Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten

Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten - Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

As I sail alone, I can be separate from the madness and finally record the way things happened. I document the passing of Synapse. It will not come back. We have lost our eyes and our ears, and our hands have dropped from the tiller. We drift below a sparse wind that invites no return.

My days now are simple. I sail a northern sea with time on my hands, and learn to write. I am not really alone, for the whales are my teachers. So long as I can remember my own name and the color of the ocean, I shall remember what I say to them.

But moments of clarity fade, and clouds of worry make the whales impatient. So easily they swim away, and I am left sitting alone on the colored stones of a northern beach, trying to bring the words out by myself.

Looking through the first few soiled pages of my notebook, I find that I have scribbled of Backdoor. I cannot remember holding my pen to paper, and yet the handwriting is mine. How could I have seen behind the Moon into the blind spot of our sky? I have never been to Backdoor, that much I know, and yet the whales have sent my senses there.

The wind is up. I sail out past the empty isles, my notebook in my lap, to focus on the waves and to remember. When will I again be able to transcribe those words reserved for speaking to myself? Last night my pen could hold them down, the word-roots of some common memory. We shall see if, by day, my pen can still command.

Blind larvae is what Don Andrews called them. The users of the medium, the billions of the Earth. I have only ever known one such sorry spirit, Sand Gould, and only because he was the son of Mara Gould.

I knew Mara back when she invented the first simultron couch, and started the small company that would become Synapse, the powerful producer of all couches. I was her assistant at Synapse, her second-in-command, when it was still a functioning concern. The portable version of the simultron, which I have used to reach the whales, was my own adaptation of Mara's greate invention. But I could not foresee what stories that the whales would have, or how they would allow me to go inside the lives of other people.

Like so many other users of the couch, Mara's son, Sand, learned his addiction from the greatest artist in the medium, Benjamin Holly. Now, it seems the whales permit me to share in Sand's experience, the day when he first met his teacher. Once again I am recording what they show me.

Sand was very nervous, because Benjamin Holly had the repuation of being a brutal critic. On that morning, pulling a wafer from the chute, Sand considered the quality of his art. The wafer crumbled dry upon his lips, and sipping a long squirt of water, Sand turned resolutely to his couch.

The simultron couch dominated the center of his little room, bolted square within the walls. As Sand lay back he aligned himself, without thinking, one symmetry within another. The cushioned fabric sighed against his body, and he stretched once, setting every muscle, one against the other, until it hurt the way a baby tooth hurts when it's twisted to the taste of blood.

Closing his eyes, he nuzzled his neck into the headrest. The metal balls pressed up against his skull, and he lost the light, and his skin went numb with a tingle at the base of his spine. On his lips were the words, "Benjamin Holly."

A wild field spread out and gently down to a row of trees, where the land crumbled at a cliff. Two men stood at the edge, immersed in conversation. Beyond them a gleam of water hinted at the sunken sea nibbling beneath their feet.

One of these men spoke with great spirit, sweeping his hands as if to beckon aid to his argument. Distance swallowed the words, but a gust of wind made the branches swirl above him. This was Benjamin Holly, the creator of the world around him, the greatest artist in the medium.

Next to Benjamin Holly, taller but stooped, stood Sand's father. Even at this distance, there was something forgetful in the humility of Peter Gould's posture. His head was tipped, his hands were clasped behind his back. Mara's husband was a listener, a faithful ear to many men's commands.

Neither of them noticed Sand gazing at them far across the field. The bushes buzzed in the sunlight, and flowers poked out randomly around him. Sand focused on a tall stalk of wild grass and pulled it closer to examine it woven tip richly laden with detail.

A momentary voice on the breeze made him look up. Benjamin Holly and his father were still unaware of his presence, and he started walking towards them through the tall grass. The uneven ground snared his ankle, and he stumbled, cursing, while the field swam wildly in the sunlight.

Taking a deep breath, Sand tried to focus. After a moment, he imagined a path, all the way to the cliff. Along his line of sight, the bushes lost their thorns, a boulder shifted sideways, and the grass curled down to a less treacherous terrain.

Sand felt braver for his actions, strolling forward on his new path. The ocean fanned out beneath the cliffs, and the shrill cries of white birds came mixed with words that carried now more clearly.

"...perception..."

Holly spoke with his back to Sand.

"...countless variations..." intoned the artist, with an open hand that slashed the air, "...nature...the sights and smells deluge my consciousness, dislodging that endless spiral of self-reflection. Do you know whose words those are?" Holly added, not noticing as Peter clumsily attempted to acknowledge his son from the corner of his eye.

"Those are the words of a whale. A whale! Wise enough to be our teachers, and moreover, poets like ourselves, and yet they're kept from us!"

Sand's father was still unable to acknowledge his son. Instead, Peter only nodded with proper indignation. Holly's voice dropped.

"They are an arrogant few. It's incredible they are still tolerated. Synapse is not entitled to sole access. The truth slips through nets we tie with strings of words, dry wisps of wind. The whales know our very wordroots..." Holly stopped, as if encountering some very old familiar thought.

Peter cleared his throat, and said, "Benjamin, I'd like you to meet my son."

Sand also cleared his throat and managed to smile as the famous artist turned. Pale blue eyes held him for a moment, and then thick black eyebrows raised and lowered with a sudden firm handshake, Benjamin Holly glanced over Sand's shoulder.

"I see you found my terrain a bit too rough."

Sand winced and immediately regretted tampering with the landscape. Looking back, he saw that his new path blended with the subtlety of a ripped painting.

"I'm sorry. I'm no naturalist. It's very beautiful here."

"Thank you," said Holly. "One of my hobbies. It is nice here, isn't it? Make yourself at home."

"You do have an original, don't you?" asked Peter in a worried tone. But Holly brushed the whole thing aside with a careless gesture, and began to point out some of the finer points of the day.

White birds drifted overhead. Holly put his hand on Sand's shoulder and guided him to the edge of the cliff. He pointed down at the distant boulders, and Sand leaned over till his knees protested, watching the waves swirl and snuggle against the rocks. The surf roared and the branches caught the air until each leaf whispered from its own direction. Sand turned his head to soak up their chorus, and found Benjamin Holly smiling at him.

"I've had a little practice, you know," the older man said, plucking a leaf to examine it in a cursory way. "I'm thinking of turning it to fall, soon."

Holly glanced away over the ocean.

"I was just telling your father about a friend of mine who used to come and visit me here. In fact, I made this place for him."

"A perfect place to meet a whale," agreed Peter, with a dramatic squint at the water. Sand found himself thinking. So, he had spoken to a whale! Only a few had been entrusted to those giant beasts, and their truthful ways. Was it true then, that the whales could lead you through your deepest imaginings to reveal your wordroots?

Holly continued. "Your mother and her little group at Synapse seem to have convinced the whales that the rest of us are no longer trustworthy. Even my friend will not come here anymore." Holly glanced at Sand, and asked, "Do you think that's fair?"

Sand thought for a moment. "I don't know much about it. It doesn't sound fair, if that's really what they're doing."

Holly glued his eyes on Sand. "Yes I would say that. It doesn't sound fair, does it? I'm sure that Synapse does many things I might question, if I knew more about them."

Holly's eyes came to rest on Sand's father. Peter immediately sprang to life with an interested expression, and was about to say something when Holly turned again to Sand.

"Now, about your work..." he said in a more businesslike tone, "I assume you do want to talk about your work?"

Sand glanced quickly at his father.

"Don't worry," Peter explained, "I just showed Benjamin that little piece you did."

Sand's stomach quietly collapsed. He had worked very hard on the scene of his mother using the first simultron. It was his masterpiece.

"Did you like it?" he ventured after a moment.

Holly considered. "Well, it was a rather obvious topic, the invention of the couch, and we all have come a long way since then. Of course, you did have a rather unique point of view, being her son. But I would like to see something a bit more current. Perhaps you saw my program, The View From The Hilltop?"

Perhaps you saw...Sand smiled at this show of modesty, and then felt uncomfortable because, in fact, he had not seen it. The View From The Hilltop was currently attracting the largest single audience in the history of the medium. And now, its creator was standing here talking to him artist to artist. Again Sand was listening attentively.

"So there is no shortage of good topics," Benjamin Holly was saying. "Wouldn't it be fascinating, say, to find out why the whales are not reaching us anymore?"

Holly seemed to expect an answer, and so Sand nodded yes, he supposed it would, although he didn't see the connection.

"Did you like my work?" Sand asked again.

Holly was quiet for a moment, and Peter looked up. The master continued.

"It had some interesting points. You used physical empathy quite well, especially when Mara could not move the first implanted images with her eyes. That was a terrifying moment, central to the history of the medium, and you portrayed it well."

Sand's attention was complete.

"I felt the same way," said Peter. "It almost made me swear off the couch." He laughed a little too loudly and Holly gave him a short smile, before turning back to Sand.

"You know," said Holly, "your choice of subject was quite revealing. Your mother's first violent reaction to the medium..."

Peter gave his son a questioning look. Suddenly Sand felt like as if he were being interrogated, but Holly simply turned again to look out at the ocean.

"I know how you feel, Sand. Out among the atoms there is much beauty. Where I live, up in the north, the mountains are quite beautiful, really. To tell the truth, I don't get out as often as I should." He glanced at Sand. "Do you, much?"

"Do I what?"

"Go out much?"

Sand thought about the barren landscape of algae pools and concrete, somewhere up above him.

"No, it's not exactly safe, or beautiful either, where I live." Holly seemed perplexed.

"But surely you must go out when you visit your mother at the Campus. Everyone knows that Mara never uses the couch."

Sand felt something tighten. He sensed the line of Holly's questioning. "I haven't seen my mother for years." He turned to Peter, who looked blank.

"Oh..." said Holly, sounding disappointed. "I thought you were still in touch."

So that was what he wanted! Sand spoke in an even voice, although he felt almost like crying.

"If that's all you wanted, a contact inside Synapse, I can't help you." He stumbled for thoughts, and his father looked at him in panic.

Holly's reply was swift.

"I'm afraid that puts a different light on things," he said in a dry tone. "You see, the fact that you are Mara's son attracted my attention in the first place. I saw...possibilities. You will forgive me for saying it, but I am continually approached by young artists like yourself, many of whom have a good deal more...experience than you."

Holly kept his eyes glued on Sand, while behind him the sun pulled down and burned bright, spilling gold all along the horizon. "Look around you, Sand. Most of what you see here is experience. Dedication and experience, and perhaps a certain amount of what people call 'talent.' Luck! You, I might add, have some talent. You also have a great deal of luck, in knowing me. There are many things I could teach someone like you."

Peter looked confused.

"What are you suggesting?" asked Sand, his defensiveness ringing in his ears.

"What I am suggesting," said Holly, "is a partnership. I teach you my skills, and you find out some things for me." Holly watched Sand with a serious eye. "You don't like this idea. Perhaps you want my respect. Well, if that's what you want, you can start by recognizing your unique position. Otherwise you are a fool, and I will have no dealings with you. Let me know how you decide."

Then Holly turned, and plunged the sun into the water. Darkness engulfed his face, and Sand felt the cushions of his couch already at his back.

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