Author: Diane Griffin

Note: A syrinx is what birds have where humans have a larynx. It’s the noisemaker part of a bird’s voice, more like a whistle than a pair of reeds vibrating together, as larynxes essentially are. It’s also another name for pan pipes. A third meaning of the word is a pocket of liquid within or next to the brain or spinal cord: evidence of damage.

Prologue

Drastic changes have led us from the now gentle-seeming days of the Carter Presidency, through the less-gentle days of the Trump administration — which makes our time seem more conceivable — to now, a time in which the world is in the thrall of the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx.

Toxic ideologies can spread quickly. The purveyors of illogical narratives strive to — and sometimes, sadly, succeed in — revolutionizing worlds. The Priests of Syrinx began a small, reactionary rogue sect. Over a startlingly short period of time — months — They came to dominate and to radically reshape our world, and then to expand human life beyond it. Though they hid much of what they knew from the general stream of humanity, they did have a technical bent, and they were expansionists. By the year 2112, there were permanent human colonies on the Moon, Mars, Ceres, and Ganymede.

The Priests came to control all aspects of human life, and what they could not control, they gleefully destroyed.

Once an undesirable thing was expunged, the Priests made sure that thing, person, or place disappeared from human memory. A child born the day after a purge would never know about the thing, place, person, or people purged the day before. If any child born after a purge somehow gained knowledge of it, both the child and its informant would be put to an immediate, showy end. Thus were things the Priests did not like kept in their moldering graves. Thus were the people kept docile and afraid.

Discovery

I was a gentle soul, a recluse living high in the mountains, alone. I had been born there, to one aged parent and another who died in childbirth. My remaining parent died when I was 16: the only other human being I had ever known. But I was never lonely, just alone. My life would be lived, if my ambitions bore out, quietly and unnoticed, far away from the rest of the human race. I was content.

I found a cave behind a waterfall: beautiful and secluded. Once I found it, it became my home. I loved the way the sunlight filtered into the cave through the rushing downpour. There was a path into the cave behind the water which, though treacherous in spots, could be traversed without touching the deluge flowing down the cliff past me as I walked.

Once, when I explored deeper into my cave home, I found something: a peculiar wooden box. It was clearly ancient, but somehow perfectly preserved in the cave’s dampness. The outside of the box shone with a glossy luster in the flickering light of the waterfall, once I brought it out into the light of my chamber.

I’d never seen anything like it. At first, I thought it could be a sort of bludgeon (if you hit something with it) and then I thought maybe it was a drum (if you hit it with something). The box it self was fairly big — I could touch my thumb to the bottom of the box, and stretching a bit, could put my index finger against the top. It was about three or four times as long as it was tall, if one did not count the protrusion sticking out of one side. It was shaped like a figure 8, perhaps, or, more truly, like a legless, armless woman with a super-elongated neck. I do not wish you to think I would objectify, but it unmistakably had that aspect.

It was empty inside. It had a round hole in the center of the top, and the long, neck-like handle sticking out of one end had embedded wires running sideways across it like stripes. There were also rusty wires suspended along the length of the thing, six of them, running from a sort of holder near the bottom of the woman-shaped box, along the woman’s neck to her head: a wide, flat projection, which tilted back from the neck slightly. It had six pegs sticking through it, each attached to one of the rusty wires. Behind the head there were machines, one attached to each peg. When I twisted one, it made the peg turn this way and that. I turned the peg attached to the slightest one of the wires too tightly, it snapped, producing a curious twanging sound. In that moment, as I heard that sound, I understood what the thing was for: it was to make music!

Holding it in my lap, I plucked this string or that, or tried plucking two at once, or dragging my thumb across all of the strings at once, so that they all sounded together. The sound was deep, and percussive, and unlike anything I had ever heard. I felt the vibrations in the box as well as heard the sounds she made. Hugging it to myself as I ran my thumb along the strings, the box became a living thing in my hands. She responded to my touch. She sang. I sang back to her, with her.

For a short time, this was enough — I was content. But one by one, the rusty old wires broke, until there were only three, then two, then one, then none. And then she — Gibson her name was, after the writing across her head — fell silent. I was bereft without her. I tried tying two of the broken wires together and stringing them over her body, but they wouldn’t hold enough tension to sing with me before they snapped. I set her down against the wall of the cave, and stared at her.  I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. I went on about my business — hunting, gathering food and wood for fires, sleeping under the stars, still spending most of my time in the cave behind the waterfall. Sometimes I would pick up Gibson and hold her, but more and more I wandered and did other things.

Some time later, I was exploring through the back of the cave again, and I came upon the same little chamber where I had found Gibson. I sat down on the low outcropping I had found Gibson laying on, sinking into a reverie. I felt something strange beneath my left hand. I lifted it in the dark — a small package. It was slightly wider than my palm, and square. I brought it out into my chamber, into the light. Printed on a piece of paper folded within a clear envelope, it said, “Guitar Strings”. Inside were six wires, all of the same length but of different thicknesses. They were like the rusty wires on Gibson, but these were not rusty at all. In fact, when I squeezed the wires by the round edge of the circles they were wound in, they sprang back.

I set about figuring out how to attach the “strings” to Gibson — the “guitar.” It took a little time, but I managed to sort it out by trial and error. I got a string on her, and turned the machine behind the peg I had attached the string to, plucking the string as I tightened. The pitch with which the string sounded became higher as the tension increased. Once I got to a satisfactory-feeling tension for that string, I began adding the others. Over time, and with much experimentation, I decided on a set of pitches that I could use to produce melodies and harmonies across all of the strings.

With no one to guide me, and no knowledge of my own beyond what music my parent had taught me, I haltingly learned how to play. I began to think of Gibson as my friend.  The music we played together lit my heart on fire! I could play loud, crashing and percussive barrages of sound, or I could play quietly, sweetly: gentle as a spring rain. In time I began to hum, and then to sing along as I strummed Gibson.

I knew I had to share my discovery with the world! I had never been lonely before, but the sound of Gibson made me want to find people and play her for them. I thought, “Here is something that can move the human heart, as it moves mine! I could give us all hope. With Gibson and I together, our beautiful music could unite all of the people, if only I could find a way for everyone to hear us!” My parent had taught me about the rulers of the worlds, the Priests of the Temple of Syrinx. My parent had told me not to trust them, but I hoped the Priests might help me get our music to the people.

After a lifetime in isolation, it was time to leave the cold, damp, safe cavern behind the waterfall — our home.

The Priests of Syrinx had great computers, which filled their hallowed halls. The priests knew everything, apparently, and yet, they had never shared the music of guitars with the people of the Solar Federation. I set out on the trail to the Temple, bolstered by the sounds that Gibson and I made together as we went.

At the Temple

I came down out of the mountains after an arduous journey. I spent days on high, winding, sometimes dangerous trails. My nights were for eating what I had been able to glean from the sometimes plentiful, but more often sparse and forbidding land, then playing Gibson and singing along until I fell asleep.

When I finally arrived in the town that had sprung up around the Temple, there was a long line of supplicants at the gates. We were of all ages and colors, and wore many different styles of clothing. Many of us looked like we’d come far to be here. I joined the queue, waiting my turn for an Audience with the Priests. Some of the other petitioners eyed Gibson curiously, but no one spoke. The line didn’t appear to be moving.

After a time, I checked with the person ahead of me in line to be sure that the Priests were actually giving Audiences that day. They assured me the Priests were listening. I accepted this as a direct and affirmative answer to my question, though perhaps in hindsight, I concede that it may not have been.

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked.

I arrived this morning,” they said. “But there are people towards the front of the queue who have been here for over a week. What’s that?” they pointed.

“This is Gibson,” I said, indicating the name printed on her head. “She’s a musical instrument: a guitar. I found her in a cave in the mountains where I live, and I’ve learned to play her. I’ve come to share our music with the Priests.” I sad down immediately and pulled Gibson onto my lap to strum a chord or two.

“That sounds beautiful!” they said. Up the line, other petitioners’ heads turned. “Play some more, please?”

I obliged, gladly, and even more heads turned to listen. People smiled. Some tapped their feet or nodded along. It was the first time I had played for anyone but myself. It was intoxicating! We shared a connection through the music. Soon the crowd began clapping along. I thought all of our hearts must be beating in rhythm.

The sun wheeled across the sky as we lost track of time. Though I played for hours, it felt like a single, unending moment. None of us had ever experienced anything like it.

In the late afternoon, I noticed that there was a Priest standing on the stone steps of the Temple, staring at me. Soon they were joined by a second, and then a third Priest. I stopped playing as they came down the steps towards me, striding briskly, their robes flowing in the breeze they made as they came.

They all had long, bowl-cut hair and wore plain black robes. Around each of their necks hung a flute. The leading Priest had silver pan pipes, and the two following behind them, one at each of the Silver Syrinx’s shoulders, had a bamboo flute, which marked them as Shakuhachis: guards from the Temple’s soldier order. They stopped, hovering above me as I sat on the ground.

“Come with me,” the Silver Syrinx said. They turned back and strode towards the Temple. The Shakuhachis stood waiting. I stood and turned to the people in the line, but each of them were staring ahead at the person in front of them in line, as though I had ceased to exist, as though we had not shared the transcendent feeling between us only moments before.

I swallowed. Gripping Gibson tightly for comfort, I hurried to follow the Syrinx up the steps and into the Temple, the Shakuhachis flanking me. We passed through the vestibule and into a space that was clearly intended for performances. There was a sign over the entrance that said, “The Room of Audience.” It was dark and deserted. As we walked, I listened for the sound of our footsteps on the carpeted floor. We seemed to move silently. I scuffled my feet, trying to make a sound, to hear the room.

I thought of my little cave back home, the place where I had discovered Gibson, where we had become one, the player and the sound. As lovely as Gibson had sounded there, I knew her music would sound marvelous filling this room!

We filed down the aisle on the side of the Room towards the bottom of the amphitheater. I didn’t think we were headed to the stage, but towards a doorway next to it. I knew that I had but one chance to make my case, so I suddenly ran ahead, to stand at the center of the stage with Gibson. I sat down on the boards and began to play and sing.

Listen to my music
And see what it can do!
There’s something here that’s as strong as life:
I know that it will reach you!

I got no farther than that. The Shakuhachis caught me then. One of them ripped Gibson from my hands and the other pulled me up and held me from behind. I was too surprised to struggle.

“Please!” I cried. “Please don’t hurt Gibson!”

The Silver Syrinx gestured to the Shakuhachi holding my guitar. They handed her to them.

“You may address me as Parson Brown,” the Syrinx said while examining Gibson with a look of theatrical disgust on their face. They looked up and met my eyes.

“I believe this may be the last one of these in the Solar Federation,” they mused. “I certainly hope so. These things caused incredible misery for our great grandparents. Unrest, indolence, people taking poison as recreation… so many sins are associated with these contraptions. The worst of which is gender crime.”

They held Gibson up. “Do you see? It’s gendered — it’s shaped like a female.” They shook Gibson. “This is a symbol of rape. And believe me, it inspired thousands of them. And you played it here in the Room of Audience.” Parson Brown trembled in disgust, then paused a moment, visibly calming themself. Meeting my eyes once again, the Syrinx asked. “Are you a carpenter?”

“No,” I responded.

“How fortunate for you.” Grasping Gibson by the neck, they swung her sledgehammer-style against the stage floor.

I could hear the rattle of Gibson breaking inside. “NO!” I screamed. “Parson Brown! please, no!”

The Syrinx ignored me, swinging my companion at the floor again and again, smashing her to toothpicks. Then they straightened, dropping the last pieces of my friend, kicking the corpse of my Gibson aside.

“The Temple thanks you for the gift of firewood. You may go.” I started to protest, but was immediately shut down. “Don’t annoy us further. We have our work to do.”

The Shakuhachis dragged me up the stairs of the Room, through the vestibule, and threw me to roll down the steps of the Temple.

Dark Matter

I lay on the steps for hours, weeping as the world descended into darkness. The line of supplicants still awaited an Audience. When I had recovered myself enough to move away, I did. I made the long trek back to the mountains, to the little cave behind the waterfall.

I grieved for Gibson. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. They cried out for her smooth, firm neck, but I knew I would never have that sensation again, would never hear or make music like Gibson’s again. I was lost, because my guitar, my constant companion, was destroyed. As the days passed, then weeks, the grief I felt grew.

One day I climbed to the top of the waterfall. I didn’t know what else to do. The falls went over a cliff, a sheer drop from a crest hundreds of feet above the canyon floor below. I stood on the precipice for a time, but as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, I jumped off the edge.

As I fell, I sank into reverie, remembering Gibson’s music, the joy I felt as I played her, the beauty of her sound as it bounced back to me from the walls of our little cave, the way her tone filled The Room of Audience for those few brief moments. I fell and fell. I began to wonder why I didn’t land at the bottom of the canyon. Perhaps I did and never noticed. I suddenly realized that I was floating, rising slowly.

I sailed up above the mountains, up into the clouds, and then past them. I went higher and ever higher. The rosy sunset sky became black, studded with a million stars. I sailed through the solar system. I sailed on southeast of Lyra, northwest of Pegasus. I flew into the light of Deneb, headlong into mystery.

Time had no meaning. I flew on and on through the blackness of the void, until I got pulled into a black hole. The tides pulled at me with unimaginable force. I shattered into a million pieces. Every nerve was torn apart! I disintegrated into atoms.

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Each disrupted nerve regenerated into a whole new me. I became an army. There were thousands of me, born anew. And we were all me, a manifold consciousness of me. I saw through nine thousand seven hundred and thirteen pairs of my eyes.

We were falling through nothing, and we were dying. But we reached out with our psychokinetic minds and built a ship out of the dark matter flung through the universe about it. I shaped it like a guitar, and built a domed city on the top. Six thousand seven hundred and three of us managed to get aboard her. We felt the deaths of each of the three thousand and ten we left behind in the nothing as our own, because they were.

The surviving mes named our ship the Rocinante.

We knew what we had to do. We had to save humanity from itself. We turned our great ship towards the distant yellow sun where I was born. We were going home to tear the Temples down.

We flew faster than light, arriving back at the world exactly as I’d left it, in the thrall of Theocracy and privation. We announced me.

“Attention all planets of the Solar Federation. We have assumed control. We have assumed control. We have assumed control.”