The Splitting Tones of the Unbound Prism: Part Four in the Narrative of John of Origin

By Ian Kraft

Matejo Blit, curator of a museum where his greatest find, the Unbound Prism, is on display, is a man haunted by his past, his mistakes. For years, he has wondered what the meaning of the strange prism is, until he meets a strange man under a lampshade hat, who seems to know more about Matejo than Matejo himself. Thus begins a realization that the things we fear are closer than we thought. And so he will discover the meaning of the Prism; and so it will take him on a journey through his own personal prison, through a world where the things so intrinsically tied to his soul are trapped, longing to get out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Kraft
• Release date: Feb 2, 2011

Ian Kraft

I am a grad student at George Mason University. During my last few years of college, I began writing a great number of full-length novels. The stories are heavily, although tacitly, influenced by my experiences having a brain tumor 8-1/2 years ago. Surreality, word play, use of multiple languages and an overall sense of that which cannot be dominate my stories. I'm more than friendly, so please, if you have the time, friend me on Facebook with a message that you found me through Smashwords! I'd love to hear from anyone and everyone!

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The Splitting Tones of the Unbound Prism

Part Four in the Narrative of John of Origin

Ian Kraft

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ian Kraft

And this is the unbound prism. Two veritable walls made of ten-foot-deep glass between which sits a strange, podium-like construction with a wooden claw shaped like it’s supposed to be holding a small orb on top of it. It was discovered in the late 1990’s in what we now believe to have once been the illustrious kingdom of Scrawljia. For the last decade and a half, archaeologists and scientists alike have been arguing over its purpose, trying to determine exactly what this apparatus was used for, but have been unable to determine anything specific. The only answer that they have is that it was possibly used for religious ceremonies.

Does anyone know what the writing on it there says? asked a woman as she pointed to one of the glass walls.

No, I’m afraid that that is a mystery locked within the depths of history. This is the only sample of this language that we have in our historical archives and given the limited amount of text, we are unable to translate. Thank you for your question. Are there any other questions?

I looked around at the group in front of me and saw a vaguely interested coalition of faces that seemed to view what was before them as nothing but an old world charm.

Very well then, I continued, Thank you for coming in today and feel free to stop by the gift shop on your way out.

Like air escaping from a balloon through a small hole, the group before me slowly began to disperse. As they departed, I looked back to the unbound prism once more. The two glass walls sat facing each other behind the red velvet barriers that hung from posts in front of it. The vitreous walls had been untarnished the day we had found them and remained in pristine condition. The thick glass reflected a complete spectrum of colors, shining them outward in a spectral, mysterious glow. The podium in the middle really looked more like something out of a children’s television show, like a stand, on which should be placed a crystal ball, or something like one. After a moment, I turned away and began to head back towards the lower level of the museum – my next tour started in half an hour.

On my way down the white marble steps, I kept my attention on the under-contented faces that surrounded me, people who, as far as I could see, pretended to be so enamored with a place in which dead things were preserved for the sake of preserving them, to know where we came from, as the museum banner phrased it in such a cliché. But there was no true draw to it because nothing was really ever gained except wealth. History is a game of pretend, for it is inevitably the case that the lessons taught are never actually learned. For what I had bothered to learn about history, all I saw were mistakes remade, wars repeatedly fought against enemies in a land where the assailant could not win, conflicts that were fought for the sake of wealth and not weal.

That is the prosaism.

Chapter 2

The night found me in a coffee shop sipping tea. As I sat before the crimson glass mug, staring at the dark, aqueous fluid inside pensively, remembering. It was a memory ensconced in darkness, perhaps not even real, but one that haunted me none the less. It was strange though: it was such a petty thing, such a trifling matter that didn’t seem like a thought worthy of note and yet, I continually recalled it.

I had this dream, a repetitious reverie that seemed to cross my sleeping mind once a month despite the fact that it didn’t seem to mean a thing. Every time, I would be standing in the desert in the middle of an oasis, within a patch of green that was surrounded by endless sand in all directions. I would be standing in front of the sole tree of the oasis, looking at its sharp bark that wrapped around the tree, unable to cling to the trunk entirely, when all of the sudden, my dreaming mind would decide that I needed to walk around the tree and into the desert beyond, the dry land that was a death beyond the oasis. I would then look to the left of the wide tree and as if as a byproduct of my will to move into the desert ahead, there would all at once be a line of trees there, impeding my ability to walk around. I would look to the right and find the same thing.

And so, in this dream, I would find myself stuck, blocked by a wall of trees that hadn’t appeared to be there at first. I would begin to feel trapped, the world inside my dreaming, delirious mind revving, squirming like a rat in a cage, and amidst this turmoil, my mind would began to fight with itself. The part of my mind that was involved in the reality of the dream would turn and pick up an axe that lay next to my foot while my conscious mind, from beyond the ethereal shore of dreams, would call for me to stop.

Lifting the axe, I would chop the tree down. Every down.

I t wasn’t just the frequency though, it was the reality of the reverie and the guilt that it inspired as I brought the mighty tree down; it was the fact that I was never able to stop myself, able to find any other solution; and it was the fact that I felt a sadness in the tree as I chopped it down, a sorrow that longed for me to stay.

The dream would always end as I lay crying in front of a stump. The dream would always end as I awoke, my body covered in sweat.

That was it. I lifted my cup of tea, the concoction now cool enough to sip. Bringing the mug to my mouth, I felt the steam rise into and over my nose. The smell was herbaceous and calm, but as the liquid came to my tongue, somewhat scalding my flesh, the acrid taste made my mouth curl inwards like a half of a lemon being squeezed. Quickly drawing the bitter cup away from my mouth in displeasure, I briskly set it down on the table before me and reached for the bottle of lemon juice in my pocket that I always brought with me to drink tea.

My hand fumbled into my outer jacket pocket, lifting the beige flap and reaching into the deep pouch. As I went about this, however, I heard footsteps growing louder. I turned my head and found that there was a woman walking by, a cup in her hand. All of the sudden, she reached down to a table across the room and I watched as she picked up the sugar jar.

I thought about my dream.

As I looked down to my cup of tea once more, the bottle of lemon juice in my hand, I imagined the tassels of steam that had so previously been rising from it, asking me to reconsider, begging me to find a new way to battle the angry bitterness. The thought made me smirk - rising tassels of steam.

Chapter 3

The next morning found me preparing for my next tour. After studying the Prism for a moment, admiring and delighting in it, I began to make my way down the stairs, thinking.

No, dead worlds could not hold me, only dead words. For perhaps, I believed, some great answer lay in the vast languages, lost unto the ages amidst pages of the thoughts of the select few who had the courage to want to be romantics. As I continued down the stairs, however, I strangely heard footsteps coming up in the opposite direction and looked ahead, where I met the gaze of a mostly peculiar man. He had a snow-white mustache that was curled in a perfect loop on either side and a strange hat on his head that looked like a shallow, tan, inverted pot with a number of tassels hanging down from inside of it, almost entirely covering the man’s eyes. I moved downwards and prepared to pass him when he suddenly reached his arm out towards me and asked Are you the curator?

Yes, I replied, somewhat taken aback, Can I help you?

That is very much a question of your willingness to do things that might not seem to be in your best interest to do.

I stared at him with a puzzled expression.

There have been a great many crimes, a great, great many crimes in my land and I require assistance in solving these mysteries.

And you are?

Olvire Steeg, I’m sorry. And I very well know you to be John of Origin.

I have no idea who that is.

Why, it’s you.

And why exactly are you here? I asked Olvire, hoping to ease the seeming insanity of this encounter.

Hopefully to help you ease the fear that the hand of God is a fist.

My eyes widened in perplexed and fearful incomprehension. I could not distinguish his eyes from under the tassels that hung down from his hat, bringing somewhat to mind the question of how he navigated the world, but ignoring this, continued my questioning of him.

Who are you?

Ignoring my query entirely, he responded, You have a great many things at your disposal to disprove the theory and yet you neglect to see them. For molded pages are a wise man’s wages.

Before I had a chance to respond, the strange man turned and began to walk back down the steps.

Wait! I shouted to him as he walked away, Who are you? I reiterated with a sense of urgency, hoping for a more thorough answer this time.

Moses Pedals, the man responded, not turning back to me as he spoke, Moses Pedals.

I stood on the steps, smatterblaffed. I knew that name, but I couldn’t remember from where. After the man had made his way further down the steps, I continued onward, descending the stairs after him, eventually leaving the intricate marble banister and turning to make my way towards my office on the first floor. I saw the same awkward set of bones that drew my attention every day – a bizarre skeleton with the mouth of a horn. Whatever it was, it had bones that were all arced like bent knees, except for its claws, which were powerful and yet, at the same time, subtle as they projected forward from its neatly tucked-in limbs.

I continued down one of the mahogany-colored, shiny, polished corridors until I came to my door. ‘Matejo Blit’ read the plaque that was glued to it; I turned the knob and entered.

The thin, red carpet that lined the floor of my office offered no relief as I stepped in and throwing myself forward into the spinning, cushioned, black office chair that sat before me, I opened the bottom drawer of my file cabinet and began to search.

Moses Pedals…Moses Pedals… I whispered to myself, trying to keep the reality of the words fresh in my mind to convince myself that I hadn’t heard wrong.

Before I could find what I was looking for, however, the words came flooding back to me.

"Kick off from your doorstep and leave a cloud of dust, ‘cause you can’t catch bread-head Moses if you sit around and rust.

Chase him cross the highway and try to peg him to the ground, but don’t give him none of your clever words ‘cause he won’t hear a sound

Just call him Moses Pedals; he’s the greatest thing on wheels; you’ve gotta go now, ride or bust; listen to what Pedals feels.

He zooms through every courtyard, does a wheelie rounding ev’ry turn, and no man alive could ever catch that kid as the rubber burned

One day Moses came riding and as he shot around the bend, he caught the sight of the full red moon and it told him that he shoulda’ learned

To run free and chase the Slats down, but just know what you got in your sights because when you get there, you’ll be well aware that those words are lights

Just call him Moses Pedals; he’s the greatest thing on wheels; you’ve gotta go now, ride or bust; just listen as Pedals peels.

Well no one’s seen old Moses in at least a good long four years and we’re growing afraid of what the wise man sayed that he’s sinking in his fears

But I don’t think Pedals surrenders, don’t think that he’ll take defeat; just hold your breath son and start to run, maybe you’ll catch Moses’ beat

Just call him Moses Pedals; he’s the greatest thing on wheels; you’ve gotta go now, ride or bust; listen to what Pedals feels."

Moses Pedals. I could recall the invention of the name now. I had been in the back of a car, although I can’t remember who was driving, but anyways, someone had mentioned the sight of a moped along the side of the street and my mind had instantly dived into the process of turning the word ‘moped’ into a name. And thus had been born Moses Pedals, the greatest thing on wheels. He was, as I had decided, or perhaps invented, the creator of the moped and someone to whom the entirety of the human mind clings without realizing, a universal celebrity that had a fascinating, inexplicable draw.

The discovery sunk in and my thoughts raced back to the strange man, his strange accent, and his bizarre hat. As I sat thinking, trying to consider the possibilities of what had happened, the phone suddenly began to ring from the corner of my desk with an electronic, beeping chime and I quickly reached my hand out to pick up the gray, wired receiver. With a curt, business-like motion, I pulled the old receiver quickly to my ear.

Matejo Blit, Dioma City Museum, I stated with a hopeful voice.

Hello, Mister Blit?

Yes?

My name is Douglas Wallington; I’m the person you spoke with earlier about doing a lecture tour about the Unbound Prism. I just wanted to let you know that I have established a list of twenty dates on which you are to speak, all of which promise to be fully booked.

I drew the phone away from my ear slightly and looked at it in a state of almost fearful confusion.

I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong Matejo Blit, I began, I didn’t contact you about anything regarding a lecture series.

But you are Matejo Blit, discoverer of the Unbound Prism, are you not?

Yes, but...

Well then there is no other Matejo Blit with an Unbound Prism whom I could have been contacted by, for surely there is only one Unbound Prism.

I sat silently for a moment.

I thought you told me last time you called that you had already made all of your booking arrangements, that you were bringing the Prism next week.

Remind me, I began, somewhat upset that liberties seemed to be being taken with my life and success, What is this lecture series even worth to me?

The contract you signed with us was for one-hundred grand for the whole series.

Surprised by the response, I asked And what exactly did I tell you about the travel arrangements that I had made?

I remember quite specifically that you told me that you already had plane tickets as well as a way to transport the Prism and that all of the papers were already in your desk and ready to go.

I slid my chair back with a squeaking roll, reached forward, grabbed the drawer that was in the middle of the desk, and pulled it forward. As I perused its contents, I found that, right on top of an unopened box of pens, sat a pile of papers, on top of which was a plane ticket. I studied the small, pink card and its red ink in shock. In printed lettering, it clearly indicated that I, Matejo Blit, was to go to Nevada and that I was to leave the next day.

Alright, I answered after a long pause, I guess I’ll be there.

"Thank you very much, Mister Blit;