The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Hi/story

[A little tale, drafted swiftly.]

Once, a Fool knew and his Sister ignored.
So she asked and he provided.
The Tales of how one scours the sands.
Of Mystery, Errantry and Revelation.
Sabotage, Wanderer, Tutor.
Entwinned, like lovers.

"You know much I do not, master Benjazar"
"So I will entertain whatever you may offer"

One, a Fool spoke of his foolish tongue.
Long gone, long lost, long distant.
Where Story and History are one and the same.
For there's no Fiction without Fact, nor viceversa.
           Mystery
                        &
                            Revelation
              Entwined like  lovers

"That's a very wise point", she smiled.
"Even Fools have their wisdom", I replied.

So hi/stories were told.
About ancient Giants and Caliphs.
About princesses and queens.
About locked doors, and the doors behind them.
About Fate, spurning many.
Hi/stories about the future.
Prophecy, thrice shared.

For times were to change.
Or so was promised.

[Don Nadie]

Damage Control

I couldn't fix things, but I could try to make them less bad. For the Rose and for the Well. I just needed to be astute and persuasive, I thought, and consider all points and all posibilities and move fast and quietly. So I spent my mornings on long walks, on deep whispers, on thoroughly calculated ponderings and insinuations and discussions. I showed the priestess ancient and beautiful places, I pondered with Zaniah.

"The Rose hasn't made a decision yet", she said.
I suppose it hadn't.
I supposed I'd be informed, when it did, of the result.

While the Rose pondered on without me, I went on whispering and whispering. Too many of them were willing to throw everything at Zaniah, in exchange for naught. I was not. I spoke with the Priestess again and again. For I know They are The One Who Smiles Upon Fools, The Hermaphrodite Monarch of Revelry. I know they are not perfect, but neither is licking the Purple's Ass and, through them, the Sublime Buttocks. 

And then the debate.

"Is she drinking... In the middle of the debate?", said our latest member.
A latest member worth something, unlike the Mountain.
A latest member passionate, and idealistic, and ready to fight.
Who reminded me of myself, when I first joined the League.
And who would be dissapointed.

I think my performance cracked, in that debate.
Not even I can hold a smile forever.

I tried, I really tried. To salvage something good for the citizenry, in this horrid event. I did my best to cry in hidding, and fast, when I learnt of Alfred's passing, then I set off to work, again and again and again. I knew Lynneth couldn't bring herself to vote for Mari, I knew Estellise hated it. Estellise had, in fact, given up our entire negociating position.

But we had three votes, still. And I was ready to buy our latest member one. I was ready to beeline the Priestess and start making a fuss, ensuring both candidates would have to court the White's vote, much like they had courted the Alchemist's. But the Lyrist came to me. Alois. Aren't I lucky? He, who called himself my teacher at Graduation, he who never adressed me while I was a Student, he finally chose to interact with his merry Balladeer... To stop my plans.

"I'm just trying to salvage something", I explained.
"To gain some concessions for the White League and the people"
And he stared, incredulous.
"Are you a White League politician or a Balladeer?", he asked.
So I froze. I had spent so long trying to follow my heart.
And then it turned out my heart, and the College's, were not aligned.

The plan was clear. We were not to suffer Mari. Those were my orders, and I had no choice on the matter, other than to drop the cloak. Part of me wanted to do so, and to jump onto the Election with my eyes open and my heart ready. For I said I'd only drop my cloak if the Rose dissapointed, and my superior had.

But there was the Mission. There was Lynneth. There was prophecy and portent, thrice-shared, like a balm for a crying merrymaker. There was the Grandmaster, whose words I had heard but once, who was so inspired, whom I wanted to believe in, so dearly.

"Allow me at least to negociate some concession", I pleaded.
"For my heart bleeds for the voiceless"
He didn't quite look at me.
"Is this your doing?", he asked Lynneth.
I had spent so much time whispering in the shade.
So much blood, so much effort, of my own accord.
And yet, my superior saw me only under Lynneth's shadow.
"Accompany him", he ordered my friend. One of the dearest that remains.
Then, something, to me or to all, about acting serious to be taken seriously.
The pitfalls of playing the Fool.

The cloak weights heavy.
If not for Lynneth, I'd have dropped it there and then.

I tried to pretend I'd take votes to Mari, because our hand was weakened by all the lack of guile of my companions, by the Lyrist, by everyone. Yes, we had no more options, but to let the Purple know meant we wouldn't get anything. Zaniah was ready to give us nothing, she implied as much. We got something, at least. Isabella was kind enough to give us a pittiance, a subsidy to grant the Voiceless a Voice. An alm. She knew I was suffering, I suppose. I have to thank her.

I have to thank her pity.

"Let's go kill something", I told them.
"Let's get out of our beautiful Well"
"And our merry elections and our delightful Leagues"
And I took my chip out of my ear.
Heard no Bellows.
And stayed the night in Qadira, flirting with pirates.

[Don Nadie]

Candy

[A little poem.]

There's no more litter
out in the streets,
caramel's bitter
as a Fool weeps.

(The new rule sucks)

[Don Nadie]

Respite

I was expecting she had something bad to tell me, being president and founder of the Alejandro Haters Club.

I was ready for being yelled at, or threatened, or insulted, or intimidated, in that veiled, whispery way she has which can be as bad as screams.

I was lammenting the New Rule for the thousandth time since it was instituted but a few days ago.

I was so ready to hear something bad, again and again and again.

Instead, an apology.

And respite.

[Don Nadie]

Missmatch

[A little tale.]


Once there was a door, locked.
A mountain, unclimbed.
And travellers, seeking.

"Rumor goes she splattered", he said.
"Trying to climb deeper in the gutters"
"I'm sure she's just holed up somewhere", I replied.
I was saddened, so saddened at the idea of her corpse.
He chuckled: "If you believe that", he said.
"you may as well believe Zarat's still alive"

I've never put on my mask faster.

Once, the trustworthy guided,
trustworthily.
He was, perhaps, more knowledgeable than he seemed.
And he spoke of odd words, of illusion, of farce.

"Worry not about the corpses, for they are bicycles", he explained.
Nonsense words without meaning, troubling.
A missmatch of thing and name, of clouds and sky, of door and fortress, or mountain.

Once, the door refused to open.
And the walls teemed with foes.
And retreat became a necessity, once more.
For today.

Truly, that woman's Fated.
A thousand times I go, and it's with her that this happens.
I suppose Fate, fickle, attends upon those It loves.

[There's a little jingle at the bottom of the page, a rhyme for children to play rope. Yet one charged with meaning]

Missmatch, missmatch,
up the mountain, down the hatch,
heed the trusty, find some track,
know that wisdom's never had.

Missmatch, missmatch,
on Ayyabas you can't latch,
mock the prideful, read the slab,
million years or just ten back.

Missmatch, missmatch,
there's no knowledge you can catch,
gaze at corpses, use your knack,
heed the shame, and then be stuck.

[Don Nadie]

Woe, the Lover!

Woe, the Lover! For the heart that is offered is ever open to the stab, the jest, the wound. The heart, once gifted, is ever an object of gossamer and dreams, so fragile as to be broken as much by harshness as by warmth, equally vulnerable to ardent passion and benevolent reject. She is to suffer in presence and absence! When returned, when rejected, when hidden! For love is the heart pursuing to know another, when another can never be known!

"Like moths to the flame", I said.
"Us poets, and forbidden love".
"You've heard this tale before, then", she pondered.
"Oh, not recently"
"But when youre a storyteller, you know the patterns well."

Woe, the Lover! For she is to know the endless cruelty of love which is returned yet rejected, reflected yet spurn, as the paths of Fate, Duty and Oath conspire to make impossible what is wished, and the beloved puts obligation above the heart. Woe, the Lover! For love is oft star-crossed and thus it is that the flowers once plucked and gifted, the poems once written and given, the smiles and confidences once shared under the glittering sky, they all become then needlees piercing the Lover's heart with a legion of invisible wounds.

"Alas, my life is a cliche sometimes...", she said.
She smiled, wearily.
"We're Balladeers", I shrugged.
"We have our roles, we play them"
"The Heroine in Shining Armor, the Fool"
There's no avoiding the trappings of our masquerade.

Woe, the Lover! For, if rejected, they are to be subsumed in the deepest torture, as the object of their devotion still lives and breathes and has, with her breath, chosen to spurn the Lover. Woe, the Lover! Her heart shall shatter with every dawn and find solace, only, in the oblivion brought by dreams. There's no cure for what ails the Lover, no ointment to mend her ailing heart, but an endless turning of the days which shall, one hopes, grind the pain into particles so fine as to be, someday, both imperceptible and everpresent.

"I /must/ find and seduce a handsome Janissary", I jested
"Perhaps an attendant to the Sultan"
"Else, I shall fall too far behind in the "living life poetically" race"
And she smiled, and that was good.
For a Fool must offer good humor, to a a Heroine heartbroken.

[Don Nadie]

It Ends

I gave Zaniah the poem she requested, about the elections. I gave it to her right before she won. She asked me to perform it and I did, a bitter little jingle which I could only perform with a wince, and the sinking feeling of defeat. She clapped, politely, then declared that she hoped someday she'd regain the trust I had lost in her.

That of course struck me. Had I lost trust in her? I reassured her, of course. I never wanted to be the kind to break friendship with a good person, over something small or silly. I assured her my bitterness had to do with the process, not with her, and that we were ok. That we of course remained and would remain friends.

I do not know that'll be the case. But one can hope.

The rest of the wait was simple. Lynneth was in pain, Hypatia and Estellise whispered long conversations. I was feeling rather miserable, and it was without any desire that I made my way to the Palm Heights, where Shae had made a reservation for us both to have dinner. I was a bit irritated about the timing, as I hadn't even noticed it was at the same time as the Election results...

And it turned out that was her plan all along. She asked not to talk about politics and, instead of discussing the Elections, what had happened or what would happen... We just ate too much and got to know each other better.

It worked. I feel better, now.

[Don Nadie]

Foundations

We were digging, we found proof of one of my theories. Portia was excited, Nebtu and Ianthe were ponderous and asking interesting questions. Then, a guest, a trustworthy one. Wandering in passing, perhaps. He knew everyone's name, even those he hadn't met before. He knew a lot, our trusty friend.

I was impatient, after our last conversation. I brought up some ideas, some points of certain importance. Los Cimientos.

[The narrative is stopped to insert another little rhyme, again the kind a child would use to jump rope]

Missmatch, missmatch,
Trusty Pete I'll never catch,
hide your smile, one step back,
when's the Sister gonna crak?

We dug once more, a bathhouse. More mention of the luminous cimientos, more mention of the names that we needed to know. Like Fate turning slowly to give me more answers, and put more things together. Then, a little trip to the dungeon, just her and I. Her gaze almost hidden under the abaya, we spoke. She didn't knew much. I informed her of what I did know.

"There's so much promise in you, Alejandro", she said.
She had approached. I was still sitting.
So thick, the smell of roses. So dizzying.
"But there's also vulnerability, weakness..."
"I see it, and you know it."
Her eyes were so dark. So piercing.

She encouraged me to fight it.
She promised she'd help.
She kissed my cheek, lightly.

So thick, the smell of roses...

We need to go deeper, I'm certain.
And for that, we need that book.

[Don Nadie]

The Wanderer

We travelled up, once more. We climbed. Portia had never seen the top, neither Ianthe nor Mari nor that whispery little elf who hates climbing. We went further and further up, for I had shown them the Valley of Wisdom and we might as well see one more interesting spot. Portia, ever the explorer, crossed the depths to find nothing but Portrait of a Fool on fire. And as we were setting the rope to cross back...

[Another little addition to the simple poem.]

Missmatch, missmatch,
through the void a rope you latch,
Wanderer speaks, mysteries stack,
heed advice and don't lose track.

Was it him?
He told us to be careful.
He told us: In these canyons there are many ears.
He stood there, his armor having seen much battle.
He was enormous, colossal.
He was hunched and tired, but still strong.
And he reminded me so much of the large, axe-wielding man.
Who once saw the Games, and found us wanting.

[Don Nadie]

Deeper

[A little tale, accompanied by the rudimentary drawing of a bird.]


                                      _ _ _                         Once, there was a little bird.
                      _ , -  '        _ _ _ _ _ _
                 . '          .  -  '  _ _ _ _    7                 And the little bird was caught.
              /            /            _ _ _7
       _    |         /           _ _ _7                Taken deep, deep, deep.
> ( '   ) \       |      _ _ _ 7   
      \  \/               \_ __ __ __                Deep into the foundations of the world.
        '                    _= = = = = = >
            `'- - - - \ \ `                Where mysteries pile one onto another.


And so, a merry band descended, for this was a locked door to open, too.
And in trying to open it, they learnt much about themselves.
For the Lion swallowed her pride.
And the Stargazer kept her secrets.
And the Heroine stood quiet and tall and bright and noble.

And deep they went, deep, so deep.
Where the little Fool parsed through so many ancient texts, and learnt so much.
That it was as though his head was burning with the most luminous wisdom.
And as he tried to share it there was too much, too much.
A thousand heresies and challenges and discoveries.
Some foundations the world shaken, perhaps, by what he read aloud.
Such hunger for secrets, did the Fool feel, for even as he shared with them they didn't understand.
And explanations would've taken centuries, for knowledge is a process, not a speech.
Secrets within secrets.
And a path guessed, though still closed.
And a door unlocked, to reveal many more behind, tightly shut.

And then, the Watcher skittered. And noticed them. And screamed.
And They came.
Shadowy, corrupted, their smiles and grins and grimaces shattered.
Shattered by some horror beyond belief.
Impossible to defeat, something you could, at best, hold back.
And try to push into the depths.
And as it fell back to where it came from, they knew it would not die.
But remain there, waiting.

"The Wellfolk", murmured the Fool.

[Don Nadie]

Grain

Pirates. Bandits. Profiteers.

The kind of people who grow fat while people starve. Who take from the weak and eat until they're fuller than full. Who smile, cheekily, and chuckle to themselves in the certainty of their own riches. People who would sell refugees as slaves. People who'd add refugees to a falafel, and sell it to others. People who would enslave refugees and make them toil until they fell down on the ground, exhausted to their death.

When we were called to deal with such people, for the Rose, I felt no hesitation.

Remember their lash?
Remember their hands, their fists?
Remember what one does for a sip of water?
What one is forced to do?

Your back still carries their marks.

Grain, stolen from the Sultan's ships. There's two layers of theft, is there not? The pirate who steals and resells to plump profiteers of greasy mouths and thin lips. The Sultan who hoards and feigns benevolence. Two layers, both equally ready to keep it for themselves as the coming refugees starve. Neither will see their bellies grow full with air and hunger. Neither will see their lips parched. Neither deserves what they have.

So when the Rose asks you to fight? To fight, so that we'll scratch a few months for those who'll need them? You do it.

Hundred-Princes.
A hundred or more, for us to cut through.
A hundred tricks, to defeat them:
Gas and wand and scroll and trinket.
Wind and fire and illusion and song.
Cut through their numbers, one after another.
And set their homes on fire.

And never lose your smile.

The Acolytes got hurt, sadly. Seeing they couldn't hurt us, it was all our foes could do: go after them. Cowardice upon cowardice, I suppose. Even their captain, that assassin with two daggers who embraced darkness like others would embrace a lover, eventually decided to attack the weak, as he could not best Lynneth and I. Shows their cowardice, does it not?

But we won. They ran away or they died, no more choices.

And by the end, when the Ballestrieres of the Banda arrived to gather the grain? The beach was littered with corpses. And I felt myself smile.

It was a fine thing, to extract that debt in blood.

[Don Nadie]

The Girl Who Picked Flowers

[A little tale, accompanied by the rudimentary drawing of two masks.]


Once there was a girl who picked flowers.
Who grew, tragically.
Who found love in the meadows.
And lost and found and lost and found and lost it all over again.

Once, she made bad decissions.
And felt despair.
And threw herself off.


I am sad for her.
I am angry at her.
I am dissapointed at her.
I identify.

And the promises, once made, are all gone.

Too often, it seems I'm the only one who stands by his word.
Without looking for excuses.

[Don Nadie]

Teaching

She's brilliant.

She came to me. "I got a theory", she said. And she laid it out, in my office. The smell of parchment and scroll and dust and ink, thick in the air. The musky smell of the places were fools think they can change the world. She laid out her theory and I thought: "it is good", and I told her. It added to my own ideas, it expanded them, fed them, aided them grow.

I trimmed some of her branches, she some of mine. We advance, I think, in a better direction.

I'm coming to realize knowledge is a journey, not a destination. I'm trying to let her see on her own, come first to conclussions on her own, find first her own inways before I tame the wilderness arround her. There's little to no value on seeing the past through the eyes of another. I am not so foolish as to rob her the chance to think, for it is thinking that develops. A thousand paths, we open from the past to the future. A thousand possibilities, we trace.  Mystery & Revelation.

I shared a little, I withheld much.

Of the House of Whispers Beneath the Sands.
Of the Depths where Stone Crawls in Darkness.
Of the engravings and the letters in the Winding Tunnels of Mercury and Poison.

For her own safety. For her own instruction. For the sake of a promise made, to keep a secret.

She told me a secret. About the Mountain, and her dissapearance. She asked me to tell nobody, and so I shan't, much as I want to. Someone has to dig, and keep secrets. Someone has to be trustworthy.

I do not know if I'm a good mentor.
I try to be as good for her as D/a Jamileh was for me:
trimming my worst tendencies,
encouraging my best ones.

I hope that, if she saw me, she'd smile
and critize me,
her heart brimming with pride.

[Don Nadie]

Dakhwar

I heard their tale and I took notes. I took notes upon notes, swiftly, almost desperately, for there was too much information and when there's too much information, all I can do  is hold it and hold it. Keep records, in the hopes that I'll have time to breathe, to stop, to assimilate. Sometimes there are too many things tumbling inside my head, like when it was time to pick the honey and all the bees buzzed at once, each moving in a different direction, and it was impossible to focus on one, to follow one's path. So I took note, and notes upon notes:

There were Sibilant. There was an Emperor (see Exhibits #CC1-8, #RNW1; see An Eye for an Eye).
There was a tall man, grey skinned, his face covered by a mask (see Exhibits #RNHR1-15, #I1, #BOF4; see Insane Theories section 6.11)
There was a cup, jewel-ladden, which they called Dakhwar (see Exhibits #FOF1, #FVO1; see the Sheperds Tale)

Threats of Empire and of Dreams. The name of Queen Ibtihal mentioned, in dreamful tones. A voice that boomed, ponderous, and spoke heavily like a God. So many signs of Fate entwinning and intermingling that one would be forgiven for thinking our Time had come, that what was Foretold is coming to pass. I heard all of these things and my heart boomed, with hope. Every beat wanting, so despertaly, to believe.

And yet I couldn't. The Scholar in me had seen representations of the Cup, humble and yet full of Truth. The Storyteller in me thought a jewel-ladden Cup sounded more an artifact of Temptation than one of Renewal. The student in me, the young man who looked at Jamileh with bright eyes, remembers the skepticism she so eagerly tried to plant in me. Succesfully, it'd seem.

I feel hope. I feel hesitation. I feel distrust. Desperate times, when a Balladeer finds himself feeling  some skepticism.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter. First, we save them from the Sibilant. We can worry about all else... Later.

[Don Nadie]

Renewal

Once, a friend was lost.
Then found again.

Once, tears were shed, and hugs were given.
And the friend, the mentor, remained stern. Steady.
While the Fool, misty eyed, teared up.

"Don't be weak", said the friend.
"I am glad I lived, but you need to go on no matter who dies, no matter what happens."
"That is what it means to be a hero."
And his gaze was stern, serene, resigned.
So the Fool nodded.
For he had been doing that, already. Moving on.
Someone, after all, had to dig.

But still, his throat closed with joy.
His eyes got misty when gazing upon his friend.
His heart sang and sang and sang.
And he let it sing.
For what is a hero, without his heart?