Full Vessels

by Brian Blose

  Surely the Lake of Death could not be as bad as drowning in the sea. Most locations people named as places of death had to do with diseases, which never bothered him. Of course, the further into the forests he had gone, the more deadly animals he had discovered. So far he had managed not to encounter a crocodile up close. Today has been a bad luck day for me. I'll probably walk myself straight into their feeding grounds before long. Might be sorry the people didn't get me first.

  Griff sloshed down the river, eyes roaming the banks for a safe place to depart the water. The muck stole his moccasins one at a time, sucking them beneath the surface when he dared take a step forward. He picked leeches from his legs and threw the things far from him. Critters beneath the opaque waters darted their slimy bodies past him at random intervals.

  Stupid people, Griff thought. They should have run away from me if I was so scary. Instead they chased me into the stupid river. Something is going to eat me now because of those people.

  His silent complaints faded into wary attentiveness at the sound of growls in the distance. Jaguars, judging by the throaty wails. Another animal to kill him. Griff studied the shore, wondering if the cats would dare enter the water. The spears lining the bank did not hinder entry, only escape.

  Griff moved quicker, eager to put the horribleness of the day behind him. If he had survived the sea, then he would survive whatever the Lake of Death did to him.

  So complete was his focus on the shore that he did not notice the river had widened until something splashed in the distance. An abrupt turn sent him tumbling beneath dirty water. Griff emerged thrashing, head darting about to take in his surroundings. In the distance, what could be logs floated in stately grace. He glanced at the spear-lined bank and gritted his teeth. Stupid people making traps for other people. What is the point? Nobody would ever want to live in the stupid Lake of Death anyway.

  After a moment, his eyes spied a bridge of sorts leading from the jungle and over the water to an island with a large building on top made from pieces of rock. The bridge looked to be made of woven vine fiber with bunches of sticks spaced apart as steps.

  Where the bridge met the bank of the island, there were no spears. He would need to climb a steep cliff, but then he would be free to run across the bridge and escape this nightmare. His decision made, Griff ran for the island. He made good time, at first spurred by his determination to escape, then further motivated by the realization that the logs in the water were in fact swimming towards him.

  He reached the island after the crocodiles, but they held back for some reason. Griff dragged himself from the water and up the slope as fast as his breathless body would move. The bridge grew closer. When Griff crested the cliff, he beamed with exultation, feeling his freedom.

  A throaty growl tore the smile from his face. Only a body length from him, a jaguar crouched on the bridge, glaring at him with menacing intensity. Below, crocs swarmed in anticipation of a meal. Bad luck day, Griff. Bad luck day.

  “Did you let one of the people sneak past you, Shadow?” The voice, high and brittle, belonged to an old crone who sat cross-legged atop a stone wall. She smiled at him through her tangled gray mane, looking every bit as wild as the beasts that surrounded her. “Shadow doesn't like people coming into our home. Do you, Shadow?”

  Griff stared at the insane woman, trying to fit her into his understanding of the world. He couldn't. People did not live close to crocodiles. They did not live with jaguars. The odd woman flashed a small smile as she watched him. Her eyes twinkled in amusement. “What is your name, Observer?”

  “What?”

  “I asked your name.”

  “Right, yes, I'm Griff. But what did you call me?”

  “Observer,” she said.

  “Why'd you call me that?”

  “Because that's what you are, Mister Griff.”

  His mouth worked for a moment.

  “You were sent to watch the world by the Creator.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The old woman leaned forward. “Because I have magic!”

  Griff's eyes widened. “Magic is real?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But . . . how do you know?”

  The woman turned to the cat. “Easy, Shadow. Go hunt for mama. Go on, go hunt.” For a moment, the animal stared at the woman, no doubt confused. Then, the jaguar obeyed, turning to run back across the bridge and disappear into the jungle.

  “It's a pleasure to meet a fellow Observer. My name is Natalia.” She gestured towards the stone building. “Would you care to get out of the elements? I don't have much to offer in the way of hospitality, but you are welcome to join me inside.”

  Griff looked towards the building, which had been constructed from rocks much as people sometimes made walls – though never had he heard of anyone making a roof from them. A soft glow came from inside. “Observer? You're an Observer like me?”

  “An Observer, yes. Though I would say a bit brighter than you, friend.”

  “How do you make jaguars listen to you?”

  Natalia raised her brow. “Magic.”

  His heart began to pound. “Really?”

  “No. Though it might as well be for someone with the brains you display. What I do is called selective breeding. I take the least aggressive cats and mate them together. There haven't been many generations since the start of this world, but I've made rapid progress domesticating my pets. Because I raise them, they are very loyal to me. The rest is just consistent positive reinforcement.”

  Griff followed Natalia inside, where he discovered another insanity. Tiny fires glowed all over the room from fiber braids in shallow bowls of liquid. “How is this?”

  “Magic,” she said.

  Griff contemplated her words. “You don't mean that.”

  “There may be hope for you after all,” Natalia said.

  “I don't understand any of this,” Griff said.

  “I'll admit it's a bit anachronistic for our present circumstances, but I am certain you will see far more impressive wonders in future worlds. You won't be staying here with me long enough for an explanation of the arts of lamp making and masonry, so how about we stick to pleasantries?” The woman settled on the floor and folded her hands.

  Griff's eyes drifted to the floor, where bone remnants mingled with shed fur. “If you're an Observer, why do you live away from the people?”

  “I'm not watching people,” Natalia said.

  “But that's what we're supposed to do.”

  “We're supposed to observe. I don’t see our mission as being restricted to people. In my opinion, animals are far less trying companions than the primitive tribesmen of this world. I wouldn't bother speaking with you at all if you weren't an Observer.”

  “How many Observers are there?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “I couldn't say. I've only met you.” Natalia glanced past him to the door and he turned to see what had caught her attention. Three cats stood there, eyes fixed on him. “Well, Griff, it appears our visit is over. I will walk you to the bridge and make sure my friends don't follow.”

  Griff was too concerned with the presence of the predators to do anything other than escape across to the mainland and run through the forests.

  He never encountered any of the people hunting him. Later, when thinking back on the odd meeting with Natalia, one question about the strange Observer stood out above all others. Why would an old woman prefer the company of animals to that of people? Whatever the reason, Griff was certain it was scandalous.

  Chapter 6 – Hess

  Mel sat at the head of the table, one ankle across the opposite knee, hands folded in his lap, trademark half-smirk in place. He radiated expectation into the extended silence.

  “Just spew out your artsy nonsense already,” Drake muttered.

  Mel's smirk grew broader as he arched a single brow. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Drake. I'll be sure to ret
urn the favor tomorrow when it's your turn.” He turned his attention to Greg and began to speak, his typical mannerisms amped up to maximum effect.

  “No doubt the eleven of you expect a lesson in art appreciation. While I could indeed provide a marvelous introduction to the subject, I'm afraid that I must disappoint. Firstly, the lot of you possess neither the temperament nor the time required for proper study. My second, more pertinent, reason is that my study of high culture has always been secondary to my chosen subject – understanding each world through the lens of the indigenous population.

  “While each of you slogged through the gutters of various societies in brute force campaigns to collect intelligence of questionable value for the Creator, I became a metaphorical spymaster, employing painters and sculptors and poets and musicians to deliver their most sincere insights of life and existence to me. Their assistance often cost no more than the price of a ticket to the local museum. How could I pass up such a bargain?

  “I am certain that all of you are doubting the quality of these second-hand observations at this moment. More often than not, your misgivings would be well founded. All art says something, presumably about the experience of life. However, much of the time, the message proves unworthy of contemplation. Any of you who have joined me at a show know how much I detest themed works. In my opinion, the deliberate inclusion of a motif is cheap artifice. Rather, the heart of a work should be in subtle conflict. Despair hidden behind a smile. Joy on a battlefield. A neglected monument.

  “These worlds possess a complexity no individual could ever encompass. In the space of a few hours, I can sample the insights an artist has obtained over an entire lifetime. The dross and the gold are easy enough to discern with some experience. Over the worlds, I have collected a wealth of reflections.

  “Though none of these gems are what I choose to share with you. Rather, my most profound observation of the world is related not to what the world of art has presented to me, but instead to a quality that the common people lack. You see, what is most remarkable about art is that its producer must be aware of the world in order to reproduce some facet of it in the chosen medium.

  “Most people drift through life reacting to the situations they find themselves in, unable or unwilling to contemplate their own context. Their lives start in motion. Either the motion granted them by the Creator at the first moment of a world or the motion imparted through upbringing – the effect is the same either way.

  “They inherit their every idea and never realize their intellectual borrowings. Instead, they cling to their arbitrary indoctrination with a simple-minded tenacity, resisting new ideas with the full might of their ignorance. Confirmation bias filters experiences as they occur, granting significance to events that agree with their worldview and dismissing any that could challenge their assumptions.

  “Their memories, faulty to begin with, are subject to cognitive dissonance. I once met a man who hated a certain painter while holding another in the highest esteem. Both produced gloomy surreal landscapes and their works were often confused. So this man I met explained to me why one was superior to the other in great detail, pointing to pieces from a private collection as examples.

  “'Jenzee has greater depths in his shadows as you can easily see here. Jenzee's works have superior perspective – just look at it! Jenzee makes better use of color.' At some point, the host of the soiree arrived to speak with us and bragged about his landscape by Jenzee – which happened to be the one the man had assumed painted by the hated Erwood. When our host left to mingle with the other guests, my confused companion repeated the exact same opinions to me as before. 'Jenzee has greater depths in his shadows as you can easily see here. Jenzee's works have superior perspective – just look at it! Jenzee makes better use of color.' The only difference was the painting at which he pointed. When I pointed out his contradictory opinions of the two paintings, the man mocked me for a fool and departed.

  “How common is the common man. He doesn't choose his own beliefs – he accepts them before he has his own mind. He doesn't consider new ideas he encounters – he rejects them as different from his own. He doesn't even apply his ideas to his own life – more often than not, he exists as a product of incompatible beliefs and habits.

  “The primary fault isn't a lack of intelligence but rather an unconscious aversion to change. An unconscious aversion that could easily be over-ridden with a modicum of contemplation. I have never encountered a person who could be said to be incapable of conscious thought. Yet rare is the one willing to engage in the practice.

  “The observation I present today for all of you is that most people cannot be said to be truly conscious. They are automatons, wound up with an arbitrary set of ideas and released upon the world to interact in a limited fashion. They stumble about in mechanical obedience to faulty internal wiring, refusing to see past the filters on their eyes. Unwilling to sort through the jumble of contradictions living within their minds.

  “I believe the biggest difference between us and them is not our long and perfect memories, but our obedience to the Divine Command. We observe. We contemplate. We are consciously aware, sometimes painfully so, of the worlds that are our context.”

  Mel sat straighter, steepling his hands on the table before him. “That is the crown jewel of my collection. If you care to debate its merit, I am ready.”

  Greg nodded his head in tribute. “A fascinating observation. I have noticed the same phenomenon, though I never stated it so eloquently.”

  “You ruined the drinking game,” Erik said. “We were supposed to do a shot every time you named a movement.”

  “As always, Erik, I am thrilled you opened your mouth,” Mel said. “Does anyone else care to enlighten us? Elza, perhaps? Would you like to itemize the flaws of my argument?”

  Elza shrugged. “There was no argument, Mel. You shared an opinion.”

  “There is the blunt literalism I expect from you. Do you object to my opinion?”

  “No,” she said.

  Ingrid sighed loudly. “Seems the brainy trio have a truce. Did you reach an agreement or is this a case of professional courtesy?”

  Griff turned a scowl on Elza. “Hey, why should Mel get a pass?”

  “Fine,” Elza said. “I'll object, since everyone wants it.” She locked her eyes on Mel. “Your opinion is nothing special. I'm sure every one of us has cracked a psychology textbook at least once. Cognitive dissonance and confirmation bias are common. The failure to ever have what you term 'conscious thought' is not.

  “Have you ever considered that your anecdote of the soiree could have an alternate explanation? I expect the man you met was not as knowledgeable as he claimed about Jenzee. No doubt he was parroting the words of someone else and became embarrassed when he realized his mistake. By pretending the mis-identification never happened, the man may have been requesting you to participate in a social fiction to help him save face. Instead, you acted like the smug asshole you are and the man became upset.

  “More troubling is your use of nebulous terminology. Could you clarify for us whether people lack awareness or simply fail to think critically on a regular basis? The former is unbelievable and the latter trivial.”

  Mel collapsed his steepled fingers into fists. “The greatest objection you can marshal is word choice?”

  “Semantics,” Elza corrected. “Your grand thesis is that people fail to put enough mental effort into their lives. Then you use sloppy terminology to present your case. Given a perfect memory, even an idiot should be able to find the right words.”

  “Well, I can see I'm not the only asshole present.” Mel waved the criticisms away with a dismissive gesture. “Anyone else?”

  Erik laughed. “Like Elza left enough of your little notion for us to discuss. Your idea's been nuked, art boy.”

  Drake smacked the table. “Demiurge's Dick strikes again!”

  “We are not here to bicker and tell crude jokes!” Greg split his spiteful glances between Elza and
Drake. “This is as close as we will ever come to presenting our insights to the Creator. We are acting as stand-ins for the One we serve. Quit behaving like unruly children.”

  Chapter 7 – Mel / Iteration 8

  Deliberate movements. Steady hands applying silicone caulking to the interior of a humble mausoleum. Unfaced concrete block composed the four walls and supported the concrete slab ceiling. Mel paused, adjusted the angle of his electric lamp, and resumed his task.

  The sole entrance to his lowly abode stretched before him, a tight crawl way of block with a door on either end of the passage. From outside, the structure appeared a stoically square igloo. From inside, a claustrophobic box scarcely larger than a man. There was no art to it, but his purpose precluded any meaningful expression.

  This was the opposite of art. There was no striving here, only morbidly competent workmanship. True art meant something. It did more than mean something. More than said something. It pointed, with the clarity of abstraction, towards a particular perspective on reality. This world tended towards abstraction. Sculptures of skewed geometric figures. Paintings of distorted scenes. Music of clever discordances. Stories of senseless happenings. All of it kaleidoscopes of randomness hinting at something greater.

  In his estimation, the art of Iteration eight surpassed the shallow beauty-obsession from the prior worlds in every way. It did not offer its secrets casually like a lady of the night. It had class. Mystery. Depth.

  Unfortunately, the passion for mystery no longer lived within him. No matter the complexity of the medium, art could only say so many things. Human thought roamed within narrow bounds and could be predicted so very simply. And art simply for the sake of art was not truly art.

  Mel applied the final bit of silicone sealant to the plastic sheet covering the diminutive plywood door and sat back to scrutinize his work. After a moment, he nodded in satisfaction. It appeared air tight.

  Again with meditative deliberateness, he removed glassware from a hiking pack, placing each piece in turn on the cold floor, tensing at the too-loud clinking. When everything sat before him, Mel removed the tops from two bottles and poured first one, then the other into a large beaker, filling it halfway with a mixture of formic and sulfuric acids.