From: kjc@aramis.rutgers.edu (Kelly J. Cooper) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [MG] A silence more eloquent Keywords: Words are too solid Message-ID: Date: 2 Jun 93 03:53:26 GMT [Admin: 2 of 3 in quick succession] "Am I really over-analyzing?" -Regis M. Donovan Jameson wove her bicycle through the crowds, wobbling occasionally along the cobblestones, and eventually making it to the Dragon's Inn. There she dismounted and stood indecisive for a moment, before wheeling the bike over to the open door of the stable and signalling a young groom. He ambled over, looking curiously at Jameson and more curiously at her mode of transport. Jameson smiled at him. "Do you have someplace I can lock this? A small stall?" He looked at her speculatively then turned on his heel and walked into the stable, trailing a wave for her to follow. Jameson wheeled herself into the dim light behind him as he walked into a quiet corner of the little place and indicated a pair of iron loops set in the wall. Jameson tugged on each of them; satisfied, she then removed the chain from her bag and wrapped it through the front wheel, frame and one of the loops, and linked it. She scooped up her bag, tipped the boy, reassuring him the bike didn't need feeding, and left to enter the Inn. Within, the chatter seemed to involve a celebration beginning that night, sponsored by Melwis the Wise. Founder's Day? A birthday of sorts. Nodding quietly to herself, Jameson checked with Mary Littlefair, inquiring after mail or messages. Receiving none, she thanked the woman and left the Inn again. Outside, she paused, letting thoughts well up for a moment before catching them with a deep breath. She was feeling on the near side of odd, full of nervous energy. Looking about at the busy crowds, she randomly picked a direction to walk and began doing the only thing that eased her tensions -- exploring all over again this city in the midst of rebuilding. She investigated gutted frames and rebuilds. Some of the new work had obviously been done by craftsmen. The rest was slapdash and held an air of desperation for any sort of cover. Flimsy protection, but it certainly seemed to help the mind shore up defenses. Few streets had been totally re-arranged, especially in the merchant and residential districts. It was difficult to build on the cobblestones. But a number of shacks, little shanty towns, had randomly caused massive re-arrangement in the poorer sections of town, especially where much of the pavement had been stolen for building. Low town never so resembled a maze before the storm. As she kicked through the dust, she suddenly stopped, not necessarily conscious that her toes were on the line of the 'buff, but aware enough that this was not a direction to take today that she turned and wended her way west. As she walked, she thought. About new -- should she call them friends? For some, it took much more bonding than they had had. Others would be offended. She shrugged to herself. Friends. Kardia, tall but not at all imposing. In fact, quite shy with moments of delight shining through the timidity. 'Raelf, ultra-casual but bizarrely intense. Ar'Elya, calm and somewhat distant, but warm. Nescie. Nescie who was so smart, deft at handling complicated problems, but it seemed, so easily baffled but anything complicated in his life. Grumbli, rough and rude to keep himself safe. She liked them. Thinking back farther, she remembered the Lnya scout, Mother Tree, the Slen. She thought briefly about Mazn and flinched mentally before moving on. Hundreds of worlds, hundreds of people. Always a warrior-friend, for peace or battle. Always a fool who saw truth too deeply. Always a leader with kind eyes. Always a dreamer, seeking knowledge. Archetypes, but each so individual, so unique despite the similarities they shared that she remember each clearly, despite time's passage. Time. She remembered Cail's birth and the joy of his clan. Then the signation of the grol-Re, and her own pride. She remembered Elders living and long gone. Even memories of her own apprenticeship surfaced briefly. Images came unbidden to mind. Sunsets, moonrises, mountains, valleys. Flowing water, swirling ichor, oozing acht. Animalia, races of beings, artificial intelligences. Philosophies! Thoughts on present trends, discussions of history and possibilities for the future, considerations of death, birth, soul, conscious thought, reasons for existing, origins, particles of matter, measurable reality, deities, fate, predetermination versus free will, everything and anything. She sometimes wondered if knowing who had created her, and how and why, helped with her peace of mind. She had not been created for a specific purpose -- Mother was curious to see if she could modify the forms and she had an urge to create. All of her notes, equations and biological configurations had been available to Jameson. But what of chance? Or higher purpose? Could something have been guiding her Mother's process of creation? One could look at numbers on a screen, but did one ever really know the source of intelligence and conscious thought? Or is this desire for a reason just part of the ego-need that seems present in all conscious beings? Absently, Jameson's mind noted and logged scale representations of the rearranged geography for mapping updates. Her thoughts continued to wonder ... Do I love? Can I fall in love? Will I know when this happens? I believe I have loved, but am I different? If I can control my hormonal responses and grasp my attractions, can I actively choose to be in a state of loving? Could it possibly be that binary? Or will it more closely resemble a reality storm, where I must bow to forces greater than my mind's? Am I really so much different from others? From humans? All the humans I know have pain. Some is stored, some is hidden, some is caught in a constant state of re-enactment, some is used as a weapon against agression. Much is denied. As I deny. But I accept that I deny, and allow my mind to sort and heal until it eventually chooses to deal. Does this nullify the denial? Jameson paused. She was at the head of the Arcade of Fountains. The dancing water laughed at her circular thinking and constant questions. <> they said softly to her. She moved forward, not noticing where she stepped. <>stagnation<< but there is life Life>> The sound of water was gone for Jameson. It resolved to this, which was speaking, but not words. If language were liquid... <> Jameson didn't consciously register she was standing in the first fountain's water, head cocked to one side as she listened intently. <>direction<< but do not change that we flow Walls stop flow Make notflow But cannot stop flow It is always It is flow You flow >>whirlpool<< pond ocean stream You change But you flow>> The language of water was not one that Jameson thought she knew. And as she stood there, continuing to listen, all she heard was the sound of water rushing. Flowing. Perhaps laughing at her. She wondered if the magic in the fountains made them more understandable or if her mind had simply made up a different voice to tell her things she already knew. She looked down where she's stepped into the water, watching it chase around her calves, bubbling, and she smiled. Flow in humans is being. It is hope. She stopped. Hope. She shaped the word with her mouth, tasted it, repeated it to herself quietly, said it over and over in her mind until its meaning blurred. Time felt faintly off kilter. Abruptly she looked up at a sudden absence of sound. The fountain had stopped. She looked down the Arcade. All the fountains had stopped. Breathless, she counted mentally... one... two... three... and suddenly they started again. Water danced in the air, clear and full of magic. Jameson scratched her head and wished that whomever was trying to communicate with her would just drop her a note or something... Dear Jameson, Please save the world. Thanks, God Grinning at the thought, she leaned over and splashed some water on her face. She straightened and stepped out of the fountain to shake herself like a brakka with wet paws, then started walking toward the down the road, mentally rechecking the distances between the fountains to make sure her maps were correct. Sometimes, she simply thought too much. And didn't flow enough. Smiling, she felt something tight within her relax a bit and she felt better. But somewhere inside of her, she was still chafing at the level of inaction she seemed to have attained. She was waiting. I am not a hero, her mind echoed, I am not a saviour, I am a watcher and a meddler, little more. She sighed. The thought continued itself... but now I am also a pawn. Kelly J. Cooper kjc@cs.rutgers.edu Feedback appreciated ...