How to Grow Old

The Archives appear as an empty vessel. A tall tower seemingly vacant to those without the key. It conveys an absence of truth and knowledge to those who are not guardians. Let alone its location a secret, a mysterious library, hidden in plain sight in the floating city of Hiroshirpa. A tall tower disguised as a support beam for a lookout, colossal, the structure one of many throughout that challenge mans' perception of architectural integrity — which rises from the planet stopping at rounded donut hole openings. The Archives are within one of the support beams, deep down inside; only an incomplete collection of stairs is visible—and that's only if one finds the door, an emblem on the dark-coated steel detectable only when the key is nearby. The color of the steel is the darkest known to human perception, a blimp on the extreme tolerance of Souxian sight. Humans may unknowingly run into the structures if not careful. Betani recalls seeing them as a child and a place to let imagination stir beyond the clouds that separated her from the planet. Though to her it did not seem such a void as it did to other humans. For her eyes perceived some value or shade uncharacteristic of the abilities of a human being. Although, she could not see any texture or composition so clearly as a Souxian. She thought to herself, imagining it at first until her initiation as a Devine servant. Faster than all the others, she could sense where the emblem was located, the place where the key would light up the door, and grant access to the entryway for the Archives. Others found it odd. Though Nantano Xian passed it off as luck—not giving anyone a chance to call her out as being the privileged apprentice. Betani stood at the staircase, which the last step dropped off into an abyss. She spoke a series of phrases of the Souxian tongue, and the steps formed one after another, gradually tapering down in a spiral. However, the last step did not reach the floor. One must count its approach with great precision, one miscalculation could lead to a disastrous fall to the death. Once Betani reaches the step number 44, she stops, stomping her foot twelve times like typing in a code that activates the step. It forms glass around her, carrying her across the darkness. It's impossible to tell where one is going: up, down, sideways — the space creates an illusion that one may not even be going anywhere at all. The only indicator being the steps left behind which rapidly fade, like an asteroid floating away into the dark abscess of space. To Betani, it has all become second nature, each move she makes flows, as she makes her graceful ascent. There are ten general rules a Devine servant must follow: One must not enter or exit the confines unless cloaked. Two: Let no one see who you are, not even another guardian. Three: Enter one at a time. Four: Have reason for entering the Archives. Five: Do not leave until you have completed all duties. Six: Document entrance and exit every time via notification to a Rovis. Seven: Take nothing out except the key. Eight: Report all violations. Nine: Talk to no one inside or outside about duties, except if directly ordered, and/or is beneficial to the Archives. Ten: Protect all knowledge within and without of the Archives and find its proper place.

A large glass room, appearing almost out of nowhere, received Betani. There are many, so one will only arrive at one not in use. Everything compartmentalized. The space once again appears empty. Dark. Useless. Its ceiling goes on forever, though its width and depth is that of a large closet. Betani stands outside it. She speaks once more the sacred Souxian verbiage. It illuminates the dark glass room, revealing shimmering particles that float around like fireflies known as Signas. They bubble up and down. Dancing. Most would not know their value except that of mere light or entertainment. Though, within them contains the miraculous technology which flexes their purpose to hold all knowledge as visual memory. A control center, accessible to the Devine servant, exists outside; their thoughts connect to it via a simple crown they wear. It unravels itself onto the skull, a gentle digging into various spots around the head, and forms a bond which links the user to the roaming Signas.

Betani connects. Her thoughts were now vulnerable to the whim of these strange particles to create visual representation before her very eyes. If one could stand many feet away in the dark, they would see 3D images appear as if actual events, people, and places — though confined to the limitation of a glass chamber. One can only show the movie on a blank screen. As the visuals form, the signas writhe, collapse, and expand upon each other — joining like a collection of compatible molecules, creating additional elements that are magnified by the room and assisted, brought to life by their master. Though the many faces are only temporary in the visual sense, the memories remain encased forever within the walls, like souls. They carry many stories, many lifetimes, and lessons. A Devine servant maintains a special privilege by obeying their orders. Betani technically has not been disobeying hers—

The crown fit snugly atop her head, sensing her brainwaves, her thoughts, translating them, and bringing them to life within the glass room. It takes an intense focus. If not properly trained, visuals will fail to fully form, and a host of chaotic imaginings will appear unrelated to what the user had intended. A Devine servant performed a special meditation prior. It is mind-clearing. Embracing the thoughtless flow, an altered state that is only accomplished by years of practice, Betani can tap into a space that gives her more freedom and control over the transmission.

Betani often recalls her first time attempting the meditation and performing the information transfer — a chaotic mess it was. It frightened her at first. Nantano observed her weak concentration, her sweaty palms, and pinched brows—much too conscious, anxious, and fearful then. It took many more attempts. She felt her ears burn as she conceived odd shapes.

Don't concern yourself with what you are seeing. Nantano had explained. Let go of the need to control anything, and instead let it react to you.

The shapes continued to manifest prematurely into malformed semblances of various people, places, and things. Sometimes appeared faded. Sometimes they dissipated. Eventually, they grew stronger—though still ambiguous. Quick movements or flashes betrayed the eyes. When she observed Nantano work the room, she noticed a seamless, though simple, style. It was lacking in something.

Betani was at first a novice learning the basics, so she strived to imitate him. Soon, she became an artist in the mode of self-discovery, learning her style, and experimenting with the power of her mind. Not just her mind, however, she learned that involving the right amount of emotion allowed her to better grasp the imagery; it came through with more life. Though Nantano didn't much care for the theatrics, he grew impressed by her ability to log cultural memories and history adequately and with rich expression, "your humanity is showing, Betani", he would say as if a useful thing. 

well I am human, right? She would think.

Betani begins her meditation upon embracing the crown. She tries to imagine being like a flying animal such as a bird, its wings spread as it ascends through the open air, and soon becoming an aerial body that does not just move through air, but surrenders. Such as hands that reach in praise or a river flowing into the ocean. Dew drops evaporating at sunrise. A shadow merging with the dark at dusk. A butterfly escaping captivity. These things don't need to hold any thought, only feeling, and Betani captures them—in an infinite spiral in her mind. At first, the images appear before her, unrelated to what she plans on actually accessing or relaying. It's like her activation. Sometimes it goes on for several minutes in a loop. Until at last, a face appears, a body, and a moment. Another face. Another body. Same moment. Seeking to find the glitch once more, she rewinds to its remembered place. Betani did not store or discover these memories. Aliyah placed them. And to Betani's suspicion, she may be the one who spliced some out.

This memory had relevance involving the Smaranjan beliefs, a conversation pertaining to the Mookoorja, and its mysterious origin. Voices come through. The speaker translates and amplifies the conversation, making the voices heard. The memory is of Aliyah herself, a young, quite pretty, interviewing a tribe member: a tall, lithe, and fit man with tanned skin and squinty hazel eyes. Betani has observed this memory again and again. Aliyah and the tribe member speak in Samara, the native Smaranjan tongue, which Aliyah speaks fluently, but Betani understands the translation.

"How does the Mookoorja work?" Aliyah asks.

"How do your lungs breathe deep? The transformation of carbon dioxide into oxygen: How do trees accomplish this? How do butterflies evolve from a plain caterpillar? The Moorkooja is the energy that exists through all cycles of life, a constant flow. Like a waterfall bleeding into a glorious pool and recycling back again." _ The man moves closer to Aliyah, he puts his hand on his chest where his heart rests, and speaks once more, "And even when your heart stops beating, the Mookoorja does not die, it strengthens as it moves from one place to another."

Aliyah stares, looking flushed, "where does it go?"

"That we do not know. It may go where it pleases, though many believe it chooses a place where it is most needed."

"It sounds as if you are saying the Mookoorja is of one mind."

"It is of one mind—in many." _ The hair stands up on Betani's arms.

"What do you believe?" Aliyah's eyes widen.

The tribesman's eyebrows pinch upward. "I believe the Mookoorja to be trapped here."

"Trapped?"

Suddenly, a vertical black line shoots down through the middle of the man's face as time seems to jump forward.

"The proof is there."

Aliyah sighs, "I believe you, but I—"

The two of them pause, an unfinished moment, and the bodies gradually dissipate. That is all Aliyah shared at that moment. There is nothing else about the Mookoorja besides cultural rituals and traditions that involved the honoring of it. To Betani, it feels like a crime, and the black vertical line is even more so.

I believe the Mookoorja to be trapped here.

The tribesman talking to Aliyah—his face. That face seemed familiar, like she has seen it before in another memory. Betani focuses on the face. It bleeds into a fresh memory. A man who appears from the weaving. No one knows who he is or how he survived. That face. Is it the same? She sees the strange man standing, walking forth, naked, and bald. She sees the shock and wonder as he continues to carry on unscathed. They perform tests on him to see if he is Anutuva. They put him in a cage with the birds. He remains undisturbed. They even interrogate him. He remains calm. He remains, only he has no memory or recollection of who he is. Could this be before Aliyah had come? Betani reconsiders an obvious, previously overlooked clue: the Smaranjans' knowledge of the Anutuva. Besides all that, is this the same man? Is this the man that later conversed with Aliyah? If so, how is it possible? Had he somehow discovered a cure for himself long before the Souxians? Or did he simply copulate and have sons who appeared uncannily similar?

She replays him being placed in the cage with the birds. He does not resist. How could he survive 'The Weaving'? Why has no one ever examined this further? Everyone knows what 'The Weaving' does to people—a ghastly infection of the mind first causing memory loss and confusion. Could that explain why he had no memory? Maybe, in some ways, he had been ill-affected. But, what about the rapid aging? The withering? The decaying?—

She visits both moments again and again, looking for clues or potential answers: looking at the quality of his skin, superficial signs, and similarities between both men. There are no accurate indications other than their being almost identical. She sees no defining marks on him—and even then, she may not have observed them well enough before forming her memories. Perhaps someone intentionally left them out. It may not be a mistake at all. But now Betani felt ill, her thoughts moving toward grandiose speculation. The frustration of not knowing for sure catapults her into a state not fit for retrieving—-and the signas tremble, breaking apart. They react to her by pulling and pulsing—they form a bolt that shoots out through the room. Jumping, Betani removes the crown, realizing her day is over. There is nothing more she can do here.

Leaving the Archives is far more simple than entering. Upon her request, a simple Souxian command, she waits as the same step that brought her returns to pick her up where she can ascend up the staircase back into the empty room. Pulling her cloak over her head, she moves toward the door, the cylindrical metal key in hand, and it senses her only opening when the way is clear. As she steps out, the entrance seals within seconds. She briskly leaves the Archives cloaked and disappointed, holding more questions than answers.