Full Vessels (4 page)

A throaty growl tore the smile from his face.
Only a body length from him, a jaguar crouched on the bridge,
glaring at him with menacing intensity. Below, crocs swarmed in
anticipation of a meal.
Bad luck day, Griff. Bad luck
day.

“Did you let one of the people sneak past
you, Shadow?” The voice, high and brittle, belonged to an old crone
who sat cross-legged atop a stone wall. She smiled at him through
her tangled gray mane, looking every bit as wild as the beasts that
surrounded her. “Shadow doesn't like people coming into our home.
Do you, Shadow?”

Griff stared at the insane woman, trying to
fit her into his understanding of the world. He couldn't. People
did not live close to crocodiles. They did not live
with
jaguars. The odd woman flashed a small smile as she watched him.
Her eyes twinkled in amusement. “What is your name, Observer?”

“What?”

“I asked your name.”

“Right, yes, I'm Griff. But what did you call
me?”

“Observer,” she said.

“Why'd you call me that?”

“Because that's what you are, Mister
Griff.”

His mouth worked for a moment.

“You were sent to watch the world by the
Creator.”

“How do you know that?”

The old woman leaned forward. “Because I have
magic!”

Griff's eyes widened. “Magic is real?”

“Of course not.”

“But . . . how do you know?”

The woman turned to the cat. “Easy, Shadow.
Go hunt for mama. Go on, go hunt.” For a moment, the animal stared
at the woman, no doubt confused. Then, the jaguar
obeyed
,
turning to run back across the bridge and disappear into the
jungle.

“It's a pleasure to meet a fellow Observer.
My name is Natalia.” She gestured towards the stone building.
“Would you care to get out of the elements? I don't have much to
offer in the way of hospitality, but you are welcome to join me
inside.”

Griff looked towards the building, which had
been constructed from rocks much as people sometimes made walls –
though never had he heard of anyone making a roof from them. A soft
glow came from inside. “Observer? You're an Observer like me?”

“An Observer, yes. Though I would say a bit
brighter than you, friend.”

“How do you make jaguars listen to you?”

Natalia raised her brow. “Magic.”

His heart began to pound. “Really?”

“No. Though it might as well be for someone
with the brains you display. What I do is called selective
breeding. I take the least aggressive cats and mate them together.
There haven't been many generations since the start of this world,
but I've made rapid progress domesticating my pets. Because I raise
them, they are very loyal to me. The rest is just consistent
positive reinforcement.”

Griff followed Natalia inside, where he
discovered another insanity. Tiny fires glowed all over the room
from fiber braids in shallow bowls of liquid. “How is this?”

“Magic,” she said.

Griff contemplated her words. “You don't mean
that.”

“There may be hope for you after all,”
Natalia said.

“I don't understand any of this,” Griff
said.

“I'll admit it's a bit anachronistic for our
present circumstances, but I am certain you will see far more
impressive wonders in future worlds. You won't be staying here with
me long enough for an explanation of the arts of lamp making and
masonry, so how about we stick to pleasantries?” The woman settled
on the floor and folded her hands.

Griff's eyes drifted to the floor, where bone
remnants mingled with shed fur. “If you're an Observer, why do you
live away from the people?”

“I'm not watching people,” Natalia said.

“But that's what we're supposed to do.”

“We're supposed to observe. I don’t see our
mission as being restricted to people. In my opinion, animals are
far less trying companions than the primitive tribesmen of this
world. I wouldn't bother speaking with you at all if you weren't an
Observer.”

“How many Observers are there?”

“Twelve.”

“Who are the others?”

“I couldn't say. I've only met you.” Natalia
glanced past him to the door and he turned to see what had caught
her attention. Three cats stood there, eyes fixed on him. “Well,
Griff, it appears our visit is over. I will walk you to the bridge
and make sure my friends don't follow.”

Griff was too concerned with the presence of
the predators to do anything other than escape across to the
mainland and run through the forests.

He never encountered any of the people
hunting him. Later, when thinking back on the odd meeting with
Natalia, one question about the strange Observer stood out above
all others.
Why would an old woman prefer the company of animals
to that of people?
Whatever the reason, Griff was certain it
was scandalous.

Mel sat at the head of the table, one ankle
across the opposite knee, hands folded in his lap, trademark
half-smirk in place. He radiated expectation into the extended
silence.

“Just spew out your artsy nonsense already,”
Drake muttered.

Mel's smirk grew broader as he arched a
single brow. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Drake. I'll be
sure to return the favor tomorrow when it's your turn.” He turned
his attention to Greg and began to speak, his typical mannerisms
amped up to maximum effect.

“No doubt the eleven of you expect a lesson
in art appreciation. While I could indeed provide a marvelous
introduction to the subject, I'm afraid that I must disappoint.
Firstly, the lot of you possess neither the temperament nor the
time required for proper study. My second, more pertinent, reason
is that my study of high culture has always been secondary to my
chosen subject – understanding each world through the lens of the
indigenous population.

“While each of you slogged through the
gutters of various societies in brute force campaigns to collect
intelligence of questionable value for the Creator, I became a
metaphorical spymaster, employing painters and sculptors and poets
and musicians to deliver their most sincere insights of life and
existence to me. Their assistance often cost no more than the price
of a ticket to the local museum. How could I pass up such a
bargain?

“I am certain that all of you are doubting
the quality of these second-hand observations at this moment. More
often than not, your misgivings would be well founded. All art says
something, presumably about the experience of life. However, much
of the time, the message proves unworthy of contemplation. Any of
you who have joined me at a show know how much I detest themed
works. In my opinion, the deliberate inclusion of a motif is cheap
artifice. Rather, the heart of a work should be in subtle conflict.
Despair hidden behind a smile. Joy on a battlefield. A neglected
monument.

“These worlds possess a complexity no
individual could ever encompass. In the space of a few hours, I can
sample the insights an artist has obtained over an entire lifetime.
The dross and the gold are easy enough to discern with some
experience. Over the worlds, I have collected a wealth of
reflections.

“Though none of these gems are what I choose
to share with you. Rather, my most profound observation of the
world is related not to what the world of art has presented to me,
but instead to a quality that the common people lack. You see, what
is most remarkable about art is that its producer must be aware of
the world in order to reproduce some facet of it in the chosen
medium.

“Most people drift through life reacting to
the situations they find themselves in, unable or unwilling to
contemplate their own context. Their lives start in motion. Either
the motion granted them by the Creator at the first moment of a
world or the motion imparted through upbringing – the effect is the
same either way.

“They inherit their every idea and never
realize their intellectual borrowings. Instead, they cling to their
arbitrary indoctrination with a simple-minded tenacity, resisting
new ideas with the full might of their ignorance. Confirmation bias
filters experiences as they occur, granting significance to events
that agree with their worldview and dismissing any that could
challenge their assumptions.

“Their memories, faulty to begin with, are
subject to cognitive dissonance. I once met a man who hated a
certain painter while holding another in the highest esteem. Both
produced gloomy surreal landscapes and their works were often
confused. So this man I met explained to me why one was superior to
the other in great detail, pointing to pieces from a private
collection as examples.

“'Jenzee has greater depths in his shadows as
you can easily see here. Jenzee's works have superior perspective –
just look at it! Jenzee makes better use of color.' At some point,
the host of the soiree arrived to speak with us and bragged about
his landscape by Jenzee – which happened to be the one the man had
assumed painted by the hated Erwood. When our host left to mingle
with the other guests, my confused companion repeated the exact
same opinions to me as before. 'Jenzee has greater depths in his
shadows as you can easily see here. Jenzee's works have superior
perspective – just look at it! Jenzee makes better use of color.'
The only difference was the painting at which he pointed. When I
pointed out his contradictory opinions of the two paintings, the
man mocked me for a fool and departed.

“How common is the common man. He doesn't
choose his own beliefs – he accepts them before he has his own
mind. He doesn't consider new ideas he encounters – he rejects them
as different from his own. He doesn't even apply his ideas to his
own life – more often than not, he exists as a product of
incompatible beliefs and habits.

“The primary fault isn't a lack of
intelligence but rather an unconscious aversion to change. An
unconscious aversion that could easily be over-ridden with a
modicum of contemplation. I have never encountered a person who
could be said to be incapable of conscious thought. Yet rare is the
one willing to engage in the practice.

“The observation I present today for all of
you is that most people cannot be said to be truly conscious. They
are automatons, wound up with an arbitrary set of ideas and
released upon the world to interact in a limited fashion. They
stumble about in mechanical obedience to faulty internal wiring,
refusing to see past the filters on their eyes. Unwilling to sort
through the jumble of contradictions living within their minds.

“I believe the biggest difference between us
and them is not our long and perfect memories, but our obedience to
the Divine Command. We observe. We contemplate. We are consciously
aware, sometimes painfully so, of the worlds that are our
context.”

Mel sat straighter, steepling his hands on
the table before him. “That is the crown jewel of my collection. If
you care to debate its merit, I am ready.”

Greg nodded his head in tribute. “A
fascinating observation. I have noticed the same phenomenon, though
I never stated it so eloquently.”

“You ruined the drinking game,” Erik said.
“We were supposed to do a shot every time you named a
movement.”

“As always, Erik, I am thrilled you opened
your mouth,” Mel said. “Does anyone else care to enlighten us?
Elza, perhaps? Would you like to itemize the flaws of my
argument?”

Elza shrugged. “There was no argument, Mel.
You shared an opinion.”

“There is the blunt literalism I expect from
you. Do you object to my opinion?”

“No,” she said.

Ingrid sighed loudly. “Seems the brainy trio
have a truce. Did you reach an agreement or is this a case of
professional courtesy?”

Griff turned a scowl on Elza. “Hey, why
should Mel get a pass?”

“Fine,” Elza said. “I'll object, since
everyone wants it.” She locked her eyes on Mel. “Your opinion is
nothing special. I'm sure every one of us has cracked a psychology
textbook at least once. Cognitive dissonance and confirmation bias
are common. The failure to ever have what you term 'conscious
thought' is not.

“Have you ever considered that your anecdote
of the soiree could have an alternate explanation? I expect the man
you met was not as knowledgeable as he claimed about Jenzee. No
doubt he was parroting the words of someone else and became
embarrassed when he realized his mistake. By pretending the
mis-identification never happened, the man may have been requesting
you to participate in a social fiction to help him save face.
Instead, you acted like the smug asshole you are and the man became
upset.

“More troubling is your use of nebulous
terminology. Could you clarify for us whether people lack awareness
or simply fail to think critically on a regular basis? The former
is unbelievable and the latter trivial.”

Mel collapsed his steepled fingers into
fists. “The greatest objection you can marshal is word choice?”

“Semantics,” Elza corrected. “Your grand
thesis is that people fail to put enough mental effort into their
lives. Then you use sloppy terminology to present your case. Given
a perfect memory, even an idiot should be able to find the right
words.”

“Well, I can see I'm not the only asshole
present.” Mel waved the criticisms away with a dismissive gesture.
“Anyone else?”

Erik laughed. “Like Elza left enough of your
little notion for us to discuss. Your idea's been nuked, art
boy.”

Drake smacked the table. “Demiurge's Dick
strikes again!”

“We are not here to bicker and tell crude
jokes!” Greg split his spiteful glances between Elza and Drake.
“This is as close as we will ever come to presenting our insights
to the Creator. We are acting as stand-ins for the One we serve.
Quit behaving like unruly children.”