Kiyron: Tr Halsien Zjeur - Volume 1 - Awakenings

Acknowledgements

Whilst writing this first novel has been a largely solitary affair, some thanks and expressions of gratitude are still in order.

My gratitude firstly to all the authors, film makers, and creative souls who have educated me, guided me, nourished me and inspired me through their various works over the years. Your shared endeavours have been both my entertainment and my encouragement to continue, no matter how slowly my own efforts unfolded.

My gratitude also, to all those throughout my life who have supported my tendency toward the creative, the ambitious and the most impractical, even if they haven’t understood it. Within this group, I’d especially like to include all those that have waited with baited breath for the eventual release of this first printed edition, and offered their continued encouragement, so a big thankyou and Here it is! to all my family and friends, both near and far. I know some of you have been waiting a VERY long time for this.

In turn, my gratitude to all those who have presented me with the obstacles and challenges necessary for me to learn what I’ve needed to learn to allow this book to happen, and for it to be what it is.

My gratitude, especially, to some very specific individuals: firstly Chris, Carol and Gary, for their generosity in funding my purchase of a rather humongous iMac at a time when my MacBook had ceased to function, that particular acquisition making the task of perusing multiple documents, pages, maps and web links on one screen feasible during the final writing and editing processes, despite the challenge of transporting such a beast from one country to another; and also a certain individual who doesn’t wish to be named, but without whom the completion of this work may have been a great many years off yet. At a time when we hardly knew each other, when my time in New Zealand saw my funds running out and my goal to complete the first draft before I had to return to a ‘real job’ a fading possibility, they offered their home, their financial support, and the encouragement to see this work to completion, asking for nothing in return beyond some assistance with their English grammar and a dining companion. They had no interest in reading, nor in science fiction, and a glazed look if I spoke too much about what I was doing! They simply wanted to support me to see it done. Angels do exist after all!!

A whole chunk of gratitude also to the ineffable divinity that has permeated my endeavours, expressed most clearly through the tome that is A Course In Miracles. It is a most challenging and most inspiring masterpiece, and the last piece of the puzzle that made writing this work in fullness possible.

And finally, my gratitude to yourself. I hope you enjoy the read.

Guidelines and Resources

Dates found at the beginning of chapters and sections function as follows:

Aurbët (year) - Hyebis (35 year period) - Iraath (epoch/age)

with each subdivision measured against the Iraath’s beginning, followed by:

Siykl (month) - Tsjayn (week) - Day (of the month)

For an easier comprehension of time references, days, hours and minutes are used alongside alternative words for the longer time frames.

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The two key measures of length referenced are:

Lebët – approximately 1 metre, and Gath – approximately 1.2 kilometres.

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The key measure of weight referenced is:

Dab – approximately 1 kilogram.

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In most cases, any new words will either include some explanatory reference connected to them, or it should be reasonably apparent what each word means.

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Further details, like word definitions, encyclopaedic explanations, charts, maps and more, can be found through either the website or Facebook page. These will evolve as more information is added.

https://www.facebook.com/KiyronTHZ

https://derekstirlingkerr.com

Tarovik Pronunciation

Pronunciation guidelines for non-Terran words.

a - apple, bat / aa - calm, farm / ay - age, weigh / au - hawk, sport

b - bat, dabble

k - cat, ache, kick / kk - loch, macht

d - dog, riddle

e - egg, bend / eu - earn, fern, burn, worse, first / ë - non-vowel* - oval, drivel, heavily

f - fun, phoney, rough

g - god, goggle

h - happy, inhibit

i - it, sin / ie - feel, real / iy - dye, find, tie

j - (hard) gin, ridge, jam / tsj - (soft) chin, itch / zj - (hard) visual, Asia / sj - (soft) fish, conscience

l - love, fill

m - money, numb

n - now, run / ng - sing, angle

o - on, hop / oo - you, food, nude / oy - toy, toil / ou - owl, house / oa - stow, boat

p - put, supper

r - right, hurry / rr - a rolled r

s - sit, hiss

t - top, bottle / th - (soft) thin, myth / th - (hard) this, wither

u - up, mud / uu - hook, put

v - valid, live

w - (hard) wet, wind / ww - (soft) white, awhile

y - yes, you

z - zebra, lies

* the ë is equivalent to the German schwa, which is essentially a non-vowel/unclear vowel sound, equivalent to the sound one might make between two consonants, the i in evil for example, or the a in oval.

The differentiation between singular and plural is established through a preceding number or word/phrase (in the event that a number cannot be given, e.g. use of the word many) if at all.

List of Principal Characters

Iraath 4: Aurbët 2473 - 2574

Lieoptay-Noot - Nktliflë Seer - Ristiekaan Ninuuk

Iyrës - Kajin Rabiel - Bayith Pirë

Faresay-Des - student - Ristiekaan Ninuuk

Iraath 4: Aurbët 7070 – 7071 (First Augured Climacteric)

Sjaarkrom Institute/The Academy/The Uufraakk Initiative

Ziskltrienaal Frifëstrith (Mumbles) - Board Member - Ristiekaan Ninuuk

Zarith Gavet - Institute Prime and Founder - Olemosj

Yuustim Vraal - Board Member and Instructor - Duutiyt

Von Romyevienë - Instructor and Institute security - Aurbrisien

Silyas Driev - Institute Director - K’Dauryen

Melok Ibyiven - Board Member and Instructor - Haaryen

Laaguut Silmsares - Instructor - Baasjyen

Koarvel Oalem - student - Nezaviyt

Klim Glos - student - Baasjyen

Helier’Oasjaan - Board Member - Ambulant Synthetic Intelligence

Driset and Pragal Wwiyom - Board Members and Instructors - Nezaviyt

Bisel and Padran Penriebës - students - Taroviyt

Aarzj Krof - Board Member – Taroviyt

Iraath 4: Aurbët 7834 – 7835 (Second Augured Climacteric)

Society of Eruuiz

Yayl Aardruut - Master of Observation - Taroviyt

Polik Tsjem - Master of Attainment - Olemosj

Helier’Oasjaan - Prime Tsjomier - Ambulant Synthetic Intelligence

Bren Edzel - Assistant to the Second Tsjomier - Duutiyt

Besl Dien - Master of Engagement - Sabaysjon

Akkim Toar - Second Tsjomier - Taroviyt

Zjuubi’iel - The Tarifon Klin - non-corporeal multi-consciousness entity

From Doothu

Til-Bray - Iyrës’ mother - Bayith Pirë

Iyrës - Kajin Rabiel - Bayith Pirë

Alabrok and Sjamos - Followers of Tsjal

From Sabaysjoa

Yasj Damilan - Nezaviyt

Karuul Damilan - Yasj’s brother - Nezaviyt

Daresj and Maarlë Damilan – Yasj and Karuul’s parents - Nezaviyt

From Saruubath

Zjolet and Diyal Koofont - Kiyrë’s parents - Taroviyt

Kiyrë Koofont - Taroviyt

Iraath 5: Aurbët 913 (Third Augured Climacteric)

From Dooskiyron

Thesik Zlaifë - Olemosj

Siprim - Dooskiyron’s central SI - Non-ambulant Synthetic Intelligence

Madyaa - Thesik’s personal SI - Non-ambulant Synthetic Intelligence

Aroy Yoayaret Hlem - Regional Governor - Olemosj

Aroy Vrragos Tuug - Regional Governor - Olemosj

Aroy Koobës Hyezj - Regional Governor - Olemosj

Aroy Bliezdoa Zegrie - Regional Governor - Olemosj

Aroy Aarpel Thifaklt - Regional Governor - Olemosj

From Malkiyron

Drolbrath - Asju’s attendant - Gal Iprë

Baydien Tuuyan - co-Prime Yal’guurat - Ambulant Synthetic Intelligence

Asju - Kkombinaar Yathesj - Bayith Pirë

From Dosjwë

Zygr’h’mik - Zos Taurzjlaas representative - Zos Duumos’Taurzjlaas

I Am

Be still. Still as the emptiness between stars.

Be as nothing: void of all but an awareness for all that surrounds you. Let only the gentle rhythm of your breath flow around what I tell and what you hear.

There is no truth but The Truth.

It will not be found within outer experience where illusions are created through the limited perceptions of form, deceptively preventing connection to the wonder of what remains mostly hidden.

There is no physical existence. Only the perception of it.

Manifest existence is but a projected illusion convincing us that we experience the most impossible of notions, masquerading as the cause of our experience, when it is instead a camouflage obscuring our reality.

There is no we.

Separateness is a misperception ensnaring us within this illusion of existence.

There is only I.

I am not what you dream within this illusion.

I am not what you perceive within this experience of living.

I am not what you read here on these pages.

I am everything this illusion you call life would deny.

I am eternal. I am unchanging.

I am every where and no where.

I am every thing and no thing.

I am every one and no one.

I am you.

I am.

What Is To Come

Aurbët 913 - Hyebis 27 - Iraath 5

0.0.1

Day 1 in the Tsjayn of Igisjkaab

Darkness drapes itself around me like a Yathhar’aa Hag’s cowl, a dispassionate embrace stayed only by the everglow lamp at my side, its light barely extending to the rough-hewn edges of this small, dusty, long abandoned hermit’s cave in which I sit. The Tuptaanek Hermits rarely ventured this far from the bustle of the cities and towns now long abandoned in the valleys to the far north of here, this cave indiscernible from multitudinous nooks, rocky overhangs and other caves found scattered throughout the largely uncharted regions of the Great Eastern Divide on Doothu’s western borders.

This prolonged winter of my life finds reflection in the winter now settling over these higher altitudes, the first snows already descending below where I presently reside and a chill wind howling faintly past the small, sheltered entrance. I have been long in this world, so changed since my youth. Too long perhaps. How many wars must one witness? How many global cataclysms? Only one other that I know of has lived longer and were they able to transcend their limitations, perhaps it would be them here now, not me.

But they are not. That is not their role. It is mine.

So here I sit, cocooned and comforted within the solid permanence of the mountain. Despite the earthy starkness of this small cavity, it is well suited to the prolonged stillness and silence needed for what I am to do.

Yalgren, my volunteered and ritually symbolic protector, acts as statuesque guard at the entrance, his youth offering some insulation against the outside bitterness that my own ageing carcass can no longer provide. He is trained well enough to be little more than a ripple in my awareness of these surroundings, even as he ensures that I have what minimal sustenance I will need to hand.

Beneath me sits a small domsil hide, the well-beaten leather underside thick and supple, its warm-furred topside a softly mottled grey - typical of the Doothu herds - that covers the anti-gravity mat and its form-shaping cushioning. I float above the stony hard ground beneath, kept from the cave floor’s chill and from the ever-questing death that would seep up through weary bones to rob me of much needed warmth, energy, and life. My joints will still ache from the prolonged sitting, vitality will fade as days turn into a tsjayn and multiple tsjayn become a siykl, and it is questionable just how much strength I will need to leave this place when I am done.

Will I have the strength to fly? I do not know. There are of course other ways to travel, but that is not for me to concern myself with at present. The kkekkamier draa which has guided me here will know what comes next when that time is upon me and that will be enough. My body is not the priority here. If anything, it is a hindrance. And yet, whilst I may still feel pain, I will not suffer. That emotion I relinquished so very long ago.

The task ahead of me will be long and strange as science merges with metaphysics, the mental focus required crucial. My entire unseasonably long life has been a preparation for this moment and I embrace it willingly.

Anointed as I am by Elëwon to be the Kkombinaar Yathesj, The Keeper of Truth, I am granted complete immersive access to the Kalbyaarë Kaurdz, the holy record of all that was, is, and will be. In theory, I could tell of all there is to tell about our planet and its people, from the smallest insignificant detail, all the way to the most momentous events. Time and the history writers have distorted a great many things and people can be loath to have their beliefs and misconceptions challenged. Fortunate that such rigid mindsets have become so sparse. It is possible instead, that some benefit may be gained from what I now share.

So let me focus this story upon but a few threads of the vast tapestry that is the world I know. Let me focus upon Tr Halsien Zjeur: The Three Augured Climacterics. Relinquish any acceptance of the term meaning the Three Predicted Wars as more recent transliterations of the original phrase would have you believe. The distortions of time and the evolution of perception and expectation renders such a bastardised interpretation void of the intended meaning, with erroneous anticipation trammelling over objective experience and intuitive insight. Slough off existing assumptions of knowledge on this subject. Let them not cloud what I offer you now. Their only benefit now is as a comparison, an example of how profoundly truth can be distorted, intentionally or unwittingly, by scribes from the times that followed.

Words do of course have their limit. Whatever utterances I might convey, without technological assistance I could not show you these things, could not lead you through the visual splendours of our world, nor satisfy your probable desire for a more holistic experience of all I would tell.

How far science has come. In my hand even now rests a holo-globe, encased and imbued with Devikarie quartz gold and an array of biological nanite technology beyond my understanding or interest, more special than the trinket version available for every home that now desires one. With invention beyond my understanding, this one will go back, linking through me to silently traverse time and show what I would wish you to see, providing a more visceral experience to my words. I am grateful that it requires no greater input from me than the guidance of my thoughts and my words. There is much to convey, much to dictate to this other seemingly insignificant device hovering before me, a small silver sphere I can clasp in one hand, that even now projects these words I speak from the small opening atop it into the air like a scrolling page, its crispness broken only by the occasional mote of dust drifting by.

The absurdity of this situation, me here in this cave in the tsjayn of Igisjkaab no less, at the onset of winter, telling what I am to tell, yet distracted by a mote of dust that reminds me, despite appearances to the contrary, how alike we are, specks floating in seemingly random patterns through this worldly experience, without definable cause or purpose, unable to truly direct ourselves through the unseen currents that swirl around us. It brings a smile to my face.

Te kkam lis nielaa, e yaymë aur pelya kkyem nielay pelya isgra.

E’m blethuu unieloo te.

To deny my truth, I built a world of false gods to witness through false eyes.

I am victim to my own deceptions.

Even the Tuptaanek Hermits would recognise the sentiments of that saying. And so, I shall observe. I shall observe what happens around me. Through me. To me. I shall let the unseen currents do what they will. I shall relinquish any pretence of control. I shall ask only to be guided, that I may bear witness to events pertaining to the Tr Halsien Zjeur through a mind that can yet learn that it might in turn teach.

Yet remember, even as I present an alternative history to the one you may know, this universe is illusion. Any truths perceived are ever shifting, ever changing, all part of an insane response to an impossible question. So there will be nought revealed in what I tell you but a series of possible paths that lead to truth’s door.

In the words of my brother:

"Only in experiencing that which is not this can you truly comprehend truth. And no sooner do you return to that which is this, than all which is that becomes but a memory to which you seek to give measure, to name, to wrap in the symbols of language and art, to convey, and in so doing lose the very essence of it."

The riddle of his words make sense when they need to. What I am to share is less a story about truth, than of the quest to remove the veils that obscure its existence.

As I sit here, a hidden speck in the cold embrace of this mountainous wilderness, far from the distractions of a crowded and busy world, I am reminded that each moment is exactly as it is meant to be. This moment can be nothing but what it is, can contain nothing more nor less than what it contains, for all moments that have gone before have led to this moment, just as this moment has informed and guided all moments leading up to it, just as it is created by and creates the moments yet to come.

Time, like all that we experience, is an illusion.

Manifest experience is not linear.

Perception of it is linear, but only as long as we believe it must be so.

There is no need to ask which moment comes first: many points on the same circle, a circle that is in fact a sphere, a pin-spot in Iyoa’s eye, infinite moments and possibilities all interconnected, dancing with each other.

Which comes first?

They all do.

Asju

Kkombinaar Yathesj to the Pirë Iprë

Elder sister to the Kajin Rabiel

Daughter of Til-Bray, the Winged Mother

A Prayer

I forgive the world for all the errors I have made,

and so am I and the world released from them.

Koazjuur’Iy: Scriptures

Part One

In Endings We Find Beginnings

Lieoptay-Noot

Aurbët 2574 - Hyebis 74 - Iraath 4

Malkiyron, Ristiek, Southern Ranges

Lieoptay-Noot. Unknown to all but the scant few that met him during his reclusive life. Unknown beyond his written works, which have both foreseen and shaped the world.

In the Saruubiyt city of Kyesloa, within their Museum of Ancient Ninuuk Artefacts, they claim to have a volume of his poetic works. In the border town of Duuspavel, where Ristiek meets Saruubath, a hermetically sealed glass shrine is devoted to the shattered remains of a Ninuuk skull purported to be all that remains of him, despite another town having some finger bones, another a thigh bone, another its own skull, and yet another a preserved section of skin, rumoured to be from the very hand that wrote all his works. Yet others have emphatically denied his existence, each citing their own research.

There are no skeletal relics, despite what some might say. It is not the Ninuuk way. There are no corroborating writings from the time, at least not any available for public viewing. There are no witnesses to support the notion of his authenticity. All such claims are falsehoods. And after more than five thousand aurbët since his collection of writings were first read, five thousand aurbët of experts analysing, interpreting, reinterpreting, wondering, occasionally understanding, theorising and more, there is nothing anyone really needs to know about him other than the repeated evidence demonstrating that his vision saw true.

Lieoptay-Noot. Ristiekaan Ninuuk. Nktliflë Seer. Prophet. Mystic. Lunatic. Voice of Iyoa, the God of all gods: our guiding saviour. Instrument of Ligil-Yabesj, the chameleon, the trickster: our own deceiver, our harbinger of doom. He has been hailed. He has been reviled. Yet still, The Augurs of Lieoptay-Noot prevailed. And now, so long after his time, with all the multi-layered aspects of his 1,001 sjengaar leaf forecasts now finally interpreted, each and every one now played out, it is beyond question that he again and again demonstrated an insight that no other seer from any other time could match. It is difficult, to the point of impossibility, to say just how much he influenced the world that succeeded him, a world that saw its future through his eyes, through his very words. Did he simply predict the world that was to come? Or did he, by inspiring others to act upon insights that sparked an energising hope or fear, create all that would follow?

Aurbët 101

Perception is linear.

Time is non-linear.

We deceive ourselves on the nature of cause and effect.

These are the last words he writes, though he knows they will be the first words read, can almost see who it will be, an echo of his prescience even now impinging a window of awareness from that other moment to his consciousness of this moment, revealing a hint of nervous excitement, of barely restrained curiosity, fragments of a room unfolding in his mind.

He pulls his focus away from that particular window.

His time for those visions is done. His writing of them is done.

His hand betrays the faintest tremor as he returns the reed quill to its box beside the ink pot. Black stains bleed up the quill’s evergreen length and mottle the dark wood interior. Replacing the lid absent-mindedly, he studies this final parchment, round as it is, like all the pages that have gone before it, the newness of the carefully prepared sjengaar leaf sheet revealed by its warm yellow shades, colours that will blanch to a crisp whiteness as the aurbët roll by. This specific leaf has the curiosity of being written on both sides, those words on the underside a more prosaic mythological description in Ninuukien glyphs. Most curious indeed. The words for this more succinct side of the leaf at least, the only ones that will not require deeper interpretation, are in his most florid Tarov script, a stark contrast in black, a tattoo on flesh.

Time. The word is a barked laugh in his head, as he rereads his last scribblings. I remember. For a simple Ninuuk like me, once, time was fixed. Time was solid, measurable, immutable. Pah! This laugh escapes his lips, a deep, throaty rumble that leaves him out of breath by its end. He sighs at the significance of that. So much has changed. And now…so much will end. Pah. Not much at all. One insignificant body. Just me.

He reaches one small but weighty arm to the back of the old, time-weathered wooden table at which he sits cross-legged, made so long ago by his own hands when he discovered he would need one, and that he would in fact need to learn how to write, a skill rarely used by the Ninuuk. Straining to reach over his well-nourished waistline, uncovered save for a faded black loin cloth, skin still vibrant with its mottled patterning of yellow, purple and red, lower arms push wearily against the table as his upper hand carefully lifts the top from the long cylindrical container there, its own length spanning the width of the table.

The hollowed and polished trunk of a muusienë sapling, lustrous striations of deepest red and black coursing its length, inside and out perfectly rounded, sliced neatly along its length forming equally portioned top and bottom, tongue and grooved for a solid, water-proofed fit, is cradled where it sits by two small stands that prevent it rolling. Inside is full. Leaf after leaf of matching parchments to the one he now slides carefully in place at one end, the script facing out. It is a tight fit. He runs his fingers gently along the length of the cylinder, the paling of the leaves barely discernible from one end to the other, from first to last, touching with a hint of reverence the multitude of pages contained therein.

Eleven aurbët of learning to read, learning to write. Thirteen languages. All before I could even begin. Seventy-one aurbët of 'seeing', of predicting, of writing. He muses. So many leaves, so many words.

His breath in is a shudder.

Death is so very near. A patient and certain companion come to claim what has always been its to claim. Lieoptay-Noot chuckles at the thought, as he feels death’s whisper steal through every cell of his mortal being. There is no pain. There is no fear. He has done what he had to. Death, and time, so inextricably linked, hold no sway for him, even as they prepare to close the door on this life. Soon. He sighs. But not yet. Not quite yet.

He glances around his home, his eyes, deep set pools of turquoise flecked black that well up as nostalgia and gratitude swell in him. Made as the final test of his passage into adulthood, the chanted words of that most arduous rite resonating through every branch bent to form the framework for this round hut, breathed into every boulder, rock and pebble that was chosen to form the walls, mashed into every steaming pot of mud and haklaa dung that then fused it all together and plastered much of the outer surfaces, laced through every yikë leaf and begl reed that was interwoven into a water tight, yet breathable rooftop. The finished hut, simple and inelegant as it is, is functional, solid, durable. He has never felt cause to change it or leave. It has protected him from storms, floods, and even a fire once, many aurbët back. It has always felt safe. It has always felt like home.

He had been almost as proud of this final accomplishment as he had been of his outcome in the drrigastilaa, the quest for guidance, the first rite of passage that every Ninuuk takes once they’ve completed their eighteenth aurbët and begin their nineteenth, the aurbët of final transition to adulthood. Sipping on the fermented glieasjë juice, walking into the untamed woods not far from his village, the fullness of Paron ascending bright in the star lit sky, her shattered partner Taurzj a speckle of red debris glistening in an arc beyond her, as she dappled his purple-to-silver crested head through the branches with her brilliance, a head buzzing with the excitement of his journey out of childhood, swirling with the repeated mantra of the drrigastilaa, even as his body vibrated ever faster from the effects of the juice, he had never anticipated such a powerful response. The vision that came to him, its clarity, the sense of purpose that resonated through it, even as it gave no sense of what would come beyond. There was a knowing to it. A feeling of rightness. Nothing would dissuade him from that. Nothing did. And two siykl later, a full day’s walk from his village, four or more from any other village, nestled in the lower south-west arm of the Ristiekaan Mountains, his hut was complete. His life as an adult had begun. His purpose in this life began soon after.

Lieoptay-Noot turns his attention back, away from the baskets of fruit, nuts and seeds beside his table that all sit mostly empty, away from the lifeless hearth fire, a recess of ash and charred branches in the centre of the room, away from the frayed sleeping mat to his left where he shall lie down one more time, and away from the doorway behind him that looks out toward the verdant, untamed valley below, its curtain drawn back allowing the air to flow gently through, the mottled light that breaks through the trees outside playing across the compacted earth within. It is not a door he expects to use again.

Gently lifting the muusienë lid, he fits it neatly to the base, enclosing the tightly packed parchments - so many that he has lost count - within, before taking each base piece and turning them to slide their feet into the allotted groove at each end of the tube. He again calms the tremor of his hands. It is the first time he has ever placed the brackets onto the ends and it is only now that he wonders if they will fit and do what they were intended to. The fit is as tight as it was meant to be, Lieoptay-Noot panting with the exertion by the time he has forced them along the groove and evenly into place each side of the box’s centre. He caresses the outside of the container, satisfied. Air-tight, water-tight, and being muusienë wood, fireproof. Protection enough.

Lieoptay-Noot’s ears twitch, their cartilage flicking out from against his head as his tri-canals flare open in anticipation of…what? There is the subtlest change in the air, the hut darkening around him, yet lightening in a familiar way, the energy shifting, thrumming with a surge of extra life, even as a deeper peace settles over him. Lieoptay-Noot feels it, knowing who has come for one final visit even before he turns slowly around.

My good friend. Here again. When I almost thought a last meeting beyond us. His voice is hoarse, hesitant. It has been too many days since he last spoke out loud to any but himself, longer still since he spoke in common Tarov, and emotions are holding more sway than usual. His steady gaze takes in the appearance of his friend, looking no different than he did on his last visit, or the one before that, or any visit since they first met. Your appearance is welcome. Indeed. Most welcome.

At almost twice his height, Iyrës, even seated as he is, his form blocking the doorway’s light, reaches close to the top of the inner wall, his head of blue-black hair that cascades over the folds and drape of his all-white robed raiment within easy reach of the smoke-stained joists, the area in which he sits free of the array of dried herbs and vegetables that adorn many of the beams. His smile is a glistening flash of whiteness, barely whiter than his almost translucent skin, the silver-blue flecking of his denaumë, so typical of Tarov blood, and even now deepening in colour with emotional response, are a patchwork of randomly shaped and sized rings that sweep out from his upper eye-lids and across his temples, edging down and across his jaw before traversing his neck to dwindle over his collarbone, barely visible within his top’s collar. Eyes of deepest green gaze back at him, limpid pools that sparkle with a hint of mischief which carries through in the deep smooth tones of his voice.

And miss your farewell party? He draws a large, slender-fingered hand from behind him, filled and overflowing with a ripe and fragrant cluster of iridescent yellow dropsjaa berries, the sticky-sweet scent overpowering the usual waft of smoke and spice that fills the hut, Lieoptay-Noot salivating even before he gratefully accepts the gift.

Two are not a party. But two is enough. The parting gift I accept whole-heartedly. Several berries disappear rapidly into his mouth, squelching between his teeth, the red flash of his long tongue lapping up the juices before they can spill beyond the purple bruise of his lips. The rest he nestles in his lap for easy access, knowing that Iyrës will not partake, his own plump fingers absently caressing each berry like a long-lost treasure. Mmmm. He murmurs, his throat soothed by the fruit’s sweet liquid, his voice returning to its smoother, more lyrical cadence. Especially one so tasty. And so out of season here. Where grows yellow ones?

I think the better question might be when. Iyrës replies, his eyes flaring with an extra hint of mischief. You exist a little before any surge in consumerism and demand for varietal novelties.

Consumerism? Varietal novelties? Trying to confuse me with words not yet invented again? Lieoptay-Noot shakes his head with feigned disapproval. Should we? He has stopped short of consuming another berry that sits waiting between his raised fingers. Even after so long, with so many discussions, debates and meditations on the subject, he still has a reflexive response to consider time as strictly linear.

Should. Even now you use that word? Iyrës shakes his head in mock consternation, the smile never leaving his eyes. If they help you shake some final vestiges of deception about the nature of time and this experience, then let’s argue that yes, we should. How does that work for you?

Fine! Pah!! He trills a laugh in response, disposing of the berry into his mouth. Even now…old responses are hard to break. When least expected, they creep in.

Vigilance is ever required brother. Even at the end. A softness slides over Iyrës’ smile as he says this.

Pulling his attention away from the delicious morsels, Lieoptay-Noot’s face grows more sombre. So then, it is time. All that is asked of me is done. There is no hint of question in it. He feels the truth of it sink peacefully into his bones, easing a questioning tension he had not realised still lingered there.

For this life, yes. Iyrës’ smile and focus never wavers from across the hearth.

Still more to be done. He sighs with a half shrug. Another time. Another life. A different me. He pops another berry into his mouth as Iyrës offers his own shrug and a wink in response. The others. He continues, referring not to his future incarnations but the many others referred to in his writings. Will each do what they must? All these writings are meaningless without action. Several more berries disappear.

You have written what will come to pass because of what you have written my friend. Their physical representation activates their energetic template which is interwoven through this most distracting of stories we have created for our fragmented self. Iyrës pauses, eyes searching long enough to see that the meaning of the words have registered. Everyone does what they can. Everyone does what is scripted. And everything is already done, just as everything has always been meaningless. All anyone need do is wake up. Which they have. Though it may not appear so just yet. Iyrës’ voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans forward. I don't know if you have noticed, but perception has a nasty habit of interfering with reality.

They both burst into laughter, deep and heartfelt, Lieoptay-Noot rolling in merriment. Even now, in my last moments? He barks out. You would joke about weighty matters and test me with words? Another burst of laughter spills forth.

You expected something else? Iyrës’ face is a mask of exaggerated surprise and confusion.

Ha! No. Lieoptay-Noot calms his mirth long enough to dispense with yet another berry, humming his gratitude for this final treat, amused that even now his appetite cannot be sated. Iyrës. Non-reality of time I have come to understand, or at least accept intellectually, though perception contradicts it. But to genuinely believe that my words will have impact five thousand aurbët from now? That is still difficult. Another berry disappears, the rapid diminishment of what rests in his lap noticed with disappointed resignation.

And yet you have connected with events, which, according to time as a linear concept, should not be possible. Iyrës responds, his voice, scarcely above a whisper and still hinting at amusement, is a soft murmur flowing with a love and joy that always fills Lieoptay-Noot with a deep gladness. From a linear perspective, the impact of your words upon what is yet to come is astounding, though it could also be argued that it is the as yet unmanifest events that impacted your words. What do you think?

Fruit-bearing hand half raised toward his mouth, Lieoptay-Noot lowers it again, the red flicker of his tongue licking up a small trail of sticky juice almost invisible against the yellow-white mottle of his chin, his eyes unreadable as he focuses on his young friend opposite, a burst of unclouded sunlight illuminating Iyrës’ lean physique through the door, casting his face into greater shadow. It is a discussion they have had many times and he knows no answer is expected.

Always. So much to learn, Iyrës. So much…to remember. He sighs, another berry disappearing in the process. My friend, we are polar opposites. He continues, absent-mindedly patting his eternally hungry belly, amused that even impending death does not stop it. In appearance. He chortles quietly, waving two of his hands between them. And in levels of understanding. Yet with you…I feel an unbreakable kinship…whilst my own kind…are very often like strangers…almost.

We are all one kind brother, remember that. We are all one.

I do. He shrugs. But reminding is good. This life encourages…forgetfulness.

It could not exist otherwise. A broad smile plays across Iyrës’ face, his eyes sparkling with unspoken knowledge. You will eventually remember everything Lieoptay-Noot. And then these moments of briefest wakefulness will themselves seem like part of a foggy slumber.

In my next life perhaps. Certain illusions…and allusions… he rubs his belly, even as another berry vanishes into his eager mouth, …I am still too fond of, even at the end, and less than keen to let them go.

Much of that you have already released, even if you do not know it. Every life has its own challenges, its own illusions and allusions. What is yet to be is already done, or I would not be here now.

Are you here now? Truly? Many would say no. Not possible. Time travel. Space travel. Visiting your own soul. In the past. Too difficult to believe! Unless you are a Plablelik Priest! Lieoptay-Noot blurts out, laughing. For them, all things are possible. All things. Ha! Another berry vanishes.

For as long as people hold onto what they believe is real, then such concepts will always prove…challenging. Unless they are a Plablelik Priest. Iyrës tilts his head and winks. Are you feeling challenged? The arch of Iyrës’ eyebrow mirrors his jocular smirk.

My only challenge is you never age. My own plentiful self, he looks down at his body, skin still mostly smooth, though showing faint signs of wrinkles, sagging, and a less vibrant luminosity than he had in his youth, has done exactly that. He waves away any comment from Iyrës, his ample flesh rippling with the effort. Pah! A small vanity. Small. I am not one to be vain. I am exhilarated. Excited. New things wait beyond this not so final curtain.

An unexpected sigh escapes him. And tired…yes…tired. The curtain draws down upon me. I look forward to going home. The nearness of the end feels suddenly pressing, though more like a valve awaiting release, than a weight bearing down.

Unexpectedly, Iyrës takes the cluster of twigs from Lieoptay-Noot’s lap, flicking the remaining berry across. It is deftly caught and eaten in a flash. Time perhaps to lie down my good friend.

Time indeed I think. Lieoptay-Noot chortles with a sigh, rolling the short space to his sleeping mat, the desire for sleep sliding over him. There is no more to do. No more to say.

Time to let the illusion slip a little. Iyrës’ voice has softened, slowed, deepened, Lieoptay-Noot feeling the hypnotic effect it has sweeping over him. After all, you are already home. You never left. This reality is but a dream. No more. No less.

Eventually my friend, full understanding will come. The words are a struggle to form. Sleep…death…is racing forward to embrace him. Eventually.

Until another time then. Before everything makes sense. Iyrës responds, a thoughtful smile playing across his lips as he bows his head gently toward his host.

Lieoptay-Noot’s eyes drift shut, his breathing becoming shallow, each breath lighter than the last. He knows Iyrës is still there. Can feel him in the hut. Waiting. A guide to take him home.

It occurs to him, a thought rising up from somewhere far, far away, that he never asked who would take all that he has written, all that he has predicted, contained so precisely in the box on the table. One last breath of awareness floats into his mind that someone is already on their way, the sound of their feet tramping gently up the rocky path through the forest below even now echoing its way through the silence that surrounds him. Forgive me for not bidding you farewell Faresay-Des. This body has run out of time.

There is nothing more for him to do.

Nothing more to hold onto.

His last words are a whisper that leave him on his final breath.

Until then my friend.

The First Augured Climacteric

Aurbët 7070 - Hyebis 202 - Iraath 4

Malkiyron, Fathës, Lekrie

1.7.38 - Day 1

Bisel

Journal entry

Dreams: our mind’s subconscious processing of what has gone before, or recollections from within the overlapping folds of time and space beyond our slumbering form? How do I explain those dreams so real they leave me disoriented, confused on waking, the boundaries between dream state and waking state blurred, reality sliced between two very different scenes with no clear journey from one to the next? And will any of those dreams come to pass, as snippets of reality eventuating like a repeat performance but finally in full context? Is reality anything more than another level of dreaming, with little more than the appearance of continuity to convince us of its validity? Are we, within this experience, anything more than animated set-pieces, clay wrapped automatons trapped and manipulated within one layer of dreams or another? Can we be anything more?

~

"She gives us nothing useful. NOTHING!!"

"Then let me finish her. We have wasted enough time already and her colleagues are still out there somewhere. If we wai-"

"FINISH her?! Is there some part of our instructions that elude your memory?"

"I remember perfectly well. But we are still wasting time. Dump her then. Either way we have failed in our instructions."

"NO! One more try. Get her awake again. And this time use both at once. And at maximum tolerance."

"I thought you didn’t want her dead?"

"I don’t. So you’d better do it properly."

"Properly. Hmmph. There is nothing proper about what we are doing here, no matter how much I enjoy it. Why they didn’t want to just get a Desjron Mindreader in I don’t know. Unless making her suffer was all they really wanted."

"Just do it."

She hears it all in the blankness. As unconscious as her body is, she hears everything: the faint hum of distant traffic, more frequently with a base thrum to it that suggests they're not too close to any heavily populated areas and are within a more industrial zone; the subtle shush of elevators within the building, the sound again coming from above, making their probable location a basement level. The sounds create a visual imprint, a shadowy echo of all that surrounds her.

There are two captors.

One is thin, sharp tempered, and highly agitated throughout her torture, pacing back and forth, his slimness (she imagines him gaunt) evident from the light, almost skittish click-slap of his shoes back and forth, back and forth, on the smooth polished floor of the room, swerving in close to fire questions at her, demanding answers, spitting his foul-breathed repulsion at her continuing silence, cursing his fury as his click-slap shoes slip on a liquid splashed floor. Her own blood, she muses, plus a pool of urine that she’s certain must also be her own, its odour strangely musky-sweet in her nostrils compared to the salty acridity of her torture induced sweat. His outburst of back-street expletives continues.

The other is more solid, his temperament more even. There’s no pacing from him. Just measured steps, weighty on the floor despite the softness of his shoes, from wherever he is, to wherever he needs to be next. No agitation despite his expressed readiness to have this over with. She knows at that deeper, instinctive level, where all rational thought is superfluous, that he would be as happy torturing her day after day, as he would be watching her bleed out on the floor. Both options would be acceptable. Both could give him pleasure.

The vile stench of the now familiar stimulant being smeared by a thick and uncaring finger on her top lip overpowers every other scent and sense, distressing her body even as it rouses it back to life, the suffering resentment of every muscle, joint and nerve screaming through her, head tilting back in a meek effort to pull away from the smell, a barely audible groan rising from the back of her parched throat as she starts to gag and cough at the stench of it. Eyes fluttering to open see nothing, remaining firmly closed from a skin of silica resin sprayed during her capture. It’s an effort to breathe through the initial panic that’s engulfing her, to breathe through it and relax, even a small amount.

Then she hears the torture module activating, the almost silent whir of it stirring to life, lifting from the floor, the clickety-snick and slide of its many appendages extending and positioning around her own suspended body, now rigid with dread anticipation as she imagines some predatory beast ready to drain her to the very last drop. Waiting for the inevitable agony is torture in itself.

The machine’s pinpoint insertions begin, its many limbs seeking her most vulnerable nerves, sliding through skin, insinuating their way deep into muscles, each point stimulating greater levels of pain, orchestrating a swelling crescendo of suffering. The agony is excruciating, her body twitching and spasming involuntarily, each flicker of movement only increasing the pain as nerves are abraded by metal, guttural expulsions bursting from her throat in erratic rhythm with her spasmodic respiration. Even through all this she feels the searing lance of the final needle that again penetrates her skull, the only part of her clamped beyond any ability to move, questing for that vital part of her forebrain that will increase the pain she feels everywhere with the right tweak of its probing filament and the tiniest electrical impulse through its tip. The desire to tell what little she knows is a burgeoning pulse ready to burst through swollen, split and bloody lips. Yet somehow she holds firm, releasing nothing but the screams and sobs of extreme suffering.

It is deep within where she speaks out, giving true voice to her suffering. Her cries for help are barely more than a faint whisper in her mind to whatever power might listen, a plea somewhere between a begging whimper and an earnest request, its nature varying with the waves of pain coursing through her body, her focus floating in and out in unison with each new surge of pain rendered upon her body.

And then she feels it.

From somewhere deeper still her cry is answered. Somehow, some small kernel of peace and tranquillity flows out from a place within her she cannot even determine, dulling all other sensations, dislodging their significance, separating their overwhelming connection to her consciousness. The sensation triggers echoing memories. She has been here before. Felt this before.

Her heart slows.

Despite the multitudinous metallic insertions designed for nothing but pain and suffering, the erratic racing of her heart slows.

It slows…and slows…and slows…

A feeling of calm and safety envelopes her, even as she registers her body shutting down. All sense of pain becomes a distant memory. The voices of the men, the agitated one now more agitated than ever as he screeches in panic, the deeper resonance of his companion bellowing back, are but faint echoes in the distance. Another voice flows like a balm over theirs. So near, as of someone whispering, their voice a sweet nectar, with lips but a fraction from her ear, even as it resonates all around her in soothing dulcet tones more clear than she thinks should be possible, filling her with a peace that is almost blissful. And strangely familiar.

"There is nothing to fear. It will not be the end."

Her heart is barely beating at all now, each pulse almost too far apart, too weak to be of consequence.

It stops.

~

Bisel’s eyes snap open, pupils dilated in the darkness, irises little more than ice-green halos around the black, as she thrusts upright in her bed, a scream caught in her throat, dank sweat a slick over her entire body, hands twisted and clenched through her bedding, the sheets and domsil blanket a tangled mess. With head darting about, silver-blonde hair clinging damply to her face, her eyes are ablaze with fear and pain, then confusion and disorientation, the panicked hitching of her breath easing slightly as the familiarity of her room becomes discernible in the steadily increasing glow of the sound-triggered floor lights.

Desk to her right running half the length of the far wall before abutting her wardrobe. Main door to her room in between. MV screens off, sketchpad and stylus squared on the edge. Bowl of fruit in the diagonal corner of the desk, the small fridge nestled underneath. Bathroom door at the foot of the bed closed. Armchair in the corner past this, on the other side of the door, angled as always to face the MV screens. Small square dining table beside that, the two chairs tucked neatly in. The large window running the length of that wall set to ninety percent block-out, reducing the central atrium features of the school’s residential building to the dimmest of glows and shadows. All picture screens adorning the other walls on night-neutral, awaiting their illumination to project her favourite images.

She’s home.

Yet home feels uncomfortably alien right now. Home does not feel…safe. The familiar brings no solace, a sensation of disconnection from her surrounding bringing a new level of uneasiness. There’s no comfort to be found in what she sees, no security from the painful memories imprinted in her mind. All that remains is an unexpected and overwhelming aloneness, consciousness severed from mundane ties, adrift without direction, without focus, without anchor.

Do you need assistance Bisel? The disembodied voice of concern she has heard too often for her liking of late startles her back from the edge of perceptions she feels unable to comprehensively fathom.

No. She shakes her head, disturbing images flashing through her mind. No. I’m fine. Thank you. Having dismissed them yet again, she knows the question will eventually be asked more directly. And again, they will want to know: was it a dream? A vision? What details changed? What stayed the same? She brushes it from her mind, trying hard to slide back into a familiar connection with all around her, even as snippets from the dream push to the fore.

This is the first time in this far too repetitive dream that she’s died, the first time that she’s felt another distinct presence, albeit no more than a disembodied voice, but one that exerted a profound change upon her own state within the dream. The dream isn’t just a dream. She realises this with a growing certainty as another whimper almost escapes her. It isn’t a dream, just as it isn’t simply some subconscious process manifesting itself in symbolic structure for her to interpret.

The dream is a vision…and if that vision happens…I’m going to die.

Her throat clenches as a silent panic engulfs her. She doesn’t understand, and in this moment doesn’t want to understand, fearful that understanding might make it worse. All she can think to do in this moment is breathe. If I’m still breathing, I’m still alive. She reasons with herself. I can breathe my way back to calm. Nothing happened. Not yet. Maybe it won’t happen. I can control this.

But her breathing’s too fast and loud in the night-time silence of her room, its very audibility disturbing her. She knows they’ll be listening, hearing each breath, observing her through an array of cameras and sensors, monitoring every twitch, every move. Even the hammering beat of her heart against her chest seems loud, its rhythm fast from the adrenalin still surging through her. They’ll know. Multi-layered monitoring will be targeting all her vital statistics.

Please, she begs of herself. Please just calm down. Relax. It’s not going to happen tonight. Is it? She asks the question of no one in particular, eyes darting around, the steady but fast thump of her heart sounding through her ears. If my heart stopped now could they save me? Would they? She lets out a nervous, dismissive whimper. Why am I being so ridiculous? Why am I letting this overwhelm me? To which she gives answer. Because you died. You died. And you know it was no dream. A tear wells in the corner of one eye. I won’t die tonight though. It won’t be tonight. That place wasn’t here. It was somewhere else. The tear traces down over her cheek, another forming to replace it. Somewhere else. She repeats to reassure herself, but the reassurance fails despite her feeling the truth of it.

Please help me. It’s a whisper in her mind like before, like in the dream, reaching out for any response she can find, from whoever might answer. I don’t understand.

Silence. Nothing but silence. Nothing but her continued inhale and exhale, her ever beating heart. She has never felt so alone. Even with her brother asleep in the adjoining room, just a shout or a telepathic nudge from rushing to her side, she feels alone. An array of counsellors, instructors, mentors, fellow students and friends surround her in this complex she now calls home, but Bisel cannot fully shake the overwhelming feeling of isolation, of separation, that now engulfs her. Realising that this dream, complete with its much more sinister ending, is in fact not a dream changes everything. In this moment, staring around at a room of shadows, she feels adrift, the sense of disconnection returning. She cannot see a future, the dream obliterating any sense of one being possible. The point of everything she is now doing with her life suddenly seems futile, for what’s the point of doing anything that leads to your own death? A quiet sob racks through her body as she attempts to stifle the thoughts. Although she has always questioned where her life is going and what she's doing, now there’s nothing. Not even a question. Emptiness surrounds her.

Please help me. She whispers desperately to herself again. I don’t want this. I don’t understand. Her eyes dart around the room without focus or purpose, tears spilling unchecked over cheeks, onto trembling lips. Please. Silence void of solace. Every breath, every scrunch and rustle of her bed sheets, every thought is too loud, too distracting. Please help me. But there is no response she can recognise. No inner voice. No vision. Nothing that might calm her trembling state.

The urge to lay down eventually takes over. Her skin chilling from the sweat, Bisel closes her eyes, hoping that answers will come, unable to perceive the answers that already lie waiting. Questing within, she listens and hopes, desperately anxious for a response, for answers, for help. Still nothing. And with thoughts an increasingly sluggish blur of confusion and eyes unable to focus on the world around her, sleep comes first.

~

Overhead, the shrill and chatter of a frolicking assortment of sibok blends with the tinkle of myriad tiny golden bells, the gentle tolling of several kaarbër shell gongs of varying sizes that all hang from an array of branches spraying out in an inverted conical layer from the ancient sisamel tree centred in the open ground behind the gathered group, and the tap and thud of smoothly whittled and symbolically carved sticks beating against the sisamel’s trunk and exposed roots, an array of Daamel Monks, young and old, male and female, orchestrating the arrhythmic cacophony of sounds that wash over everyone present as dawn makes an appearance on the western horizon before them.

Pinks and oranges bleed across the distant mountain peaks, gradually striking over the higher trees and building tops that pepper their way up the southern slopes of Fathës’ capital. The distant sounds of Lekrie awakening drift up to the Daamel Temple’s ceremonial garden of Morning Blessing that overlooks it all, the white robes of the monks and white dress code of everyone else present warming with pink and orange hues as everyone faces west to greet the day.

Each person holds a lit incense stick before them, the fragrant blend of wood, earthy spices and a fresh floral overtone reminiscent of spring’s first blooms wafting over the gathering in slow drifting waves of smoke. Bisel and Padran stand together in front, a Daamel Monk flanking each of them, with a collection of fellow students and instructors from Sjaarkrom Institute’s Academy in rows behind them.

Bisel can feel Pad questing, as he has all morning, blocking each effort and offering nothing but a wall of neutral composure. She knows her pallor is whiter than normal, that her face reveals a degree of the distress that last night’s dream has caused, that her silver-blue denaumë, despite her best efforts to find some full level of calm, reveals the faintest tinge of pink flecking down her throat that not even her hair - left down and draping over her shoulders - can hide. She cannot yet bring herself to share what she experienced. Certainly not here. This is neither the place nor the time to expose that nerve so fully. And so she raises every psychic and emotional barrier she has available to her.

Another surge from Pad, his head cocking around to catch a glimpse of her face in the process, concern flowing into her as much as frustrated curiosity. Not now Pad. Not this morning. Please wait. Please. The subvocalized rebuttal is almost a plea as she pulls her focus to the blossoming hues on the horizon.

Today a new cycle begins. The two flanking monks intone, their focus on the rising sun, voices flowing in unison, smooth and exultant. The aurbët of the seventeen prime has passed successfully for Bisel Penriebës. The aurbët of the seventeen prime has passed successfully for Padran Penriebës. We offer our gratitude for what has been.

Oa Som. Everyone gathered chants, heads bowed. Oa Som. Oa Som.

Forcing her way through the ritual, Bisel’s mind is filled with flashbacks on repeat: the torture, the pain, the click-slap of a torturer’s shoes, the voice from beyond, her death. Despite her best efforts to focus on everything required of her this morning, to let the activities of each given moment consume her attention and offer some refuge from the deeper anxiety that last night created, the images keep returning, her pulse quickening with each flashback before she breathes it back to calm. Death. Now it feels real. Possible. Personal. She has been shown what she can only believe must be her end