Computing the Stamens

by **Philomena** on April 19th, 2013, 12:45 am

Spring 5, 489
Shears Tailoring, Zeltiva

"Mrs Shears?"

"Ms. Lefting! No… no, no! DOCTOR Lefting, hmm? From what I hear. Congratulations!"

"Yes, ma'am. It's kind of you."

"Don't you be ma'am-ing me! I'm just a tailor, you're a Doctor of the University, now! What was your dissertation about?"

Minnie frowned, absently, and spit the answer out with an air of automation, "The Evidence for and Implications of an Oral Tradition of Authorship in Early Post-Valterrian Epic Poetry."

"Oh… yes, that sounds… interesting. But yes! You'll have the doctoral robes, now, non?"

"I… had not thought to get any. I will not be… available for…"

"Posh! You need the silks, eventually! You know, I've made them before, its been YEARS of course, but I know the proper cut for--"

"--Mrs Shears, I… I actually came to ask something else of you, if… if you don't mind… a bit of dressmaking."

Ms Shears stopped, looked up at her dumbfounded, put her hands to her side. Minnie stood in a horrid grey sack-of-a-dress, and this, Ms Shears had learned, was simply Minnie Lefting. For all the times she offered, Minnie always refused her skills as a tailor, even just to alter the second hand scraps that Minnie dug out of the old-clothes bins. The tailor nodded, solemnly, "You need… a dress made? For, perhaps your graduation?"

Minnie looked at the ground, and spoke very, very softly, "No… no ma'am… a… a mourning dress."

The tailor blushed, curious, but afraid of seeming disrespectful, "Someone has died?" She dug through her mind for who on earth Minnie would know well enough to warrant a proper dress, "Your… Doctor Capinsal, I hope is well?"

"Yes, ma'am, Mara is very well. Its a private affair."

Minnie knew the news of Hannah Watchtower would wash through the town fast enough, and that Hannah, for her part, probably would want it that way, would enjoy the little to-do that would accompany her passing. But somehow, talking about the matter was… Minnie simply did not wish to say the words aloud. Perhaps, once Hannah was altogether gone, it would be different. Minnie was not sure it would - for even now, she knew that Hannah, for all her body clung to the last shreds of life, was gone. She was simply a wracking bit of flesh now, breathing out its last. The soul was past.

The tailor looked at her with a raised brow, but nodded, and lowered her voice, "Alright. What sort of thing are you looking for?"

"I haven't a great deal of money."

"We'll make it work. I can defer payment if necessary."

"I need something practical, not… not just a funeral dress. Something to… wear a bit. But something… pretty. I… as pretty as you can make me, anyway."x

by **Philomena** on April 19th, 2013, 12:46 am

Hannah was gone now. In the end, the last moments had not affected Minnie the way she thought they would. She'd come to see her there, once she was altogether passed one, but it had meant nothing, then. This wasn't Hannah, anymore. It was a bit of flesh, prematurely rotting around the wound in her leg. IT had not been radiant, she had not been beautiful in death. She had quietly spoken to the undertaker, asked him if perhaps he could communicate her suggestion that the casket be closed at the funeral, for Minnie knew that this isn't how Hannah would want to be seen at the last. Hannah had always had a sense of the beauty and drama of things.

She stood atop a tall wooden stand, now, her face blank and impassive, wearing just a pair of wool stocking against the early chill, some bloomers and a chemise, arms out to the side. Mrs Shears fluttered about her, in a red suit, measuring, pushing, squeezing, eyeballing, muttering to herself. She'd put the dress onto Minnie four times now, and adjusted it, taken it back off, measured, hemmed, muttered, stitched a dart a little tighter, let a seam a little looser.

The other person in the room was Minnie's research assistant, a diffident, irritable dandy of a boy. Minnie despised him, and he returned the favor, but he wanted his degree. That was enough for the two of them to work with. He was reading aloud in a bored tone.

"The sailors sing these songs incessantly, as capstan chanties even, long lists of addresses that have been lost to the Valterrian. One such."

"Stop," Minnie spoke softly. Seriously. She had too much going on to think much. Gypa was here now, upstairs, napping in his hammock. Tomorrow was the funeral, and the day for her first formal lecture to be given at University. They had offered to reschedule this, given the circumstances. She had refused. She needed something else to think of. She needed something for every interstice of the day, to have too much going on, to be able at the end of the evening to collapse quickly into a thoughtless, dreamless sleep.

The boy stopped reading, reaching for the wax tablet, assuming a note would come. It did.

"Songs of lost addresses - cross reference to the lists of the dead families in the iadics. Have we read anyone who corresponded that? Addresses pre-Valterrian may not have been in the format they are in now…"

"No, Dr. Lefting, we have not read anyone who made that correspondence."

"Wait… yes… but…" she closed her eyes and pictured books in her mind, there was something… "Burlson. In his history of the West Wing references finding the 'Laid Lists.' The Laid, that's used in… Huny's demographic studies, to refer to the lists of the fallen families. Someone… Ghiraud? Ghiraud maybe? No, that's not right. You'll have to check my notes, between… Winter 14 and… Winter 19."

She started as a pin slipped, scratched a bloody scrip across her armpit, but didn't scream. She closed her eyes, instead, focusing on the scratch, on the tiny, sharp pricking of it, the thrill of nerves telling her to tend to it, to at least move the pin, so it stopped worrying at the corner of it. She focused on that, and stood very, very still. IT cleared her mind.

"Yes. Check there for references to the word 'Laid' or 'Layed', in the Irregular Logs of the early Post-V ships. I'm sure its use there. We can draw correspondences there, later, perhaps. Notate that we must speak to Dr. Hules, in the department of History, to ask if there are any artifacts that might suggest that family names were used in addressing."

"Dr. Lefting, this isn't… exactly cogent as part of your thesis."

"This is a lecture. I don't want to just present what I learned, I want to give people avenues to study further. What if there are attendees in Zeltivan history? They may find that useful."

"Alright, Dr. Lefting," the tailor spoke now, "Let's try this again…"

Minnie sighed, nodded, focused on the pin, did not mention it, as she bent forward to take the black dress again. The movement made the pin jab at her flesh in a way that made her take a sharp intake of breath, she closed her eyes, and breathed deep and slow, pulling her legs through the skirt, her arms through the sleeve. The tailor went behind her and began clasping the long, tight row of clasps across the bustle, up her small back.

The graduate student sighed irritably, and nodded, "Yes, Doctor."

"Continue."

"One such--"

"Back to 'addresses,' please. To give me context," she'd given similar orders nearly every time she stopped him. The boy simply didn't like doing it, and tried to forget to do it.

He sniffed and looked at her with all the hatred of a bird for a worm, but nodded, read again, "addresses that have been lost to the Valterrian. One such ballad--"

"Stop."

The tailor had reached her mid-back now. The bodice fit tightly, and each clasp, now, pushed the slender pin harder and harder against her flesh. She felt a slow flush crawling up her neck, centered ion the tiny point of sensation.

"Oh for Petch's sake! One petching word?" The man slammed the book shut.

The room grew very still. Minnie dropped her arms immediately, and felt the pin, finally, prick through the surface of her skin with a tiny pin-prick of sudden force.

"What I said, Mr Frowle, was stop. Now. You will set that book down, ever so gently, and apologize to it."

The tailor stepped back, with her eyes wide. Minnie was climbing down from the stand, and stepping slowly, regally toward the boy.

"I… apologize Doctor--"

"No. I said, you will apologize to the book."

The boy looked at her queerly.

"I am entirely serious, Mr. Frowle. You will apologize. You may treat me like your personal misfortune, I dunny ask naught more. But if y'ever. Ever. Ever set your Xyna-petching pig's arse of a hand on a book like that again in my presence, I will make it my personal mission to have you bodily removed from the university. Now. You will petching apologize to that book."

The boy was wide eyed, intimidated, resentful, but he turned to the book awkwardly, and muttered, "I'm… sorry… book."

Minnie nodded, coldy, and turned in silence, to reascend the stand, lifting her arms, the pin twisting painfully as she did. She closed her eyes, focusing, downward, downward, stiller and stiller, rolling herself into that single point of pain.

"Mrs. Shears, I apologize for interrupting you, I know you are a busy woman. Mr. Frowle. Take note. Use of the word ballad rather than chanty or rill, suggests that these were not of a regular sea-song type, and may have originated elsewhere. Cross reference to the introductory materials in The Book of Zeltivan Chanties, to find suitable reference materials on the use of ballads amongst the members of the Sailor's Guild, paying particular attention to origination - are they sea ballads, or simply ballads sung at sea? Additonally, review our notes thus far, to see how precise the author of this work is with his use of poetic terminology."
x

by **Philomena** on April 19th, 2013, 12:47 am

*tap-tap-tap*

The door rattled only slightly. Minnie was awake. She sat on her bed, though the world outside was still dark and still, and would be for several hours yet. But someone was knocking. Minnie had not slept, not really, for days, and her mind stood on a razor's edge. Gypa lay in his hammock, sleeping fitfully.

"Lanie?"

Minnie rose, went to the door, opened it without a pause, without thinking of her thin night shift, her unbound hair, her half-blind, unspectacled eyes.

"Mara!"

"Good morning, Minnie."

"What are… you…"

"I'm hear to help you get ready for your day." Mara, true to form showed no emotion at this, simply looked at her with her impassive, empty stare. In her hand, he held a small bag.

"For... the day?"

"Yes. Sit down, Minnie. You must look your best. For your lecture, and your funeral."

"Gypa is asleep."

Mara smiled dourly, "Very well. Then, you shall have to forego arguing with me about, and let me do something kind in silence."

Minnie frowned, but said nothing, just sitting. Mara, from her sack, withdrew a little bottle of black ink, and a slender rabbit-hair brush. She smiled again, this time with a sort of stunted warmth.

"Ink… you…"

"Now. You will tell me what to write, and where."
x

by **Philomena** on April 19th, 2013, 12:47 am

When Minnie finally trudged across the campus to the West Wing, she was exhausted, and for the first time, began to feel that perhaps she should have rethought her plans. Gypa tripped along behind her, with Mara at his side. Mara had quietly simply offered to accompany the two of them, rather than taking the child. It was clear from Minnie's shaking hands on the boy's shoulder's at the funeral, that she wouldn't want him far from her.

The halls of the University were busy, and the lecture hall doors already closed. They were a few minutes late.

"I'm not up to this."

"No," said Mara, philosophically, "Quite possibly you aren't."

"I'm going to do an awful job."

"Possibly, yes. You are not very good at public speaking. But, you are fairly knowledgeable on the subjects of your interest, so this perhaps will not be as bad as it could possibly be."

She looked back at Mara, smiled quietly, and said, "Mara… I am glad you are here."

"It seemed to me you might be."

"And my names."

"I thought they might comfort you. You are a strange bird."

Mara frowned, and looked hard at the woman, "A bird…"

"Hmm?"

Mara smiled, a quiet, inscrutable smile, her eyes more humid a moment, "A wren, perhaps. A little wren-bird."

And with this she opened the door and strode in. She did not look around, only clutched tightly to her satchel, holding tight to the bundle of materials she had brought in case she needed to reference an answer. Her eyes, she realized were shut, she opened them to climb up atop the stage.

The hall was empty.

Not ENTIRELY empty, of course. First of all Mara sat in the back corner, regal and tall and stone-faced. Gypa was next to her, waving to her. And scattered around the rest of the hall there were, perhaps, twenty people, a few professors from the history department among them. Three of the audience members - students - appeared to be sleeping.

She went behind the lectern, and realized, for the first time in relation to it, how tall it really was. Her eyes just peered over the top. She went to the side where a chair stood, and dragged it across the stage toward the lectern, scraping loudly as she went. She set it behind the lectern, scaled it, and stared out over the top of the lectern, at a more reasonable elevation. She leaned on the lectern a bit, and spoke, in her quiet voice.

"Good evening… I'm… I'm Doctor Lefting--"

"Speak up a bit!" this last bit was from one of the history professors, an old shrew of a woman Minnie had once, many years before, suffered through a class with.

Minnie blushed, began again, feeling as if she were shouting, "Good evening, I'm Doctor Lefting from the Literature Department."

She waited for a beat, in case someone should feel the need to applaud, or greet her. Noone did, she nodded.

"I am here… today… to speak about the Oral tradition in the work of the Epic poets."

She shifted slightly on the chair, and it tipped. She went pale, and grabbed hard to the sides of the lectern in terror, feeling herself begin to fall. She gracelessly recovers, and looks out at the crowd. The chair wobbled slightly now, under her feet. The professors looked annoyed. The students slept obliviously. Mara blinked twice, impassive.

//Petch it. Nobody cares? Then I'll give it my own way.//

She climbed down from her chair, stumped quietly to the front of the stage, and began again.

"I've just finished my doctoral…. thesis… on the Epic poets. Its a subject that's largely been dismissed, especially by the historians, in the past. The reasons for this make sense, I guess, because the historical veracity of the events described in these works. I would argue that, instead, we must read past the content of these works, to the creation of them, to learn more about the world of the Early Post-Valterrian."

Her legs started to swing, thoughtlessly over the lip of the stage, and her voice settled into a piercing, fairly obnoxious nasal tone, that filled the room effectively, if unpleasantly. The sleeping students stirred, fitfully.

"My argument, then, and I will defend it, if you wish to challenge it, is that the epic poets were not poets at all - rather, they were simply scribes, recording oral tradition. And bowdlerizing scribes at that. Lets begin, with a look at the text of the Eyriad…"
x