Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place.

29c. Trueman in the Fields of Konsk.

VORTEX, VORTICES

Semi-autonomous, temporary abstractions that appear and may persist for limited periods within the general flow of Konsk. Examples of various types or qualities of vortex include;

• a sensation (e.g. pain)

• an emotion (e.g. love)

• a thought (“I am no good at this”)

• a thought train (e.g. such as the string of sentences encountered within a book)

• a personality or character

• a belief system (e.g. science)

• a fundamental base pattern (such as the concept of individuality or self)

from the appendices: Konsk, definitions.

Trueman was no longer Trueman but rather a slightly detached point of awareness or focus of attention, its only incarnation a silver pointer that wrote out a series of equations in shining gold. There was something like mild amusement that there was still an “I” experiencing all this.

All what? Some sort of field in which things, membranes, entities? Entities formed, extending tubes or tendrils or tentacles towards some plane or surface, receding as the focus drifted deeper into the field.

These entities, amorphous volumes, exerted a tidal attraction that pulled at the equation, drawing it towards each one with dull booming, distant moans, shrieks and a grating, a groaning as of extreme tension. The silver pointer re-wrote itself as a non-linear equation, resisting each attraction and passed unhindered.

A vast grey form seemed to flicker into existence, shadowing the passage. It rolled and rotated emitting occasional thunderous crashes. Within, visible through the-semi transparent intangible boundaries, glows and shadows gestured. Desperately? Trapped?

Not too close! Like a whisper and a word formed in the void before him, pale blue, entered his awareness. It was the word hippo, so called by Spicer, though they have no name, or no single name. With the word came the abrupt cessation of motion and the equation hung there, vaguely curious amongst the hippos. There was the sense of their attraction, like strong magnets or gravitational fields and a slow drift towards the grey morphing blob.

Quickly, the equation wrote into itself a modification to field theory. The drift slowed, almost stopped. Better. Now there came the opportunity for an extension of perception, outward and yes, it all became much clearer. He would have nodded, if he had still had a head to nod. From this more enlightened vantage came the observation of the realm of the hippos.

This is what was observed. The hippos were many and varied. They occupied a void that was all laced with tubes, some of which terminated or began from hippos, others flowing into or through them, taking on their individual colours and sounds. All, toobs and hippos, were not solid, their boundaries inter-penetrated each other and the void, faded or thickened. The void was vast and the hippos many and strong.

Some appeared to be more dominant, imposing like a grey deadness that spread steadily throughout the flow, swamping and enfolding others in a fierce grip. Some were very strong, so strong that if too close an approach were to be made into their area of influence, there would be no escape, ever. Like black holes, bending and trapping light, the individual spark of consciousness would be drawn in and trapped, forever.

That thought horrified him. Him? Where had that him come from?

These questions sent the glittering, ever changing equation scudding back through the mass of tubes, increasingly rapidly, as though he were about to wake up. Not yet, came a feeling, a thought, urgently, noting how this merely increased the speed of his passage. No concern, he thought then, remembering Learner, conjured the benign indifference. The required detachment thus regained, and the lucidity, everything slowed.

It came into awareness that these entities, these hippos, might be something to do with mind or consciousness, might represent constraints, like cages or traps.

The glittering equation, stretched out and contracted, flickered inward and outward in response to these gentle thoughts. Not too much. Observe, observe. The swirl of toobs, plummeting inward, motes of light or shadows move within. The occasional lesser hippo, weak and formless here, rolling by, calling softly. Was there some purpose here? To be here? Or had it already been achieved? There was uncertainty.

Then something different. Mild curiosity as a grey smudge smokes past on its way inward, a thin, shining, golden band randomly peeping. The equation manifests a minimal attention, re-writing part of itself to include magnetic resonance and is drawn along in the wake of the smudge.

The flight is rapid. The golden band hurtling inward, deftly turning and rolling, avoiding the vast bulks of the greater hippos as they loom up out of the void. Some shriek and rage as if their prey eludes them, stretching out bulging preponderances as though to engulf the travellers. The equation is drawn along, gently amused by all the fuss.

Then there came the sudden end to the realm of hippos as the equation that was Trueman, following the peeping golden band and its grey smudge, burst into the enormous spherical emptiness of the inner void, far too huge for its distant opposite side to be made out, a gleaming point of light at its very centre.

Thus they leave the hippos bunching together at the edges of the sphere, forming like a vast shallow bowl, curving away into gloom. There is a calm acceptance as the equation, once more drawn out into a glowing line by the speed of the inrushing, hurtles after the golden band towards the infinitely distant point of white that marks centre.

Dimly there came an interest in this peeping band and its grey smudge. There is something very familiar about it. The interest grows and the feeling that there is a relationship between the golden band and the glowing equation, that they somehow know each other?

The golden band seems to acknowledge this, slowing its flight, curving back towards the wall of hippos, the equation following. The band peeps excitedly, the tone always changing, the peeping always random, never a rhythm. It expands and flips right over the equation then shrinks and, dances? Madly? Almost the equation knows who it is, this fellow traveller. Quickly, it rewrites itself as a series of simple Pythagorean statements and includes the peeping band with a cast strand of itself.

Then there is a dull groaning, for they have come close to the wall of hippos and a blue-black cloud and tendrils manifest close by the golden band. There may be a smell as well which cannot quite be identified but presumably is unpleasant. The blue-black cloud begins to howl with a rough, course texture and becomes more solid in its appearance. Some interaction takes place between the cloud and the band, as though a conflict, the gold discolouring and twisting as though subjected to great energy; its peeping becomes more plaintive.

Quite suddenly the cloud expands, loosing any solidity as it describes a rapidly inflating sphere. The wave front passes through both the golden band and the equation, causing a sickening shudder. The dark cloud begins to solidify, rumbles ominously, projecting thick columns of gloom toward the golden band, a gloom that reeks of the identifiable emotion of despair. There are screams and the smell is of death and torn and broken things like the shattered bones of young and innocent creatures that are dying in agony.

Quickly, as the golden band rolls to dive away, to flee, the equation that is Trueman writes itself out as an instance of a protected class, indifferent. There is the feeling that the peeping squeak of the golden band is not unlike the wheel of a wheelbarrow, in need of oil. Although there is no coherent understanding of what this might mean, the sense of familiarity grows stronger. There is a strong recognition of the need for help.

Shielded from the encompassing dread, there comes the observation of the baleful cloud manifesting as stone, a great rock, heavy with despair, it hurls itself at the golden band which suddenly coalesces into a recognisable body, a body that is now somehow bound to the great rock, as though with heavy chains. Together, rock and body hurtle away, once more into the realm of the hippos.

In the far distance there is a huge darkness that swirling, draws in countless toobs and even hippos, winding and crushing them together accompanied by a cacophony of rending and shrieking. Towards this rushes the boulder like a tumbling asteroid with its babbling captive.

The equation hurtles onward following the rock and its captive as they close with the huge hippo whose many strands of tubes run through uncountable others, binding them all to its narrow purpose. There is the knowledge, solid as a stone sinking, that to close on this titanic whirlpool would be a grave error, for there would be no escape from its enormous pull.

Yet what of the terrified figure, babbling, bound in iron to the hurtling boulder? There is a connection, still visible as the thinnest strand of gold. Is it possible to sow the seeds of that woeful traveller's salvation? The equation writes the briefest message, the figures forming in the golden thread. As it writes, the boulder rolls in, diving towards the outreaching protuberances of the whirlpool’s arms.

Deftly the equation begins to veer away, the thin strand stretching still thinner, the message rippling down its length toward the diminishing figure. There is no consideration of whether this message will or can work, only the increasing movement away from the monster. Even this proximity is taking its toll. The equation discolours with the growing feeling of despair closely coupled with one of righteous indignation, that there should be any need to turn away from this maelstrom. Why not joyfully accept it? Triumphantly enter and possess it?

While still retreating, the equation considers these options, perception still held by the vast swirl, the diminishing boulder and figure as they rush towards the black centre, warping and distorting as they are enfolded into the all consuming monster that rages and howls in a great purple bruise of cloud.

The equation was more and more Trueman as it came rushing out from amongst the hippos, through the increasing complexity of patterning in the flow that became a vast field of pulsating light, a mosaic with no depth, just a hugely complex pattern.

Gradually, over the space of an eternity, or in no time at all, differences appeared and he began to recognise the repetition of particular sequences in the pattern, certain clusters of coloured points. Some of the points conglomerated as vision, some as sound, some as his own thoughts and feelings, nearly there now, with perceived connections between them. Elements of the pattern stood out against what became a background, boundaries appeared that generated shapes, faster and faster, like waking up, until ping! There was a clear inside and outside.

Trueman was himself again, a self, again, in the padded chair, staring at the surrounding virtual studio, the book of the madman floating before him.

Thanks for reading and welcome to new subscribers who may wish to go back to the start if they are interested in following Konsk the meta-pata fiction, some times referred to as a Fantasy For Gardeners, though that might not be obvious from this episode! No worries if you are not interested - simply ignore or delete them as they come in. There will be a few more to come to keep the ball rolling and perhaps get back to something more immediately recognisable!

As always, comments, suggestions, requests (demands?) all welcome. Some useful comments came in last time and I will flag them up in a note shortly. Till then, take care all. Hwyl! Chris.

Note: illustrations are mine except for the first which is a tag courtesy of Argos and Skore (graffiti artists, not the store!) and the last which is from the public domain.