— meaning
Elegy / kaleidoscopic summertime, play ball
It was a dark night, and he was the storm. Seen first, heard later.
A thick, black curtain of oaks silently parted, giving the lead actor purchase onto a stage fit for a fairy tale, a bygone stone bridge sequestered deep within a forest. The passage of ages had pruned the forest's voice; her issue first fertilized the local community and then, after an age, the national treasury. A mute, drab shell of her former self, the forest opiated herself with dreams of the mythological past as hiking trails were cleared, marked, and advertised in travel brochures printed on the remains of distant relatives petrified with gloss.
Perhaps unwittingly, but always in the noble name of conservation, humans have cultivated boxes of civilization and re-packaged them as "nature" for consumption. As such, it is only natural that we miss the forest for the trails, for everything outside these mewing boxes of simultaneous nature and civilization is merely scenery; a wood-logged, stone bridge, out of sight, out of mind, outside of human common sense.
Therefore, it must have been fate that a wanderer found himself between the worn capstones of this disused, forgotten bridge; or rather, because the wanderer was The Second Magician, the Old Man of Jewels, whatever he encountered became fate.
"You got to pay. . . the troll toll. . ."
A starlit flash, and a great thump without a retort.
The pulsing after-glow of spent jewels revealed a bridge troll cowering at the opposite end of the bridge. Thin trails of smoke and magical energy simmered atop his smoldering, stonish cast. As the afterglow melted into the night, the Magician stepped into the smothering darkness to bring this act to a close.
Clack. Clack.
The stately march of time metering the troll's final moments.
Each step was made without haphazard, murderous impulse or the inescapable deep-seated bloodlust common to his species. Unlike the majority of his species, the Magician valued life — all life. He appraised it as correctly as he appraised his jewels. But, the Magician had important places to be, although he didn't know they were important until he arrived. The bridge troll in his path did not earn a high enough grade. By custom, scrap jewelry was melted down and reused as ancillary material to adorn a finer piece. Seekers of Magic might deem the Magician's upcycling superfluous, even whimsical, but, then again, Kishur Zelretch Schweinorg had confronted the moon on a simple whim.
"Are. . . you. . . master?"
The Magician halted. Only the gentle rustling of dreaming trees and the river's hoarse serenade lingered.
A minute passed, before, "Are. . . you. . . master?"
The question was repeated because the bridge troll did not know any other way to express himself. Yet, if those three words were already an exhaustive description of the troll's feelings, wouldn't additional dialogue be gratuitous? Maybe that was why any intelligent being would dismiss the troll's answer as an unsatisfying naivete that communicated no real feeling; it gave no sense of a conscious being much less a compelling personality. Then, there was absolutely no reason for the Magician to engage the troll he stumbled upon.
"What do you seek?" The Magician asked.
The habit of a jeweler scrutinizing any possible inclusions with his prismatic loupe?
"Are. . . you. . . master?" The same reply.
"Where do you seek it?"
"Are. . . you. . . master?" A meaningless call and response, filled with nothing but a faltering fate.
Imagine finding an uncut jewel of unparalleled clarity lying on the ground. A rare, possibly exceptional object but of little value if even the smallest amount of processing would blemish or crack the facets. Far better to kick the pebble back down the riverbank. It should remain underneath the bridge as a figment of a forgotten fairy tale the forest wordlessly trolls in her dreams.
"Where are you trying to reach?"
Silence, the beginning of a noise, and then a furtive retreat back to silence. That was the bridge troll's answer. Inwardly sighing with a twinge of disappointment, the Magician turned on his heel and began walking offstage, across the bridge back towards the oaken wings. The Magician valued all life, and more importantly, he appraised all life correctly. The bridge troll's grade had neither appreciated nor depreciated, rather —
The cold moon peeked out from the angry, almost bloated clouds that blotted out the night sky, washing the bridge in a lucent spotlight. A wink at his old nemesis like tonight was the punchline to a great joke that was just a misunderstanding. Since the Magician had a bad habit of tripping over rocks, he instinctively looked back.
"Are. . . you. . .ma —"
Once again, the same words, but. . .
Where are you trying to reach?
The bridge troll had followed the Magician to the other side of the bridge.
"This is why life is interesting."
The Magician smiled and the troll, not knowing what a smile meant, attempted to mirror it.
What a horrifying expression.
"Inter. . . resting?" With his grey mouth still bent out of shape, the troll tested the syllables.
"You are smiling right now because you are interested, enjoying yourself, having fun."
"Fun. . ."
What a sincere expression.
"Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg." The name tasted strange on his own tongue. The need to introduce himself had been slaked more than a millennium ago. "Do you have a name or something you wish to be called?"
Without any indication if it was the former or the latter, "Retch."
One letter away from "reach." If the Magician was surprised, it was not expressed. After only the barest nod, he finally walked away.
The troll continued to smile as he followed the Magician, now his master. Although the troll had no concept of interest, enjoyment, or fun, the Magician had said they were all things he would have if he continued to smile.
The Magician and his new apprentice exited the stage. Their footsteps grew softer and softer until the night was once again silent, save for the ever-trickling water that flowed under the bridge.
Suddenly, Flat awoke.
What a farcical and nonsensical production. His bearings. Where was he? The afterlife, the multitude of netherworlds that no longer physically existed, or the Spiral of Origin itself was most definitely not a dilapidated, blood-spattered 1LDK that belonged in the back alleys.
Alive then, still alive.
Flat attempted to hack out a derisive laugh, but all he could hear was the river's hoarse serenade. Cognizant and therefore alive, but without a mouth, without a voice. He took in panicked, rapid-fire breaths only to realize that he also lacked a nose. At least he wouldn't miss the scent of dead cat that must overwhelm this hovel, because, of course, out of Cat Hell and into Pet Semetary.
Despite his current state, the narrow cone of vision darted left and right in search of an exit. In the center of the hovel was a lone steaming cauldron filled with chunks of tough meat simmering in brackish broth. Directly above the cauldron, roughly cut mountain vegetables and small, dried game hung from truck towing hooks hitched to the ceiling, the bottom of the bridge.
To the far right, where the bridge's arch met the riverbank, was a primitive sleeping area. The worn, collapsible memory foam mattress was the type a feline film crew would discard after caterwauling throughout the night. They successfully loaded all this equipment into the Kyatillac for this location shoot, so why wasn't there enough space left to pack it back up? At the base of the mattress was an ornate treasure chest speckled with flecks of dried blood, and littered around the chest were piles of river sand, dull rocks, and —
There! A small raft made of river driftwood held together by dried vines and cured catgut. His way out, but without a body, Flat couldn't move. . . he wondered if that was how it had felt all those years. What if —
Salvation cut short.
[ruby=The World]A troll's abode in a Nordic national park[/ruby] distorted. No longer a dweller of the demonic sphere, Flat could not perceive the ribbons of flowing magical energy smothering the salvaged furniture. But, the mere activation of High-Thaumaturgy altered the physical world. Phantom camping chairs and plastic tables filled the space, continuously fading in and out of existence. The troll was no exception; hundreds, if not thousands, of ghostly trolls were sitting, sleeping, stewing — each one wearing an emerald pendant.
The litter surrounding the treasure chest was the epicenter of the distortion. The dull motes shimmered like speckles of starlight as the crystallization was mystically catalyzed. Accelerating and expanding without restraint, without apology, the runaway reaction mined substrate from the riverbed until each mote of jewel dust was the size of a fist. An unseen hand pulled the glittering building blocks together, sculpting each facet as the jewels coalesced to form a distinguished golem. All initiated into the World of Magecraft knew the dark robe, heavyset features, and chiseled jaw. Despite the exactness of the likeness, it was only a statue cut from gemstones. Like Flat, no breath flowed from those crystal lips, hewn from a riverbank.
That is, until the ghostly figures vanished and space was rent apart.
The Wall Between Worlds broke down only to be quickly reassembled by the coercive status quo. Yet, during that infinitesimally small moment of no-time, something arrived from the other side.
The soul of [ruby=The Old Man of Jewels]Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg[/ruby].
The deep eyes momentarily glowed and the jewel golem jerked to life. No, no longer a golem. The movements were too precise; the expression was too lifelike. Father Time himself had materialized under the bridge.
"Mas-ter . . ."
The troll growled those two syllables, scratched out from the back of his throat and proffered a camper's mess filled with steaming liquid to the Wizard Marshal of the Clock Tower, Magician of the Second Magic, former student of the King of Magecraft, and the Third-Ranked Dead Apostle Ancestor.
The vampire who had no need to consume such slop took one look at the contents and said, offhandedly, almost roguishly. "Still perpetually stewing in your own juices, Retch?"
"Troll sleeping. . . in bed. . ." After handing the bowl of stew to the Magician, the troll eyed a few cubes of meat floating atop the broth. He promptly scooped up a large piece and cannibalized it. "No worry. Enough leftovers for breakfast, Master eat."
Flat agonized over the troll's nonsensical remark while Magician and apprentice ate. Yet, as his consciousness manufactured imagined depths of meaning to an invitation to help oneself to stew, Flat's attention continually wandered. The Magician Dead Apostle Ancestor was a puzzle box that definitely had more than one layer; a worthy opponent, especially one who had bested Flat, deserved to be ruminated over. Yet, watching the old man deliver spoonful after spoonful of slop into this mouth washed away Flat's impotent resentment and replaced it with simmering, unbodied frustration. He partook in the troll's slop for no other reason than to put the troll at ease. At ease! A Magician should be above this, he should not so quickly abase himself to lessers. Better, he should be better because —
Immediately after the duo finished the meal, the troll cleared the plastic table, replacing the salvaged camping dinnerware with four types of objects Flat recognized:
A pair of dice with the Casa's logo embossed on the single pips.
High-purity doublet jewels that could power golems.
Carved lengths of draconic spirit root.
Azoth daggers of varying lengths.
Monaco, the Seventh Labyrinth of Alcatraz, Spirit Tomb Albion, and The Wandering Sea. How long had it taken the troll to trace Flat's own journey step-by-step? Flat was so close. An explanation would crest as the wave of thought passed his subconscious, only to break on the tip of Flat's nonexistent tongue before quickly ebbing back into the undertow of his unconsciousness. His mind repelled completion lest it be choked with dread. The why didn't matter.
After briefly inspecting each object, the old man rummaged through his robes and laid a fifth object that Flat had never seen before, a five-sided star embedded in the center of a circular frame.
"Get to work, Retch. There's no time like a present."
A present. . .
". . .Among other things, he is to craft a certain Mystic Code."
Kishur Zelretch Schweinorg had been telling the truth the entire time? The troll had truly been assigned to create a Kaleidostick (whatever that was) from these ingredients as summer homework? Then, when the troll insipidly said Friend. . .
"It would be good for him to have a guardian spirit —"
That incessant word could only mean —
If Flat had a mouth he would have roared in laughter. A harsh, self-derisive laugh that rolled from his belly's depths. Zelretch, the Second Magician, had been the final boss Flat planned to encounter, the final obstacle standing between him and escape. Flat committed every effort, every resource, every fiber of his very being to challenge this titan who was making sure a children's toy was the right shade of green. Only to be beaten by a troll. Ah, to the Wizard Marshal, Flat was just another ingredient that belonged on that table. Once again, an ingredient. That's all he had ever been.
As Flat's consciousness fractured and spasmed at the revelation, he was lifted higher and higher, towards the ceiling, until he hung from a towing hook next to some half-dried rabbit and mountain turnips. Overlooking the troll at his mediocre work, the magus dangled. No arms, no legs, no body. Circling, as if floating. A pendulum did not need a push. The rotation of the Earth provided both the initial=final momentum, proving that a fixed point in this hovel, in this cosmos, did not exist. Sealed in the troll's emerald pendant, Flat drew and would draw the same motion, the same circular pattern, regardless of location, regardless of space, like he was a moon orbiting a hypothetical planet.
A valknut, three interlocking triangles, was carved into the troll's emerald, the birthstone of fae May. The Gallows God's knot not only fastened a glamor that altered the troll's appearance but had also secreted Flat's mind into the jewel — like a brain in a jar.
Was this how [i]it[/i] had lived?
There had been times when Flat wished he had been born with a brain and nothing else — he now realized that was a mistake. Passion, desperation, bitterness. Each emotion filled his consciousness to capacity for both a moment and all eternity before flickering away, replaced with the next equally fleeting but domineering emotion. Adrift in an overwhelming present, unable to consider past and future, was the terminal state of formless knowledge devoid of all earthly needs. A magus always lived hurriedly; the maxim no longer rang true for a disembodied consciousness in a pendant. Under such circumstances, what else could the mind do except endlessly dream?
Cutting into doublet crystal with the Azoth daggers.
Combining the spirit root shaft with the cut doublet crystal.
Carving various stabilizing formulae into the spirit root shaft.
The troll handled the flotsam anyone could find in the trail of Flat's pilgrimage with a hand so deft that it could have been mistaken for practiced. There was no forgiving such routine — without forgiveness, there was no need to dream. But what else could replace dreams; reality had always been such a poor substitute.
Reality was a stupefyingly banal troll performing a fragment of True Magic. Flat requested, nay, demanded to have the genius defined to him. It was an abhorrence to nature that a creature capable of such profundity in motion could not string together a coherent sentence. Deeper. Scarier. Once, Flat had been a "natural genius" too, marrying agency and action through pure instinct. He had known the "how" behind the troll's Magic all along; he just never wanted to accept he and the troll were the same — were, the same.
Obvious and dull.
What runs through a great slugger's mind when he stands in front of the strike zone, bases loaded, struck out twice, and a stadium awash in the opposing team's colors under a blazing mid-summer sun?
Maybe, when the troll invoked something as cliché and trite as "hit ball twice," he did not compose and then combine hundreds of formulae in his Magic Circuit, speaking to the World to propel himself beyond the rules of the consensus. Maybe, it was a simple imperative to be obeyed, like "Play Ball" once was. That is, what if the troll's vacuous vapidity was not the cost of his divine gifts, but his essence was 「 」?
"It's past time to give Ruby her sister, but I'm saving her for someone else. Either way, being a detective's sycophant doesn't suit you. You might be green, Retch, but he's always the greenest weed in Velvet's garden. He can't help it, Messara makes him that way."
The Second Magician, Zelretch took the green jewel from its hook and motioned towards the cheap, star-shaped toy, the headpiece of Kalediostick Emerald.
Flat's transfer from emerald to Kaleidostick was excruciating. A disembodied consciousness did not feel pain, yet as the troll held him above the doublet crystal that would serve as Flat's foothold in the Mystic Code,
There was meaning.
The magus formerly known as the Idiot Genius' refrain.
Only those who had once been divinely gifted were capable of articulating and animating the value of the gift they traded away for self-consciousness, the excruciating self-consciousness necessary to accumulate knowledge intentionally, selectively determine a destination, and purposefully shoot for the moon, the excruciating self-consciousness that summoned awareness of one's reputation as a teacher destroyer, awareness of all the evils in the world, awareness that he would have to go on casting that same smile over his face for the rest of his life.
The self-conscious refrain that trolled: value can not be intrinsic; it must be born at the very end.
More powerful than any incantation, it was a declaration that no matter what plans this Magician and this troll might have for him, they could not take away the Sinker's dignity.
Becoming a Mystic Code because you lost at a game that high school baseball club members who couldn't get into a college team invented? The troll and Flat's younger self would both beam at the prospect, taking it as a novel matter of course because they had never felt the sheer frustration of knowing that you could fail when it mattered: the niggling voice in your head asserting that it was possible to miss the ball, that it was possible to say the wrong thing, again, because even if you were okay that no one else saw the same destination that you did, you hoped, you dared hope that at least someone else also glimpsed a different horizon. And when Flat ran away from the entrance to the El-Melloi Classroom, certain that no one else did, that bend in the road was excruciating — as excruciating as admitting this troll who was everything he had been, had received everything he ever wanted.
"If it's any comfort, there's a you out there who found a good mentor."
And maybe still wanted.
There was meaning. There was meaning. There was meaning.
A professor who guided without imparting anything. Such a meeting of the minds between master and apprentice was as miraculous as stumbling across an uncut jewel under a bridge on a dark and stormy night. Each magus Flat apprenticed under inflicted part of themselves, their methods, their expectations, their ideologies onto that planar canvas, slowly but surely bending it until the edges folded in on themselves. So, Slugger, if my future is in your hands, then, at least, please, at least, let me assign significance to that past. What I've done, what I've suffered, what I wanted to achieve for. . . Thia, who gave up on me and sank like a stone, leaving me behind, afloat. Even if I admit that I hate being alone more than I like being right, being right was all that was left. You, of all things, don't have the right to take that away from me, to wash away my right like it's water under the bridge.
"When Kaleidostick Emerald has finished stabilizing, throw away that troll doll, Retch."
The troll shook his head, not to disobey but to disagree.
"Can't eat Zel. Full. Strange troll, Retch bed." He pointed to the bloody rags above the wooden chest. "Retch stronger. Clothes fit. Meat tender. Leftovers for breakfast."
As each drop of Flat's spiritual information was wrung from jewel to jewel, an iridescent leaf threaded with crystalline veins sprouted from the Kaleidostick's headpiece like an insect wing. The emerald had been a prison, but this Mystic Code could substitute as a body. His control was burgeoning, tentative, but if he concentrated. . . the wing flapped once, twice. With a mixture of self-disgust and delight, Flat tested the limits of his influence, extending his consciousness as far into the Mystic Code as was currently possible. As more spiritrons were transferred to the Mystic Code, his connection to the external world grew stronger, and the dream-like fog hanging over consciousness began to dissipate, unveiling the betraying thought submerged just below the surface of Flat's consciousness. Dislodged from the tip of his tongue, the answer to an almost-forgotten question now firmly wedged itself to the forefront of his mind.
Hit by read, it had always been hit by read.
If so, how many times had the slug of a troll and Flat — a Flat — played ball?
So then, how many times had the troll arrived home, found himself sleeping in his bed, and made himself into stew for dinner with enough left over for breakfast?
The first thing a Magician's pupil was required to endure was a hell where they might accidentally destroy the universe. No wonder the Old Man of Jewels' apprentices died or went mad. There was simply no other option for magi who became a Magician's pupil. Self-destruction was inevitable for self-conscious creatures like Flat. But, if magi were the death of common sense, that troll was a natural disaster that distorted the supernatural.
All the opportunities across time and space, and the troll wished for nothing more than to play a burnout's version of baseball. It was said that anyone could hit a baseball if they simply pursued the technique. Yes, in theory, anyone could learn to hit a baseball with enough time and practice. Quantify that statement. How much of each was enough? And more importantly — how much farther had the troll strayed from enough?
[ruby=Friend and Friend and Friend and Friend and Friend and Friend] Again and again and again and again and again and again.[/ruby]
How many instances of the same play date with the same person would it take for someone to get bored? How many more of the same play date would it take for someone to go insane? How many more still before realizing that taking your own life was vastly preferable to repeating this stupid game of diminished baseball another time?
That was why Flat's smile was good magic. He had run away from the question, yet saved face. Unlike Flat, that sincere smile on the troll's face was not a crooked line scribbled on with mystery, it was a parabola where both ends flared into fathomless infinity — 「 」.
So then. . .
How many times has that troll tried to assemble this very Mystic Code with my spirit?
Pain-wrenching, blood-curdling panic without reprieve. The sheer dread, the pure dread, the utter dread blocked out every budding sense, feeling, process. Forget Magic, forget the current state of being. The Magician and the troll were filled holes, the first saw through everything, the other had everything scooped out. They were looking at different "destinations," the same different Flat, in his younger days, had yearned to share with another. How ironic that he was reunited with the real deal after he tossed away the cat's pajamas.
Refrain. Refrain. Refrain.
The human life I have lived weighs more than the Earth. There was meaning.
Yes, it didn't matter how many Flats had come before: pitched themselves at this troll, were trapped in this very emerald, forced to watch the troll eat stew made from himself. They weren't him, they couldn't be him because he was right here and nothing could change that.
"Retch, when you finish Emerald, throw out the doll." The Magician repeated. "Playtime's over."
The troll froze.
"Playtime. . . play. . . ball. . . over. . . ." he murmured absently, sausage fingers lingering over the glowing heart of the Mystic Code.
Flat could feel the troll mustering all his intelligence to agonize over the possible consequences of a decision he was being asked to make. Flat wordlessly screamed. Not out of frustration, but because he could no longer ignore the inevitable.
How many times has that troll tried to assemble this very Mystic Code with my spirit?
Or rather, why had there been so many tries?
The gut-wrenching answer — the number never mattered because the troll could not conceive that tomorrow could be more fun than today, but even so, please, refrain: because there must have still been meani —
Crack
On the verge of completing his assigned summer homework yet again, the troll groped to the conclusion that he favored eternity over infinity. Retch's strength was derived from his state of abyssal pre-awareness that everyone else had eagerly sacrificed for survival, knowledge, and inclusion. This primal innocence may allow the troll to wield Magic, but it precluded the troll from inheriting the [ruby=Magic]path[/ruby].
A magus' true quality is studying to reach higher places.
A magus' true nature is the paradox of becoming dumber the wiser one became.
Thus, the opposite must be true; however, that type of enlightenment could not accomplish the one feat that designates someone as a Magician.
It could not create a miracle, for it had no want for a miracle.
Pick a road. Like a chicken, a troll who has crossed a bridge on his own accord will meet you on the other side. Without question. Without motive. Without meaning. Only so the punchline can be verbalized.
Emptiness without awareness is meaningless.
Awareness without emptiness is degenerate.
Magic can only be found in the paradoxical estuary where the fresh water of emptiness mingles with the brine of awareness. So, until the troll chooses to forgo a fun today for a different tomorrow, he will only repeat each day, reveling only in the [ruby=crossing]present[/ruby] and surrendering everything else to the water under the bridge.
"Broke. . . Master."
The Wizard Marshal deliberately looked over the Kaleidostick and shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Summer's good for three things, Retch. Hawaiian shirts, surfing, and trying the day again until you get to tomorrow."
He said without method, expectation, or ideology because once upon a dark and stormy night, the troll had sparkled with both emptiness and awareness. An experienced jeweler does not overwork his pieces, he merely sets them in situations where their natural luster becomes so apparent that even the jewel itself can no longer ignore the truth. It didn't matter how long, how many repeats, how many Flats it took. The Jeweler was Father Time and no matter the era, [ruby=Magic]science[/ruby] is always in the midst of a replication crisis. Appraisal was an art, and good art, like a well-told fairy tale, was something the Second Magician still appreciated.
Retch smiled at the thought of another play date with Friend. His signature genuine smile without any reservation that tomorrow would be the same as the today which had been the same as yesterday. It was a nightmarish reverie of an eternity trapped between two mirrors facing each other. Eventually, that was shattered.
"Let's be off. I've yet to assign this band's Nagato any extra credit." Zelretch motioned to the broken Kaleidostick before exiting.
Retch frowned as he gathered up the two halves of the Kaleidostick. The headpiece was a star-shaped child's toy with budding iridescent leaves that shimmered emerald, and the spirit root handle was tapered off at the base where a pair of casino dice hung.
Slowly, Retch walked over to his bed, knelt, and opened the wooden chest the trespassing troll who had been dinner tripped over. Master had asked him to fill this box with failures. However, no matter how many failures Retch placed inside, the box never seemed to fill, as if the box was bigger on the inside. The space inside the magical box was distorted, a singularity that was consistent no matter the timeline. Retch didn't know what that meant, but it hurt looking at all his failures — he must do better. That's what Zel always said.
Yes, tomorrow he should do better. Finish making a Kaleidostick like Master wanted.
But also play ball. Make a new bat, and then definitely, play ball with Friend. Tomorrow. Yes.
Retch couldn't wait.
With the exuberant dismissal of a child done with playing with a toy for the day, the troll tossed the broken Kaleidostick into the wooden chest and followed Master outside to meet with a Nagato.
The Magician and his apprentice had vanished, yet the little alcove under the bridge was not silent. If one listened carefully they could hear the rushing water from the river or the calls of the animals outside. There was one other sound, a faint, broken hum from the wooden chest next to the troll's, all the trolls', mattress.
Straining one's ears, you might barely be able to make out three comprehensible words from the unfinished, broken, or failed Kaleidosticks inside, all repeating:
There was meaning. There was meaning. There was meaning. There was meaning.
Locked in a box, the refrain from the jewels, neither dead nor alive, cast dim arrays of light recursively reflecting and refracting each other, forming a kaleidoscope.
