prayer.
He finally arrives at the place where the paths wind back on themselves and the trees close over. “Undo!” he says again.
He finds the City of Likelihood, deserted and forlorn.
He goes to the simple house of unsteady stone in which another old man died in pain. Kai unrolls a mat and finds a forgotten bowl and spoon. Even after all these years with some of the dykes fallen, sparse rice still whispers in the thousand paddies. They climb toward heaven like stairs.
He gathers rice and stores it, some for seed, for there will be only one crop. The many deserted wooden houses will provide him with firewood. He takes the opportunity to prepare for death and accept the world as it is, and finds that there is surprisingly little to contemplate.
He draws in a breath, and goes down into the valley to carry out his plan.
He goes to the Machine. He is able to step through the breakage into its huge hollow coil. He climbs up the scaffolding and flaps the broken reed panels that once powered its engines. Some clay, some reed, some time—that will be all it needs.
The Machine was built in a dead whirlpool because of the centuries of sediment deposited there. Finding clay is easy. So is finding firewood. Kai hauls huge evergreens down from the hills and lets them dry until they are tinder. He touches them and they catch fire, for magic now rules everywhere, even in Likelihood. He bakes new sections of tube. He weaves the reed into new blades for windmills.
The Machine takes shape, the panels turn in the wind, and Kai sighs with satisfaction. He remembers the original inhabitants.
It’s never properly been turned on.
Don’t give him ideas!
Too late to avoid that, I’m afraid.
Kai once asked, “What would it do?”
“Buzz the world,” said one old man.
Kai slides shut portal after portal. The old machine hums. Kai remembers the one bolted portal at the top that was left open.
Kai the warrior monk stands back and then runs up and over the round smooth sides.
Over the last open portal dances something that looks like stars. Kai, the man of magicked fire, reaches through them, pulls the bolt shut, and locks it. He survives the sparkling blast, where elephants could not. All it does is quench his fire like cooling water.
And all the World is deprived of magic.
Mala descends howling in rage and grief and betrayal, and Kai smiles at him. Just after his giant wings drop off, Mala melts harmlessly into the ground, personified no longer.
No more miracles.
In all the temples in the lands of Kambu, the voices of the gods whisper once like dust before being blown away. Then their halls are empty. The statues are wrapped, the oracles speak, but with voices that in their hearts they know are their own.
Kai is released for one last time from the fire in his body. He has changed the whole world forever. He made the world in which we now live. Which can hardly be called heroism completing itself through inaction.
Soon after, he gets sick and dies alone in agony in the tiny house of wood and stone.
And what of heroism?
Well, the Rules don’t understand it, but they sound good, and at least they don’t say that you become a hero by being kind and doing your duty.
Heroism consists of the moment that you are cheered by thousands. Heroism resides in the eyes of other people, and what you can get them to believe.
It can also be secret, without praise, and known to no one except you. That kind is a lot less fun.
Heroism, if you want it, resides nowhere, and everywhere, in the air, whether it buzzes with magic or not. In the hard, merciless world of Likelihood, there is no meaning, except in moments. There are also no Rules.
The old gods had been unstitched into ordinary molecules. The pretty magic of kings no longer worked. Kai’s new railway, roads, and cities were an enticement.
Steamboats arrived from the West, bearing cannons and ambitious, likely people.
Birth Days
Today’s my sixteenth birthday, so I gave
He finally arrives at the place where the paths wind back on themselves and the trees close over. “Undo!” he says again.
He finds the City of Likelihood, deserted and forlorn.
He goes to the simple house of unsteady stone in which another old man died in pain. Kai unrolls a mat and finds a forgotten bowl and spoon. Even after all these years with some of the dykes fallen, sparse rice still whispers in the thousand paddies. They climb toward heaven like stairs.
He gathers rice and stores it, some for seed, for there will be only one crop. The many deserted wooden houses will provide him with firewood. He takes the opportunity to prepare for death and accept the world as it is, and finds that there is surprisingly little to contemplate.
He draws in a breath, and goes down into the valley to carry out his plan.
He goes to the Machine. He is able to step through the breakage into its huge hollow coil. He climbs up the scaffolding and flaps the broken reed panels that once powered its engines. Some clay, some reed, some time—that will be all it needs.
The Machine was built in a dead whirlpool because of the centuries of sediment deposited there. Finding clay is easy. So is finding firewood. Kai hauls huge evergreens down from the hills and lets them dry until they are tinder. He touches them and they catch fire, for magic now rules everywhere, even in Likelihood. He bakes new sections of tube. He weaves the reed into new blades for windmills.
The Machine takes shape, the panels turn in the wind, and Kai sighs with satisfaction. He remembers the original inhabitants.
It’s never properly been turned on.
Don’t give him ideas!
Too late to avoid that, I’m afraid.
Kai once asked, “What would it do?”
“Buzz the world,” said one old man.
Kai slides shut portal after portal. The old machine hums. Kai remembers the one bolted portal at the top that was left open.
Kai the warrior monk stands back and then runs up and over the round smooth sides.
Over the last open portal dances something that looks like stars. Kai, the man of magicked fire, reaches through them, pulls the bolt shut, and locks it. He survives the sparkling blast, where elephants could not. All it does is quench his fire like cooling water.
And all the World is deprived of magic.
Mala descends howling in rage and grief and betrayal, and Kai smiles at him. Just after his giant wings drop off, Mala melts harmlessly into the ground, personified no longer.
No more miracles.
In all the temples in the lands of Kambu, the voices of the gods whisper once like dust before being blown away. Then their halls are empty. The statues are wrapped, the oracles speak, but with voices that in their hearts they know are their own.
Kai is released for one last time from the fire in his body. He has changed the whole world forever. He made the world in which we now live. Which can hardly be called heroism completing itself through inaction.
Soon after, he gets sick and dies alone in agony in the tiny house of wood and stone.
And what of heroism?
Well, the Rules don’t understand it, but they sound good, and at least they don’t say that you become a hero by being kind and doing your duty.
Heroism consists of the moment that you are cheered by thousands. Heroism resides in the eyes of other people, and what you can get them to believe.
It can also be secret, without praise, and known to no one except you. That kind is a lot less fun.
Heroism, if you want it, resides nowhere, and everywhere, in the air, whether it buzzes with magic or not. In the hard, merciless world of Likelihood, there is no meaning, except in moments. There are also no Rules.
The old gods had been unstitched into ordinary molecules. The pretty magic of kings no longer worked. Kai’s new railway, roads, and cities were an enticement.
Steamboats arrived from the West, bearing cannons and ambitious, likely people.
Birth Days
Today’s my sixteenth birthday, so I gave
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