Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place.

45. Lost in Dreamtime.

There's like a sea of energy, or like a vast ocean whose currents and tides ever merge and flow together. There are limits, though this ocean has no shores, no bottom, is boundless in all directions yet somehow it has a surface or interface.

If this is like an ocean, then in this ocean there are no differences, save only movements, like tides or currents. These movements combine and interact in swirls and whirlpools of flow that manifest and persist for a time before merging once more with the greater body. Thus there is local change while also nothing changes.

In these little twists and knots of flow, these merest suggestions of separate existence, the illusion of permanence may appear. Here is just such a little knot or twist of flow; as a spiral swirl in water, or the ripple pattern resulting from the interaction of wave fronts; it is not separate from the greater flow, yet it appears to persist for some small time.

The little swirl makes sudden spins of motion, bursts out into more complex flows, enlarges, contracts, not unlike breathing. In these subtle interactions with the greater ocean within which it lives and moves and has its very being, further differences are created; the little whirlpool begins to stand out from its larger self. With slight changes to its own internal currents, as though it spurts itself in thin streams or jets, it moves, darts about in relation to other faint clouds of movement, gains internal coherence.

Almost it takes on form; the drawn out swirl of motion is like the bubble filled eddy left by the flexing tail of a salmon as it leaps. Or as though an ink filled quill is twirled through water, the dark trail at first distinct then rapidly fading, blurring into a myriad of minute vortexes that spin into nothing.

Yet there is no quill, no salmon; the little trail writes itself, fades and rewrites itself. If a light existed in this ocean that could illuminate such a tenuous manifestation, could catch each intricate twist of current in its golden beam, we might discern this coil of movement as something akin to a glowing stream, might conceivably attribute some independent existence to it, even a separate intelligence. There is no such light, yet none is needed, for the little swirl may become aware of itself without a light. It does so.

It does so and with that action, that fundamental division, differences appear. The greater hippos take on the semblance of form; they roll and broil in the ocean of energy, themselves only concentrations of movement, barely defined within the volume of ocean from which they too draw their very being. Our little twist of current, that in a particular time and place is labelled Trueman (for it is he) is dwarfed by the immensity of their ethereal bulk.

Observation occurs; the little twist whirls and spins in the sudden vortex created by the plummeting passage of a mottled burst of colours, yellow and green and blue, all interlaced and flecked with motile points of gold and silver and like a tumbling, laughing, bubble of joy and boundless energy that is a bright morning in the spring of youth.

So this hippo, so called, manifests in thought all that is young and shining, from the innocent chatter of new born things to exploratory leaps and bounds beneath green canopies. In its deeper recesses, tubes uncoil and reach out toward other hippos, enriching the thought with concepts of companionship, growth, love. Or death.

Death; here is a slow, roiling, cloud-like mass whose purple blur spills out and sucks in, deepens to crimson, fades into pale blues at its periphery where it dissipates, becoming indistinguishable from its surroundings, out of which it arises. In this representation, the action is accompanied by sound, that of howls or shrieks, as of a fierce wind blasting across a barren heath, or a tearing, a ripping, not unlike flesh being forcibly removed from bone.

These observations generate further differences. Our little twisting spiral of movement takes on more form, that of a glowing equation that busily writes and rewrites itself, thus maintaining the separation and some subtle sense of identity, though not yet too much. In turn, others appear or become manifest in the flow; here is the golden band with its accompanying smudge of smoke or mist. In its apparently random peeps or squeaks, the equation can detect something of recognition, of delight. Also, something of a warning.

As this latter concept arises, the great purpling gloom of the death hippo sprouts further tubes that lace the ocean of energy, like an intricate cage of coiled bars, both interconnecting and dividing the vast spaces between the hippos. The feeling that it gets a little bit scary corresponds exactly with the approach of a denser great purpling bruise of a cloud that spits the occasional slivers of toobs like long, green sparks to penetrate the muddy bodies of other hippos and toobs alike. The slivers, like lightening strikes, appear to suck in something of the motion of whatever they penetrate, leaving the victims thinner or fainter or slower or darker. Or, as though swallowing up the energy of a vortex in great gulping draughts, leaving nothing at all save only a momentary absence of movement.

Our gleaming spiral rewrites itself as a complex, recursive field equation that rolls and turns in upon itself, darting between the flickering shards flung out by the abysmal cloud. There comes a depressing groaning at the lack of contact. This is shared neither by the glowing equation nor the golden band whose peeps take on an exuberant, challenging quality. Together the equation and the band tumble and cavort, sharing in each others’ currents and eddies, slowing to draw the sparking fire then dashing off in a great spiral, fast beyond reach. The abysmal cloud lets off a groan like a wet, slobbering fart as the two catch a passing current and sweep themselves away.

As the field equations’ solutions reduce from infinity, curiosity arises, manifest as a yellowish surrounding mist. For it becomes clear that the golden band has some purpose, that it is not only intent upon going somewhere but also that the presence of the equation is desired. The yellowish mist whitens with a tinge of excitement.

A change has occurred; the realm of the greater hippos has receded. Here are only a myriad tubes all flowing in coils and spirals. Though still faintly transparent they appear somewhat more distinct, as if approaching solidity. The equation writes itself a simple subroutine that moves it closer to a tube.

Even in the rush of its passage, the equation can discern that still there is no clear boundary; the apparent surface of the tube simply breaks into a myriad, minute whirlpools that intermingle with similar vortices in the surrounding ocean, such that the two simply flow together and through each other. Yet the tube maintains its apparent form. So it is with the two travellers, the gleaming equation and the peeping golden band wearing its sooty smudge like a vague cape.

Despite the coiling and supercoiling of the toobs there is a growing sense of direction in that they appear to arise from the distant realm of the greater hippos and move towards some equally distant something, perhaps a surface or horizon. The gleaming equation's yellowish cloud of curiosity produces whitening splodges of excitement, becomes frilly at its non-existent edges. The frill trembles in nervous anticipation as the two companions in their rushing passage move even closer to a specific tube. This tube is broad in comparison to many and its coiling is slow and huge, so much so that such local observation renders it almost straight. The two hurtle along its length, closing with the awesome complexity of its apparent surface.

Closer still they move, despite the grey of worry that tinges the curious cloud surrounding the equation. Closer still and the apparent surface becomes like a rippling sea, the many wave fronts interacting in hugely complex patterns that send flickering ripples spiralling along the tube in both directions, faster even than the streaming passage of the two.

The sooty smudge closes and appears to touch then passes through and with a little peeping squeak the golden band enters the tube. The glowing equation draws its curious cloud about it like a glove and follows.

The speed of their previous movement is as nothing now, compared to this slick hurtling within the tube. The equation rapidly rewrites itself to include both time and space as variable parameters, is able to recognise, in the sudden tumult of sound, the fact that others also share this tube, moving at varying speeds, in both directions. The tumult of sound is multicoloured and various and includes the squeaking cry of gulls circling a dump and the wail of a lonely comet, amongst many others.

Almost too quickly to be apparent, the density of tube and travellers increases and ahead, for now there is an obvious direction, the crystalline form of the matter horizon takes shape. The equation manifests a puff of blue panic as it attempts to rewrite itself as a set of linear co-ordinates but the gold band simply lets out a peep of amusement.

The tube they occupy is suddenly multiple and they are separated, following different routes. The glowing equation is aware of the last peeps or squeaks from the golden band as it draws away.

From the swirl of energy, like the grain of sand that becomes a pearl, a focus of attention appears. It is no longer a glowing equation that writes and rewrites itself, barely apart from the great ocean of energy but rather a distinct consciousness, its many layers forming shell-like about its guarded centre.

Thus Trueman went down, differentiating the flow into his distinct, separate senses, holding himself in to fit the new confines of his individuality. And as he descended, again, as he forgot, again, he also remembered. Images of home entered his mind, of the Little Big Farm on an autumn morning, the leaves not yet fallen but brilliant orange and gold in the clear light.

Someone was singing and at first he thought it was Dawn, perhaps in her maze garden, poised over some plant, basking in its heady scent. The nearness of her was like a warmth that he could feel in his chest. As he attempted to move, to go towards her, Trueman realised that his eyes were shut. He was momentarily confounded then decided to open them. It took an effort and let in not just light but a blur of sound which he was unable to resolve.

He tried to make sense of the flat wall of colour. It might be a face, he mused, identifying cursory features that could be eyes, nose, mouth. Lips. Yes, lips, thick and red; did he recognise them? The flat image suddenly billowed into a third dimension as he made the connection. His eyes focused and he looked through a grey mist, up into Nonna’s deep brown eyes.

“How’s it going, Troom?” she questioned huskily and touched a hand lightly to his forehead.

Trueman felt the warmth in his chest and a tightness in his throat. He attempted to reach out to her but could not move and instead awakened a flickering pain that rippled through his limbs before centring itself in the back of his head. He groaned.

“OK, Troom,” Nonna whispered, doing something to his arm.

“You’re going to be fine,” she reassured him. “Hang on, Troom, help's on the way.”

He seemed to be on his back, under a clear, blue sky with black silhouettes like great birds wheeling down towards him. There was something wrong with his eyes, as though he was looking through frosted glass. Someone, Annest? Standing, patch pulled down over her left eye, looking up and seemingly talking to herself. It felt as if they were high up. The roof of the stadium? If so, how had he got here?

“Where'th Jodi?” He managed a few words.

Nonna smiled, grimly?

“Don't you worry about her,” she said, “Jodi'll be fine. She can look after herself.”

From somewhere below, (inside the stadium?) sounds resolved into gunfire and the occasional scream.

Trueman began to drift. Nonna's face faded into the blue sky. Then everything turned black.

Thanks for reading and welcome new subscribers. If this is your first read, you’ve come in literally at the deep end! Check out my home page for the first episodes of this patafict epic. Illustrations are mine except the tag by Skire (very red). If you’re not into fiction, no worries, its not compulsory, just ignore or delete. Comments welcome. Hwyl! Chris.