Stone Of Matter

by B L Barkey

  There’s something there, Ammon thought as a resolution to himself. A promise to search it out later. I dunno what it is yet, but there’s something there. And he’s wearing a hood.

  He nodded with understanding. They all wore hoods. All of the few. All who wanted to block out the world.

  Ammon continued along, hearing another muffled remark fall from Chalice’s mouth, no doubt as the result of Krystal giving him a shoulder as she passed. No one wanted to fight Krys. She rarely played nice, and was slow to forgive. If she ever forgave you at all.

  III

  If you looked around at the Cephasonian islanders, you would see three different types of people. The first type were overjoyed to have the Leviticum at their fingertips, spending seamless hours in search of enlightenment. The second type sought to improve the gift and tool that was the human body, often thriving in the outdoors. The third type preferred to connect with their surroundings through unseen avenues, building up the spiritual titan within themselves.

  Of course, not everyone fit into these three categories. These three types were the extremes. Three points of a triangle. It was within this triangle that most people kept their balance.

  But there was a fourth type. The fourth type of person did not seek any of these things. They sought nothing but nothing, seeming disinterested in all things except food, sleep, and base desire. Like animals, yet worse. For they are animals with choice, who choose to misuse it. To be fair, all Cephasonians went through phases, dipping their toes into endless combinations within the Triangle, to see what resonated best with their spirit, at that time. This included the fourth type, which existed outside the triangle. It was a leap. It was outside.

  This thought gave Ammon the chills. It brought him back to a glisc he had read months ago. It gave credence to his idea that the fourth type fit the description of those who inherited Proelum almost entirely just before the Great Fire.

  They were known as the Hooded. These ones did everything in their power to block out the world around them. Essentially, they muted all senses connecting them to nature. Sight with dark lenses. Sound with earbuds and mechanical, looped music. Scent with nose-plugs that filled their minds with fumes of adrenaline, coated with artificial smells.

  The Hooded wore gloves on summer days and shades in the dark indoors. They came outside only in late afternoons and evenings, sleeping the day away. Not all reached this far into the fourth type, into the outside. Yet all Cephasonians had experienced it to some degree. All had to find their own way.

  Thus were their five senses blocked. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. The first sign of all of these was… the hood. Ammon owned hooded sweatshirts. They were useful depending on the time and place. But the Hooded wore them all the time. Endlessly. Wearing a hood did not make someone inherently evil. That would be ridiculous. But more often than not, the outer shell was indicative of the inner state of a person.

  Ammon felt like he kept a good balance of the three types, though he leaned more towards the mental, followed closely by the physical and spiritual. It really came down to prioritizing each of the three.

  Mikael was similar in this way to his brother, though he sometimes drifted more towards the spiritual, which could also be associated with emotions.

  Bastion was closer to the spiritual with his animals, finding his truths in their behaviors. Still, he was learning to find balance between the three, just like anyone else.

  Jonah was heavy on the mental corner, which Ammon realized, made him sound like a mentally unstable lunatic. He also sought after the spiritual, while placing the physical as third.

  Krystal was almost entirely physical, showing mental strength only if it concerned improvements in her combatives. She was relatively strong in the spiritual, preferring to fight and meditate in nature, therefore spending the most time by herself.

  Chalice, as intolerable as he was, played strong in the physical corner. He was semi-intelligent, though obviously socially ignorant. He paid little attention to the unseen, which was clear in his lack of patience and humility.

  Maison…was a mystery. He was strong in the physical. He stood firm in the mental corner. As for the unseen…it was unclear. He was Hooded, and had been for almost two years. Ammon wondered how far the boy had ventured to the outside.

  IV

  Mikael caught up to Ammon. They continued along the path of floating fireflies and smooth cobblestones until they were forced off by the crowd. Soon, they stood on the outside of the main audience, spanning hundreds of feet in both directions. Many were seated atop all different shapes of red rock, flaring up red chalk similar to that of the blue starfish. Also like the blue starfish, Ammon imagined the red rocks were moving when he wasn’t looking, though it would be hard to tell amidst the chaos of the crowd.

  And what a crowd it was. The energy was high. The climb had begun. The final stairway to the Trials of Guardians. The Prelims, he thought. Music from the caves rang at full throttle, its increased tempo drawing all eyes to the stage.

  Playing was a girl and two boys, whom Ammon knew to be Viola, Tsusani, and Tank. Viola was a heartbreaking brunette, who well-deserved the title of best young singer on Cephas. Tsusani and Tank were brothers. Though Tank was younger, he was also much larger than his brother. His real name was Theodore, which apparently was not to his liking.

  Every now and then Ammon would call him ‘Teddy, the big ol’ cuddle bear’. Only Ammon could call him that, since they had jammed together before, with Tank playing a much smaller version of the guitar, and Tsusani playing on a homemade percussion kit. Tsusani used to pick on Tank while they were younger, but within the last two years Tank had nearly doubled in size. The two brothers got along much better now.

  Tank and Viola had somewhat of a romance going on, though they were careful to avoid any gossip. Yet even with all the emotional entanglement, or perhaps because of it, their dynamic sound rang clear through their music.

  They were better understood with their chords and rhyming lyrics than they ever would be with spoken words. It was refreshing to hear true emotion behind every lyric, every note. Every flicker of the eyes between band members. And tonight, they were going at it. Whatever shackles they had been wearing before, holding themselves back (and still impressing all in the crowd) they now removed, revealing even greater skill.

  Ammon started tapping his palm to his thigh with the rhythm of the beat. Next up was an acoustic ballad of harps and violas. Ammon and Mikael stepped amongst their childhood friends, some older and some younger. Ammon picked up pieces of conversation from several directions.

  “I liked the third performance best by far,” said one.

  “It’s much better this year than the last five put together,” said another.

  “I wonder if the wind will speak this year,” said the softest voice. Somehow, it carried above the rest. It held in Ammon’s mind, circling about like a leaf caught in a whirlwind.

  Children grew up hearing stories of the speaking wind. It was a rare phenomenon, almost to the point of myth. It was the dream of all who performed at the Wind Caves. It was the only known location for summoning the wind.

  It had only happened twice in Ammon’s lifetime. He remembered each experience with vivid detail. He remembered what it felt like, even just before the wind spoke aloud. It was as if the wind itself would join the celebration, somehow aware of its own existence. It wasn’t the body of all the winds of the world, obviously. Such an occurrence could implode the planet. No, it was just an embodiment of the wind spirit, confined for a short time to touch hearts. Of course, that was also nonsense. But it was fun to imagine, and easier too, on high-energy nights such as this. Yet still, when the wind spoke…it seemed as if all things were possible.

  The wind always blew gently during nights of the Wind Caves celebration, even if the days before and after had been raging gale storms. As each performance came along, the wind would gently caress the people to and fro, connecting the artist to the crowd. T
o the younglings, it was shear magic, spoken of in the songs, which would call the wind. As they grew up, the physics lessons in their studies would reveal the truth.

  Each of the performances which graduated from the small cave to the large one were already known to be impressive works of art. But occasionally, whether it was the autumn air or the pull of gravity, there was one performance which far outshined the others. Only one. Every third or fourth year. It would, quite literally, take the crowd’s breath away.

  There was a science to it. When a performance in a series of others was so refreshing and new, it caused all who were present to connect in experience and understanding. The crowd then transformed from a sea of individuals into one being. For just a moment, all would then subconsciously hold their breath, as if to better listen to the creative forces before them.

  In this moment, the air would shift. They learned from the Leviticum that high-energy always rushes into low-energy, seeking balance. This meant that hot air would rush into spaces of cool air.

  As the crowd held their breath, the pressure and temperature would plummet around them. Then, the warm air building up in the cave would rush out, engulfing them all. Brushing leaves in all directions, blowing lovers further into each other’s arms, and whipping hair and natural perfumes around to those who sought embrace. The air above the hole in the cave ceiling would then rush in to fill the new void in the cave, all while howling against the acoustics of the walls, echoing through countless angles, reverberating into bodies, and reaching to hearts and minds.

  Mother had explained it to them when they were but children. “When you yawn, your mind is reminding you to breathe. We hold our breath a lot more than we would think. It’s just another habit we have acquired as humans. So even in a normal crowd of people, many are breathing irregular, and hardly breathing at all.

  “It is an entirely different thing at the celebration of the Wind Caves. A performer must first make sure that all are awake. And then, once he has their attention, he must keep them. Entertain them. Hurt them. Heal them. Love them. You will not see one yawn in a performance worthy of the wind. All will be breathing, and you will be the reason.

  They will start to breathe in sync, though none will be the wiser to it. They will breathe heavier. Deeper. Filling their lungs and minds to the brim, with oxygen and inspiration.

  “They will feel risen beyond the music, though it’s the wings of the music upon which they ride. Then suddenly, when it ends, they are left breathless for want of just one more note. And it is there that you will hold them. It is there that the wind will rush in to fill their lungs, as well as their desire for more. It is there that you will hear cheering arise louder than you ever thought possible.”

  Ammon wanted the wind to call to him. He had wanted it every year since Mother had told them the story. And this year, he had his own original piece. Tonight. A story unspoken that may well do the trick. He had patched it together from his dreams, along with his learnings from buried texts, whose truths were still uncertain. He had prepared it knowing that he may never play it for another, which had taken the pressure off him. Yet now, standing there in the crowd, he knew it was time.

  His song was good. He knew this because it gave him chills, just like any other work of art written by the hands of another. And there were bound to be countless such performances tonight to outshine his own.

  Needless to say, he wasn’t going to hold his breath. He was going to play his young, adventurous song. And what would come, would come. To think in any other way would only hinder his performance and create reality from fear. Somehow he knew, the wind might call to the wary, but never to the worried.

  He could feel his heart beating against his insides, as if trying to escape its ribbed cage. It took all he had within himself to keep from running towards the stage. And then it became too much for him to bear, like a cup of overflowing water.

  He pushed forward. The crowds of people were spaced out at first as he weaved through and muttered forgotten words of apology. As he got closer to the caves, the crowd thickened, forcing him to slow to a brisk walk, and then a shuffle. He knew almost every face on the island. And yet tonight they all seemed like perfect strangers. Tonight, they all basked in fresh tunes of instrument and verse. Tonight, they were blind and deaf to all but the echoing of the caves and the Lake.

  Finally, after many disgruntled faces and hand gestures, he made it to the front line. The performance had just ended. The next would be starting soon. From here, it would not take long for the leaders of the event to recognize him as the son of Delkai.

  Erick Delkai, Ammon’s father, was the man who had resurrected the string instruments of the ancient world. The man who had then taught his sons how to play the instruments literally before they could walk. ‘Surely a son of Delkai would have a song to play for them all,’ they would think. Or so Ammon hoped.

  Ammon found himself surprised, however, when his invitation to perform came only a few moments later. He was invited to play after the next two performances. His friends had still not caught up with him, but as he thought about it, he preferred it this way. Now he could begin recalling the song to the forefront of his mind, bringing the lyrics back to the corner of his lips, the chords to the fringes of his fingertips.

  Tonight, he would play for them all the song of his own creation. This would be the first time he played an original piece for an audience. It would also be the first time he played during the Wind Caves celebration. He could hardly breathe as butterflies fluttered from his stomach and choked him. As he swallowed them down again and again, he hopped over the front gate and walked towards the sides of the caves, whilst donning a humble bow and smile.

  He caught several eyes as he walked behind the cave stages. There was an entrance to the largest cave mouth from the backside. This was where he would enter. He nodded towards familiar faces, shook hands with good friends, and smiled brightly at fellow musicians. Almost every person who held an instrument in their hands or a note on their voice winked at him, as if to say, I still remember the last time we played together, Ammon. Don’t let it be too long before we spin music together again. He winked back at each of them, sealing the promise and letting them know he wanted the same.

  He found his instrument. The only one he would ever want to play in such a setting. It was an acoustic guitar, matching the red rock wall with its redwood tints. As he picked it up, he saw two insignias on the body. One indicated that his own Mother had made the instrument. This meant that it would fit nicely into Ammon’s own playing style. The second insignia indicated that he could borrow the instrument for his performance, should he choose to do so. He had decided earlier that if no guitar was there, he would accept it as a sign to refrain from performing. Yet here it was, ready to be played.

  As he picked up the guitar and placed the hollow body into the crook of his own, he began to wish for another time. He knew he would feel differently after he started to play. Yet now, just moments before the performance, feeling the cheers of the crowd as if it was an actual, physical wave of the ocean blasting him in the face, he wondered if his own song was, in fact, terrible.

  He had created it from the skeletons of separate stories. He had taken the thread of discernment, then used it to stitch together particular pieces of certain stories from hidden books, all about the beginning of the world. It was this very song that he had been pondering atop Cloud Mountain only hours before.

  To Ammon, it still felt like folly to play such a young song at such an ancient venue. The Wind Caves were said to have been on Cephas Island since it had drifted from Monoruin. When he heard traditional songs, he felt that they were real. His song was real too, of course, but not in the same way. Old songs were. They had substance to them.

  Ammon genuinely liked his song. It brought him peace, as if the song came from somewhere else entirely. But he was still unsure of whether it was the song that caused this, or just the idea of having written something himself. It still felt a
lmost incorrect to even refer to it as a song. It was still in pieces, and would forever remain that way, though he would rearrange and refine the pieces as best he could.

  The song was a journey taken for the first time. Though he had written the path, he was afraid he would take a wrong turn. Afraid he would get lost. But he couldn’t allow himself to be afraid. He couldn’t worry. It can never be, until it is. It must be.

  The next song came and went. Ammon played through his own song one last time, muting the strings with his palm. As he played the last refrain, the final notes in the cave echoed to oblivion, summoning rapturous applause.

  He stood and took a deep breath. He exhaled as he stretched out his arms and back, closing his eyes and reaching high in the air with the guitar still held at the neck.

  The Wind Caves found silence for half a moment. A deep inhale came and went, followed by rising applause. It was time.

  A sudden sickness came over him. A sickness so convincing and painful that the thought of walking away seemed irresistible. He pushed it aside. I’m doing this. And what will be, will be. As if some part of him listened, a new peace settled in his heart. It was decided.

  He walked to the back of the large cave, looking up at the treeline of the North Hills. He smiled at nature and fate all at once, hoping for a blessing from both, then daring them to defy him. It was a balance. He would need that balance now.

  He had a feeling then. A feeling that much more was at stake here than he could truly understand. It made him dizzy, and for a moment, he had to steady himself with a hand on the rock wall. An echo rang through him. We will see how he understands… Was it a lyric from the last song? He wasn’t sure. But his head cleared, as if doused with pristine waters. He felt eyes upon him. The Levitians. The Prelims have begun, he thought. Yet that seemed only half the truth.