Day Five

He was a tall, thin man with pale blond hair that more resembled frost clinging to the rock of his head, who wrung his hands and was depressingly subservient, his constant kowtowing to the other Advisors, students, passing birds, had given him a spine like a longbow and while he was a renowned expert on pneumatic control and vocal techniques, most people listened to him out of an uneasy pity, absorbed his tuition fervently in the hopes that he could at least stop worrying about the success of his students.

The meeting had been mostly uneventful, a report on the progress in experiments dealing with poly-tonal species, their verbal communication, and the effects this had on emotive responses in standard humanoid subjects. It was a pet project of Ovid's, and he had been unusually ebullient, his hands flitting about as he discussed differences in muscle structure, vibratory resonance, hormone compression and release.

His thoughts had appeared to the Council as flashes of lightning, almost too agitated to read. A word had stood out even from the blinding thrash...Listen. The Adam aspect made a soft noise in its throat and Ovid looked up, startled, trailed off like a stuttering firecracker. Poor man, some soothing was required.

'I am pleased with your results, Head Advisor. Your work has been consistent and your progress more than satisfactory. We are finally in the grasp of the shramta and while this perfect balance can not last, the second will be easier to create than the first, and your research will assuredly advance the causes of the College Narrate in those sub-species that yet prove resistant to our guidance.'

A smile fluttered on Ovid's wide mouth and he bowed deeply to the Council.

'I look forward to continued reports. What news of the worlds do you have to share with me?'

It was the question that concluded all meetings with the Council and created consistency as well as hope for a quick escape from the dizzying chamber. Ovid rolled the hem of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, the gesture was hypnotic.

"I...there was a strange occurrence in the market over in Solips earlier today when I was picking up my Erudian translator from the shop with the flat green roof and arched windows."

As his training took over, Ovid's nervousness fell from him and his words became beautifully shaped, their tone and timbre precise and elegant.

"The warmth of the early morning spread over the square, its tiles of slate and granite painted, worn away, painted again with a score of elaborate geometric patterns, said to be prayer circles from a far off desert planet long forgotten, its core dead and cold. Women and men, many with broad-brimmed straw hats or lengths of sleek cloth wrapped around their faces, moved rhythmically to their destination, the murmur of a dozen languages and the bell sounds of the rings some had woven into their hair vanishing like mist into the wide violet sky.

A Martly appeared at the western end of the market, scales dripping from his skin like tears, his simple suit of clothes worn and stained. The desperation in his lidless eyes caught the attention of those near him, and they moved away as if he might explode into violence. His voice was a low croak but he pushed it past cracking to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

'Where you all be will rise dust, rise wind, gather storms of dirty air and white blood. Returning to the stream of heat, your delivery into far gardens where the fingertips of your gods curl, nibbled by belief, pocked with grief for your fear and the death of your eternal enemy. You will find your heart there, the heart will rend the throat with grief, the split of your tongue will whisper a name, that name will guide you. What is now is right and wrong and we will move to the place of beautiful delivery.'

When he had finished, the stiff webbing on his neck rose and fell, quivered with the effort of breathing. The Martly seemed spent and when I helped him up, could barely form the words to thank me.

'Where are you from that you prophecy in this place? We need no gods here.'

A shudder went through him and he stared into the distance, suddenly weeping.

'I visited the place, I listened for truth and now go out where the words drive me. Someday, I'll be done but I don't know when.'

He patted me with a limp hand and stumbled into the crowd. My translator in hand, I returned home to the Central College and then to meet with you."

Ovid drew three sharp breaths inward without exhaling, released it slowly and the half-trance of the Narration fell from him. The light left his dim blue eyes and he gazed worriedly at the floor.

The Adam archetype smiled beatifically and the wide door portal shimmered into activity.

'Thank you, Head Advisor Dea-Pereleon.'

"Do you need me to record the experience?"

He shuffled towards the door but kept his face fixed on the ground beneath the Council, the swirling mists that had increased their speed and evident agitation. Usually the Council shared its opinion on the news he brought, a sagacious perspective that simultaneously cheered and humbled Ovid, refreshed his determination for the sometimes tedious research he performed. Today the golden figure stared forward, smiling, unseeing. It was a nerve-wracking sign.

"I will aah....assume yes."

The Head Advisor bowed swiftly four times, each as involuntary as a sneeze, as smoothly as if his torso was filled with oiled bearings, then scurried through the door, leaving the presence of the Council.