The city was named Dudestan, but it didn't matter anymore because it was almost over.

Jum Burie was there, sitting and resting and drinking things. There were people. She ignored them. There was a big glass house where all the animals and music lived, and on that day it was sunny, and the sun shone on the glass and it sparkled, and its rays were scattered and fell this way and that, so that there was a bright light everywhere, a shimmering and tinkling light. All the people came to listen to the music, and then all the animals came to watch the people. It became a raucous tranquility. When the trumpets sounded, all the daughters of men served everyone water and wine, and all the sons of women served everyone bread and meat, and there was a great and solemn feast—not the foolhardy and wild revelry for a casual get-together, but the somber and holy worship of the sacrifice laid before them. Even Jum Burie sat quietly and waited for the time of prayer to end, but she did not pray. She did not need to pray.

The solemnity passed and the revelry resumed.

When she was young, for she was young once, she was filled with so much exuberance and vigorous passion that she could do nothing but dance to discharge her energy until a fatigue stole over her, and she could be still at last—but therein lay the danger, for in weariness her inhibitions were worn down, and all that flowed within her escaped, and her power changed the world, and her strength wrote its name on the surface of history. This was a trait that made her use very appealing to some people, and so they made use of her, and aimed her strength at opponents hither and yon, until the kings of the lands had amassed a great empire, and that empire was called Endestallia. Endestallia grew large and powerful, such that pitiful places like Paltropisburg and Dot-Speck-Water-Trail were not worth the effort of notice, and it set its sights on the only prize grand enough to be worth clutching with its pristine hands: Oopertreepia, the ever-greatening city, the ever-threatening city, the enigma beyond the sun, the place of unscalable walls and unopenable doors.

And then they'd sent her after Traycup, who had a brain of marble.

Did they expect she didn't know he had a marble brain? It's easy enough to tell. You can practically smell it on the air and taste it in the water wherever he's been. Did they expect she didn't know what happens if one tries to eat a marble brain? She had heard so many stories when she was a child, and she remembered everything, even when weariness stole over her—especially when weariness came. Jum Burie's brain had space enough for everything.

A young lady came by and served her water and wine, beer and coffee, tea and lemonade, and a big bowl of soup. Jum Burie did not drink any of them yet, but arranged them so she could enjoy the aromas in order.

She still had the flask of diamond-flakes and iced tea that was all that was left of Tuberlone. Bodyguard? Assistant? Traitor. Well—that implied a certain degree of loyalty in the first place. All these years, Tuberlone's assignment had been to keep Jum Burie on task, because if she ever realized...

And then they came. They were Artan, the Elder, who wrote the scrolls of history, and saw to the world's order; Joban, the Fighter, with whose might the rule of law was laid down; and Samlo, the Wise, whose foresight saw through the darkness of the unknown future and charted the course onward.

Jum Burie noticed them. They were beneath her notice.

In the great glass house, Artan, Joban, and Samlo each entered from a different door, and announced their presence with the crash of cymbals and a screaming sacred hawk, and banners with all the colors of the rainbow and then some, and a battalion of soldiery stood nearby, swords and spears and guns in hand, flanking them as they entered and forming halls beneath their raised weaponry. The animals were startled, and departed swiftly, boarding great ships and crossing the sea, the memory of home in their hearts forevermore as they went on to pine for the days of yore, which they always missed. The people applauded the show as they moved on from the bread-and-meat course to the cakes-and-cream course, the joyous feast carrying on unabated. The music kept playing. It was on tape.

Jum Burie remained alone, sitting at a cute table in the garden, before her her drinks and foods—and the diamond-flaked iced tea. She did not lift her head to look at them, the sages of Endestallia, but they approached her, and it became a spectacle.

Samlo spoke, saying, “You are Jum Burie, and you have become a traitor. You are known to us, but no longer are you obedient to your duty. You have replaced love with hate. You have replaced joy with despair. You have replaced hope with annihilation. You have transgressed against your home and your city and your people. You will become unknown to us.”

Joban spoke, saying, “You have performed sins, and in recompense you will be destroyed and scattered upon yet unnamed lands as dust, to never meet again, to lose your life forever, and cease to be. You have performed crimes, and the punishment for disobedience is everlasting torment and the breaking of your body entirely. Perpetual suffering shall be your final experience.”

Artan spoke, saying, “You are denied the opportunity to beg forgiveness or to bring forth explanation for your wrongdoings. Your name will be struck from history. Your memory will be forgotten by the world. Your life is purposeless, and your death without meaning. Your time is over. Go now and be nothing.”

Jum Burie, who had not stirred through this, now lifted her head and spoke. “I'm tired.”

Each of the Endestallian sages now came forward, not in turn, but at once, and as one. They knew every shape—they knew how to express every shape as a sphere, the perfect and final shape, formed first and last by God to show the shape of all of nature, the universe, and the mind of all peoples and empires—the tale of history, embedded with the wisdom so old as to be lost longer ago than could be remembered by time itself. And now the sages brought forth great bells of gold and strikers of silver, and they rung the bells, and the bells rung so loud that all women became pregnant, and bore children, perfect children, who would grow up wise and do no wrong, and become leaders, great and noble, and lead their nations to infinite glory, until their outstretched arms collided, and they were suffused with violence, and made great wars, and one victor emerged from the wars, and founded a dynasty that would rule all the lands for evermore—and when the bells' ringing had ceased, a fine horse rode up to each of the sages and bowed, and fed them wheat and rice and oil, and their nourishment became a poem carved onto graves, and all the headstones formed a line that ringed the world: a yoke that bound it to them.

That was the terrifying might of Endestallia. That was the power with which they had conquered nations and kings, the strength that held the world in the palms of their hands, that carved eternal rules into every person's heart. Their prize was the whole world at once, and their crusade was to its ceaseless bondage.

Jum Burie smiled. “Ah,” she said. “I didn't hear you come in.” She pocketed the beveragized brain of Tuberlone, and stood up, and looked from Artan to Joban to Samlo with all of her pitch-black eyes, and demurely rested all of her hands, and a pleasant little breeze came in through the windows and softly shifted her brilliant golden hair.

The three sages each drew three swords, of emerald, ruby, and sapphire, and they bid the blood of the sun to pour out, and to water the fields in its terror, and for the people to harvest and consume the blood-soaked goods the Earth yielded, to name all their sins, to count the rest of their days, and to make their hearts one with the songs of the land and sky, and whistle, quietly and sadly. This would be the first day that they had ever known.

Jum Burie continued, “Before you're all dead, answer my question. How much did—”

“Villains speak not,” said Samlo. “You shall die.”

Now the sages struck their swords into the Earth, stabbed it deeply so as to kill it and see it dead, and their swords struck veins of copper and iron and the old rust from the time of the world's forging, when it was young and hot, and it blazed with astonishing fire, and all there was was the sun, before it had receded and grown small, and let the sky breathe and the soil rest, and planted in the fertile valleys the first of the people, the old folks, who were long gone, who had brains of marble and jade and obsidian.

“How much did you know about my quarry?” Jum Burie repeated.

“Traitors get no answers,” said Joban. “Traitors get no questions. Be silent, be still, and be dead.”

Now Jum Burie took a deep breath and said, “I am the tip of the spear and you the shaft. I've gone where you've told for so long, and now you send me to my death? Alas for you, I don't have a speck of loyalty in my hearts—and I'm so, so very tired.”

...if she ever realized just how powerful she really was—

And now—crash! Bash! Oh, wretched noises! Grinding stone and grating glass! Big crash! And full of hate—unhot, ice cold, dead cold—beyond the touch of touch. Its thousand blades strike in silence, wicked greeting, sneaky meeting—put you to sleep before the damage is done. Oh, it's done, old son, and you're walking on borrowed time. It's up! And you knew damn well before you went outside, you knew this would happen. Spare me your regret! You brought it upon yourself. Yes. Yes! And so I'm free! Free of the burden of your friendship, and it's just that simple! So—when I said those things long ago, it meant nothing! Nothing! And yet I put not weight on it, but it weighed on me, and it never released its grasp. Imagery. You don't need imagery. It'd be unjust, anyway. And that's how it all started. But that brings up another question, of course. What happened before the beginning? It's there, it's there, it's there! People don't fucking think! And you scream into a bottle until it's full, and it doesn't help that's it's a bottle and the opening is so narrow, but not narrow enough for a ring-toss. It was rigged, you know? It was the lip! Well, I'm not afraid this time. I'm never going to be afraid again. That's easy. Keep the damn door closed.

Ah. Romantic music. I want it all to myself, of course. And, if I close my eyes, I can pretend I'm alone.

There was no 31st, even though it was the second time he was there, and he was all alone, and everyone was there with him, and when he went to the front to see, no one was there, and his hands were empty, except for the scars from the misuse when he tried, and failed, and gave up entirely, but then, later, when he saw the guitar, he thought it was all going to be all right. There was no 31st, and it kept going, and he's still there, but he's forgotten all about it, because now it's not his fault, and that seems to be okay. But, really, I'm sorry I brought it up. We made a drawing of that place, you know. I remember it well—well, I remember it. I could look it up. And, I feel like, someday, I want to look them all up, you know? Because I liked it, I really did. I liked them all—afterwards. Hell, I liked the boxes even, it's just the people that built them that were monsters. Real monsters. Noise and wrath and greed. But it's all done now.

It's all done now.

Black and white at once, seeable and unseen, and more than cold. A colder place. A far-off place, running a well-known route, running fast, and—tripped, and confused, and the way is lost. A book without pages. A book with all pages. Pages folded and torn and pieced together in a defiant fashion. Foolishness. It was never successful, and never rewarded. And there was met the wolf. The wolf's master. The master's story. They fade. Into black and white. And, all things reversed. A screaming hog. Slaughter. An inability to see. An inability to think. And with less and less, the puzzle of simplicity deepened. The simple glyphs which conveyed histories of worlds. A year of days. A colorless map. A victim. An impassable river and strange places to go to. Strange places to be at. We pass beyond strangeness and come to know all things. Define all things. Decide all things. These lies are lost. Black and white—and green. The image of an axe. The feel of a flame. The weakest heartbeat. The only sound. Is it all my fault?

Is it?

Jum Burie was alone. The glass house was gone. The sages were gone. And the whole city of Dudestan was gone. Everything was dust, all blasted together and all mixed up and all fused into conglomerate dejecta. Jum Burie was the most beautiful lady in the world, and that meant she had the most wonderful dress of them all, but it had gotten dirty, and she didn't even mind. Her ten hearts were racing, and all her hands were trembling, and her golden hair was knotted and tangled. Her masters were gone. They had used her but she was stronger so she didn't have to let them do that anymore. And now they were gone and they couldn't.

Panting, sweating, Jum Burie was thirsty. She checked her pockets and found a flask of iced tea.

She was very tired.