then boiled it for an hour with the pine gum. At last they squeezed it through fine linen, and ended up with two pints of smooth black ink.
“It will stay black for a thousand years, and readable for live thousand. The parchment will turn to dust before the ink is too faint to see,” said Jason;
“How did you learn to make such ink?”
“How did you learn to make such parchment?” Jason answered, holding up a sheet of it that Lared had made. “I can see my hand through it.”
“There's no secret to parchment,” Lared answered. “The sheep wear the secret on their bodies till they die, and give it up when we butcher them.”
That night Lared dreamed of how Jason met Abner Doon. How God met Satan. How life met death. How making met unmaking. The dream was given to him by Justice, as she remembered it from finding the memory complete in Jason's mind. Memories of memories of memories, that was what lay in Lared's mind the next morning, when with trembling quill he began to write.
3. A Book of Old Memories
Here is how Lared began his book:
“I am—Lared of Flat Haven Inn. I am not a cleric, but I have read books and know my letters, ties, and bindings. So I write, with good new ink on parchment I made myself, a story that is not my own. It is a memory of my dreams of another man's childhood, dreams that were given me so I could tell his tale. Forgive me if I write badly, because I have little practice at this. I have not the elegance of Semol of Grais, though my pen longs to write such language. All you will have from me is the plain tale.”
“The name of the boy I tell you of was Jason Worthing, then called Jase, without respect, because no one knew what he was or what he would become. He lived on a world of steel and plastic called Capitol, which now is dead. It was a world so rich that the children had nothing to do but go to school or play. It was a world so poor that no food grew there, and they had to eat what other worlds sent them in great starships.”
Lared read it over, and felt at once pleased and afraid. Pleased that he could write so many words at once. Pleased because it did sound like the beginning of a book. And afraid because he knew how uneducated he was, knew that to clerics it would sound childish. I am a child.
“You're a man,” said Jason. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, sewing the leather boots he had volunteered to make for Father. “And your book will be good enough, if you only tell the truth.”
“How can I be sure I'll remember everything?”
“You don't have to remember everything.”
“Some things in the dreams I don't even understand.”
“You don't have to understand it either.”
“How do I even know it's true?”
Jason laughed, driving the long, heavy needle through the leather and drawing the thread tight. “It's your memory of your dreams of Justice's memory of my memory of things that happened to me in my childhood on a planet that died more than ten thousand years ago. How could it help but be true?”
“What should I start with?”
Jason shrugged. “We didn't choose a tool, we chose a person to write our story. Start with the first thing that matters.”
What was the first thing that mattered? Lared thought through the things he remembered of Jason's life. What mattered? Fear and pain—that's what mattered to Lared now, after a childhood virtually without either. And the earliest fear, the earliest pain that mattered, that was when Jason nearly lost his life because he did too well on a test.
It was in a class that studied the movements and powers of the stars, one that only a few hundred of the thirteen-year-olds of Capitol knew enough to take. Jase watched as the problems appeared in the air above his table, like little stars and galaxies he could hold in his hands. The questions were written in the air below the stars, and Jase entered his answers on a keyboard.
Jase knew all the answers easily, for he had learned well, and he
“It will stay black for a thousand years, and readable for live thousand. The parchment will turn to dust before the ink is too faint to see,” said Jason;
“How did you learn to make such ink?”
“How did you learn to make such parchment?” Jason answered, holding up a sheet of it that Lared had made. “I can see my hand through it.”
“There's no secret to parchment,” Lared answered. “The sheep wear the secret on their bodies till they die, and give it up when we butcher them.”
That night Lared dreamed of how Jason met Abner Doon. How God met Satan. How life met death. How making met unmaking. The dream was given to him by Justice, as she remembered it from finding the memory complete in Jason's mind. Memories of memories of memories, that was what lay in Lared's mind the next morning, when with trembling quill he began to write.
3. A Book of Old Memories
Here is how Lared began his book:
“I am—Lared of Flat Haven Inn. I am not a cleric, but I have read books and know my letters, ties, and bindings. So I write, with good new ink on parchment I made myself, a story that is not my own. It is a memory of my dreams of another man's childhood, dreams that were given me so I could tell his tale. Forgive me if I write badly, because I have little practice at this. I have not the elegance of Semol of Grais, though my pen longs to write such language. All you will have from me is the plain tale.”
“The name of the boy I tell you of was Jason Worthing, then called Jase, without respect, because no one knew what he was or what he would become. He lived on a world of steel and plastic called Capitol, which now is dead. It was a world so rich that the children had nothing to do but go to school or play. It was a world so poor that no food grew there, and they had to eat what other worlds sent them in great starships.”
Lared read it over, and felt at once pleased and afraid. Pleased that he could write so many words at once. Pleased because it did sound like the beginning of a book. And afraid because he knew how uneducated he was, knew that to clerics it would sound childish. I am a child.
“You're a man,” said Jason. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, sewing the leather boots he had volunteered to make for Father. “And your book will be good enough, if you only tell the truth.”
“How can I be sure I'll remember everything?”
“You don't have to remember everything.”
“Some things in the dreams I don't even understand.”
“You don't have to understand it either.”
“How do I even know it's true?”
Jason laughed, driving the long, heavy needle through the leather and drawing the thread tight. “It's your memory of your dreams of Justice's memory of my memory of things that happened to me in my childhood on a planet that died more than ten thousand years ago. How could it help but be true?”
“What should I start with?”
Jason shrugged. “We didn't choose a tool, we chose a person to write our story. Start with the first thing that matters.”
What was the first thing that mattered? Lared thought through the things he remembered of Jason's life. What mattered? Fear and pain—that's what mattered to Lared now, after a childhood virtually without either. And the earliest fear, the earliest pain that mattered, that was when Jason nearly lost his life because he did too well on a test.
It was in a class that studied the movements and powers of the stars, one that only a few hundred of the thirteen-year-olds of Capitol knew enough to take. Jase watched as the problems appeared in the air above his table, like little stars and galaxies he could hold in his hands. The questions were written in the air below the stars, and Jase entered his answers on a keyboard.
Jase knew all the answers easily, for he had learned well, and he
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