2. THE CONVERSATION

     Freegirl sat with her father, Thunderbold-Under-the-Mount, in the chamber of crafts, sculpting.  The young girl had been molding clay with her hands since she was four years old, learning how to coordinate her fingers.
     The Children of the Glimpse encouraged creativity.  They did crafts, such as weaving, sewing, woodworking, and sculpting.  They played musical instruments, of winds, strings, keys and drums, and used their hands for drawing, painting, and even gardening and massaging.
     As her hands forged her idea into the clay, she remembered the dawn, when she and Leon and been practicing shooting arrows into bundles of grass. 
     Every day was target practice for hunting and for Focus.  All tribes on Photopia did target practice, and Freegirl had practiced since she was a toddler.  However, this morning, she could barely hold her bow—much less hit her target.
     The young woman was eighteen years old and had lived in Mount Gold her entire life.  The mountain of golden caves housed the families of her clan, and sat on the edge of the Sea You, just north of the equator, where the temperatures stayed temptingly warm.  During her pondering, she reminded herself she was very fortunate to be alive in paradise, for on her planet, the heat rarely climbed, and the air seldom chilled. 
     She continued telling herself how beautiful and perfect her world was.  The teenager lived in a place where every stomach was pleasantly filled with abundant foods, and bodies did not warp and sag with time.  People did not scream at one another out of frustration; they did not inflict brutality on each other, nor did they babble words from their mouths endlessly.  Anger, hatred, fighting, and disease were absent—and insanity was never experienced.
     With Freegirl’s mother, Balancea, and her father—as well as fifty-one other members—the child enjoyed love, hugs, smiles, and patience.  She did not mind her parents had no other children.  Cousins and friends were like brothers and sisters, and Freegirl never traveled far from the mountain without them.
     “At the Gather, Uncle Vok is going to read the poem of his inspiration,” spoke her Father, Thunderbold, in his deep voice.
     Freegirl sighed and said with indifference, “That’s nice.”
     This did not surprise or insult Thunderbold.  He’d noticed it for years, before his daughter began blossoming, she was a thinker, slightly withdrawn, and often tuned to her own thoughts.
     Freegirl had an unnaturally strong desire to leave her home and go to the Lore Halls, the place of knowledge where the Images lived.  This made her an anomaly, for upon Photopia, to leave one’s home was unusual, and generally only done if one married outside the clan.  The idea she wanted to leave was absurd.
     The pensive teen continued pressing her fingers into the clay, attempting to make a horse in gallop.  Molding and remolding, not quite in touch with the figure she held in her hands, the child wondered. 
     As long as she could remember, she had sensed a foreboding.
     A hole was in her heart, and her life was leaking through it.  Too often, she had the vision there was a giant tear in the Web—the atmosphere—and the warmth of the planet was escaping through this tear.
     A hidden, black hole sucking.
     Then the agonizing Nightmare began when she was twelve.
     Still, Photopia was a paradise of dazzling weather, calm people, and beautiful gardens, and all who lived in this world knew and respected this blessing.
     So why last month, when she’d fallen from the crumbling rocks beneath her feet at Bold Cliff, did it take her five days to heal the gash in her leg?  Ohhh… they had said.  She was in a tired state, not sleeping well, and was not Focusing clearly.
     All Children of the Glimpse possessed phenomenal healing powers.  By applying a mental adhesive over injuries and closing the intruding gaps, it never took longer than several moments to heal a serious wound.  However, Freegirl’s leg had taken five days to improve.  It was devastating to the clan because ordinarily healing was instant—a severed limb, a mutilated finger, or a mutilated toe could be grown with ease.  (However, the amputated area could only be replaced once in a lifetime, enforcing the Children to be careful, and take nothing for granted.) 
     But Freegirl had limped for five days, despite her regular concentration and focus of the mending.  The wound eventually healed, but its taking so long only made the child sense the ominous nerve more deeply.
     Thunderbold watched his daughter, because as much as he would not admit it to anyone, he too wondered why she had taken longer than normal to heal.  They had used the freshest herbs to help her.  She’d focused upon her injury as she always did, and yet the slice in her leg had remained open.  With oozing poisons, her sprained ankle had stayed swollen. 
     Healing was automatic—as long as the wounded one was conscious, and could direct her thoughts into the injury.  Her parents were stunned at their daughter’s impossible healing, and were compelled to keep the open wound hidden from the rest of the family.
     Her mother and father had thought Freegirl was lonely, for she talked a lot about going to the Lore Halls—where the masters dwelled.  She had plenty of people in the mountain with whom to socialize, yet she seemed disconnected and lonely. 
     To the Children of the Glimpse, loneliness was odd.  These people had too much trust in themselves and humanity to feel lonely.  The child’s melancholy tendencies made her parents think she would be fine once she was a mother.
     With billowing long hair the color of deep purple draping down her back, Freegirl’s appearance was very full, and thick.  As she sculpted, her head tilted to one side, and her massive curtain of hair rolled over her left shoulder.  She was five feet, five inches tall, a common height.  Not slim, she had inherited her father’s large bones.   She enjoyed running and had solid, sturdy legs as a result.  Her face was innocent, with round, almost pudgy cheeks, a small nose, and large, lavender eyes.  A blossom of voluptuous lips puckered and pouted, and covered her large teeth.

     Once a month, under the light of the enormous full moon, upon the mountaintop, the members of Mount Gold had a Gather.  Various works of art, music, crafts, and dancing were shared among the people.  Gathers were common among all the clans of Photopia.  Small communities gathered together to share their latest creations, and to tell stories of recent experiences.  They did it out of love, for they believed sharing and giving is the key to happiness.
     Freegirl was a flute player and had written a few songs to play at the coming Gather—but her heart was not into it.  She was more conscious than usual about her feelings of doom.  Furthermore, she could strongly sense her father’s concern—and the way he quietly studied her added to her annoyance.  Her fingers worked the clay, but she felt clumsy with over-thinking.   
     She could see her father out of the corner of her eyes, chiseling the stone he was going to turn into a head—an eagle’s head—the bird that had lead him from a possible tragedy one year earlier.  Freegirl would have missed his powerful presence if he’d died unexpectedly—but the more she thought about it, it would have made her exit to the Lore Halls more easy, her exodus to the place of knowledge a reality.       Without Thunderbold to convince his daughter the journey north was too difficult, she would have left years ago at a very young age, and been at the domain of the Images by now.
     “Freegirl,” Thunderbold instructed, breaking the creative silence.  “No one makes a change all at once.”  He spoke slowly and moved slowly, digging a groove into the eagle’s stone beak.  “Time is one of the most powerful forces in life.”  He blew his breath onto his sculpture to remove the powdery residue.  “Respect Time, by giving time.”  He smiled at his overly thoughtful child, and feeling as if he was talking to himself, he sighed.  “In your acceptance lies stillness.  Remember?”  He watched her frown.  “Stillness and Time are partners, you know…like wood and fire?” 
     She thought highly of her father, one of the leaders of the mountain clan, where her ancestors had lived over five hundred years.  He was built like an ox.  He stood six feet tall, had massive thighs and shoulders, and great, powerful arms.  With long dark, curly hair pulled into a thick pony tail down his back, and with intense dark eyes, he moved slowly and significantly.
     Suddenly, his daughter showed signs of an uncommon emotion— agitation.  Her eyes were unseeing, and with jaw set, Freegirl’s mouth slightly twitched. 
     But Thunderbold ignored it and continued.  “Put Stillness into Time as you put wood into fire, and Time will burn forever.”
     How many times had she heard these words, and from how many people?
     Accept.  Be still.
     Accept.  Be still.
     The words did not help.  Nothing helped!
     The calling she’d been experiencing since she was very young was louder than all the words of wisdom in the universe.  Yet, when she looked around her, she saw utopia.  Her people were peaceful, and full of love.  They gave readily, even when they had little to give—for to give is to be strong and free, as true giving means sacrificing and letting go of oneself. 
     The Children of the Glimpse sacrificed all the time, for they knew how temporary life was.  Holding onto people, belongings, and expectations—when these things can be destroyed in moments—was absurd, so the people sacrificed their holdings and gave, gave, gave.
     “I know, Thunderbold.  But I’m restless inside.  The need to go to the Lore Halls is stronger everyday.”  She thought about how different she was from anyone she knew.  Truly, there was an emptiness inside, out of place in the world in which she lived.
     It was cold and burned, and made her suffer—and suffering meant not accepting.
     Instead of accepting her unusual nightmare and gloomy feelings, she struggled with them in rejection and fear.  She was in constant conflict with herself.
     For as long as Freegirl could remember, she’d been fighting an unknown force that called her in the silence.  It wasn’t some nameless might consuming to kill her, or that she even felt threatened.
     It was more like being alone on a raft in the middle of the ocean with no food or water.  Although the sea is calm, the person floating may not be.
     Her whole life, she had buffered her inquisitors with booming laughter, saying nothing was troubling her.  They would assume she was in a constant dream state and not worry. 
     Freegirl would wish she could disappear, so they could not see into her eyes, hear the sound in her voice, note the strain on her skin, and detect the truth in her gaze.  Her eyes, voice, and body might give away her secret anguish.
     Then to add to her discomfort, she disliked pretending she was happy.
     Thunderbold remembered how often his daughter had spoken of the Lore Halls.  She wanted to travel there, to the highest school of learning to study with the Images.
     The journey to the Lore Halls was more than a year on foot.  “I’ll ride a horse!”  Freegirl had pleaded, when she was thirteen years old.
     “A horse is not infallible,” her father had answered,  “and the path to the Images is perilous, and full of dangers.”
     This dangerous path had been planned thousands of years ago, when the Lore Halls had first been erected.  The Images did not want their domain to be easily reached, so only the most intent upon learning the mind were admitted beyond the gates. 
     Feeling the sincerity of his daughter made Thunderbold careful not to change her melancholy mood too abruptly.  He said gently, “One day, when you become disciplined and learn to Dream, you can visit the Lore Halls in your Dreams.”  As he worked the rock in his hands with a sharp little knife, he glanced at Freegirl and gasped, as a shock tore into his gut.
     He witnessed his daughter pulverize the clay horse she’d been creating, with a thrashing of her hands, her teeth clenched like a caged animal.
     Anger was uncommon among the Children unless they were being threatened by a Predator, and facing their attacker.  Thunderbold ached for his daughter’s unfounded reaction.
     “I’ve been to the Lore Halls in my Dreams!”  Her voice rose in pitch, punching the air with volume.  She quickly drew in a deep breath, astonished at her own severity.  “It’s not the same,” she said, lowering her head and softening her tone.  “I can’t get across the bridge, and I can’t leave my body for too long.” 
     That was all she could tolerate.  She scrunched her face and began to cry.
     In her mind, she could see the Images welcoming her into their counsel, salvation in the form of wisdom coming from the masters.
     The Children—being totally aware of their actions and their surroundings—could heal an injury momentarily.
     The Images, on the other hand, did not get injured.  They could see beyond the Self and into the future, to see if a force was coming to rob them of their inner balance—dodging the invader immediately.  They could change their appearance and surroundings at Will, with the pure force of their minds.  They were Children of the Glimpse as any, but they were also every force in the universe, and Freegirl longed for their company. 
     Thunderbold, patient and soothing, stopped his chiseling, set down his tools, and wiped his hands on his apron.  He stepped to his daughter’s side of the table where she attempted to repair her destruction.  He put his arms around her shoulders and entreated, “Child, why do you torture yourself so?” 
     They’d had this conversation before, only this time his daughter was more stubborn and determined to leave.  She was weak and depressed, and he could feel her life force slowly draining from her.  “We have communicated this so many times.  How do you plan to get there?”
     Sobbing, the tears running from her eyes—and deeply breathing, with trembling hands—she gave the expected reply.  “Walk.  I can walk.  People travel on foot all the time.”
     “Freegirl.”  His head tilted to one side as he pondered her.  “Who will take you?”  He’d asked this question, before, numerous times.  “The obstacles are rarely easy.  Who will take you through the unknown places where danger is your bed at night?  Who will journey lands where there are no paths?  What member of our clan will give up their family and home to accompany you through unpredictable grounds, to a place where you have not even been accepted?  What person do you know will lead you on this trek?”
     She wiped the wetness from her face and the tears from her eyes.  Momentarily gazing into space, she did not continue in exasperation at her father’s familiar questions.  Taking a deep breath, she turned and looked into Thunderbold’s eyes—and with a distance he had never seen in his daughter, she calmly answered, “I will.” 
     And slowly slipping from his arms, she walked out of the crafts chamber.  

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