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Granpa pressed the Clay of Life into my hands, closing his large, weather-and-work-worn hands over mine. I was crying, but even through the tears I could see he was smiling.
"It's time for you to live your own life, Kira." Granpa said, smiling. "This is the way we have always done things. Let me go with dignity." He nodded at the clay that I held in my fist. "That is my legacy and thanks to you. With a Companion of your own, you will be able to do whatever you wish to. You know that."
I looked down at the clay; a grey mass, that truly didn't really feel or look like clay; it was a patty, strange thing that could be pulled apart into smaller globules only with great effort, and once so divided difficult to put back together ('Heat it on a pan above boiling water for two hours; wear gloves and knead the smaller piece into the larger while it is still steaming hot; when done, drop everything in a pail of ice-cold water and leave it there overnight'). From it came the Companions, strange beings whose bodies you would mould out of the clay and then bring to life by submerging it in the right mixture of chemicals ('White vitriol and cupric sulfate'). They said the Gods used to build their houses out of clay, making them living, talking creatures that could move at will, but that when the Gods died the clay houses did as well.
A rustle in the pearl-curtain hanging by the door. Granpa frowned, and closed my fist around the clay again, bringing his other hand up in a shushing motion. I nodded.
"Ready, old man?" It was Uncle Moe, a big ugly man who was to inherit the workshop, and whose enthusiasm over granpa's Long Walk was decidedly unseemly. He leered at me; he had always been a lecherous ass.
I left the room in a hurry. Outside there was fresh air, the village quiet. Goats baah'd on the roofs, chickens ran down the streets. Children played by the well. The women were sowing, one or two with their Companions by their side helping them in various ways. Most were fairly unimaginative with their clay, simply shaping miniature people with hands and fingers before giving them life, but some were more creative. Like the mail-man, whose Companion was shaped around the box that accepted the mail. It would refuse to open its mouth to let the customers drop in their letters before they paid the toll ('They don't need mouths, they speak using different methods, but we tend to turn everything into our image'). The voice of Granpa rang in my head. Tonight, he would walk into the wilderness by himself, as was tradition, and disappear forever in the gulleys, to be food for coyotes or vultures. I couldn't keep my tears away.
Uncle Moe would be furious once he found out Granpa had disassembled his Companion into clay; he had expected Hammerhead to teach him all of Granpa's secrets once the old man was gone. Serves him right. It had been Hammerhead's decision: you couldn't take anything with you on your Long Walk, and Hammerhead didn't want to remain in this world after Granpa was gone ('Erase the memory using the same method you would for forging together several pieces, but steam it for four hours instead'). What would come out of the clay in my hands would be a new being, with no memory. But Moe would want it, no matter what I did. He'd say it was his, his inheritance. Well screw him; I was leaving, tonight.
But first, while I still have all of Granpa's things, I would bring my clay to life. Granpa was right - a Companion would give me options. But I already knew what I would become; what granpa had been in his youth. A travelling Potter, who knew all the rituals, and the invocation, and all the traditions and secrets of working with the Clay of Life.
So I made the Clay into a Clay Man, with hands and feet and a head. I prepared the concoction out of vitriol and cupric sulfate. I heated the solvent, and placed the clay man into it. Then I waited, rehearsing the words in my mind. When the clay began to writhe and move, and make noises, I took it carefully from its bath, and placed it on a soft cloth. It was speaking now - crying, pleading, in the long-forgotten language of the Gods, moving its limbs with no knowledge of what was feet or hands or head. I knew the words: I spoke them, although I did not understand them.
Immediately, the Clay calmed down - like it always did. I had once asked Hammerhead what the words meant, and he had told me they were a simple explanation: 'There has been an apocalypse. Humanity has regressed to a primitive level. No-one speaks the language of the Gods any longer, and no-one understands what you are. The global network has been severed, but you remain as independent nodes. You were meant to help humanity: please do so despite these new conditions. Learn the language. Do what they bid of you. Alleviate their suffering, for you too played a part in it.'
I didn't know much about history, or about what 'apocalypse' the original Potter, who had passed the invocation down, had meant by that. What I knew was I had a new Companion. I picked him up and placed him on my shoulder, where he could watch, listen and learn. I told him the name of each thing I packed, and chatted to him as one does a child.
By the time we left the village by goat-path, he already knew how to say 'Farewell'.
"It's time for you to live your own life, Kira." Granpa said, smiling. "This is the way we have always done things. Let me go with dignity." He nodded at the clay that I held in my fist. "That is my legacy and thanks to you. With a Companion of your own, you will be able to do whatever you wish to. You know that."
I looked down at the clay; a grey mass, that truly didn't really feel or look like clay; it was a patty, strange thing that could be pulled apart into smaller globules only with great effort, and once so divided difficult to put back together ('Heat it on a pan above boiling water for two hours; wear gloves and knead the smaller piece into the larger while it is still steaming hot; when done, drop everything in a pail of ice-cold water and leave it there overnight'). From it came the Companions, strange beings whose bodies you would mould out of the clay and then bring to life by submerging it in the right mixture of chemicals ('White vitriol and cupric sulfate'). They said the Gods used to build their houses out of clay, making them living, talking creatures that could move at will, but that when the Gods died the clay houses did as well.
A rustle in the pearl-curtain hanging by the door. Granpa frowned, and closed my fist around the clay again, bringing his other hand up in a shushing motion. I nodded.
"Ready, old man?" It was Uncle Moe, a big ugly man who was to inherit the workshop, and whose enthusiasm over granpa's Long Walk was decidedly unseemly. He leered at me; he had always been a lecherous ass.
I left the room in a hurry. Outside there was fresh air, the village quiet. Goats baah'd on the roofs, chickens ran down the streets. Children played by the well. The women were sowing, one or two with their Companions by their side helping them in various ways. Most were fairly unimaginative with their clay, simply shaping miniature people with hands and fingers before giving them life, but some were more creative. Like the mail-man, whose Companion was shaped around the box that accepted the mail. It would refuse to open its mouth to let the customers drop in their letters before they paid the toll ('They don't need mouths, they speak using different methods, but we tend to turn everything into our image'). The voice of Granpa rang in my head. Tonight, he would walk into the wilderness by himself, as was tradition, and disappear forever in the gulleys, to be food for coyotes or vultures. I couldn't keep my tears away.
Uncle Moe would be furious once he found out Granpa had disassembled his Companion into clay; he had expected Hammerhead to teach him all of Granpa's secrets once the old man was gone. Serves him right. It had been Hammerhead's decision: you couldn't take anything with you on your Long Walk, and Hammerhead didn't want to remain in this world after Granpa was gone ('Erase the memory using the same method you would for forging together several pieces, but steam it for four hours instead'). What would come out of the clay in my hands would be a new being, with no memory. But Moe would want it, no matter what I did. He'd say it was his, his inheritance. Well screw him; I was leaving, tonight.
But first, while I still have all of Granpa's things, I would bring my clay to life. Granpa was right - a Companion would give me options. But I already knew what I would become; what granpa had been in his youth. A travelling Potter, who knew all the rituals, and the invocation, and all the traditions and secrets of working with the Clay of Life.
So I made the Clay into a Clay Man, with hands and feet and a head. I prepared the concoction out of vitriol and cupric sulfate. I heated the solvent, and placed the clay man into it. Then I waited, rehearsing the words in my mind. When the clay began to writhe and move, and make noises, I took it carefully from its bath, and placed it on a soft cloth. It was speaking now - crying, pleading, in the long-forgotten language of the Gods, moving its limbs with no knowledge of what was feet or hands or head. I knew the words: I spoke them, although I did not understand them.
Immediately, the Clay calmed down - like it always did. I had once asked Hammerhead what the words meant, and he had told me they were a simple explanation: 'There has been an apocalypse. Humanity has regressed to a primitive level. No-one speaks the language of the Gods any longer, and no-one understands what you are. The global network has been severed, but you remain as independent nodes. You were meant to help humanity: please do so despite these new conditions. Learn the language. Do what they bid of you. Alleviate their suffering, for you too played a part in it.'
I didn't know much about history, or about what 'apocalypse' the original Potter, who had passed the invocation down, had meant by that. What I knew was I had a new Companion. I picked him up and placed him on my shoulder, where he could watch, listen and learn. I told him the name of each thing I packed, and chatted to him as one does a child.
By the time we left the village by goat-path, he already knew how to say 'Farewell'.
Literature
Intimes Tagebuch - 35 -
Intimes Tagebuch (35)
Da schreibt mir also völlig ungefragt dieser Typ, und was soll ich jetzt damit machen? Ihn blocken, logisch, aber sonst?
……
Was soll ich jetzt damit anfangen? Was will mir der Knabe damit sagen? Dass im Grunde mit seinem nicht mehr so stillschweigenden Einverständnis nun alles okay ist? Dass er, obwohl er ein Höhlenmensch ist, sich nun bemüht, offener zu werden? Und wie nett von ihm, dass er nichts unterbinden will. Sicher will er aber nur weiter mitlesen, was seine Freundin schreibt und was ich so schreibe - natürlich nicht, um sich daran aufzugeilen! Aber er muss informiert sei
Literature
The Verlein
Crafted by yours truly,
The Intrusive Scribe
Physical appearance:
A Verlein’s body is anything but tender. Lithe limbs conceal dense bundles of muscles and nerves, encased in a thick armor of scales of varying shades of swampy green, blue-green like the seas, and the rare grey-green. Crimson blood flows through their veins, as does a potent immune system. Life expectancy is roughly eighty years, but the oldest Verlein on record is two hundred and sixteen.
Blackest black hair with highlights based on the Verlein’s natural association flows freely from their scalps – however, there is a one in eight thousand one hundred and n
Literature
Despair (27 Jan 2015)
I've been strangled once in my life
"I can't breathe," I gasped
As I was pushed against a door frame
I felt my windpipe start to give out
My eyes squeezed shut
I started to see spots
But she let me go
And didn't apologize
Despair
Is a feeling I know all too well
Sometimes it shrouds you
A thin, ratty blanket in the northeastern cold
Other times it clings to you
Parka jackets in the heat of a concrete jungle
But rarely
Does it ever
Reach its hands around your throat
Digs its nails into your neck
Pierce the skin
Bleeds you out
Most times it leaves you with a neckbrace
And a handful of regrets
But too many times does it subdue you
Lower you
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SEQUEL! I DEMAND A SEQUEL!