Juujee felt an odd new vibe wash over her on the way home, like a magnifying glaze that revealed a world packed with exquisite detail. Wafts of citrus eddied in iridescent streams above her head, and the late afternoon dinner bells felt like stiffened corduroy bouncing on the backs of her arms and legs, ushering her along the path toward the river. She thought about the satisfying albeit peculiar afternoon at Fountain House mingling with Gorst, the giant pit cook, Bink, the long pale swim trader, and a backpacking traveler from beyond the mountains known as Raket. The latter, a sensitive one, was relatively new to mingling and occasionally burst into laughter, overcome with peaks of emotional energy as the four of them connected at a round table surrounded by parlor palms, knee to knee and Tad to Tad.
At one point, mid-aggregation, from deep in the mind pool, Raket spontaneously broadcast a vision of winged snake-like creatures diving from tufts of clouds above a dark rectangular structure. Juujee flexed her neck and twitched her wrists, receiving the mingle pic. Something was disturbing and familiar about the push, and she checked the others for a similar reaction.
“That was different,” she interrupted, “What’s up with the mini-dragons Raket?”
“—The wha?”, they mumbled slightly disoriented by the sudden change in flow.
“Got it too,” said Bink, “—swan diving off of puffy sky pillows—maybe you’ve been hitting the mimosa a little much.” He up-nodded at Raket, made a cupping gesture over his mouth, and puffed his cheeks in and out.
Gorst seemed stuck staring blankly above Juujee’s head. This happened from time to time during heady mingles as Tads occasionally became transfixed until they were bumped into flow again. She looked uncomfortable, and Raket was the first to address it, “Have I pushed something wrong? Sorry, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing yet.”
Bowing her head with a shudder, Gorst re-aligned and responded, “No no, it’s not you—it’s just—this—rhythm I just can’t shake—I can still feel it!”.
Her hands moved to the table, tapping out a pattern. Dut dutty dut dutty dam dam dutty dutty dam. And as the other three joined the drumming playfully, they could feel their expanding connections pump in unison. The conduits widened, and the flow became intense and abstracted. Juujee never felt a mingle this strong before. It was emotionally powerful, but the feelings were ambiguous and untethered. Just as she tried to hang on to a thought, it wriggled away.
It was only in retrospect, with a bit of distance, on the way home, that Juujee started to suspect a profound change taking place here in Lost Council. Maybe everywhere. When she got to her doorstep, Dez was waiting. Unexpected. Tapping their foot. Dap datty dap datty dut dut datty datty dut.
Some people pronounced it Sin-dong-lah-ya in four syllables, and some pronounced it in five, Sin-dong-la-hy-a. An old rhyme (turned jumping game) nods at the inconsistency and perhaps embraces it as a fluid and intentional construct. Sort of maybe.
Sindonglah-ya goes four and then five
Sindongla-hya runs long and wide
Ev’rybody Everybody
Sindonglah-ya Sindongla-hya
Sung in a 9/8 meter, the song was accompanied by a hopscotch-like game in which players jumped on one, two, three, or four limbs in randomly occurring intervals of one, two, three, or four, produced by a set of pyramidal four-sided dice. The objective was to rhyme out the full measure of nine for the complete four bars of the song in sequence while jumping. If you messed up, you started over. Sindonglah-ya goes four and then five.
The river was uncomfortably wide. Not uncrossable, but it took some skill to navigate. Fast-moving currents and sudden swells had taken many adventurers by surprise. In the early days of Lost Council, the district settlers decided that it needed a name, so a contest was held. Whoever could swim to the far bank and back first would be declared the winner and namesake of the mighty river. Twelve contestants volunteered for the treacherous crossing, and all but two had to be rescued by boat before they got to the other side. The remaining swimmers were strong and were almost on the far bank when one started to cramp and struggle against the current. The other swimmer, not wanting to leave their opponent behind, pulled them close and helped them make it ashore. Not able to continue, the cramped swimmer decided to stay and wait for rescue while the other started the long way back.
Maudey Donn was declared the winner, and while the community started getting used to the lyrical new name, they discovered that the other swimmer, Naily Sandhog, had disappeared on the far side of the river. Their tracks led away from the water and into the rocky terrain leading toward the mountains and then vanished. Disturbed by their lost competitor, Maudey Donn, etched the name Naily Sandhog on the beach with a piece of driftwood and declared this to be the new name of the river instead of theirs. The community didn't feel this was a label they could reasonably get behind for one reason or another. It didn’t easily roll off the tongue, and while Maudey understood this, they didn’t want to let go completely. So they re-drew the name in the sand, rearranging the characters to spell Sindonglahya, a name that the citizens of Lost Council agreed, had just the right amount of romance, mystery, and sayability.
Instinctively, Juujee started tapping along with Dez, hand bouncing off her thigh, entraining to the pattern. “This tippy tappy tum tum thing is really catching on,” she joked, “—Any idea what’s up with that?”
Dez, quick to reply, “—Not sure, but I’ve been watching and feeling it—things are changing—I think the Brain Bunnies have found new friends. Like they’re part of a bigger system now—we’re part of a bigger system, and I think the drumming might be some kind of code or device for us to all free-mingle across greater distances—like a chain reaction.”
Juujee wanted to roll her eyes and debate the idea, but she noticed her fingers still tapping along without any direct intention on her part. Something was happening, and she sidled up to Dez on the step leaning her head on their shoulder. They had to force quit the tapping so they could mingle with some semblance of calm and comfort. And they sat there in the evening, quietly, sensing a subtle but steady energy from the earth through the bottoms of their feet. Juujee whispered, “Maybe you’re on to something, Dez.”
Triangle-shaped with a cell membrane divided into three parts, the extra-terrestrial, Fantastrigo metadido microbe was unlike any other known extremophile. Highly adaptable in almost all environments and capable of exploiting many different energy sources, it thrived on the planet with human hosts, drawing power from electro-neural activity to sustain growth and reproduction.
Equally as fascinating and unique was the ‘bead,’ a type of flagella that enabled the micro-alien to get around. This clump of carbon atoms tracked around the cell membranes and created momentum and movement, shifting the balance from one facet to another. In structural groupings, these ‘bead movements’ synchronized and created a kaleidoscopic effect that in turn produced and transmitted even more potent daemophones. Very difficult to study, the method of transference by these secretions was not completely understood. Many other undefined chemical components were also active in the process, including one structurally related to the psychotropic Dimethyltryptamine, possibly important for transmission and reception inside these ecto-hormones.
The closest Lab Block to Lost Council, studying the Fantastrigo metadido, was a couple of days away by bush bike if you were okay with the long ride. Otherwise, you’d take the old Hershella Ferry upriver and then bullet car to Neckbone Springs, a hub of scientific erudition and epistemological study.
Dez packed their notebooks and a change of clothing. Someone surely would be interested in their rhythm pattern theory. Dez and Juujee had worked out a little more detail in the last few days. It was unclear if anyone else in town was noticing, but the patterns happened everywhere. The wind billowed in time to the waves that rolled in sequence to the halted steps of the stickbugs marching on the leaves of the philodendrons, also twitching and turning in steady intervals. And it wasn’t just the natural environment. The moto traffic and path systems felt coordinated, a well-practiced choreography. The world seemed smoother to Dez as they approached the ferry pier. One two, one two, one two three, one two, they counted their steps. It felt right. It felt like mingling with the universe.
Fair Kelvin was the new captain of the Hershella ferry, appointed by the Ruby Heron Congress after the last long-tenured navigator, Marv Hellvale, met an untimely undoing at the hands of the Swiss Knuckle Pirates, who terrorized the banks of the Sindonglahya in recent months. And while the late pilot had fended off the rogue river rascals in the past, this time they had help from a mystery vessel equipped with bow-mounted harpoon guns, sporting a fierce figurehead in the form of an ax-wielding catfish.
Not to be intimidated by this threat, Fair Kelvin had employed a band of private security to accompany the crew on all excursions. They guarded the ferry, ready to take on the marauding villains with swift bolts and Praetentio, a highly specialized martial art, taking advantage of innate daemophonic transmissions that telegraphed intent and allowed defenders to react and attack preemptively.
Dez nestled nervously into a seat on the Hershella, excited about the trip but a little anxious about the possible pirate presence. The ferry recently repainted after the last ambush, had seen better days. The seats and floors were worn and faded dull by the sun. The railings wobbled and rattled, and you could see the repeated repairs on the paddlewheel. Though tripping upstream was an efficient and scenic way to go, it wasn’t for the cautious traveler. Deadheads, rollers, and other flotsam were a constant danger out in the channel, and it took a skilled pilot to navigate through the treacherous currents.
Fortunately, the Swiss Knuckles were typically more active in the evening, hiding in the long-shadowed reeds, waiting for unsuspecting victims. So Dez felt reassured on the morning run as they took their notebook out of their shoulder bag and began casually cataloging the passengers with a loose sketch and description. Green hat, big nose, butt like an onion. White visor, painted arms, walks with a skip. Wide straw brim, mesh robe, dirty feet. Grey ring gull, crocodile smirk, beak tapping on the flagpole. Tik tikky tik tikky tik tak tak tikky tik.
The ferry lurched forward, and they embarked. Fair Kelvin sounded a quick pair of blasts on the foghorn. The gull hopped backward off the rail and hovered overhead, tilting back and forth to the now ubiquitous rhythm of the universe.
I am no scientist but the research and then subsequent tangental research i did for a lot of this story was so rewarding and satisfying on its own. From extremophiles to Indian ragas to psychedelics. Sometimes I think this why I love to write so I can learn nee things. Appreciate your comments and hope the puzzle pays off in the end.
Okay gosh, SO MUCH TO SAY. Let's start with...
1. I love how you've laced a musical angle into this
2. I have said in the past (you may have read it even) that real science in sci-fi is the scaffold that we build around our creation to make big stretches and speculation through. You have created a beautiful fascinating statue within and beyond this scientific scaffolding that I'm loving. The mixture of science and mysticism is beautiful.
3. You were 100% right when you said I'd enjoy the world building. My brain just wants to put this all together like a little puzzle.
Thank you for this hit of surrealism, couldn't appreciate it more!