Saturday, December 23, 2006


I've been sleeping better and better.

There has been no word of the Duke's doings, and the King has been perfectly civil to my father, so we are hoping nothing will come of the Duke's displeasure.

Yesterday, I discovered Ennis's secret. He doesn't know I know yet, and I'm not sure how to approach him about it.

I saw him ahead of me on the road, and followed him awhile. I was of two minds, as always with him: to catch him up or to leave him alone, not burden him with my approach, unless I had something to speak to him about. I would do anything to avoid the horrors of the last time we saw each other. No true ill, just terrible embarrassment on my part. But more about that later.

I walked awhile, watching him, trying to think of something to say to him. I searched my mind for any subject on which to converse, any reason to approach him. Perhaps I could

Monday, December 11, 2006


The Hands came so strongly and quickly tonight, it was almost a shock. I sat in the Hands' window, looking outside for awhile. The world outside is grey and sheets with rain. The buildings in this place are sharp and ugly. When I see them I know I am in no dream, for I could not imagine such things.

So with that question, where am I? Some other world I can enter through the door of sleep? Perhaps the Afterworld? How can I know? The thought makes me shiver, and I can see goose pimples rise on the Hands' arms. I must not let go, for I have so much to say, so many questions.

Hands, who are you? Can you answer me?

--I waited here for twenty minutes, and the Hands did not answer, did not even move from the typing machine. I will keep trying, each time I come.

The machines here are not like the machines at home. Yes, we have machines, though we do not move around in the strange, sleek waggons that the people here seem to use. Our machines are not work-machines, as yours seem to be. We do not use them to replace our bodies, for that would be blasphemous. Our Gods made our bodies as they are so that they can do the work at hand, and to give the work away is to shun the gifts we are given.

Our machines look different, and are for different purpose.

For example, we do not cover our machines in sleek metal clothing. The workings of machines are part of their marvelousness, and should be there for all to see. My father, who tends many machines in the Museum, says that the best machines show inspiration in their workings, and inspiration is of the spirit. Therefore by looking at the workings of the machines, people may be lifted in spirit, may be closer to inspiration, and thence to the Gods.

I understand what he is saying but I do not see the inspiration. It does not move me.

Still, I think the machines are beautiful. Their movements are carefully designed to please, the sounds they make and the way they work together are like a dance, like a symphony. I love to watch them.

Once, during the Night of Dance, Ennis and Amela and I ran through the middle of a wandering group of Hush Motors. Their gently-waving fingers brushed against our faces. We laughed and ran in circles, and the Hush motors shushed at us, tickling. I knew the adults would -

Oh. Here it co

Tuesday, December 5, 2006


I'm sorry it's been so long!

I haven't been to visit the Hands for more than a moon, and the last time was only a quick peek before I was drawn back again. There was no time to write.

I have been sleeping badly.

My father is in trouble with the Duke of Aneth, which makes him in trouble with the King. When the Duke is angry with you you must walk very carefully! I know my father is not sleeping well either, for late at night when I am turning and turning in my bed I can hear him through the floor, pacing and pacing.

It's a stupid reason, too. The Duke took a fancy to a sword in the museum and would take it away. My father said he couldn't take it, it belonged to the King's grandfather, and a King's sword is too important for a Duke to use.

He made a mistake. The Duke was stung; he doesn't like being made to feel small, and my father, who is usually so diplomatic, didn't speak carefully enough. I think he was tired, and angry that the Duke thought he could take such a thing, as if it belonged to him. My father feels that the Duke is too free with the King's things, with the King himself even, but he would never normally say such a thing. The King is so easygoing, it is easy for people to forget themselves with him, but everyone knows the Duke takes advantage of this kindness of the King's.

So now the Duke is poisoning the King's ear with false tales about my father. The king, sweet man that he is, can hardly believe it, and shakes his head in disbelief, or so I hear. But the Duke will win, in the end. And that is what takes my father's sleep: how long?

The terrible thing, the thing I can't tell anyone, is that I'm not sleepless because of my father's trouble. I have troubles of my own.

The other day I saw Ennis again. He was working with his father, unloading hay from the waggon, and he had his shirt off. When I saw it I didn't know what to do, because that feeling I had before that he was someone I didn't know came back, but I was also embarrassed, because I wanted to say hello. I stood there, feeling stupid and watching him work, and the longer I stood there the worse it got. Finally, I thought I would sneak away before he saw me, but of course as soon as I moved, he looked up.

He smiled at me and waved, and suddenly I could see the old Ennis inside that big person, and it felt wonderful to have him back!!! I smiled back, I think, but then the sun shone on his skin and the moment was over. I felt embarrassed again, and I ran off. I could feel him looking after me as I went, but there was nothing I could do.

Ever since then I've been anxious all the time. It's so strange. I look everywhere for him, terrified I might see him; but when I don't see him I'm somewhat disappointed. It's horribly confusing. I can hardly sleep, thinking how foolish I must have looked and wondering what to do next time.

So, trying to get away from that thinking, for it is useless as well as hopeless, I have been raiding the library for books, and reading long into the night. If I get tired enough, I will sleep. If not, well, then I turn and turn.

In the meantime, I can hear my father down below: tramp, tramp, tramp. My mother says we look like a couple of ghosts. She can't stand how tired we look. I don't blame her. If I had anot