He gives you a simian smile, and scurries off through the grass to find something else to fly. You start to leave also, when a circular portion of the field levers up, and a cluster of thick, dark, spider legs darts out like a black, hairy, giant's hand, and drags you [[inside.]]

As you feared the crash comes: the cage is kicked by thunderous hooves and springs open. A yellow bird darts in and seizes you, carrying you high in the air, and the wind makes you cold though the bird's tongue and breath is warm. It takes you to its birdhouse, and ties you to a hook with some ribbon. It hangs you on its Christmas tree. You become a chrysalis, and on Epiphany you emerge as [[a butterfly.]]

You are a painter at your easel painting a landscape, and a butterfly flies into it, but does not hold still to be painted. You run after it with your canvas and brushes and paints, until it flies through a door and comes to rest. Once you have painted it into your landscape, you wonder where the rest of the landscape is now, and start to [[look around.]]

She looks indignant, and brings her down on top of you, but this matters little as your top is not so clearly defined. She looks away trying to hide a sort of smile. Then she shrugs, tells you that you are sweet, and gives you a red rose that beats like a heart. You take it, happy for a distraction from the tangrams of herself sitting, standing, kneeling, smiling, frowning, and so on. The petals are vibrant like crimson velvet, and each time they contract in their beating, the scent of the blossom swells heavily in the heat that takes the place of air here on the sun. You hold it close and smell deeply, and the voluptuous, living fragrance filling you puts you in [[transports of joy.]]

She laughs merrily, and throws you in [[a sunspot.|Lancelot]]

You find yourself in a tiny castle made of golden glass. The reflections of your own, twisty shape makes you dizzy as you move. You find a rich mattress, white as wool, glistening with embroidery. The moment you let yourself down on it, the softness sends you to [[sleep.|look around.]]

The trapdoor spider gives you a tour of his marvelous underground mansion and his series of specialty silk furniture. He keeps everything spotless and in order, every strand and doorknob is polished till glistening. He eagerly expounds the history of the regal architecture, and treats you to a sumptuous meal of roast lamb and cranberry fritters. Once the repast is thoroughly enjoyed, he leads you to his auspicious library, and instructs you to [[look around.]]

Once you stop crying and whining, you begin to [[look around.]]

Once you stop crying, and the blinding pain diminishes, you start to [[look around.]]

The hole comes up in a forest. There is a massive voice speaking the distance that makes the ground tremor. A few ravens come flying up out of the hole, shaking their heads and cawing somewhat nauseously, and they disappear among the branches. You wander trying to find a way away from the groundshaking voice, but it seems like a collossal ventriloquist, or the voice actually is coming from everywhere. Notwithstanding you find a hunter's cabin, and go inside at least to block out part of the sound. A lion is curled by a fire on the floor. It wakes and looks up as you are trying to find something to eat. Being inside a stomach has given you some thoughts of your own. The lion addresses you, "There is an owl, some chesspieces, and a garden snake in the cooler; help yourself." You make a satisfactory supper on the above mentioned items, but what you really have an eye on is a brick in the unused fireplace with claw snicks on it. When the lion is asleep again you press it, and the fireplace opens into [[a secret room.]] It is little wonder the fire was made on the floor.

Once inside you dust the ash from your hands and [[look around.]]

You discover the giant's heart as some sympathizers are smuggling it out of the country in a laundry basket, and unlock it. It reveals a square, wooden chute, down which [[you plunge.]]

Once you land and straighten your feathers, you have a [[look around.]]

You are a dog in the cabin of a boat during a storm. You whine and beg your masters to let you see the map, but they only patronize you. You see a hidden door less than knee high to a master open in the wood of the wall, and a human no larger than a cat dressed all in black peers out, beckoning towards another corner of the cabin. You bark, but the masters think you are barking at the storm, even though you were not barking before. Another black figure like the first one runs from a shadow in the corner and joins the figure at the door. You charge, and get through [[the door]] before they close it.

Hundreds of small, sinewy hands tie wire around your mouth, and push you into a lead capsule, which they drop out of a secret hatch in the side of the ship. At the bottom you are about to suffocate when you feel a slippery hand pull you out of the capsule by the tail, and dip your face into some air. Then the hand unwinds the wire. The person is carrying air in a bowl, and carrying you under the other arm. He takes you for a long walk to a hole in the rocks that is full of air, and takes you inside. There are others here, and burning lights also. The people are dressed finely and their clothes are in good repair, but are very draggled and muddy, and no one seems to notice. They decide to put you in their [[celler]] to catch the mice.

You shake the water out of your fur, and [[look around.]]

Once you quiet your heart a bit, you put up your ears again, and [[look around.]]

Once you pick the old man up and give him back his fishing rod, you take a [[look around.]]

The sounds are those of a busy workshop, but all you see is some green carpet on which is gathered a collection of animals like an ensemble from a child's picture of Noah's ark. They are all pointing at the hole you are in, like metal shavings toward a magnet's pole. They tell you they want to come in. When you tell them to leave, and start to go back, the elephant eats you. You hate being in the dark, because you do not fully exist in the dark, and because it is not rain. But it keeps you from being digested. The slow, profound throb of the pachydermous heart counts you down [[into sleep.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

A serene and uneventful passage of time, and the trees below dwindle to fair and spotless fields of waving grass, and a city comes in view. Later, the balloon drifts casually over the snow white domes and spires, framed and accented in immaculate gold. As the balloon slowly passes one of the greater palaces, you hear a song, and spy a woman who sits singing on a balcony with a lute, and a man standing behind her playing on a pipe. The harmony and warmth of the melody, the soft, level glide of the balloon, the dreamy landscape of the clean, clear rooftops and towers, and the smile in the eyes of the singer and her companion, settle you into contentment, which is the softest bed, and [[slumber|Rosemary]] claims your mind.

The monkey is not at first sure where the unearthly noise came from, and darts glances up and around. From below in the trees come several hawks carrying canisters of liquid nitrogen, and they fly up inside the envelope. You are not sure what they do, but the airship quickly becomes a cold air balloon, and descends towards the trees. The monkey is in a rage, and expostulates fiercely in Arabic at the birds. The car strikes a tree and overturns. In the confusion as you fall you see several branches catch fire, and the hawks hurrying towards them with a hose, and the monkey swinging away through the trees. You land in a life net tied between several trees, and the hawks gather around you, giving you an ice pack, kissing you with their beaks, and cuddling you in their wings, until [[you lose consciousness.|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]]

Immediately you are a wolf standing on a red, circular stage in a street circus, surrounded by brightly colored crowds. You look desperately for the piece of robe you dropped, but cannot see it. There are so many bits of cloth of so many colors, and so many of them are white. A man in a long moustache and wild clothing approaches you across the stage. "Now attend to me sir. Give your hand friend, let us dance. You know you know how. Come man, they are all waiting!" You glimpse the torn fragment of pale robe folded in someone's vest pocket, and you leap from the stage on top of the man. Shrieks erupt like a geyser, and people are rushing toward you, but mostly away from you, as you frantically roll the heavy man over and clench your fangs on [[the bit of robe.]]

You are chained, wearing an armored harness, and you feel a pulsing force in your hardened flesh and churning blood. You are pretty sure you are still a dog, but from the crash of metal and roar of horses and men thundering all around you, you begin to think you might be a particularly unpleasant sort of dog. You are convinced of it, when someone slips your chain and shouts, "Now up and destroy, son and father of death, make a slaughter for the night to howl at!" You rage forward with the rest of your kind, galloping paws and gleaming eyes, and foam flies from your thirsting teeth. Thankfully when you open your baleful jaws wide to tear, [[the bit of robe|again]] falls out again.

You shake your head and blink away that last bit, and, nervous about where you might be now, you take an apprehensive [[look around.]]

<h3> Locus of Acuity</h3> **W**hen it becomes necessary to take into account the wheeling fortunes taken in years past by our finicking compatriots across the bench (not to say over the wall), I find it enlightening to remember the adroit handling of the angulation by one of the most capable of our predecessors: Bon Hammonis. I do not apologize for taking up this name, as some would expect who are less forgiving of the use of cant and personal metaphors. I hope they will find themselves able to renounce, at least for the time being, the peripheral differences imposed merely by purity of school individuality, and give ear to the key thread this master has laid at our disposal. As threads are, it is, of course, created through the twining together of lesser fibers, which, though weakened in being unwound and dealt with individually, I will dare to do this with the aim of winding them together more tightly. The thread as a whole is commonly referred to as the waking of material idealates, which I prefer to call breaking ins. The agents of these angulations I will address in my present discursion will not be divided after the usual manner, and not even in the same manner as I have seen the admirable Bon sometimes categorize them. It is not my method of sorting that I would suggest, I merely use it as a means of suggesting what I do suggest: that Bon's example should be more thoroughly integrated in our present systems. I will proceed with my first example of the aspects of Hammonis' procedure. <h5> The Inward Height</h5> This is perhaps the one aspect that requires the most brute force to accept, which is why I have placed it foremost, between the eyes as it were. I take it that my colleagues and also the uninitiated will agree that it is indispensible to many common lines of perantulation, which You turn over [[a crisp but dusty page]] without quite realizing it.

You pry one out, and find that it is the journal of a veterinarian.

The cat fills the tub with perfectly warm water, puts in lavender and thyme scented bubble bath mix, and uses a whisk to swish up the bubbles. It is very cool and obliging and debonair; you are very impressed by its courtesy. The bath is very relaxing, and you can hear the minutes tick by on a clock in some other part of the house. Then the cat reappears, and you are about to ask if it is time for you to get out of the bath, when the cat pins you under the water with a flyswatter. You do not actually have lungs to drown with, but to please the cat in return for a nice bath, you struggle a bit, and pretend to die. But it is so warm under the water, and the bubbles dance above you in the dim light, and the cat is so determined to make sure you are dead, that you [[fall asleep|Roll yourself in a fold of the savage hides, and sleep.]] waiting.

instead of grounding its importance in the central processes of angulation, seems to have built up an ironclad wall against its further involvement. Bon Hammonis seems lonely in his good uses of it, which are very good indeed when taken in conjunction with the other agents of his working, especially running turns, but more on this later. The basics of the inward height are that the levels of every matrix, whether formed by novice or an acme, develop parallel to the planes of an image. These gravitate (or perhaps the opposite of this word) to the central plane within the arms according to the severity of the incline, and this central plane takes by tradition the dominant posture, thus, the "height". This is so simple and easy to know that people have built up a resistance to its presence in the advanced circles, as if thinking that something cannot be both simple and complex[[... . . . .|Lancelot]]

This page is missing, and it was one of your favourites. [[Disappointedly|where you are standing.]] you set the book aside.

You take the candle and follow the rosy, brain colored worm as it reaches and dribbles along the dusty floor of the mine for hours, till you come to some large object blocking the path. It is bulky, and armored in heavy sections of gray leather. You go here and there, passing the light of the candle over it, and find more and more of it. Then you find a horn, and an ear, and conclude that it is a rhinoceros. You hear the low, pipey voice of the worm behind you, "It may know where rain is. Go inside and see." You set the candle down on a broad, flat space between the beast's ears, and filter into its mind. On the way in you sense keenly the massiveness and formidibility of the creature as the creature sees it, and after long aimlessness and vulnerability, you seek peace in [[the dreams of a sleeping rhinoceros.|Lancelot]]

This book seemed possibly more significant, at least in some small way. You pick it up; the dust clings to the cover and is slippery. The binding grunts when you open the book. <h3> The Whale of Bricken </h3> <h5> By Maideth Owen </h5> <h5> Chapter 1 </h5> <h4> The Aunts </h4> **A**s the planets gathered around the sun like waywards around a campfire, one small plot on earth seemd left out. As the sun bent its accustomed path to warm the home of men, the marsh of Avis lay cold under its most savoury beam. The salt filmed leaves of the native grass bowed in harsh comment on the light touch of air scented with the insence of the nearby sea. The dimpled undulations in the grass formed from the uneven ground below, mingled harmoniously or disharmoniously with alike waves formed from the movements of wind or breeze; these forms, one from the force of solidity, the other from the force of fluidity, twinned each other like an ironic rhyme. The smell of sea and smell of marsh casually traded places in the air, both so deeply ancient it was hard to tell whether they were the closest of friends or the profoundest of enemies. The simple thoughts of the unseen insect and rodent seemed to color the stems, which hid them if they took care, and anounced them if they were clumsy. The sun here did not seem a distant friend but a nearby stranger, moving slowly through the marsh's sky just as the worms moved slowly through the marsh's mire. The heavens here did not seem another region but no more than a medium to carry the sounds of rustling grass and the muffled washing of water on the shore. The whole breadth of the marsh was empty of any craft of the finger of man[[.]] ...you [[begin to notice|where you are standing.]] yourself being drawn vividly into the setting, and wonder if that would be dangerous, considering the nature of your being.

<img src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8a/Rain-Lock.jpg"> To exist, to become what you were meant to be, is to remember. *You remember him, little Gri Leven, the black curls of his head, his determined lips, and his gentle eyes. He was like no other, he was. He needed nothing, he was needed, the universe needed little Gri in it.* *So many things you have forgotten; it is a comfort that so long as you remember rain, you will remember little Gri Leven.* <h1>. . .</h1>

You look around for the book, but, as the book said, the marsh is empty of any craft of the finger of man. Which is disappointing, since you will never know any more of the story. Though there is little of you to smear with mud, you move carefully as you push through the rough plants. The bleak colors that surround you suggest that if you ate the marsh it would taste bland, though in reality it would no doubt be a good deal more salty than necessary. The stinging cold of the air seems to harden the horizon into an uninteresting band as unreachable as a colorless rainbow. In the distance you can see a large, dark [[lump.]]

You see that just outside the edge of the marsh rests some craft of the finger of man. It is a profoundly large and thick armchair of dark blue, and in it sits a man in a sable cloak. His beard is thin and dark as his brows, and his nostrils appear large enough for a mole to wear as a shoe. He is fishing in the marsh. He waits without a sign, but not apparently without impatience. His hook is taken, and after a struggle much hampered by the high grass - though it is unclear whether the grass is a greater hindrance to the fisher or his prey - the man drags a water rat into view, and taking it off the hook he holds it by the back of the neck, admiring it with severe satisfaction. He places it in a basket, already populated with an assortment of creatures you cannot see, and closes the basket with metal clasps. He stands and contemplates, then decides with a conclusive nod. "I have now a sufficient audience." He casts aside his rod, seats himself regally in his armchair, and takes a book from within his cloak. It is not the book you hope for, the Whale of Bricken, but a book apparently authored by the man in the armchair. [[He begins to read it aloud.]]

<h3>Candles by Lancelight</h3> <h5>By Coris Evenworth</h5> <h5>1</h5> <h5>Backhanded</h5> *Whither? I only know that he was bent on dying. So all who draw the sword among the bullets flying.* *-Lecarre, The Spindle and the Spear.* I kept my eye on a man trimmed in ermine, for though his aspect was a one that would cow death itself, he seemed straining under a nervous tension: it hung behind his eyes. The lamplight that aided the overcast daylight from the windows glinted from his forehead with the same sheen that glimmered from his plate and glass. But there was little to further justify my attention to him, and in conversation with another guest I lost sight of him. I did not find him again, though I looked. Some minutes later, as I passed a curtained door on my way from the hall to the tea room, I heard a voice from the room beyond the curtain which, though I understood none of the words, had the note of a deadly important interchange. I slightly parted the curtains, and saw the man who had spoken, a man that I knew, standing face to face with the man trimmed in ermine. The man I knew was one Dr. Innescourth, a man who had been at war and sea, and was quietly well known among loving companions. The man I did not know was very quiet, and seemed coaxing in his gestures. Then came the words that nailed me to my place, spoken levelly and with indignant gravity by Dr. Innescourth: "I really would prefer death to such a course." The stranger held a finger to his lips, then showed his interlocutor a small picture of which I could only see the back. But the doctor gave me the clue when he spoke his daughter's name: "Corinthia." The stranger nodded and withdrew the picture. As Innescourth bowed his head, clenching his hands, the stranger turned to leave, and his eyes lighted on me before I could slip from view. I stepped smoothly towards my original destination, though my The reader [[turns over a page.]] The basket is very quiet.

heart beat quick and harsh. Soon I was lifting a cup of tea to my lips, but even as the warm, savoury, sweet smell entered my nostrils and began to clear my thoughts, they were clouded all over again by a furtive but heavy tap on my shoulder. I turned slowly, knowing I would see the man in ermine. He smiled to me imperiously, but with a tightness of the mouth that no one but I would have noticed at that moment. He leaned forward slightly, inquiring, "I believe I know you?" His left hand was held close to his stomach, the fringes of his mantle swinging forward hid it from any view except mine, and he seemed to flex and extend his fingers slowly but pointedly, no doubt to draw my attention to them. When it was evident to him that I took note of this movement, there appeared between his fingers as by some slight of hand a single, severed claw belonging to a chicken's foot. It was clearly a token of some fraternity, a sign to which I had no countersign. I decided not to pretend knowledge, as I would fail, and seem less dangerous to him. Instead, I leaned forward slightly myself, and whispered with my own smile, "Just put me on your blacklist, Mr..." "Rillchurch." I nodded, and watched him over the rim of my cup, continuing my interrupted refreshment. His eyelids dropped one fifth lower, and some of the tension seemed to go out of him. He turned The reader turns [[another page.]]

and left the tea room, giving the doctor, who was just entering, a brief grasp of the shoulder as he passed him. The doctor only half turned his face toward Rillchurch, and I could see a dull gleam in his eyes. I set my cup on the table behind me, and walked to meet the doctor, but also to follow Rillchurch using my friend's body as a blind. I clasped hands with the doctor, and murmured: "Please to inform me if I may be of any service to you." His face did not change, but he gave me a second grip of the hand. As I stepped through the door I saw Rillchurch preparing to leave, and I prepared to leave after him. Since he knew my interest in him already, I was not overcareful to conceal my intentions. I stepped out of the door moments after him, so that he was still in sight. But I had not walked more than a few paces when he stopped and spoke: "You seem to misunderstand." He faced me, and I stood still. He waited a moment, and continued abruptly: "You do not realize the extent of my immunity. I am able, without danger to myself, to cut you down here and now." He drew a long, black pistol from within his clothes, [[and]]

levels it at you. Thin as you are, you doubt he could miss a hairsbreadth at a far greater distance. But in a moment of looking, you see that he holds out an escape to you unknown to himself. You slither into the darkness within the barrel of his gun. You hate darkness, it is the opposite of rain. But you do not fully exist in darkness, and thus you easily fit entirely inside the gun barrel, and there you do not have the being to catch a bullet. The trigger fully depresses and the gun fires just as you twitch your other end past the rim. The bullet passes you hurriedly in the dark, and the flaming lunge behind it flushes you obligingly out of the blackness and into the light again. Thankfully you are not flammable. Rillchurch looks down at you smugly and blankly, like an actor trying to remember his line. Then he saunters away down the street and you see him no more. You have a sense of a story that was meant to go on, but is not. As you become used to this feeling of suspended action, another feeling grows on you: a feeling that something is going to happen soon, the immenent crisis of another story that is coming to an end. Yet there is nothing in that grey street, or the few, ordinary passersby that would give any sign of what that crisis could be. You hear a sound and look across the street. There is somthing there, small, and flat, but it was not there before. You [[cross the street]] to see what it is.

It is a circular stain of water darkening a spot on the granite flag. As you begin to realize the meaning of it you see another appear with a tiny pat not far off, then two others. Then all around, till each of them is crowned as they touch the ground with twinkling rings, water falls from the grey sky in innumerable drops. With the smell cool as autumn and bright as spring, and the sound like the profound peace of sleep and the abounding joy of waking, and the touch like the incarnate thrill of every song with a claim to glory or tenderness, it rains. And the rain puts [[an end]] to the darkness.

Double-click this passage to edit it.