Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place

14 Ancient Griefs Discharged

“Are you back, Spice?” Dawn asked in her gentle voice.

He wasn't sure. Though it was not the first time by any account, he still couldn’t get used to the release of such raw emotion. The hurt he had been feeling had certainly faded and while he could still see it and sense its power, it no longer felt as though its hooks were buried in him, no longer dominated his attention¹.

He could also feel a physical release, corresponding somehow to the mental stuff, in that the pain in his neck had gone. He turned his head about this way and that, exploring the eased tension. The skin at his throat wrinkled like an old turtle.

They sat on folding, wooden chairs inside the visitors’ space, drawn up close, almost side by side. Times past, when they were younger, back at the Little Big Farm, they would sit or kneel on the ground outside or on cushions when indoors, would roll and tumble, laughing or shrieking by turns in the long, hard years after Trueman’s death, until the place had gradually filled with people and begun to resound to the echoes of a great work.

“To be honest,” Spicer said, “I don't get what the fuck's going on.”

Not alone there, Spicer, she thought, feeling energy stir and swirl both within and without her. To be precise, outside was Spicer’s bitterness and rage, The icon she visualised was a bright red, full-face crash helmet. No time was required for this operation. Her attention remained upon Spicer, his long angular body now folded and bent with age. The muscles of his face, tightly bundled, betrayed his still concentrated thought.

“Turn your attention out, now, Spicer,” she lightly chided. “You know you won't be able to work it out like that. Besides, its my turn now.”

Spicer jerked at first as though taken by surprise, then allowed a warm satisfaction to flood him; she needed him.

He turned more towards her, their faces no more than a hand span apart. He watched her closely, marvelled at the way the simple action of time had laid a maze of wrinkles in her face, webs of lines. And her eyes, that blue green-grey, glowing still. His smile became a broad grin.

Dawn realised she had been looking forward to this, expectantly. It was not that Spicer was especially proficient, though he was certainly capable of intense, loving attention, it was rather that their relationship, rooted so strongly in the past, provided unique opportunities.

She turned inward, approached her inner tree with its various icons, reminders of her hurts, already starting to tremble but before she could go any further there came the sounds of shouts and running feet and a young man burst into view. He looked worried.

“I'm so sorry to intrude, elders,” he managed, out of breath. “You are the crone from First Of Many Cantref?”

Dawn swallowed and nodded. She could not stop the labelling process; the brief upsurge of energy was definitely annoyance. She turned back to Spicer in time to see him read it in her face. They both burst out laughing; he with a hint of delighted glee that he had in some way caught her out, she, with relief that she need not cling onto the emotion.

Obviously the interruption heralded something important. She turned back to the messenger and smiled generously. He appeared somewhat relieved.

“There is a request for your assistance from reception,” he continued in a flurry, “They've received video of the retrieval of the latest INCO from the wilderness.” He waved his clip-board as proof.

Dawn noticed her body stiffening. She felt competing waves of hope and fear before integrating them both. By her side, a male reflection, Spicer too was more upright.

“Too fucking easy,” he grated.

“Mind your language! There's a young person present,” Dawn scolded, “You dick-head.”

“Old fart,” Spicer snapped back

The young messenger looked momentarily shocked. They both laughed.

“You don’t need to take us so seriously,” Dawn explained.

Rising slowly with the aid of her stick and a hand from Spicer she went to him and placed her free hand, her right, upon his shoulder.

“We understand the danger,” she continued, smiling reassurance at him. “We are old, from long before the first re-alignment. You’ll have to forgive us for playing with our old habits.”

She had to remind herself that many of the younger people did not know her, or Spicer, as anything other than the semi-mythical founders of the first cantref. It often came as a shock to them that the old couple were as human as they were, still carried such unresolved damage, still resorted to black humour as a defensive game.

“Of course, I, I do,” he stammered then relaxed into her smile.

“May we use your board?” she asked, becoming once more effective.

The messenger nodded assent, unfolded a thin tripod from the back of the board and set it upright before them. The screen lit up.

“Video,” she said, using the command voice, “The latest INCO retrieval.”

“Please,” needled Spicer. She slapped his leg.

The screen displayed first a moving image of a scarred and bloody man, naked, powerfully built, clinging to the First Reserve boundary fence.

“Fucking murderous bastard,” the words squeezed out from between Spicer’s clenched teeth.

Dawn jerked a look at him.

“Any more of that and I’ll have to do this alone, Spice,” she said softly.

“OK, OK,” he raised his wrinkled, shaking hands in surrender. “Wonder what happened to his clothes and kit?”

“I wish we had Learner with us,” Dawn said and then thought, that's a depressing, pointless thing to have said.

“Voice commentary,” she commanded, adding as an after thought, “Please.”

Spicer relaxed somewhat as a woman’s voice quietly stated the date, time and factual details of the retrieval. The video closed in on the INCO, the body divided by the mesh, revealing more detail of the superficial damage. The man twitched intermittently.

“The hands,” Spicer said, “Burnt, so this is the one who took the strike.”

She nodded. This was not the first INCO to have been caught in the wilderness. Whoever was sending them in knew at least something of what she was expecting, was testing them, or setting traps for them.

She muscle read the man framed on the screen. She recognised the patterning, the enhanced tone, the bulging biceps lacking precision, reflecting the use of steroids; the minute differences in posture resulting from the manipulation of nerve clusters and the implanted neural net, usually around the back of the neck. Poor sod, she thought, pityingly.

The INCO stepped away from the fence as a member of the retrieval team approached. Then sat down, suddenly, looking utterly bewildered. She leaned forward.

“Close in,” she commanded. Then again, “Close in.”

“Summat's not right,” growled Spicer.

So he sensed it too. She was familiar with the conditioned INCO fluidity, the imposed calm control which allowed them such rapidity of action; it was absent here. There was another pattern, incongruous, overlaid on the INCO conditioning, both horribly strange and yet also disturbingly familiar. She began to tremble. Was this yet another, even more dangerous false alarm, a deadly trap? Or was it...

“Remember he's been hit by lightning,” Spicer said, “Might explain a lot of the confusion. Reckon It would mess me up a bit.”

The INCO was staring wildly through the fence as the Last Resort retrieval team made their cautious approach; he was trembling uncontrollably now.

“The fuckers,” Spicer intoned slowly, “This is seriously fucked up.”

Dawn drew in a deep, shaking breath and closed her eyes.

“Spicer,” she said, about to reprimand him, or even ask him to go. She got no further. He is only giving voice to my own rage, she told herself, which I should claim for myself. This is fucked up, most seriously fucked up. How can anyone do it, so seriously interfere with human beings, inflict such damage which in turn will inevitably generate still further destruction and madness. When will it end? Can we possibly end it? Not a chance!

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and began to make their slow, dribbling passage across the lines of her face.

Spicer turned from the screen to her, gently taking her hand in his, tenderly patting it as she began to sob.

“Open your eyes, Dawn,” he whispered.

She did so, looking into his face. His own eyes were wet. She cried.

She cried for all the murder and violence of the world. She cried for the hurt and suffering of children. After a time, when she had cleared enough of a way, she cried for herself. She cried for her own lost youth, the pain that had crippled her for decades, that had stayed her hand when she could have done so much more. In the very last, she cried like a baby.

Shortly, she felt completely sane and described most lucidly the necessary treatment².

“We'll have to let him go,” she said, “If he's just an INCO, he'll have some embedded purpose that must come out before we can know for sure. Clean him up and feed him, keep the tag on him and he'll need a minder to support him, possibly two. All the cantrefi will need to be told and be asked to keep clear of him and he shouldn’t be allowed access to a ‘face, though, at some point,” her voice slowed to a stop for a moment. “We will have to allow him to plug up.”

“Last resort’s gonna be pissed off,“ Spicer shook his head. “They won't like having to let him go.”

“I know, Spice,” she replied gently, “but It’s the only way if we’re to sort this out. They can keep an eye on the one who's still out there, in the wilderness.”

She turned back to the screen, watching the INCO moving clumsily off down the path, casting backward glances at the retrieval team behind.

“If it turns out to be who I hope it is, I'll be ready to help him towards the end, if we get that far," she went on, "It will be a great challenge for him, as well as a great risk for us all.

“He’s got a long way to go,” Spicer said quietly. “If it is him, I just hope he doesn’t do anything bloody stupid.”

Dawn started to chuckle and Spicer soon joined in.

“Does the bear…?” He cackled.

Many thanks for reading and thanks for the comments and likes which are always appreciated and remind me that you are out there! More to come soon, till then, hwyl! Chris

1. As the descent continued, existing forms of mental health services became largely inaccessible to most people. In the old country, cantrefi prospects and members underwent basic and advanced training in creative listening skills and support work. Such work became increasingly important as the upheavals in peoples' lives induced by the ongoing descent generated increasing trauma.

The simplest form, often known as “swapping time” or ”speak and listen” provides a good introduction to support work and a brief description can be found here.

Creative or Generous Listening goes a stage further and was increasingly accepted at a professional level, as described by Psychology Today.

Existing voluntary organisations, such as that of co-counselling, also provided accessible alternatives as waiting lists for collapsing health systems continued to rise.

2. Dawn, as a seasoned practitioner, neglects to make use of the Three Questions to mark the end of a session. These are chosen so as to encourage the client to engage fully in the present once more and can be very simple- what was it like the first time you swam? Or what did you have for breakfast? The responses to the questions may provoke further discharge and give an indication of whether the client is really ”back in the room”, rather than still involved in their past experiences.