Vassael, and I’ll Come to You
“At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' to me,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' to me.
O whistle an' I'll come, &c.”
— Robert Burns
In the ruins of a seaside hotel, between two unmade beds, I found it. A small whistle, six inches of bone ringed with bronze. Absentmindedly I took it, though I was looking for supplies. The pantry was immediately more fruitful—literally, as it was stocked to the ceiling with tinned peaches. I pictured an old Antiquarian or Colonel, who’d planned to live out his days here, at the end of Empire, dining every night on peaches and cream.
I returned to the camp and we dined on ancient peaches, sweet and vinous with rot. An old sailor looked at the sky and claimed, through amber-juice stained lips, that it was hurricane season.
Later in my slip tent, I happened upon the whistle as I was undressing for the day. It was inscribed deeply with a language in dead tongues. Not dead a generation ago, of course, but then the Acrin—. I found myself furiously cleaning the thing later, refusing to think of that. Of her. Of the dread wisdom they had brought. Of what we’d learned.
(When I sleep, I see her. As she was.)
Before I knew it, the thing was clean, dust and grit off it. It was distinctly-shaped, though a fair bit longer than a man’s, and the holes were so nearly bored as to be grown there. The bronze ring fit it loosely, but it was impossible to remove.
In this new world, it was a disturbing sight, frankly. Seeing it bare, I just wanted rid of it, especially after that moment of strange compulsion. I resolved to trade it away the following day—I could get food (not peaches!) for this, a tool or even a favor.
As I went to sleep, I tucked it under my pillow (my jacket) for safekeeping.
In the night, the wind blew hard. Hard enough that it pushed its way through the zipped tent flap. Hard enough I could hear a gentle trill from the whistle as the air passed over it. Shadows of the ruined seaside town wavered crazily in the night watch’s lantern-light, shifting as they were cast on the tent wall, and I remembered the shape of—.
I slept fitfully, at best.
In the morning, I went on the usual rounds over breakfast, seeing who had what swag left from the evening’s bartering. No-one would touch the whistle though. No-one wise at least. They told me to take it back, throw it in the sea. But I couldn’t, though. I don’t know why. Felt I had to get something out of it.
I took it to the fool at the camp’s edge. Voice knows how he survived out there, gaunt and dumb, day and night with everything roving and starving, but he did. ‘Til that day, at least.
As I approached, he was dancing with a broom he’d found, waltzing on the ruined pier. When he saw the whistle in hand, he stopped his capering, though. He didn’t look at it again, just took it from me. Put it to his lips. And blew it, of course he did. I don’t know why I didn’t stop him. And he dropped it and ran.
(I do know why. I knew what it was. I knew what would come.)
The whistle rose in volume, until I realised it was the wind blowing, the long-promised hurricane here in a moment. I ran crazily, lost my way back. Fell, in the dust. Felt my hands clasp around a white finger bone.
And then she was there. With friends, now. All of them together, returned as one. A mess of limbs and organs and skin, but still mine.
In that moment, I relaxed. We’d gone in together, into the dead universe, into the Voice. She’d never quite understood. And only I’d come back.
But now she’d found a way to follow. She’d just needed help.
I took her hand—the Vassael’s hand—one of their many hands—and told myself, as I’d heard in the depths of space, where the unsleeping dark, when I’d let everything go. I told myself, it’s what’s inside that counts. And she, my Vassael, had plenty inside.
--
Written by: Daniel Griliopoulos
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Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' to me,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' to me.
O whistle an' I'll come, &c.”
— Robert Burns
In the ruins of a seaside hotel, between two unmade beds, I found it. A small whistle, six inches of bone ringed with bronze. Absentmindedly I took it, though I was looking for supplies. The pantry was immediately more fruitful—literally, as it was stocked to the ceiling with tinned peaches. I pictured an old Antiquarian or Colonel, who’d planned to live out his days here, at the end of Empire, dining every night on peaches and cream.
I returned to the camp and we dined on ancient peaches, sweet and vinous with rot. An old sailor looked at the sky and claimed, through amber-juice stained lips, that it was hurricane season.
Later in my slip tent, I happened upon the whistle as I was undressing for the day. It was inscribed deeply with a language in dead tongues. Not dead a generation ago, of course, but then the Acrin—. I found myself furiously cleaning the thing later, refusing to think of that. Of her. Of the dread wisdom they had brought. Of what we’d learned.
(When I sleep, I see her. As she was.)
Before I knew it, the thing was clean, dust and grit off it. It was distinctly-shaped, though a fair bit longer than a man’s, and the holes were so nearly bored as to be grown there. The bronze ring fit it loosely, but it was impossible to remove.
In this new world, it was a disturbing sight, frankly. Seeing it bare, I just wanted rid of it, especially after that moment of strange compulsion. I resolved to trade it away the following day—I could get food (not peaches!) for this, a tool or even a favor.
As I went to sleep, I tucked it under my pillow (my jacket) for safekeeping.
In the night, the wind blew hard. Hard enough that it pushed its way through the zipped tent flap. Hard enough I could hear a gentle trill from the whistle as the air passed over it. Shadows of the ruined seaside town wavered crazily in the night watch’s lantern-light, shifting as they were cast on the tent wall, and I remembered the shape of—.
I slept fitfully, at best.
In the morning, I went on the usual rounds over breakfast, seeing who had what swag left from the evening’s bartering. No-one would touch the whistle though. No-one wise at least. They told me to take it back, throw it in the sea. But I couldn’t, though. I don’t know why. Felt I had to get something out of it.
I took it to the fool at the camp’s edge. Voice knows how he survived out there, gaunt and dumb, day and night with everything roving and starving, but he did. ‘Til that day, at least.
As I approached, he was dancing with a broom he’d found, waltzing on the ruined pier. When he saw the whistle in hand, he stopped his capering, though. He didn’t look at it again, just took it from me. Put it to his lips. And blew it, of course he did. I don’t know why I didn’t stop him. And he dropped it and ran.
(I do know why. I knew what it was. I knew what would come.)
The whistle rose in volume, until I realised it was the wind blowing, the long-promised hurricane here in a moment. I ran crazily, lost my way back. Fell, in the dust. Felt my hands clasp around a white finger bone.
And then she was there. With friends, now. All of them together, returned as one. A mess of limbs and organs and skin, but still mine.
In that moment, I relaxed. We’d gone in together, into the dead universe, into the Voice. She’d never quite understood. And only I’d come back.
But now she’d found a way to follow. She’d just needed help.
I took her hand—the Vassael’s hand—one of their many hands—and told myself, as I’d heard in the depths of space, where the unsleeping dark, when I’d let everything go. I told myself, it’s what’s inside that counts. And she, my Vassael, had plenty inside.
--
Written by: Daniel Griliopoulos
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