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I Beta

Chapter I

Section Beta

 Nothing is ever fixed
 But is against the changing sea 
 Do not believe in the dreams they send
 For they do not believe in thee
 Do not speak of sparks, 
 Lest there come of fires
 It consumes like ocean sharks
 Which eat without growing tired.
 
 Theogony of Esios 1:1:1-8

Long Count Date: 998.11.90

Back at a stone table, Sophseus continued to pick apart the remains of the bush, but as the light faded, he admitted that it was going to be difficult to make progress. “I think we need to read more on this.”

She had hoped he would say this, because it would mean access to the lamp room, one of the few places where there was artificial illumination. Without a moon, and therefore no moonlight, there were no “good nights” to read or work late. Dark was very, very, very dark. And yet, you would find that many of the inhabitants found ways of being productive by night, napping about half of it, but spending much of the rest engaged in work with their hands by feel. Mending, washing, ordering, all could be done by feel, in a world where half of the time, everyone was blind. The canvas ceilings rolled up, the light from the twilight and the sky – brighter than similar light on earth – poured in. It was light enough for Ishtari.

But to read, well, there were many that read the raise characters, the old ones, that were cut in tablet, or punched in paper, but not all had the knack for doing so. And many old scrolls were not allowed to be copied, and thus, one had to read them, with light, from the ink. For such moments reading rooms were used. She followed behind Sophseus, and went into the antechamber, striped down to nakedness, and hung clothes on a hook, and closed the door of the closet, then she sponged her self down from the sink, and dried her hands. Then ,and only then, did they open the door, and enter into a small room, without any windows. Sophseus, with practices skill, lit a gas lamp, and used his foot to pump a pedal that brought the gas up to higher pressure. It was a pure white light, and brighter than open flame. He had already had the scrolls sent in, and was unwrapping them.

It was a musty hour of searching later, until he finally found what he was looking for, running his bony hand down tightly written characters which were not anything she recognized.

“It is thaumaturgical fire, a kind of electrical discharge, like lightning. But it comes from below, not above.”

Her own disappointment was palpable, nothing new, then. She bit her lip, and then spoke.

“Is it unusual?”

He looked up, peered straight at her and said, “it is theoretical, no reliable observer had seen it before.” He looked straight at her, inviting her, if this were a joke or a prank, to recant. She looked back at him and blinked.

“What does it say?”

He slowly looked down, seemingly satisfied with her veracity and read on. He then stopped.

“I’m going to send you to [[Amalthea?]], the old lady. This clearly belongs to her.”

“It’s a sign? Religious sign?”

He nodded. “There is the possibility of danger, it has carbonized the bush, and there may be potential cleansing to be done.” He waved around, “after all, it was she who made these rooms, almost 100 [[anna | annae]] ago.” For her, only 32 annea old, it was an unimaginably long time ago.

And so, she was drafted to go to the old lady. He handed her two glow sticks, which, when hit sharply, would give a green glow, and conduct her safely through the pathways of the university. No one would dare touch her on such an errand, it was a rule that only the most depraved ignored.

She took both, went through the precautions in reverse, donning light tunic that barely covered what needed to be covered, and her boots as well as a wisp of a cloak and her gloves of soft mesh and leather. Slammed a stick into the wall nonchalantly, as if she were wont to be on sacred errands all the time, and seriously, but lightly, bounced to where she hoped the old lady would be.

In the world of true depth darkness, where the light has truly faded out – that middle three hours of the night – everything takes on a different aspects. Spirits seem to haunt every blackened opening, the white takes on a ghastly pale colour, even though it is darker than coal by daylight. Her green rod bounced, she could hear people making way, and couples who were fondling abruptly moving – where darkness is everywhere, so too is enough privacy.

She took a left turn down the narrow alley which lead to her door, In fact, she knew the old woman’s court yard was behind the walls to the left and right, and that the “entrance” was already well within her domain. Above her she could see the slats of stone, around which were twined vines. The vines were “water vines” which burst when touched with fire, and often could douse sparks. She reached the door, made, in what at first had seemed extravagance, of beaten copper. It was green with age, and she could see the frieze depicted on it, if [[nymphs?]], ripe with desire, being chased by [[satyrs?]], But above all was a [[caduceus?]], and there was a faint outline of the sun. The old woman was a priestess of fire, the bearer and container of that most dangerous, and most valuable, of the elemental forces. No fires could be lit on the University grounds, but that she had approved of their location. To use fire here, was to have studied under her, or, now, one of her two journeymen, themselves well into middle age.

She started to rap on the door, but it gave way, and inside there was the deepest blackness, it poured out and only a bone like hand reached out and curled to beckoning. Only by swallowing and taking a big step forward, nearly tripping on the entrance stone, could she finally see a heart shaped face, which while lined, gave the impression of having had great beauty once. It was a ruin, though yet, a lovely one.

The voice was smooth and soft. “You are the nameless one aren’t you?”

“Yes, I gave up my name to come here, and promised service as payment, my parents were too poor.” She did not hang her head, but stared back into the coal black eyes that stared at her, even though the green cast a ghastly pall on everything.

“That is not correct. Your parents are not poor, they merely are not here. The ones that raised you are poor, it is true. But they are not your parents.” With this the crone closed the door, and in a moment, the room was flooded with a strange light – the light of phosphorescence, like the stick, only raised in power a hundred times.

“Sit. And let me take a look at you.” The eyes now probed over her, and the strange effect was that motion seemed to proceed in copies, an arm leaving a trail behind it, a body seeming to waver, but not blur. “Yes, of good stock. And a good taking.”

“Taking?” She had known her fosters were not her parents, and had felt pained that they would not adopt her, as was usually done. “What do you know?”

“More than you. Listen, please, listen.” The tone became more gentle than the first sharp words, “I cannot tell you most things, because you must see them, and feel them, not hear them and say them. It is hard, but it is also true. I am not here for much longer, and I have been waiting all my life to be truly useful.” She waved a hand. “Don’t tell me about the work, that was filling time. When I saw the [[Sigma_Draconis?]], the thaumaturgical fire today, I knew I was to be useful. And so you are here, with one of my sticks to guide you.” By this point the stick had faded considerably, and Amalthea took it and placed it aside in rack.

“You speak as if this were something good, I was sent here…”

“Because young Sophseus was worried. He always is, he always will be, but he also is not a man of imagination, that is why he is destined to be archon of the University. I tell you that you have a chance, just a chance, of having become very important. The thaumaturgical fire alters those it touches, it is too swift a spark to catch fire, but fires the minds of those it affects.”

“I felt…” then she remembered the sharp prickling feeling as she fell “…something, I was going to say nothing, but something.”

The old woman smiled gently, and looked. “Well then you have a name. Or rather, a beginning of one.” The old lady stood up, and touched the young woman’s forehead. “Marduk sends the thaumaturgical fire, so Marduk claims you. Until you have your own name, you will have his mark. March, your name is now March, and you will feel it every day.”

At first it did not feel like anything at all, but then there was a tingling sensation on the spot the old lady had touched. And then she felt heavy lidded. She had never had opium before, and did not know the vapor she had been breathing for several minutes had that compound in it. She merely knew that she almost fell backwards onto the pillows behind the stool, and began the most turbulent sleep of her life.