Lost Hand: Shadows and Reality (part 2)
Nature of the Piece: fictional prose
Characters: Master, Hand
Universe: the metaverse
World: Master's home-world
Chronology: This piece finishes the action commenced in Shadows and Reality (part 1).
Summary of previous action: Master is a child of ~12 years, for whom no name has been specified. The nature/state of his world is largely unrevealed at this point, though it appears to be roughly similar to our own. His parents work somewhere Important, the doors to which workplace can only be opened by `special people' whose hands/fingerprints the door is apparently programmed to recognize. He attends something like school. He does not appear to have many non-imaginary friends. He recently created a means of summoning his oldest and most peculiar imaginary friend (Hand) at will, by carving a circular symbol into the earth, which becomes a kind of door through which he can invite/pull it out into the world. The establishment of this symbol as a means of summons has also had the effect of binding Hand to him as a servant of sorts. The Hand assists its master in various adventures with its special skills in 'building' and `tunneling', processes through which it is able to either to build incorporeally upon the corporeal world, or else 'tunnel' into pre-existing incorporeal dimensions.
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~
'Dumb.' He scowled and slumped backwards onto the floor. `I wanted to do something interesting before dinner. Now we've wasted our time.'
The Hand hovered over him, fidgeting. `You're not . . . disappointed, are you?'
'Naw . . . not yet,' its master smiled. `We can still do something: I've just got to think.'
He thought, and the Hand waited.
`Oh!' He leapt up and fished a card-board figurine from a drawer in his desk. It was another winged being, possibly humanoid, wielding an oversized axe. `I've been wanting to grow this branch here near the closet. It's not as interesting as the rest --- just a bunch of shapes and this lizard or whatever.'
The Hand frowned. It had been rather fond of them.
`And also,' --- the child rotated the nearest arm of the mobile --- `this loser.'
The Hand dodged the rotating shapes, then examined the figure now dangling before its head. Though lacking an axe, it was nearly identical to the one in the child's hand.
`This guy wants him dead,' he was explaining. 'Not necessarily because he's bad or did anything to him. It's just that they're the same --- and he hates that. Fix it so that when the mobile spins it looks like they're chasing each other. So that if you look at the walls you might think this guy catches him sometimes. But then if you look back to the mobile, you know it's not over.'
The Hand accepted the cardboard model from the child and stared at it.
`Hand?' the child prompted.
It looked from model to the hanging figure, and back again. `Why?' it asked at last, profoundly bewildered.
`What?'
`Why does he hate that there is another the same?'
`I don't know,' the child shrugged. 'I guess because he wants to be special. If there is another person, exactly like him, then what's the point of him living?'
`I see,' said the Hand slowly. `And he needs a point, in order to fuel his living? So his point has become to annihilate that which would annihilate his point.'
'Exactly.'
The Hand stared at its young master, grinning stupidly.
`What now?'
`I understand,' it said, pointing up at the mobile. `The circularity is fitting.'
Without warning a peal of laughter escaped the creature, as from a cavernous depth. It rang improbably around the little room. More laughter followed, high and clear, until it was doubled over itself with mirth.
Its master called out to it, but it seemed not to notice. Through the riot, he thought he could make out some breathless attempt at a linguistic utterance. `What's so funny?' he asked. Still the creature did not respond. `Hand!'
This time his voice brought on an abrupt cessation of the fit. The Hand straitened its robes, and looked him in the eye with utmost seriousness. 'Of course, master. I will make this thing immediately.'
It disappeared into the closet and re-emerged carefully, a pool of shadow-stuff cupped in its hands (though the boy had never been able to find this stuff in the closet when he was alone, his companion assured him that was where they kept it). As the Hand readied itself, its master hopped backwards onto the desk to watch. The first step was always to 'cast' the material. One achieved this by closing one's hands around the vaporous pool and then, with a subtle twist, pulling them clear away to either side. It was a delicate procedure: the wrong twist could send the stuff spinning like a top about the room; a movement too swift or too wide could cause it to vaporize completely or disperse, while one too sluggish would only serve to pour it to the floor. Just the right cast, however, left the material suspended in the air, thus enabling the craftsman to access it from all sides. In the boy's experience, the Hand had only botched one cast, and today did not prove itself another such exception. The cast accomplished, it set about spinning and prodding the shadow with ghostly fingers, occasionally glancing back to the model for reference. For detail work, it drew out three small tools from the folds of its robes: one with two looped ends, one with a flat end and a pointed end, and another that worked somewhat like an eye-dropper. They appeared to be made of bone, though the child had never been allowed to examine them for long enough to confirm this.
The last step was necessarily a compression, since, to compensate for the expanded state of the material in its workable form, it was necessary to scale any figure up to three times the desired size while crafting it. When the artisan had finished scraping down the wings and sharpening the blade of the axe, it placed one hand on either side of the sculpture and, with intent concentration, pressed inwards. The figure pulsed, contracted, and with a soft 'pop' shrank down to its proper size, whereupon it fell towards the floor. The Hand caught it deftly in one palm. After examining the finished product, it handed the new creation over to its master for further inspection.
The child turned the figure over and over in his hands, running his fingers across the smooth planes and jagged edges. 'This is brilliant,' he pronounced. 'I didn't know you could get the axe so sharp. It's deadly.' He paused. 'Hey. How come you never made any of the other weapons like this?'
The Hand reflected. `I am not sure,' it said. `Perhaps . . . I did not sense that they had need of it.'
The child stood up on the desk to grasp the mobile at its origin. 'You don't think you'd need something sharp to take on a six-headed monster?' --- As he spoke, he swung the mechanism around to play the corresponding scenes --- 'To avenge the annihilation of your species, or --- to fight an actual war?'
'Yes, of course you would,' said the Hand, ducking the shadow-warriors and shadow-monsters as they spun, 'In the story. And they are sharp --- in the story. It's just . . . this one is different. Our sentient here fights not for revenge, or justice or a conviction --- not even for his life --- but for his point. That battle requires a different sort of weapon. One that is sharp both within the story and . . . without. I wanted him to be prepared.' It looked down. 'I hope that I have not disappointed you, with respect to the other weapons in your menagerie. I can amend them, if you so wish.'
Surveying his creations from above, the Master considered this offer. On the one hand, the more sharp objects the better. On the other, he didn't want to rob his new creation of his specialness --- not just after he'd endowed him with the means to fight for it.
`No,' he decreed at last. 'Leave them as they are. Though you really ought to have told me you could make weapons like this before. It might come in handy.'
`I am sorry,' said the Hand. `I assumed you would find it boring to sit through an enumeration of my every skill.'
`Yeah, I might've,' the child admitted. `But now I want to know. What else can you do, that you haven't told me?'
The Hand puzzled over this for a moment. `Actually,' it said, `I may not have told you because I don't remember. I think . . . that I can do Winter.'
`What?'
`I've been wondering. It isn't like your Winter, really. A different Winter. I'll remember when it's time, I suppose.'
`Time for what?'
`I think you would know better than I. You made me real, after all.'
`I did?'
`You said so yourself.'
`Oh, yeah.' The child laughed, sitting back down. `Stupid of me to forget.' He stopped. `Wait, no. No, that's not it.' He descended from the desk, and the Hand waited tensely as he struggled to wrap his mind around the slippery thought. The mobile quivered.
`You're older than me,' he continued, pacing. 'I mean not just in the story, but outside of it, too. You remember things, you know things that I could have never put into you --- things you wouldn't have had time to find yourself since you've been here --- so,' he stopped, and looked the creature in the eye. 'So I don't believe you. You can't just be a thing I made real. There's somewhere else --- something else --- behind you. And it's always been that way, ever since --- ow!' The axe of the new figurine, clutched too tightly in the child's fist, had cut into his thumb. He looked down at the sliver of blood now welling in the slit.
The blood was not red. There was a flap of robes, and large white hands closed about his smaller one. Cool fingers ran across his skin. The hand was returned to him, healed. He continued to stare at it, flexing and unflexing his fingers, as gentle arms drew him close in an embrace. A familiar darkness enveloped him, and he was cloaked in cool breezes and night air.
`Be careful, master,' said a voice through the darkness. `Please . . . be careful.'
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~
Characters: Master, Hand
Universe: the metaverse
World: Master's home-world
Chronology: This piece finishes the action commenced in Shadows and Reality (part 1).
Summary of previous action: Master is a child of ~12 years, for whom no name has been specified. The nature/state of his world is largely unrevealed at this point, though it appears to be roughly similar to our own. His parents work somewhere Important, the doors to which workplace can only be opened by `special people' whose hands/fingerprints the door is apparently programmed to recognize. He attends something like school. He does not appear to have many non-imaginary friends. He recently created a means of summoning his oldest and most peculiar imaginary friend (Hand) at will, by carving a circular symbol into the earth, which becomes a kind of door through which he can invite/pull it out into the world. The establishment of this symbol as a means of summons has also had the effect of binding Hand to him as a servant of sorts. The Hand assists its master in various adventures with its special skills in 'building' and `tunneling', processes through which it is able to either to build incorporeally upon the corporeal world, or else 'tunnel' into pre-existing incorporeal dimensions.
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~
'Dumb.' He scowled and slumped backwards onto the floor. `I wanted to do something interesting before dinner. Now we've wasted our time.'
The Hand hovered over him, fidgeting. `You're not . . . disappointed, are you?'
'Naw . . . not yet,' its master smiled. `We can still do something: I've just got to think.'
He thought, and the Hand waited.
`Oh!' He leapt up and fished a card-board figurine from a drawer in his desk. It was another winged being, possibly humanoid, wielding an oversized axe. `I've been wanting to grow this branch here near the closet. It's not as interesting as the rest --- just a bunch of shapes and this lizard or whatever.'
The Hand frowned. It had been rather fond of them.
`And also,' --- the child rotated the nearest arm of the mobile --- `this loser.'
The Hand dodged the rotating shapes, then examined the figure now dangling before its head. Though lacking an axe, it was nearly identical to the one in the child's hand.
`This guy wants him dead,' he was explaining. 'Not necessarily because he's bad or did anything to him. It's just that they're the same --- and he hates that. Fix it so that when the mobile spins it looks like they're chasing each other. So that if you look at the walls you might think this guy catches him sometimes. But then if you look back to the mobile, you know it's not over.'
The Hand accepted the cardboard model from the child and stared at it.
`Hand?' the child prompted.
It looked from model to the hanging figure, and back again. `Why?' it asked at last, profoundly bewildered.
`What?'
`Why does he hate that there is another the same?'
`I don't know,' the child shrugged. 'I guess because he wants to be special. If there is another person, exactly like him, then what's the point of him living?'
`I see,' said the Hand slowly. `And he needs a point, in order to fuel his living? So his point has become to annihilate that which would annihilate his point.'
'Exactly.'
The Hand stared at its young master, grinning stupidly.
`What now?'
`I understand,' it said, pointing up at the mobile. `The circularity is fitting.'
Without warning a peal of laughter escaped the creature, as from a cavernous depth. It rang improbably around the little room. More laughter followed, high and clear, until it was doubled over itself with mirth.
Its master called out to it, but it seemed not to notice. Through the riot, he thought he could make out some breathless attempt at a linguistic utterance. `What's so funny?' he asked. Still the creature did not respond. `Hand!'
This time his voice brought on an abrupt cessation of the fit. The Hand straitened its robes, and looked him in the eye with utmost seriousness. 'Of course, master. I will make this thing immediately.'
It disappeared into the closet and re-emerged carefully, a pool of shadow-stuff cupped in its hands (though the boy had never been able to find this stuff in the closet when he was alone, his companion assured him that was where they kept it). As the Hand readied itself, its master hopped backwards onto the desk to watch. The first step was always to 'cast' the material. One achieved this by closing one's hands around the vaporous pool and then, with a subtle twist, pulling them clear away to either side. It was a delicate procedure: the wrong twist could send the stuff spinning like a top about the room; a movement too swift or too wide could cause it to vaporize completely or disperse, while one too sluggish would only serve to pour it to the floor. Just the right cast, however, left the material suspended in the air, thus enabling the craftsman to access it from all sides. In the boy's experience, the Hand had only botched one cast, and today did not prove itself another such exception. The cast accomplished, it set about spinning and prodding the shadow with ghostly fingers, occasionally glancing back to the model for reference. For detail work, it drew out three small tools from the folds of its robes: one with two looped ends, one with a flat end and a pointed end, and another that worked somewhat like an eye-dropper. They appeared to be made of bone, though the child had never been allowed to examine them for long enough to confirm this.
The last step was necessarily a compression, since, to compensate for the expanded state of the material in its workable form, it was necessary to scale any figure up to three times the desired size while crafting it. When the artisan had finished scraping down the wings and sharpening the blade of the axe, it placed one hand on either side of the sculpture and, with intent concentration, pressed inwards. The figure pulsed, contracted, and with a soft 'pop' shrank down to its proper size, whereupon it fell towards the floor. The Hand caught it deftly in one palm. After examining the finished product, it handed the new creation over to its master for further inspection.
The child turned the figure over and over in his hands, running his fingers across the smooth planes and jagged edges. 'This is brilliant,' he pronounced. 'I didn't know you could get the axe so sharp. It's deadly.' He paused. 'Hey. How come you never made any of the other weapons like this?'
The Hand reflected. `I am not sure,' it said. `Perhaps . . . I did not sense that they had need of it.'
The child stood up on the desk to grasp the mobile at its origin. 'You don't think you'd need something sharp to take on a six-headed monster?' --- As he spoke, he swung the mechanism around to play the corresponding scenes --- 'To avenge the annihilation of your species, or --- to fight an actual war?'
'Yes, of course you would,' said the Hand, ducking the shadow-warriors and shadow-monsters as they spun, 'In the story. And they are sharp --- in the story. It's just . . . this one is different. Our sentient here fights not for revenge, or justice or a conviction --- not even for his life --- but for his point. That battle requires a different sort of weapon. One that is sharp both within the story and . . . without. I wanted him to be prepared.' It looked down. 'I hope that I have not disappointed you, with respect to the other weapons in your menagerie. I can amend them, if you so wish.'
Surveying his creations from above, the Master considered this offer. On the one hand, the more sharp objects the better. On the other, he didn't want to rob his new creation of his specialness --- not just after he'd endowed him with the means to fight for it.
`No,' he decreed at last. 'Leave them as they are. Though you really ought to have told me you could make weapons like this before. It might come in handy.'
`I am sorry,' said the Hand. `I assumed you would find it boring to sit through an enumeration of my every skill.'
`Yeah, I might've,' the child admitted. `But now I want to know. What else can you do, that you haven't told me?'
The Hand puzzled over this for a moment. `Actually,' it said, `I may not have told you because I don't remember. I think . . . that I can do Winter.'
`What?'
`I've been wondering. It isn't like your Winter, really. A different Winter. I'll remember when it's time, I suppose.'
`Time for what?'
`I think you would know better than I. You made me real, after all.'
`I did?'
`You said so yourself.'
`Oh, yeah.' The child laughed, sitting back down. `Stupid of me to forget.' He stopped. `Wait, no. No, that's not it.' He descended from the desk, and the Hand waited tensely as he struggled to wrap his mind around the slippery thought. The mobile quivered.
`You're older than me,' he continued, pacing. 'I mean not just in the story, but outside of it, too. You remember things, you know things that I could have never put into you --- things you wouldn't have had time to find yourself since you've been here --- so,' he stopped, and looked the creature in the eye. 'So I don't believe you. You can't just be a thing I made real. There's somewhere else --- something else --- behind you. And it's always been that way, ever since --- ow!' The axe of the new figurine, clutched too tightly in the child's fist, had cut into his thumb. He looked down at the sliver of blood now welling in the slit.
The blood was not red. There was a flap of robes, and large white hands closed about his smaller one. Cool fingers ran across his skin. The hand was returned to him, healed. He continued to stare at it, flexing and unflexing his fingers, as gentle arms drew him close in an embrace. A familiar darkness enveloped him, and he was cloaked in cool breezes and night air.
`Be careful, master,' said a voice through the darkness. `Please . . . be careful.'
~'.'~|=|:~O~:|=|~'.'~