Morwaith’s Diary part 20: The Awakening

in Brave New Worlds

Pattern Break – The Awakening – New Year’s Day 3659

And the clock finally stopped and shattered....

And that part of the disintegrating machine that had been Morwaith thought I should be paying attention here.

And countless cogs and springs and arms and other fragments sliced through... what?

Not really time and space anymore because they where concepts belonging to the splintered engine.

His attention wandered, conscious but then forgotten...

Then all was light. At first just bright and then slowly traceries of colour separated from the bright and started to swirl through the air. It was impossible to see more than one colour of the filigree that was being woven, but in turn he thought he saw shades of emerald green, sea green, dusty blue, old gold, fiery red...

He was sure that they were all the Pattern, but not quite. Deep in his memory he remembered something his father had once told him about lenses and reflection of truth. If only father was here now...

Whilst he thought of Weyland, his progenitor, it became slowly harder to discern any other hue than the fiery red. It was like forge fire, not red, but the white red of blast heated steel. The more he watched, the more he thought of the smithy fire and the Smith. The more he thought of the Smith the more fixed he became on the glowing lattice work. Like some ancient gate forged out of steel, bent and hammered and worked and now cooling...

The Pattern cooled from a white red along which flames rippled to an orange red, and then to deep red. As it cooled, Morwaith noted that it had become the only light; he had been concentrating so hard on the forming network that only now was he aware that there were now no other coloured lines visible to be traced. Not only that but the bright, white background colour had been replaced by a cloudy grey that was even now darkening towards black as the shape in the foreground dimmed.

Trying to look around the dominating object, his head turned. This revelation took some moments to sink in. Not only had his head turned, but the Pattern had stayed firmly in the centre of his vision. A small fear nuzzled its way into his twisting skull, a recollection of staring into the forge and for weeks carrying the afterglow burnt into his retinas. Could the contemplative gaze he had maintained on the white hot lines have damaged his sight? A new world with the hope of a rejuvenated body and perhaps he had already blinded himself?

Then he was in almost darkness. Almost only because the red lines of the Pattern continued to mock him in front of his eyes. Yet he was sure it was fading from minute to minute. Yes and also there was other light on the periphery of his vision, not the unnatural, magical light he had so recently viewed, but like that from torches or lanterns. This peripheral image seemed to push at the central image with an almost perceptual pressure. Ever so gradually the vision of the Pattern surrendered itself to the new reality, until finally it was gone and he stood alone in a vast subterranean vault.

Angtharrod

Where he stood, the Great Vault of the Craft Halls of Angtharrod stretched off in all directions, its mighty columns arching above him. He knew that was where he was even as it thrust its way into his vision. High overhead the gas lamps flickered, providing a dim illumination, but sufficient he knew for the residents if they had been here.

With no particular direction in mind Morwaith started to walk. The floor under his feet changed as he moved, to worn flagstones then cobbles. The ground was crisscrossed by track ways but there was no sign of the trucks or shunting engines that used them. Gone with the inhabitants, he assumed.

Passing close to one of the massive forty foot diameter columns, he noticed amongst the abstract designs that covered their surface inset rungs running to an iron hatch about ten feet up. Momentarily he was tempted to climb up but then recalled that this route led nowhere except a few guardrooms and some maintenance ducts and anyway that valve was sealed from the inside. Where that recollection came from he could not place.

Towards the edge of the vault he came across the first of the craft engines. Not exactly the first because it formed part of a collection of similar devices stretching in line across his path. They lay crouched like sleeping goliaths, dormant whilst their masters were absent. These engines would not have looked out of place in a pumping hall or turbine room. He decided to examine them further to determine something of their purpose and the mentality of their creators.

The one he examined was constructed of polished brass and blue painted cast iron. Ladders on its flanks led to walkways that would allow inspection of the whole surface. At points on that gantry and at ground level, polished brass levers, valves and control wheels combined with dials and gauges to indicate the control stations monitored by the beast’s keepers. Each part of the controls was hand crafted with abstract designs decorating the surface of the brass work. Examining the etched plates labelling the readouts, Morwaith quickly determined this was some kind of steam engine.

Pressure, temperature, revolutions, torque and numerous other pieces of information could be gleaned by an operator. He found the inspection hatches that, if he had had the tools to remove, he knew would have led him to the drive shaft that disappeared into the ground under the engine. Strangely he could find no fire box or header tank and a few of the arcane controls eluded him with the cursory once-over he gave them. He knew, though, it was time to push on and thus scrambled down the back of the engine.

Behind the sleeping giants he discovered a tunnelled road, complete with trackways, which led through the wall of the vault. He passed side passages that led down to the craft halls themselves and beyond to the deep, cold forges. Smaller stairwells led to a warren of housing that made up the hold; here nearer the Great Vault, these would be the dormitories of the apprentices and the rooms of the craft masters.

The tunnel opened into a smaller hall lined on the sides by shop fronts. One immediately caught his eye. Marble slabs formed both counter and shop front, but it was not these that drew his eye. Above the front ran the first non abstract design he had seen in this subterranean city. It pictured a flayed open pig carcass with accompanying labels more suited to a veterinary text. The diagrams continued inside on the tiled wall of the butchers shop depicting other animals in similar detail. Having borrowed a good knife from inside, Morwaith hurried on towards some steps on the side of the hall. He knew they led to the Temple of the Unicorn and he had some trepidation as to how she would be depicted hereabouts.

The Temple of the Unicorn

Ten shallow steps led up to the gallery overlooking the hall of worship. Here again gas lamp lit the cavern, casting flickering shadows across the dome that covered both the gallery and hall below. From his vantage point Morwaith could already see the altar.

Stopping a moment to take in the scene, he quickly descended one of the spiral stairs that connected to the temple floor. The chambers throughout were highly decorated with abstract freezes but none more so than the holy space in the centre of the hall surmounted by the anvil-altar. The thick green carpet soaked up the sound of his footsteps as he passed the rail surrounding the platform. The cloth cast across the solid iron altar was the same verdant green but decorated by four horseshoes picked out in silver. Four silver plated lecterns stood around the platform each with a green hang and topped with a stylised horseshoe to rest books upon.

Several items where distributed amongst the hooks and holes that passed for storage on the lecterns, these were all made of silver and included a hammer, tongs, thurible censer, shallow bowl and a dagger with pattern like etchings. As he handled these objects the Archpriest had the strange feeling of recollection again, he could remember the significance of these objects and portions of the service. “Blood shed for the good of all”, he muttered to himself, turning the dagger over in his hands.

From the centre of this arena he looked around, noticing now how the eight timber-faced columns joined the roof at the centre of bursts of green marble set in the midnight blue ceiling. In fact the whole effect resembled some woodland glade at night. Momentarily he believed he could see worshippers kneeling at the rail as they all partook of the one blood served from the silver bowl, almost as if they had faded in from some other place. He shook his head; it was time to leave and go to his destination.

A small door in one corner of the temple led to a vestry and then on into the priests’ chambers. There were quarters for a dozen temple staff directly abutting the temple but these fed into a larger monastic complex. Within this, Morwaith made two surprising discoveries. The first was that the refectory tables were loaded with food. Not having eaten since arriving in Angtharrod he grabbed a small roast chicken to keep him going. Eating as he walked he strolled into his next surprise in the monastery’s library.

There was a vestibule as he passed into the room and to either side hung a painting. As these were the first paintings he had seen in this new world he stopped to glance at them. Both were abstracts, a geometric design and an attempt to render a four-dimensional object. Grease dribbled between his fingers.

These were Alaric’s work undoubtedly, a part of that artist rendered into the reality he died to create. What other mark would that mad artist leave on this new world? The four-dimensional shape called to mind things best left shut out of this world. Suddenly he felt hungrier: he made a quick perusal of the shelves and selected some books and retreated away from thoughts of Alaric and other things back into the refectory.

Whilst comfort eating, he flicked through histories and theological tomes. The authorship of the books varied but in each case Morwaith thought he knew the writers, as if the words were only just being drawn together as he read them.

On a whim he opened several books randomly in an attempt to catch a blank page yet to be filled, but with no luck. He did find some guidance on the interpretation of religious commandments. Theologically afraid that a soul could be captured in a picture or that some demonic entity could reach through a representation of the living to that being’s detriment, the locals forbad the rendering the images of ‘those cast by the Forger to carry souls’, i.e. living beings. This was only sensible, he concluded as he sipped his warmed mead.