Bone Pattern

The Attacker- September 16, 2014

I saw the man who attacked the Weaver today.  I think.  I'm pretty sure.  I was walking along with Wayland in the shallows.  Heading through downtown on a work day for all the office workers down there.  The streets were quiet and the day bright.  It was around noon, and the people were heading out for their lunches.  And then I saw him.  Striding toward me in a suit and tie.  Combed dark hair, and eyes.  Tall.  He moved with an authoritative stride.  There was no blood under his nails or spattered across his immaculate shirt.  If I had not seen him, I would not have guess he would pick up a knife to slash at an old woman.  Didn't even notice me, although I stopped and stared. When he attacked the Weaver, I only saw him for a moment.  I know that.  I did see his face, though.  Briefly, but I saw it.  I didn't realize I would recognize him again until he walked out of his office.  I pointed him out to Wayland, who narrowed his eyes but didn't speak.  He doesn't speak much in the shallows.

We followed him, I admit.  Watched him buy his sandwich for lunch and eat it sitting on a bench on the 16th Street Mall.  A homeless man, wearing a long rumpled coat, approached him and asked for his leftovers.  The man stood up abruptly and snapped at him, glaring.  He flung the last bites of his meal onto the pavement and stomped on it.  It left a smear of meat and mustard.  The homeless man said nothing, and we both watched him storm away.  I did not follow him back to the office he had emerged from.  Best let him get away.  Wayland did not know who he is either.

I made some excuse to Wayland and wandered away home, too troubled to want more company.  All the implications that follow if that man is indeed the one who attacked the Weaver made me want nothing more than my apartment and the papers and books I have collected. I'm not sure what this means.  Is he stepping into the deep?  I don't know everyone in Denver who is, not even close.  But honestly, he doesn't seem like the type.  The way he moved that day with the Weaver, like a marionette, honestly.  Like his weight was not truly on his feet.  He was disjointed and wobbling, but strong enough that the two of us could not quite close the door against him.  

It was like someone, something, was riding him.  Was pulling his metaphorical strings.  

Is this possible?  I think it might be.  I have been interested only in transportation and safety.  In getting places and getting back. I want to see the sights.  To observe the world.  What small things I can do in the deep only involve dropping deeper.  To continue the water metaphor, they let me wear a snorkel.  But I know there is so much more that can be done.  People who want power can seize it in the deep.

Is that what happened to this man?  

Or am I misreading and did he truly wade his way into the deep and attack the Weaver with a dull knife?

I don't know.

I am so woefully ignorant here.

To change the subject, I am curious about the writer of the last two letters I have posted.  Anise.  She seems like she ought to know if forcing someone to attack another person is possible or not.  Didn't August have a copy of Tainted Violets?  It is a long shot but maybe he would know her.  I would like to read that book even more now, but I know I can't afford it.  

I hope I haven't ruined things with Wayland by leaving as abruptly as I did. He is probably used to all of this.  Of course, now that I'm home I realize I should have asked him if he knew the answers to any of these questions.  But he seems to take it so much in stride, like it is normal.  I don't want to seem like an idiot.

It's this sort of thing that drove me to research alone on the internet.  Long late nights chasing leads on the Tor web and other places.  Saved me from having to talk to people.  But there is so little of this available on the internet, I am doubly out of my depth.