| Fantasy Fiction posted January 30, 2021 |
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Journey to Awakening
The Pods of Unknowing
by Jay Squires
My name is José Dmitriy Smytheburg. I adore saying it aloud. José: I linger at the airy expulsion at the accented é, then skip joyfully across the tri-syllabled peaks of Dmitriy, until I finally glide, like a swan’s landing, into the foamy velvet of Smythe. Oh, and Burg—what an apt terminus is Burg! A crystalized monument. Sometimes I trill the last r like a crazed Scot. Burrrrrrg!
* * *
The council had decreed I was contemplative beyond my sixteen years. I must therefore be shuttled to the pods before the edges dull and I am absorbed into the unpatterned republic.
As the shuttle filled, I hummed my name and reflected.
* * *
Maman always said I could find the melody and the counterpoint in the dropping of a camel’s turd. Maman taught piano to the unpatterned youth. Fortnightly, I tuned the beast by ear. She said I looked like a spider, embracing its prey. (Papan was only a footnote. He paid a brief visit to Maman seventeen years ago. Left a gift. Departed.)
Growing up, the Pods obsessed me. Schools taught students the history: of the 272 satellites orbiting our earth during the 2360s, the four nearest and most recently developed and populated being named, collectively, the Pods of Unknowing.
Why? I agonized. Why Unknowing?
Last night, I sat cross-legged, among a hundred of all genders, naked in the nesting room of the nearest Pod of Unknowing. The jumble of out-of-tune auras pained me, so I hummed a thin melody only I could hear.
Upon exiting, each was handed a robe of many brilliant colors and patterns and was escorted to one’s private room within the gigantic dormitorium.
Inside, I donned my robe and waited. Soon, we’d been instructed, the shroud would be lifted from the Pods of Unknowing, and we’d receive our assignments to one of the other three pods.
I didn’t see or hear him enter. He stood before my chair. Not blinking; not smiling.
“Today and forever, the Pods of Unknowing are, for you, renamed the Pods of the Creatives. Their names, their sacred colors, and their truths you will never reveal, to the moment of your dissolution.
“Still, one among you would betray that sacred knowledge to the world.”
“Not I, Master.”
His eyes closed, then reopened, ablaze.
“The betrayer will not know. The betrayer will deny it unto annihilation.
“Before dawn, you shall receive a visitor. Her robe color will be that of your assigned pod. She will be your guide.”
“But what about the one—?”
“If her robe is the same varied colors as yours, you will recognize your executioner. And she, her own. The moment of that recognition will end all knowledge—for both.”
* * *
I’ve not slept the entire night. I await the crisp rap of knuckles.
Toward dawn, the shuffle of feet outside jars me to terrified alertness. Two raps. Silence. Followed by another two.
Feeling suddenly ill, I slowly turn the doorknob.
“Maman!”
Future Flash Fiction contest entry
My name is José Dmitriy Smytheburg. I adore saying it aloud. José: I linger at the airy expulsion at the accented é, then skip joyfully across the tri-syllabled peaks of Dmitriy, until I finally glide, like a swan’s landing, into the foamy velvet of Smythe. Oh, and Burg—what an apt terminus is Burg! A crystalized monument. Sometimes I trill the last r like a crazed Scot. Burrrrrrg!
* * *
The council had decreed I was contemplative beyond my sixteen years. I must therefore be shuttled to the pods before the edges dull and I am absorbed into the unpatterned republic.
As the shuttle filled, I hummed my name and reflected.
* * *
Maman always said I could find the melody and the counterpoint in the dropping of a camel’s turd. Maman taught piano to the unpatterned youth. Fortnightly, I tuned the beast by ear. She said I looked like a spider, embracing its prey. (Papan was only a footnote. He paid a brief visit to Maman seventeen years ago. Left a gift. Departed.)
Growing up, the Pods obsessed me. Schools taught students the history: of the 272 satellites orbiting our earth during the 2360s, the four nearest and most recently developed and populated being named, collectively, the Pods of Unknowing.
Why? I agonized. Why Unknowing?
Last night, I sat cross-legged, among a hundred of all genders, naked in the nesting room of the nearest Pod of Unknowing. The jumble of out-of-tune auras pained me, so I hummed a thin melody only I could hear.
Upon exiting, each was handed a robe of many brilliant colors and patterns and was escorted to one’s private room within the gigantic dormitorium.
Inside, I donned my robe and waited. Soon, we’d been instructed, the shroud would be lifted from the Pods of Unknowing, and we’d receive our assignments to one of the other three pods.
I didn’t see or hear him enter. He stood before my chair. Not blinking; not smiling.
“Today and forever, the Pods of Unknowing are, for you, renamed the Pods of the Creatives. Their names, their sacred colors, and their truths you will never reveal, to the moment of your dissolution.
“Still, one among you would betray that sacred knowledge to the world.”
“Not I, Master.”
His eyes closed, then reopened, ablaze.
“The betrayer will not know. The betrayer will deny it unto annihilation.
“Before dawn, you shall receive a visitor. Her robe color will be that of your assigned pod. She will be your guide.”
“But what about the one—?”
“If her robe is the same varied colors as yours, you will recognize your executioner. And she, her own. The moment of that recognition will end all knowledge—for both.”
* * *
I’ve not slept the entire night. I await the crisp rap of knuckles.
Toward dawn, the shuffle of feet outside jars me to terrified alertness. Two raps. Silence. Followed by another two.
Feeling suddenly ill, I slowly turn the doorknob.
“Maman!”
 Recognized |
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Thanks to Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash for the painting.
496 Words.
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