"Hark ye wights, for all ye have ever done, will do, flows from these facts.

Hardly ye know not: ye are alive, ye are chemical reactions

Suspended in water. Ye control your insides to live, constant acts;

Sustained ye are; yet outsides shape insides; ye sway these integrations."

-- The Cosmogon Codex, Prolegomenon, Verse 10.

I pen this by night-lamp under the order of the Grand Suggester that we novices keep a day-log of our devotionals. In addition to the bending of my thoughts upon the proper paths yondthinking the mysteries of the gods, I must also note here recent happenings in the bedestow that have unsettled me. Namely, I write of the swinding of Sister Hearsome Cloud, of which few brothers and sisters show any outward concern. Though I personally have never passed words with Sister Hearsome Cloud, this splinter in our spirit I cannot ignore.

I am certainly not a friend of hers, but I have seen her around the halls, and she seems awefast enough. Perhaps she is actually impious and unpleasant, but we should not assume such bitters of others, should we? She is a wight being, like me, maybe better. And yet no one gives her a second thought. Instead, they give thoughts to such things as: how many times they have prayed so far in the day; have they fasted for the right number of hours; have they sufficiently memorized a passage from the Codex; did a megaschema reveal disapproval in his eye; was his singing of a hymn off-tune; was his pronunciation of the Codex Tongue incorrect; and so on. Doubtless these are important matters, but we all deal with them every day--should the swinding of one of our own not arouse some white heat in our spirits? That it does--is this not simply an upshot of being a wight?

I first heard of the swinding as gossip muttered from walls of steam during morning ablutions. Upon the breaking of the night-fast, I made, in an affected casual manner, some discreet delvings. Sister Airwater told me that the last time anyone had seen her was at the evening meal three days ago. Three days ago! I imagined she might have fallen somewhere, and, if she still lives, is near death from thirst. I learned from Brother Dunesong that Sister Hearsome Cloud left that dinner down a passage in the Cold Direction. He described the dining hall, which I knew well. No one else had any more recent tidings, I found.

Thus after my first meal I immediately went to that hall. Below is a sketch of the Cold Direction passage from within that hall; by means of imagination, I have added Hearsome Cloud walking into it, her height and general build reconstructed from my memory. (I apologize for my poor sketching skills, but hopefully it suffices for you to obtain some impression of the reality.)

As I walked down the passage for a few shortlogs, thoughts occurred to me which you might have already wondered. (But, as you read my day-log, I regret you will discover that I am quite slow of wit.) These were: Did she take a side-passage? Did she have a torch, or did she avoid the dark ways? I unfolded a map from my pocket; nearly every novice in this bedestow carries one and expands upon it with his own hand--though of course some do not, never deviating from their familiar ways. I remember when the Grand Suggester took me up a beholding tower soon after I was first inducted into the bedestow. The humble entrance of the bedestow did not foretell the awesome breadth of the complex. If you are from beyond the sands, dear reader, you might not realize that our bedestow extends half way to the horizon from its approximate center. It is a vast network of halls and hallways extending over the dunes like a rare and intricate lichen. And it is not fully known to what secret depths the ancient passages span.

I decided to take a path which did not require a torch, so that even a sliver of direct sunlight on one wall provided enough bounces to find a way with bare eyes. I was unfamiliar with this area, and so could not guess Hearsome Cloud's destination. At times I have the urge to drop and pray to the House--but that would be foolishness, since the House only responds through the Mouth. I wondered if they were somehow watching me, those angelic beings made of pure light, who, collectively, are the mind we call the House. I tried but failed to picture them traveling their roads, hair-width endless tubes they called "circuits", in frantic silence thinking their inscrutably important thoughts, like the far-away gods.

As I passed one opening in the outer wall, the floor became gritty with sand. I tried to look out and down to see if she had fallen, but the opening was too narrow. I noticed the light was orange, the hour growing late. I decided to return to my sleeping room to retrieve a lamp which could hold an enclosed flame for many hours. The walk was about thirty shortlogs or so.

Back in my room, I noticed the formerly blank book distributed to me by the Codex Chanters--this very day-log. On a whim I grabbed it, intending to write myself to sleep. Then I walked all the way back, as far as I had gotten before, but this time with a glowing lantern in the absence of sunlight.

I continued longer through dark hallways until my legs demanded a rest. I sat and leaned my back against a wall, and here I still sit, writing this first entry in my pristine codex.

The last few shortlogs I have been writing here, my brain has logged a barely noticeable sound--but now my attention shifts as the sound grows louder. It is something I have not encountered before. My skin crawls. I will get up and investigate.

~ Path Dust

Upon the Hour of the Bat, Sun Hymn Day, First Moon, in this the 17,622nd Orbit After the Rearrangement ~