Bone Pattern

A Quiet Day- September 22, 2014

A quiet day today.  Rain has returned, to my relief.  I stayed home today, perusing notes and old letters and trying to fit together everything I have learned.  The worlds, deep and shallow, can turn without me for a day.  I have things I need to figure out.  Thinking to do.  And I may as well do it here.

So I have several threads I am following.  I am trying to piece together a history.  Let's begin with Fisher, and his cavern in the earth.  His spiraling pattern of ancient, unknown bones.  He was trying to accomplish something, I know not what.  Instead, he lies sleeping in his sister's house, riven through his core by a smoldering chasm.  Lydia, his sister, believes something is harbored within him.  Or perhaps he holds it captive?  He made a lens of bone, an eye with bone lashes and left it staring in the dark for years.  Until I went there and now it stares at me.  It opens a chasm in my mind when I think of it.  

And then there is the Weaver.  An old wizard of a woman who remade this part of the world to her own ends.  Who came here longer ago than I had thought.  She is older than she looks, apparently.  She seems like she does small things, like sending a wall hanging to commemorate a new baby.  But we walk in her world, here in Denver.  And I had no idea.

Was Fisher trying to wrest some control away from the Weaver?  Does this mean she won?  But how does that explain his blasted state?  Or the thing that lurks within him.  Might lurk within him.  

Also there is that city.  That empty place winding back around itself, stuttering alongside this city.  It drifts towards us and away, and I cannot predict its coming.  Does the Weaver have anything to do with that?  Did Fisher?  Or does it belong to itself only, coming and going on its own timetable?  Can it be summoned?  Who are the people who live there?  Who is that dollmaker, and how does she survive in that abandoned place?

I do know one thing.  The city has been closer since I began to read Tainted Violets.  I can almost feel it watching me, if a city can be said to watch anything.  Never before has it reached to my doorstep to claim me.  It has never been so sudden or so insistent before.  I feel ambushed.  Did Fisher read that book, I wonder?

I do know that the deeper I get into this, the stronger the pull of the deep grows.  I sit here, paddling my feet in the waves and there are unseen things beneath my feet.  

I have so many more questions to ask.  I need to ask them of the people who inspired them, and not of this blog.

I wish Wayland would come back.  Or I wish I could talk to Fisher.

I suppose that if answers were easy to come by, I could find them on Google and the deep would be driven into smaller patches of shadow.

More reading, then.  It seems to be the only way.

I will post copies of more letters, as I go through them.