Snowblossom announces a press conference. And a week to the day after the Krissan share their story with the Senior Reader, she goes live on air to read it to everyone in Anadyne who will hear their Sanctified speak.
Pigeon, as Snowblossom's speechmaker, has had to cut the one million word original to less than seven thousand words so that it will fit in one hour. They can afford to stretch the press conference a little with introductions and conclusions, but the attention span of their listeners is only so long. Even for this.
It's a small press conference. Snowblossom has restricted the audience to senior press members she has good relationships with and a few high-ranking members of her staff. No-one here will dare interrupt their Sanctified, even if she speaks for an hour.
In a fit of spiritual fervor, Snowblossom discards her notes moments before the press conference. She knows the story. She's going to tell it her way.
"I have invited you all here today," she says, "to read to you a piece of the Shirasanmi of the Krissan, who did entrust it to us as fellow-minds, not knowing if we would know it for what it was, or acknowledge how significant a gift they have made to us. This story is the oldest surviving Krissan novel, the birth of long-form storytelling for a species that lives with stories. It is enshrined even today in the Temple of Writing in the Festival-City of Weaving Knowledge. It was written originally on a cave's walls by someone trapped there with nothing left to do but storytell.
The original is over a million words long, in its translated form; so I will have to adapt it, to this brief moment with you, the people of the great nation of Anadyne, who came here expecting a routine reading before bed. Tonight I am afraid I will have to be lengthy..."
She looks up from the microphone, runs her hand through her hair.
"No. I think I will have to be brief. Because I will not tell this story the Krissan way; I will tell it my own way, and I am far more a poet than a storyteller. And I would hate to bore you all."
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders.
"First was stone, empty, thoughtless,
in void and no-time, life in darkness,
ever-born, ever-dying, circular and still.
One stone knew,
separating past from future,
and so was motion born.
Stone saw the stillness
and sought southwards,
seeking something swift.
Beneath the bodies
of countless unliving ancestors
Stone found Fire,
Consuming and kind -
Stone asked fire,
"Make me quick,
make me breathless,
make me wild,
make me free.
I want to do something.
I want to be something.
I want to be other,
more than a Stone."
And Fire was pleased, and granted them blessings -
Gave them their lightness, their grace, their haste -
But Fire also said:
"Here is my price:"
"You can never be still, Stone who once settled - "
"Now you are Wind, and should you stop, you are mine."
Wind fled from Fire,
and out into the world,
and the world knew motion,
as Wind once knew now -
And Wind fled, and fled,
and sought and flew and quested
and the world became more,
that it now knew Wind and Earth.
Wind could not be stopped.
When it stopped, it burned.
But then came a runner,
the first of their kind.
Runner was fast, but not like wind.
Runner wished to catch the wind.
Runner asked Wind,
"Please, slow your blowing,"
"Please, run with me."
But Wind could not stop.
Runner fell behind.
The world fell behind.
Wind was empty,
lost like before,
when Wind was Stone.
There was no change for all its changefulness.
Only Runner was new.
And so Wind slowed,
and burned,
and tried to know Runner.
Runner promised:
"If you will slow, I will run with you."
"If you stop, I will carry you."
"Then you need not burn."
Wind slowed. Wind learned.
Though it was painful,
Runner was worth it.
They ran and blew and struggled together.
Finally, after timeless time,
Wind stopped,
curled close to Runner,
and slept.
And in Runner's embrace,
Wind burned to ash.
For Runner did not run.
Runner was Water,
a Stone wishing for stillness,
Fire-asker, second-cursed.
The faster Wind ran,
the hotter Water burned.
But without Wind, Water
was lonely as Stone.
In time, Wind returned.
Movement in stillness.
And Water knew -
They were one as two.
And so they run together.
Now stopped, now moving,
now laughing, now crying,
never free of Fire,
never whole,
and yet whole enough.
Their children were the Krissan.
Their passion, the world.
Their story, I have told.
Like fire burns, wind runs,
Water stills, and the Krissan write,
I remember."
Snowblossom leaves before anyone can ask her a question.