Descending Road - FERDINAND ABOARD A MIND, BLINDED by Dana W. Paxson

FERDINAND ABOARD A MIND, BLINDED

He floats in the space of his mind, and I stare from within him, feasting on the banquet of his ideas. He’s alone, his physical body resting back in his private room. The innards of the Archives tower around his hanging inself, great shafts of coruscating light that curve away above and below him in vast toroidal loops.

I do not know this place in the Archives. Is this the past?

All around him stand ordered tree trunks, surfaces seething with colors as the questions in his mind boil up in his consciousness and sparkle into tantalizing vapor. All the history and wisdom of the world of Tarnus and the Earth of its past is his to explore, but none of it matters to him. He is here as a thief.

Secrets. Why do the great shafts darken in this one part of the Archives, exactly when he asks about the builders of the underground Cities? He lives in the largest of the Cities (as do I). His recollections sweep across me: the Cities are the bedrock-delved miracle of Tarnus, the salvation of the Colonists from Earth, the once-vacant hiding places in which humans found safety during one huge outburst of the sun of this world. Now the Cities teem with human life, fueled by the wisdom of the Archives and their ties back to a long-gone Earth. He rubs his arms against the penetrating cold. Something doesn’t want him here.

He focuses his mind more closely on an Archive image of an empty street in Gran Dar, the largest and deepest of the Cities, his home. In his image, the street surface bears the inlaid metal symbols and images he knows from years of walking there, on Upper Tranzara Slope, in his early life as a boy.

I watch intently – I’ve never been there, not where he recalls.

Tranzara Slope, a wide street, its bedrock ceiling gently arched, winds its way up in a swelling helix around the central vertical axis of the City, in the shape of the single, delicately narrow, unbroken peel of an orange left close to the surface of the fruit. It ends at the top in a broad, domed hall, where the great families, the collectives or colls, meet to govern.

The inlays in the Slope lie undeciphered; their language is not that of any human civilization described in the Archives. He summons up the memory of one of the symbols, and holds it in his mind like a talisman.

Darkness slams into him like an attacking animal. He reels, bounces against one of the Archive shafts, recovers, holds still. What is this? He gropes in the dark, blinded somehow, and fights to bring the symbol back to mind.

Pain spreads like flame through him until he screams and curls himself into a knot. I cringe, expecting pain, but it is his. He drags the symbol back, and tries to burn its profile into his consciousness, hurl himself at the redoubling burning stabs, the symbol blazing in his mind. Back in ordinary space, lying in its chair with the lightwires of inself hooked in his brain, his physical body strains, sweating, bowels and bladder loosening with the struggle. His heart stops its thumping.

I can’t bear this. I try to break free from him, but I am caught as I was in the arms of a woman here once, writhing with desire and self-disgust and longing and loathing all at once. Finally I stop struggling and wait. With a pain beyond endurance, death comes to him, and I am in blackness.

His eyes open. The towers of the Archives rise about us, but their spacing is irregular now, and they appear strictly vertical. Instead of simple trunks, they now seem full and softly-glowing trees, heavy limbs branching out into dense tangles shrouding the space above and below him. He hangs suspended. I wait again.

His hands in this place look thin, and his breathing, the inself measure of his consciousness, is shallow. His heart pumps slowly. What is this place? He brings the symbol back. Now the nearest tower surges and spasms open, and a homunculus emerges, huddled into a fetal ball. Floating free, it uncurls into a small naked humanoid figure, its limbs short and stumpy, its skin a deep indigo. It says, “Nyurtazh treizali.”

He replies, “I don’t understand.” The Archives always translate between Share and the other tongues and dialects of Tarnus, even reaching back to summon up the ancient languages of Earth if needed. Here, the Archive translators fail.

The small figure’s deeply-creased face works, a sign of an Archive search. Then it says, “Your speech. Are you First Departure?” Its accent thickens the vowels to nearly-liquid forms of the adjacent consonants.

He mutters “First Departure” at the Archives, asking for the reference. A soft female voice whispers, “Colonist from the first wave of starships to leave Earth.”

“Yes,” he says to the pudgy figure.

There were later starships to Tarnus? I didn’t know that.

“What do you want here?” The face grimaces.

“What is this place?”

“This is Second Departure space. Now, archives for the dead.” The little figure laughs, a grating on metal.

He shudders at the sound. “Second Departure?” he whispers.

The soft voice says, “A Second Departure ship arrived here first from Earth. Its drive was superior.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Did the Second Departure people make the Cities?”

The little figure nods. “They made everything in the Cities, too. The symbol you used is a name for my kind.”

“What are you?”

“I am a… deathmaker. My task is to destroy ideas in a mind, so that they can be recreated elsewhere.”

This makes no sense to him. “Who creates the ideas you destroy?”

A shrug. “That is not for me to know. Since you should not be here, I will remove this place from your mind.” The deathmaker floats nearer to him.

He backs away. “I will find it again.”

The deathmaker shakes its head. “I think not.” As the man turns and spreads his arms to flee, small hands seize his temples. A flash of purple light blinds him, and he floats, stunned and groping, among the shaft-trees of the Archive forest. His hand finds a tree, and he draws closer to it until he can embrace the trunk.

A dark music surfaces in his mind, deep tones slowly pulsing inexorably as a thin thread of very high, whistling melody wanders nearer. Confused, he blinks his eyes, squeezing them hard shut and opening them wide until the dazzle subsides. He no longer knows where he is.

Neither do I.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	FERDINAND ABOARD A MIND, BLINDED He floats in the space of his mind, and I stare from within him, feasting on the banquet of his ideas. He’s alone, his physical body resting back in his private room. The innards of the Archives tower around his hanging inself, great shafts of coruscating light that curve away above and below him in vast toroidal loops. I do not know this place in the Archives. Is this the past? All around him stand ordered tree trunks, surfaces seething with colors as the questions in his mind boil up in his consciousness and sparkle into tantalizing vapor. All the history and wisdom of the world of Tarnus and the Earth of its past is his to explore, but none of it matters to him. He is here as a thief. Secrets. Why do the great shafts darken in this one part of the Archives, exactly when he asks about the builders of the underground Cities? He lives in the largest of the Cities (as do I). His recollections sweep across me: the Cities are the bedrock-delved miracle of Tarnus, the salvation of the Colonists from Earth, the once-vacant hiding places in which humans found safety during one huge outburst of the sun of this world. Now the Cities teem with human life, fueled by the wisdom of the Archives and their ties back to a long-gone Earth. He rubs his arms against the penetrating cold. Something doesn’t want him here. He focuses his mind more closely on an Archive image of an empty street in Gran Dar, the largest and deepest of the Cities, his home. In his image, the street surface bears the inlaid metal symbols and images he knows from years of walking there, on Upper Tranzara Slope, in his early life as a boy. I watch intently – I’ve never been there, not where he recalls. Tranzara Slope, a wide street, its bedrock ceiling gently arched, winds its way up in a swelling helix around the central vertical axis of the City, in the shape of the single, delicately narrow, unbroken peel of an orange left close to the surface of the fruit. It ends at the top in a broad, domed hall, where the great families, the collectives or colls, meet to govern. The inlays in the Slope lie undeciphered; their language is not that of any human civilization described in the Archives. He summons up the memory of one of the symbols, and holds it in his mind like a talisman. Darkness slams into him like an attacking animal. He reels, bounces against one of the Archive shafts, recovers, holds still. What is this? He gropes in the dark, blinded somehow, and fights to bring the symbol back to mind. Pain spreads like flame through him until he screams and curls himself into a knot. I cringe, expecting pain, but it is his. He drags the symbol back, and tries to burn its profile into his consciousness, hurl himself at the redoubling burning stabs, the symbol blazing in his mind. Back in ordinary space, lying in its chair with the lightwires of inself hooked in his brain, his physical body strains, sweating, bowels and bladder loosening with the struggle. His heart stops its thumping. I can’t bear this. I try to break free from him, but I am caught as I was in the arms of a woman here once, writhing with desire and self-disgust and longing and loathing all at once. Finally I stop struggling and wait. With a pain beyond endurance, death comes to him, and I am in blackness. His eyes open. The towers of the Archives rise about us, but their spacing is irregular now, and they appear strictly vertical. Instead of simple trunks, they now seem full and softly-glowing trees, heavy limbs branching out into dense tangles shrouding the space above and below him. He hangs suspended. I wait again. His hands in this place look thin, and his breathing, the inself measure of his consciousness, is shallow. His heart pumps slowly. What is this place? He brings the symbol back. Now the nearest tower surges and spasms open, and a homunculus emerges, huddled into a fetal ball. Floating free, it uncurls into a small naked humanoid figure, its limbs short and stumpy, its skin a deep indigo. It says, “Nyurtazh treizali.” He replies, “I don’t understand.” The Archives always translate between Share and the other tongues and dialects of Tarnus, even reaching back to summon up the ancient languages of Earth if needed. Here, the Archive translators fail. The small figure’s deeply-creased face works, a sign of an Archive search. Then it says, “Your speech. Are you First Departure?” Its accent thickens the vowels to nearly-liquid forms of the adjacent consonants. He mutters “First Departure” at the Archives, asking for the reference. A soft female voice whispers, “Colonist from the first wave of starships to leave Earth.” “Yes,” he says to the pudgy figure. There were later starships to Tarnus? I didn’t know that. “What do you want here?” The face grimaces. “What is this place?” “This is Second Departure space. Now, archives for the dead.” The little figure laughs, a grating on metal. He shudders at the sound. “Second Departure?” he whispers. The soft voice says, “A Second Departure ship arrived here first from Earth. Its drive was superior.” He doesn’t hesitate. “Did the Second Departure people make the Cities?” The little figure nods. “They made everything in the Cities, too. The symbol you used is a name for my kind.” “What are you?” “I am a… deathmaker. My task is to destroy ideas in a mind, so that they can be recreated elsewhere.” This makes no sense to him. “Who creates the ideas you destroy?” A shrug. “That is not for me to know. Since you should not be here, I will remove this place from your mind.” The deathmaker floats nearer to him. He backs away. “I will find it again.” The deathmaker shakes its head. “I think not.” As the man turns and spreads his arms to flee, small hands seize his temples. A flash of purple light blinds him, and he floats, stunned and groping, among the shaft-trees of the Archive forest. His hand finds a tree, and he draws closer to it until he can embrace the trunk. A dark music surfaces in his mind, deep tones slowly pulsing inexorably as a thin thread of very high, whistling melody wanders nearer. Confused, he blinks his eyes, squeezing them hard shut and opening them wide until the dazzle subsides. He no longer knows where he is. Neither do I.