a game of oracular riddles

content:

Would you like to play a game?

I would not; the mission is over. We have failed, at the cusp of victory. It broke free of the stream and dove into the BED. It has escaped from our grasp and into the dreamworld of Space-Time proper…

Then would it not lift your spirits to play a game, to forget for a mile our fears and tears?

Very well, O friend – if only so that we may conjure riddles that might aid us in our quest. At the end of next march we shall return to our plight. Ask your first riddle.

Those boundless trees gaze into the sky, and they wonder, “Who am I? What am I?” – up there in the sky.

The answer is, most assuredly, the aspirations of an aimless alec. Surely, mine companion, you do not start with your best?

I wonder impatiently if that question is your riddle, or else I would ask the same to you.

Very well. Mine will be short and swift: Sea of Dirt, Beast of Bugs, Fish of Filth.

Space calls Time linear, your riddle is as simple as mine; If my eyes have not deceived, this is where our plucky alec shall soon find themselves. Short and swift indeed – you do not start with your best either.

I had hoped you had not yourself looked further into its Time than I had. I was mistaken. Go on, it is your turn.

“Turning and turning and turning; the hearts below are burning. Turning and turning and turning; the minds of young are churning.” How does the poem end?

Arrh, let me think.

If only for a few feet.

“Turning and turning and turning; the masses are, all of them, learning – that comeuppance is what they are yearning; turning and turning and turning.”

Clever answer – I accept it. We guardians of Time-Space tend to look upon the children of Space-Time and laugh at their naivety. But every few miles I see their true potential, and I grow in awe. That organisation of theirs that oppresses them – the “Omniversal” one – will fall in Time. Comeuppance is what they are yearning indeed.

Thank you, I shall take my turn: when stoical moonlight goes out at last, the fire begins, lonely forever in the gloomy woods.

The kindling of the fire is the ashes of its guardian, and all other lights have long gone out. There – easy. At any rate, I will be the victor.

Mine brother taught me that riddle. He told me it would stump even masters of the game, yet even you can decipher it to the very last word. Will you declare a draw? My mind is returning back to the task at hand and I feel unable to think of another riddle.

Think of yours while you think on mine: etching legacies on a stranger’s back, knowing you met them in a life long past.

…This riddle has many answers.

Indeed.

But I believe all but one is the correct answer. It is an eclipsing power of one, her origin negligible, her destiny risen far above the concerns of her forefathers that she long left behind. Their lessons and legacies are all she has left, and she uses them thus to change her future.

A lucky guess; a crude, poorly worded guess, but a lucky one nonetheless. In fact I should say you are still wrong, for in my mind the power is a he, not a she.

Perhaps there are two right answers to your riddle. But I will not lie that it reminds me of another: when near circles are fallen and all joy are ended, a grief is perverted and all morals are bended; the grief grows to grandeur then to glittering gold, but returns to sorrow when the mind grows old.

At last, a worth challenge… I see why it reminds you of my own riddle, for I believe its answer is similar. A single person loses all that they held dear: their love, their friend beyond friend. And the love they had is replaced by mourning. But this mourning is replaced again by rage and lust, to grow and find their loftiest dreams. And so they do – but when they too are on their deathbed they become filled with grief once more.

Alas, my good friend, but I’m afraid you are wrong; you have lost.

I beg your pardon? Please do not jest, for I play this game very seriously.

Then you are seriously wrong. Your aim was straight and true until you spoke of rage and lust. The true answer is this: grief was molded into blind determination, all morals bent upon letting the loss of their love not be in vain. And in this way, they do things far beyond what they thought was capable within themselves, all for the memories of a love now burning. But the things they did are tainted and, indeed, perverted. They made sense out of loss with even more loss, even unto the worlds around them, and showered the lot with excuses and praise for themselves; glittering gold. I suppose it depends on the world, but no gold ever glitters unless there is something else lurking within. Only when they become wiser – their mind, not their body, becomes old – do they realise the consequences of their actions. And that is the answer.

And where in time did you find this pride of a riddle? For I must admit I have been well and truly stumped. It is with great pity that I declare myself the loser in this game; usually I can play for leagues at a time.

You are twice a fool if you think I will reveal where I got that riddle from – at any rate, I thank you for asking for the game. It has cleared my mind somewhat.

You are very welcome, although when next we play it may not be so easy, or friendly. In fact, this entire game could be made into a riddle, could it not?

Perhaps so.

Perhaps so. We must return out concerns to our mission. Let us clear the slate blank, and see what is beyond.

This is a revised version of a story from 28 Oct 2022. What I have wrought here is no less confusing to me than it is to you.