Act IV — The Sleeping Water

Page 23 — The Signal

The way we will know the lost when they are found.

A sign that is ours, that the world cannot fake. I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the about: the sign is the camp's part in the finding, and the part was what the decision kept for the camp on the fourth day. The send was the part that needed the sign: the two of us who go east by the water on the fourth day and the ninth and the fourteenth need the sign the way the found will need it — the sign that is ours, and the ours was the whole of the sign's part in the camp.

I cut it in the black rock at the water's edge.

The cutting was the archmage's part in the morning, and the part was the one the craft owed the camp. The morning was the morning of the fifth day, and the fifth day was the one the camp gave the sign. The black rock was where the black rock goes — the line where the water comes in, the place the coast kept for the camp's part in the water.

The rock was the rock the coast gave the camp, and the giving was the one the coast did not let go of. The water went in and out at the line with the sound it has when the wind is not here — the sound the fourteenth page had found to be a copy of the flowing, and the copy was what the water did not let go of. The black rock was black the way the black sand is black, the black the new world gave the coast. The rock took the light the way the coast takes the light, without looking up.

I took the shard of the seam-stone.

The shard was the shard the camp kept since the fifteenth page — the scar the ogre found new, the seam where the cold light ran, and the newness was the one the scar did not let go of. The shard came from the seam in the rock where the ogre stood on the fifteenth page, and the ogre did not take the shard, and the not-taking was the ogre's part in the camp — the ogre who holds the line does not take the shard from the line. I took it the way the archmage takes the thing the camp is owed, with the craft under the ribs and the record in the keeping.

The seam-stone is the one material the world has given us that it cannot give anyone else.

I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the one-material: the seam was what the world made with something the size of a god, and the something was the whole of the seam's part in the world. The world gave the camp the seam-stone the way the world gives everything on this coast — without looking up — but the giving was the one the world cannot repeat, because the making was the thing the world does not do twice. The black rock is the rock the coast has, and the coast's part in the rock is the one anyone can take. The seam-stone is the stone the world made with the seam, and the world's part in the stone is what the world cannot give twice.

I cut it in the black rock at the water's edge.

I held the shard the way the archmage holds the thing the camp is owed — with the craft under the ribs, and the craft went to work the way the craft goes to work in the cutting: not in the cutting, and the not-in was the craft's part in the holding. The shard did the cutting the way the shard does the cutting — the seam-stone on the black rock, the stone of the seam on the rock of the coast, and the two stones were the world's part in the cutting. The sound of it was the sound the camp had not heard, and the sound was the whole of the morning's part in the cutting.

Two lines, crossing.

The two lines were the camp's part in the sign. The first line was the line the ogre keeps — the line that does not leave the line, and the not-leaving was the ogre's part in the sign, and the part was the one the camp owed the ogre. The second line was the line the water keeps — the line where the water comes in, and the coming-in was the water's part in the sign, and the part was the one the camp owed the water. The two lines crossed, and the crossing was the sign's part in the camp — the crossing that was not the old world's crossing, and the not-old-world was the whole of the crossing's part in the sign. The old world's crossings were the crossings of the roads, and the roads were the old world's part in the crossing. This crossing was the crossing of the two lines, and the two lines were the camp's part in the sign.

Under them, one circle.

The circle was the camp's part in the sign, and the part was the one the camp owed the ring. The circle was the ring of the five of us around the fire — the ring the camp kept since the first night on the broken coast, and the keeping was the whole of the ring's part in the camp. The circle was also the ring of the six of us in the white — the ring the crossing kept for the six, and the keeping was the white's part in the camp. The two rings were the circle's part in the sign, and the two rings were the whole of the circle's part in the camp. I cut the circle the way the archmage cuts the thing the camp is owed — with the craft under the ribs and the record in the keeping, and the two were the archmage's part in the circle.

And in the circle, nothing.

The center left unmarked. The empty place. The one the world does not fill. I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the nothing: the center was the kept place's part in the sign. The kept place is the one by the fire, set a little back from the light, and the back-from-the-light was the one the camp had not moved since the white. The center of the circle was the kept place's part in the circle, and the part was the one the camp did not fill — the not-filling was the whole of the kept place's part in the sign, and the not-filling was the one the camp owed the kept place. The world does not fill the center, and the not-filling was the world's part in the sign: the world is not owed the six of us a welcome, and the not-owed was the whole of the world's part in the morning, and the not-owed was the one the center kept for the world.

The six of us, under the one place kept. That is the sign.

I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the six: the six of us went through, and the going-through was the one the white kept for the six. The sign is the six of us under the one place kept, and the under was the whole of the sign's part in the camp. I stood at the water's edge and looked at the sign — the two lines crossing, the one circle, the nothing in the center, and the three were the sign's part in the camp.

When the lost are found, they will make the mark at their shore.

The making was the one the found owed the sign. I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the making: the found will make the mark at their shore — the shore where the current put them down-range, the shore the water and the ground gave the camp on the third morning, and the giving was the whole of the camp's part in the not-knowing. Two lines, crossing, one circle, and in the circle the empty place — the three were the mark's part in the sign, and the part was the one the found owed the camp. The found will make the mark the way the camp made the mark — with the stone of the seam on the rock of the shore, and the two stones were the world's part in the making.

Because the empty place is the one the world does not have.

I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the not-having: the world fills the places it has, and the filling was the one the world did not let go of through the old world. But the world does not have the empty place, and the not-having was what the world did not let go of on the fifth day. A world that does not have it cannot make a false one — the not-making was the whole of the sign's part in the camp. The sign is ours, and the ours was the whole of the sign's part in the camp: the world cannot fake it, because the world does not have the one thing the sign is. The not-having was the one the fifth day kept for the camp, and the camp kept it for the kept place, and the kept place kept it for the one who is not here, and the four keepings were the whole of the morning of the fifth day of the new world.