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Dry River A conversation with Yeesha

#1 User is offline   Talashar 

  • oglahneth (ancient one)
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Posted 02 February 2013 - 09:32 PM

Here's something from my "snippets I wrote a while ago but haven't done anything with since" file.


“It's meaningless,” Yeesha said, and swept the books off the table with her arm. “All meaningless.”

“Writing again?” Calam asked from the doorway.

Yeesha didn't turn to look. “A little. Tampering with the position of the linking panel – it's one of those things that even they knew how to do, but it is bound up with so many great secrets...”

“I see. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Have we ever held back from asking one another questions?”

Even without looking she was sure that Calam was stroking his dark beard. “What was the last Age you wrote?”

“A branch of Ahnonay. I thought the irony was amusing, and it might prove useful some future day.”

“The last original Age, I mean, not a branch of someone else's.”

She chuckled. “That was a very long time ago. Was it Tsoidtahv, perhaps?”

“An attempt to imitate Ri'neref's great achievement.”


“You were trying to follow in Gehn's footsteps, my child.”

Yeesha half-smiled; she saw where this was going. “Relto, then.”

“Yeesha, desert bird, you know as well as I do that Relto was not original.”

“What does it matter? I have broken all the boundaries that held the D'ni back. I know more about the Art than even the greatest Grand Masters of old, and I have put my knowledge to good use. I am the Grower. Do you deny it?”

“You are a great writer, the daughter of two great writers who filled a library with their Ages, islands and deserts and jungles with wonders beyond belief. And what have you done? Filled up books with repetitive scribblings, notes in the margins of others' works.”

Yeesha closed her eyes tight. “I read between the lines. I am the only one who can.”

“Why don't you write? Why can't you?”

“Because it doesn't matter!” Yeesha lowered her head to the desk, still looking away from Calam. “That is the secret. We mean nothing to the Maker; our lives and deaths are like inkblots. Is Kadish alive or dead? Is my mother alive or dead? Am I alive or dead? It means nothing. The turn of a page, and the inkblots make new patterns. Why should I write? The Ages are there regardless. And my mind is fecund with visions, but like all children they are born to die in the end, so why should I bother bringing them forth? That is why they are called the beast people. They are not like us, who plan for the future and rule our passions with foresight. They are kind or vengeful according to their natures. So simple. So clear. So foolish.”

“I remember Veovis before the fall,” said Calam. “I was not one of his close acquaintances, but he was the greatest Writer we had seen in centuries, and we met on many occasions. He was proud, with that terrible pride that was turned against him in the end, but for all that he did love D'ni. What do you love, Yeesha?”

“I loved my father, but I have gone places he will never be able to follow. I loved my mother, and my brothers too, but they are dead. I loved you, but I caused your death.”

“Inkblots, and you never even tried to turn the page.”

“It doesn't matter,” Yeesha said again. “What I do doesn't matter. I am a tool in the hand of the Maker. I have become a beast, for I have eaten fruit from the tree of knowledge. Please go. I have nothing more to say and I am so, so tired.” After a while she turned around, and once more she was utterly alone.

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