What are “Tumbled Dreams”? These are the posts I made to my tumblr during the week because I felt they did not warrant a separate post on this blog. However, these “interstitials” often explain some of the backstory to the larger dream posts. For those readers that only read Three Different Ways, they may help explain some of the characters and sudden changes in plot and direction.
~~~
On the surface, it looked like a dream about fountain pens and inks. Not surprising considering my purchases on Thursday and my delight for the written word. So at first glance, it appeared I was brokering an agreement between a buyer and a seller at a private fountain pen showing.
At first glance nothing seems as it is.
But the illusion wavered. I knew that was not what was happening here. The two gentlemen were anything but human. And the items on the table represented more than just pens, nibs, and inks. Tokens. Everything was a token for something else. Something that I was not to know personally about.
They needed a neutral third party to broker the exchange. And I was it.
When my facial expression betrayed I knew of the subterfuge, they both caught their breath. Whatever it was, if I saw the truth of it, there would be no way for me to continue my role. I acknowledged to them both that I knew a glamour was over the proceedings and the tokens. I knew neither one of them was who or what they claimed to be. And I knew this was a desperate last ditch attempt to settle things peacefully before having to resort to force.
“So, now that we have the game rules established, shall we continue the game? Sir, would you describe the condition of your fountain pen, nib, and the colors of the inks you wish to make available?”
The ‘gentleman’ on my left sighed in obvious relief. I was annoyed at being brought in blind, but I understood the importance of remaining ignorant. He placed his token on the table. Two vintage fountain pens, one a family heirloom, the other an acquisition from another brokering. The original nibs that came with each. And four bottles of ink. One a true black, one a business blue, one a editor’s red, and an accountant’s green. All ink bottles were new and unopened.
The ‘gentleman’ on my right placed his tokens on the table without prompting. One new fountain pen, recently made. A functional collector’s item, the barrel was made of steel with gold highlights. The nib was all steel, however, with no fanciful markings. Two bottles of ink. One was a “bullet-proof” black. Once dry, it would not dissolve in water and was immune to alterations. This was the type of ink used on official documents. The other ink was claimed to be blue, but the bottle looked filled with plain water. I asked him if this ink was a hue-changer.
“This bottle is a representation. My… fellow knows of which hue I mean. I did not bring the actual ink with me. If he shows good faith, I will have it made for him.”
I understood. Once all tokens were on the table, the negotiations began. Contracts for service by various subordinate units were offered, discussed, some agreed, some rejected. Demands for more nibs or other ink colors. Strangely, there was no arguing… er… discussions about the fountain pen bodies. Those were immediately accepted.
The negotiations were intense. Hands flew to ritual daggers several times. I found the power I held at the table. If I commanded anyone to shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down, they were compelled to. I kept the two gentlemen from beginning their war right then and there. I noted we were surrounded by armed forces. They stood just far enough for me to barely see them. They stood close enough to intervene if necessary. None of them belonged to me.
Finally, the price for the exchange was agreed upon. A parchment was produced, and with the very pens they were offering, I instructed both men to write out in detail their terms for the exchange. This demonstrated the tokens were being used in good faith. Both men verbally agreed to what was written. I produced my own fountain pen and lowered my hand to sign the document making it binding.
~snatch~ My mother bursts into my room over the protestations of my daughter. Her favorite gaming device had frozen up and she wanted me to reset it quickly. The sharp awakening confused me, and in the distance I heard accusations of betrayal. One of the gentlemen thought I had been an illusion meant to trick him from his goods. Shit! I gotta get back! She left my room before I could hurl the device after her. My daughter took the gear, read the look on my face, and told me to lay back down before I lost the connection to the Other Place I was completely.
When I emerged back at the table, it was chaos. The document I was about to sign had been torn up. The table had scorch marks and gouges. The two armies were itching to charge each other around us, but were not at total war just yet.
The first gentleman was ready to open all cannons on the spot. But the second gentleman was reminding the first that they knew Weaver was a Living Human and would sometimes be snatched back to the Waking World without warning. Be patient, he said. Weaver would be back, he said. He sat calmly, with four of his greatest warriors around him in attention. His arms were folded and his eyes were closed in demonstration of that patience.
“What the fuck is going on here? I can’t turn my back on you two for five hot seconds? If you did not trust me, then why the hell did you bring me here in the first place!” The second gentleman barely hid a smirk at the sound of my words. The first gentleman stopped brandishing his ritual dagger and stared at me.
“How do I know you are Weaver!” Now the first gentleman brandished his dagger directly at me in threat.
“You both verified my identity when we sat down. You both know I have a human component and that sometimes intrudes at the worst of moments. You have all the means to verify my identity again, right now, if you stop being a paranoid little bastard and think. Now. Call your men back to position, put that surrogate penis away, and sit down so we can start this all over again because the final document has been destroyed!”
I did not sit but stared the first gentleman down until he complied with my demands. I turned my attention to the second gentleman and his four guards. I nodded at them and raised an eyebrow. In response, the second gentleman bowed his submission to my authority and dismissed his guards. They saluted me, and returned to their position on the periphery of my vision.
I glared at them both until both men bowed formally to me again. I sat down and took an imperial air at the table. “So. We begin again. I am Weaver. You have called me here to broker an agreement between the two of you, using the implements of fountain pens as the tokens of your resources. If you are not going to complete this agreement in good faith, dismiss me now. Otherwise, no one leaves until I release you. Do you wish to continue?”
The second gentleman quickly agreed. He took his ritual dagger, still sheathed, and carefully laid it by my right hand with deliberation. The first gentleman wrinkled his face in twitchy anger. He snorted his agreement and tossed his sheathed ritual dagger by my left hand. If it had touched me, I would have gutted him with it.
Deliberations began anew, but now the first gentleman demanded more from the second. The second asked for the same terms as before, nothing more, nothing less. Because of the first gentleman’s petulant antics, what originally took a few hours to broker turned into an all night affair. His paranoia and greed continued to trip up negotiations when I called for a final document.
But in the end, both sides wound up receiving less. The second gentleman declared the first was not worthy of the “bulletproof” ink, and only the specialized ink would be available. In retaliation, the first gentleman withdrew all inks from his offer, and demanded more resources to pay for the heirloom pen.
The second gentleman made a great show of deliberating on the cost. It was a display that I saw through quickly. He had no interest in the heirloom pen. He wanted the other one. As far as he was concerned, the heirloom pen was worthless. The total cost to him was all tallied to the acquired pen and nib. A barely concealed smirk that the first gentleman did not see, told me the second gentleman was paying far less than he had budgeted.
It was not my place to relay this to the first gentleman. It was my place to keep them from going to outright war and to supervise the proceedings. It was not my place to play their games for them. I was just the referee.
At last a final document was written up. Both gentlemen agreed to the change in terms. Both gentlemen agreed the sale was final and could not be contested by legal means. Both gentlemen signed the document and finally, so did I. I duplicated the parchment so that one went with the first gentleman and one went with the second gentleman. I was told once I leave the table, the actual exchange of goods would take place, as the glamour that hid the tokens’ true identity would be dropped then.
I handed both gentlemen their sheathed ritual daggers at the same time and with very formal posture. Mostly because I still wanted to kick the shit out of the first gentleman for his childish behavior. I declared my part of the proceeding over and left the table and realm.
I woke up with a headache. As I started typing this up, my mother tiptoed into my room, apologizing for intruding. She stores some of her clothes in my closet and didn’t want to wake me. Annoyed Keri is annoyed as fuck. And wondering if her intrusion last night was a power play by a third party. Coincidence? Not in the realms I walk in.
~~~
“[Bear (To/From) The Stars], why did you fill the sparkles of my eyes?”
“Because you see.”
“But I still don’t know your stories.”
“You haven’t been looking.”
“How will I know where to look?”
“You will know, when you remember your own words. You will find my stories in all the places the [white men] say is dark, but is filled with light. You will find my stories when you stop looking with [white men] eyes, and start looking with your own. And the light I filled your eyes with will show you the way.”
~~~
A investigating Anon asked: “The two ‘gentleman’ trading fountain pens. What were they wearing?”
When I realized it was all a glamour and illusion, I really didn’t think it would matter what they looked like. After all, they were playing to imagery I would initially take as safe and benign. (I used to broker comic book exchanges. There’s a reason I would demand a deposit from some folk before doing so.)
Gentleman Number One initially came across as a middle-aged man trying to recapture the spirit and coolness of his youth. Zip-up silver windbreaker with a reflective strip down the arms for night visibility. Black jeans. Brand new sneakers tied carefully (and careful not to get scuffed). It Might Be Gold But It Sure Ain’t A Rolex watch with a huge mother-of-pearl watchface. There was a peek of a light colored shirt under the windbreaker. Several gold chains about the neck. Some were pulled sharply down by the weights of pendants, but I didn’t see if any were medallions or such. Diamond stud earrings. And an hairline that receded in the 70’s and never came back. You could tell he had a small frame, but “let himself go”. Suffers from Small Dog Syndrome.
Gentleman Number Two is smooth like the Italian suit he wore. Business gray, with enough of a sheen to the fabric to let you know this isn’t from Men’s Wearhouse. You can tell he has a high-caste bearing to him, but he doesn’t rub it in. If you know, then you know, if you don’t know, then don’t worry about it. A few rings of the proper size to match the flow of his hands. The meaning of them is important to him. A silk tie of a shimmering and deep blue. A gold bar holding the collar. He may have been fit twenty years ago, but now he has the portly shape of a well-rounded businessman. He doesn’t try to hide it, but he doesn’t flaunt it either. Black hair with a proper cut. And a deep voice that speaks in measured tones. Doesn’t demand attention, doesn’t give it away either.
Both armies appeared as Roman legions. The colors of Gentleman Number One’s army were black and brown. They had shadows around them, making them hard to see. You didn’t know if they were at This Point, or three inches to either side.
The colors of Gentleman Number Two’s army were red and gold. They made no attempt to hide their position, and made themselves very apparent. Highly disciplined and focused, they reflected their lord’s attitude.
~~~
A bone-burner died. I was given the task of setting fire to her final pyre with her body in the core of it. I did. But now I have things to think on. Also found what happened to the Camera Man’s body. His flesh was devoured. His bones, lacking his spirit, turned to ash the moment the fires touched them. The Ravens said the minions took his hands so if he escaped the phurba, he would not be able to do anything.
After waking I realized a possible reason for the pyre being so large. I need coffee to deal with this flush of anger.
~~~
There’s a gap in public dream posts here. Offline events dovetailed into online bullshit and I placed myself on an Internet lockout. To my surprise, I was locked down Over Yonder as well. Whoever kept me out of trouble went to great lengths to distract me from seeing I was in the dream equivalent of a rubber room. They didn’t distract me well enough. But I did not fight against it, because I needed the rest, and the distraction was quite entertaining.
Tumbled Dreams will resume on March 30th.
~~~
Make of that, what you may.