Sunday, May 28, 2006

The Last Story in "the Collection" is the New One - and it's a love story.


You know this. Of course you do. But I was there.

For a time, a decade or two, in old Redoubt, words were powerful. The Mechanism behind the world within The Bottle Grande (the vast underlying machinery and all that shifts the substance of that which drifts within the Endless Sea) became suddenly attentive and talk grew significantly more puissant.

It was not so much that people would believe anything, but that the Mechanism would.
A chaos of unbridled chatter reigned for a moment, but that swiftly gave way to something else. Those that spoke well rose high and fast and he spoke well, my Master, James Collins.

“Eloquence is reality,” He said to me, once — when it was literally true — after he had come back early from Parliament; they had whispered a swift close to the day, all those powerful garrulous folk tired of powerful talk. “And reality is bound by words, the right words, the appropriate ones, and then those words are truth. That is the source of power. Which is why one must always be careful in what one says, or even writes.”

“Right you are, Sir,” I said, brushing his jacket free of snow and dirt. “Right you are.”
He laughed at that, his bright eyes flashing. “Oliver, I am certain of the air and earth’s attentiveness, but do you ever listen to a word I say?”

Then he was gone, striding to his rooms and the company of good brandy and the meat of his lexicons, leaving me staring down at the wreck and ruin of his costume; wondering why he didn’t just talk it all clean and let me get on with some other work. But I knew the truth in that; idle hands are the Devil’s whisperings. These labours kept my hands busy and my mouth shut.

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