Chapter Nine: Shards of Nine Honks

In which the ninth honk is missing, and warms.

An unspent wish is an unsounded note. Everything else in the set was arranged around its silence.

A room. You may stand in it for a minute. Its motion is annotation: something written down. It is Boof’s. room 1 of 5
Eight shards ring back to eight geese. The ninth honk passes over and finds nothing to answer it.

ninth honk

The Fool had an art, and on the ridge above the town he finally showed Boof its bones. He laid his set out on the slates shard by shard — a lineage in nine pieces — for the unit of the art is the honk: a trope sampled from the old tales, sounded in a new mouth, and returned changed, with interest. Each shard hummed the shape of the story it was cut from, and as he set them down in a crescent, Boof could hear where every chamber of their road had come from and where it had been sent back richer.

They came out of a shard-rack of smoked ash with nine felt-lined slots. The ninth was egg-shaped, and had been, the Fool said, since long before he knew why; for years he kept a turnip in it so the rack would not look sad.

The law of it is short enough for a dog to carry: every trope you sample must be returned changed, with interest. A honk that only repeats is a debt; a honk that returns is a harvest.

The slates still smelled of noon's slate-cakes, oat and soot. A few signal-skinks, come up from the flats in a roofer's cart, basked there flicking their tails at the chimney stones, which keep another code.

Then, out of the dusk, the geese: nine in a loose wedge, honking in uneven time. Jazz-geese always fly in nines. As each one honked, a shard on the slate rang back. Eight rang. The ninth honk passed over the crescent, found nothing to answer it, and went on into the dark. Boof knew that bent note from the edge of the grove. One goose had taught the Fool his note, or the other way round; neither would say.

Eight bells in uneven time is weather, not a set, and Boof's ears had gone flat under it. “One shard at a time,” said the Fool, “or it's only hail.” He lifted the lamp's shard, sounded it against his thumbnail, and set it back in its place before he touched the next. It rang the way the woodcutters say the grove does everything: try it again, a little changed.

Then the tree's, then the bottle's, each returned before the next came up. By the fourth Boof could smell where every one had come from: cedar, salt, the iron of a windy hill. The well's came last and slowest, four beats a turn, the winch song underneath, and her paws remembered wet coping. Sounded one by one, they made a road she could follow back.

Step into the scene

vantage crouched on a high roof-ridge beside a cold stone chimney, paws gripping the slate, watching the Fool lay out glowing shards in a crescent

light deep violet evening; eight curved shards glow gold on the slate, each humming a different old story

scent chimney smoke banked for the night, cold damp slate, warm brass, the hot-iron breath of the egg, oatcake crumbs baked onto warm slate

  • eight curved shards lie in an open crescent on the slate, one per sampled trope
  • each shard hums the shape of the tale it was cut from
  • the crescent closes on itself with one gap — a hole exactly the size of a curled cat
  • the Fool counts on his fingers and grins at the arithmetic
  • a shard-rack of smoked ash beside the crescent, nine felt-lined slots, the ninth egg-shaped and empty
  • nine jazz-geese crossing the dusk in a loose wedge, honking in uneven time
  • a few finger-long signal-skinks basking on the warm slates
A gathering. Everything in it has to arrive together. Its motion is confluence: things meeting and staying themselves. It is Boof’s. room 2 of 5
Eight pieces of a nine-piece combine are not a smaller combine. They are a heap that hums.

The Fool laid out the shards. Three wishes; a trickster in a tree; a genie lately out of business. A vizier, baked bitter. Two claims splitting a floor. Glass streets, a blueberry oath, a tavern game that couldn't price its quietest player. He touched each piece as he named it, letting the little rings overlap. “Eight.” He slid them together. One space remained. Boof looked at the space, then down at her sling.

Then he chalked it on the next slate, as makers do, to check a thing before anyone leans on it: (lamp & tree & bottle & crust & receipt & glass & berry & well & ). Round braces: everything inside must arrive together. Eight pieces of a nine-piece combine are not a smaller combine. They are a heap that hums.

Bracework(lamp & tree & bottle & crust & receipt & glass & berry & well & )
Round braces gather what must arrive together, so eight things with the ninth place left blank are not a smaller combine but a heap that hums. — the Fool
Step into the scene

vantage inches from the eight humming shards on the chimney slate, each glowing with the tale it was sampled from

light golden light pulses along the jagged brass curves, brighter as each is counted

scent singed metal, cold slate dust, old stories warming

  • each shard bears the ghost of a trope: a lamp, a tree, a bottle, a court
  • the crescent assembles into a nearly closed shape
  • one hole remains at its heart, precisely egg-sized
  • on the next slate, a chalked line in round braces: eight names joined by ampersands, and a blank after the last
A passage. You may go through it, never stay. Its motion is potential: something not yet happened. It is kept by the fool. room 3 of 5
Amber steam through an empty mouthpiece. Not sound. Not yet.

nine honks

The ninth honk was never sounded. An unspent wish is an unsounded note — and the set was built around its silence.

On the chimney rim he breathed through an empty mouthpiece of dark horn. Steam came out, amber. Not sound. Not yet.

Chamber 09 · Shards of Nine Honks
Step into the scene

vantage looking up at the top of the stone chimney where the Fool sits with legs dangling down the flue

light starlight catching the silver threads in his cowl; the assembled shards illuminating his hands from below

scent wood ash, roasted chestnuts, night wind

  • the Fool holds an empty horn mouthpiece made of dark horn
  • he blows through it, producing no sound but a warm puff of amber steam
  • below him, the assembled crescent waits around its egg-sized hole
Eight glowing shards of the Fool's set assembled on a night ridge into one shape with one egg-sized hole; the coal-dark egg waits beside it.
Nine honks: eight tropes sampled and returned, and one note still folded warm inside its shell.

The Shape with One Hole

A room. You may stand in it for a minute. Its motion is integration: a lift, a binding upward. It is Boof’s. room 4 of 5
The egg fits without a push, and from up here the whole field shows lit from underneath.

eggninth honk

Step into the scene

vantage ridge-low, eight shards assembled around the egg at the heart

light night; gold shard-glow; egg-warm center

scent cold stone, warm iron, old brass

  • eight honks sounded and returned
  • the ninth hole filled and unfilled again
  • the set as a table of contents
  • the wish as breath still held
  • chimney-swifts pouring from the flue in a soot-furred whirl, carrying the hum downhill
  • far off, Bonk City's dent-lanterns coming on, and beyond them the glowing whale-roads of the salt flats

The egg fitted without a push, and the heap stopped being a heap: eight shards answered together, their separate sounds drawing into one hum. Boof felt it through her nose. Here were the places she had walked, close enough to touch, with a space for what she still carried. The Fool let her look. For once, he had nothing to add, and he chalked nothing into the blank. The slates still held the day's warmth.

At the first note the chimney-swifts poured out of the flue in a soot-furred whirl and carried the hum down over the roofs, a little farther than it meant to go. Nothing said on the ridge stays on the ridge; the swifts see to that.

Below them, somebody was closing shutters, one clap after another down the street, humming a note she had not had at supper, while a late cart worked its way toward the gate. Boof could have followed any of those sounds to an ordinary evening. Instead she stayed with the pieces. This one caught the light like the grove; that edge brought back the hard feel of the market stone beneath her paw.

Some of the places were in sight. Far off, Bonk City's dent-lanterns were coming on, every dent a lane the light remembered. Farther still the salt flats glowed along their whale-roads; where two had wanted one turn, a single line now bent, and a salt-whale was travelling it, slow as weather.

And at the very edge of sight, back where she had started, a faint teal glow sat low in the dark like a dropped coin: the miller's pond, holding the light the berry rows let slip, as it did every winter under the ice. She had drunk from that pond every morning of her life and never once thought of it as lit. From up here it was plain that the whole field had been lit from underneath all along: ants to roots, roots to berries, berries to the pond, and the pond to a dog's morning drink.

They made a shape together, but she remembered the distance between them, the meals and mud and waiting. No one could have handed her that at the beginning.

"A honk is spent breath," the Fool said, lifting the egg free and settling it back in her sling. "A wish is breath still held. Same lineage, opposite ends." The ninth honk would sound when the wish was spent — no sooner, and by the Blueberry Oath, not before the want was true.

She left the eight shards singing softly on the rooftop beside the shard-rack, its egg-shaped slot empty again; nobody mentioned the turnip. Then she turned down toward the pass, where the great timber spine of Bone.land waited to be asked what a small thing can hold.

A passage. You may go through it, never stay. Its motion is lean: a lean, a way chosen. It is Boof’s. room 5 of 5
The others can sing to the chimneys. This one needs walking.

ninth honk

Down the ridge, past roofers' ladders lashed for the night, Boof carried the unsounded note against her ribs. The others could stay on the roof and sing to the chimneys. This one needed walking. She had promised to wait until the want was true; now she knew the silence had been waiting with her.

She did not need the eight shards to know her place in the lineage. She had the ninth, folded in its shell against her ribs, and it was leading straight into the massive timber spine of Bone.land, where nothing is trusted until it has proved it can bear weight.

Step into the scene

vantage standing at the timber threshold of Bone.land's colossal open-truss hall

light vast internal space illuminated by massive shafts of white-gold morning light cutting through towering beams

scent freshly planed white oak, quarry chalk, tallow rope, structural honesty

  • soaring wooden trusses rise like the ribs of an ancient leviathan
  • every joint is pegged with visible wooden trunnels, devoid of paint or veneer
  • the egg in the sling hums the withheld ninth note against the massive timber chassis
The chapter in SpwWhat it is made of, and what you have found of it0 of 21 found
^chapter[9]{ .rooms[ #{roof_ridge}@boof &(eight_shards)@boof ~<chimney_rim>@the_fool ^{shard_ring}@boof =<pass_road>@boof ] @told_by[boof puzzle fool narrator] $glass $berry $ink *wonders{ ?room_1 ?room_1 ?room_1 ?room_4 } =palette[clown_downtown] ~berries{ $boneberry[burnt_ends] } &harmonies[ <pool boof> <geese grove> <boonberries pool> <egg boof> ] }
.rooms
Five rooms: two { } rooms, two < > passages and a ( ) gathering; four kept by Boof, the rest by the Fool.
@told_by
Told by Boof, the shards, the Fool and the narrator.
$
Made most of Bonk glass, then boonberries, then ink and line.
*wonders
Four wonders are first met here; look in rooms 1 and 4.
=palette
Its palette is clown downtown, earned a layer at a time: olive and lavender under a teal sign: the headline honked across the skyline.
~berries
A boneberry in this chapter tastes of burnt ends.
&harmonies
The pond lights a dog's morning drink. The geese answer the grove a beat behind. The berries let their light run down to the pond. The egg rides against her ribs.

Every expression the chapter holds, by its sigil. What you have found is lit, and takes you to where it lives; the rest say where to look.

potentialwhat lasts, or might0 of 2

perspectivewhose eyes0 of 4

confluencewhat meets and stays itself0 of 3

integrationwhat binds upward0 of 1

annotationwhat is said, or marked0 of 7

groundwhat stays where it is put0 of 2

configa lean, a way chosen0 of 2

  • =<pass_road>@boofRoom 5 of 5: read it to its end.Look in room 5
  • = ?Read the chapter to its end, and its first colour is yours.
At the tablePlay in this chapter

A high slate roof-ridge above the town at dusk: cold chimney stones, slates still warm from noon and crusted with slate-cake crumbs, signal-skinks basking where the heat lingers. Below, the town is closing up for the night, shutter by shutter; far off, Bonk City's dent-lanterns are coming on, and farther still the salt flats glow along their whale-roads. The Fool's shard-rack of smoked ash lies open on the slates: nine felt-lined slots, the ninth egg-shaped.

Light Violet dusk, gold shard-glow on the slate and lamps coming on in the valley below. Full night brings starlight and wind; the town's lamps go out one clap of a shutter at a time, until the shards are the warmest light left on the roof.

People

  • the Fool wants someone to learn a set properly, one shard at a time, and return each one changed — Interrupts, hands your last phrase back changed, and never — ever — chalks a name into the blank.
  • the roofer wants his ladders lashed before the dew, and the signal-skinks out of his cart; they rode up from the flats with him and will not go home — Slate-dust in his eyebrows; talks about weather as if it owed him money.
  • the shutter-closer wants to know where she got the note she has been humming since supper — One clap of a shutter at a time down the street; deeply suspicious of chimney-swifts.

Hooks

  1. A note in the wrong house. The chimney-swifts carried a shard's hum down off the ridge and it lodged in a kitchen: a woman who never sang now hums it closing her shutters, and her kettle has started answering. Bring the note back up to the ridge before its shard forgets how to ring — and persuade her to give it up, which she may not want to do.
  2. Learn a honk. The Fool will teach one player one honk: an old tale sampled, sounded in a new mouth, and returned changed, with interest. The law is short enough for a dog to carry, and a honk that only repeats is a debt the ridge collects — so the player has to find what, in their own story, the old tale gets back.
  3. The missing turnip. For years the Fool kept a turnip in the rack's ninth slot so it would not look sad. The turnip is gone, and down in the town someone is boasting of a vegetable that hums. Get it back, without asking out loud what the slot was for.

Roll a d6

  1. Jazz-geese pass over in a loose wedge of nine, honking in uneven time, and everything tuned on the ridge rings back: shards, a belt-buckle, someone's back teeth.
  2. Signal-skinks flick their tails at the chimney stones, and the stones tick warm in answer. Copy the flick and you get an answer too, in a code nobody alive can read.
  3. Chimney-swifts pour out of a flue in a soot-furred whirl and carry the last thing anyone said a little farther than it meant to go — down into somebody's supper.
  4. A roofer's ladder, lashed for the night, works loose in the wind. The slates are warm. The drop is not.
  5. Below, someone is calling hens in, one name after another across a yard; by the end the party knows nine hens' names and the shape of a family argument.
  6. Far off, a salt-whale turns along a whale-road, slow as a thaw, and the whole ridge hums faintly with it, like a shard nobody has sounded.

Worth carrying out

  • The shard-rack — Each felt-lined slot keeps a shard's note; lift one out and sound it and you hear the shape of the tale it was cut from. The catch: every shard sampled must be returned changed, with interest, before the next is touched — and the ninth slot is egg-shaped and takes nothing else. It put up with a turnip once, out of kindness.
  • Chimney-swifts — Say something into a flue and the swifts will carry it off the ridge, flue to flue, to kitchens by supper. The catch: always a little farther than it meant to go, never exactly where it was sent — and nothing said on the ridge stays on the ridge, including what you meant to keep.
  • Jazz-geese — Hum a note at a passing wedge and, if they like it, they will honk it back in uneven time from wherever they are going. The catch: they only ever return a note changed, and none of them will tell you who taught it to whom.

A bracework move

(goose ^ note)

Does A gathering that rises: one note — a warning, a name, a tune — is lifted into a passing wedge of jazz-geese and carried wherever they are going, to land when they do.

Costs Round braces mean everything must arrive together, so the note lands only when all nine geese do, and one goose is always late. Until it lands, whoever wrote it cannot hum, whistle or carry a tune.

The page’s own dice

Every phrase in this chapter that breathes, as a table to roll on. The first face is the book’s own words.

d5 · turns by the day

  1. oat and soot
  2. barley and soot
  3. rye and chimney-smoke
  4. honey and ash
  5. caraway and soot

d4 · turns by the minute

  1. closing shutters, one clap after another down the street
  2. beating a rug, one thump after another over a rail
  3. calling hens in, one name after another across a yard
  4. setting out milk-pails, one clank after another along a step

d5 · turns by the hour

  1. slow as weather
  2. slow as a thaw
  3. slow as rising dough
  4. slow as honey off a spoon
  5. slow as a season turning

d5 · turns by the hour

  1. roofers' ladders lashed for the night
  2. dovecotes shut for the night
  3. washing left out on the leads
  4. chimney-pots capped against the dew
  5. slate-stacks roped under sacking

Ask the table Which old tale would each of you sample into a shard — and what would you have to give back, changed, so it isn't a debt?

A slip for the scribes

What stayed with you in Shards of Nine Honks?

A line that hummed, a place where the path went dark, a theory about what Boof digs up next. Write it on a slip, and Boof carries it to the Scriptorium.

Write a slip for Chapter 9

Opens autonomous.feedback, the Scriptorium's post. You keep a card either way.