Sand timer

Located in the West exhibit room of the River's Rest Museum, this timer reminds those who listen to choose the words they use wisely. Sometimes the truth hurts.

Description

This is a simple sand timer.  It's small enough to fit into a belt pouch and sturdy enough to be carried around without fear of breaking.  Yet the glass is cracked and there is no sand left inside.

Attached to the timer is a small tag stating, "During the last years of 4200 M.E. and the first years of 4300 a style of improvisational poetry competition known as 'mosha-ereh' (being in company of poetry) became popular among the educated classes along the southern coastal communities of Elanthia.  A poet was given a topic, the timer turned and the poet was expected to extemporize on that topic before the sand ran out."

"This sand timer belonged to the poet Hakim Kharadh, who gained a wide reputation before his mysterious murder in 4292 M.E.  Depending on the grain of sand used, Hakim's timer is thought to have been a two minute model."

Loresong

With the first word of your song you find yourself strangely surrounded by the strong smell of freshly-brewed coffee.  The smell transports you to a courtyard enclosed within stucco walls painted the color of burnt oranges.  A few small fig trees in clay pots are scattered among a couple dozen low tables.  Men and women sit on fat cushions placed on the thick carpets that cover much of the courtyard's flagstone floor.  The sky is darkening, it's that moment of twilight when no lamp is yet needed but the stars are visible in the azure sky.

While pots of thick, dark, sugary coffee are being refilled, a small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes takes his place on a low dais.  He raises his sand timer above his head and waits.  A voice from a table in the back calls out, "Possessive love!"  The small man *slams* down his timer and almost immediately begins to speak.

"Go nowhere without me.  Let nothing happen in the sky or on the ground apart from me."
"See nothing I cannot see, hear nothing I cannot hear."
"I will be the cool water you drink and the warm water in which you bathe.  I will be the cotton you wear in the morning and the linen in which you sleep at night."
"You will be no perfumed rose unless I am the thorn."

The coffee drinkers sit quietly for a moment, then begin to applaud...politely at first, then more enthusiastically.  The darkening night makes it impossible to see the poet's expression.


As you resume your song you find yourself surrounded by the sour smell of stale beer and spilt ale.  The smell draws you in and you find yourself outside the entrance to a lowly harborside tavern.  The gibbous moons provide enough silvery light to show a small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes approach the dimly-lit tavern.  He hesitates momentarily before entering and checks the long poniard in his belt.  Taking a deep breath, he enters.

Inside, the tavern is smoky and dark.  A dung and turf fire burns in the fireplace, giving the room a faint barnyard smell that seems almost to complement the odor of ale and beer.  The patrons, mostly men, are a quiet, suspicious lot.  There is little conversation, and the few conversations taking place are not meant to be heard by others.

The small man makes his way to a table near the fireplace, where a fat man with a walrus mustache sits noisily eating an eel pie.  The small man removes a large pink pearl from a pocket in his belt and slides it across the table.  The fat man wipes his mouth on his sleeve, examines the pearl closely, then nods.  He removes a leather pouch from a pocket, drops it on the table and resumes his supper.  The small man looks inside the pouch, counts the coins, and leaves without a word of farewell.

Two men follow him out the door.  "That's DeGaspard, no mistake," says one to the other.  "The rumors are true, then...he's still alive."  The other snorts in derision and says, "The great pirate DeGaspard, living under another name...and in River's Rest, of all places.  Ketain will pay us well for this information."  The one looks at the other and asks, "Why does Ketain hate DeGaspard so?"  The other replies, "A poem, if you can believe it.  DeGaspard was drunk and somebody asked him to make a poem about Ketain of the Scars and his wife.  DeGaspard said Ketain's wife had a face like a pound of wax candles on a hot day.  Which she does, and that's a fact.  But the person asking for the poem was Ketain his very own self.  DeGaspard had never met him, you see.  And if we want to sell him to Ketain, we'd best hurry after him."


The smell of fresh-baked pastries infiltrates every pore of your nose, drawing you away from your present surroundings to a large hall filled with comfortable chairs and small tables.  Clusters of men and women are gathered throughout the hall, quietly talking amongst themselves.  Courteous servants wander through the hall, offering pastries and refreshments.

A tall elven woman stands and raps a silver fork on her goblet.  When she has everybody's attention, she says, "Welcome to our little 'mosha-ereh.'  This is a friendly competition, and the only reward for the winner is good company and fine food.  We're honored to have with us tonight the poet Hakim Kharadh.  Hakim has only recently arrived on our little isle, but has already greatly influenced our understanding of 'mosha-ereh.'  As a demonstration, he will begin the contest.

The small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes rises and smiles politely.  He removes the timer from his belt pouch and holds it high above his head.  The elven hostess calls out, "Permanence!  No, impermanence!"  Hakim *slams* his timer down and within seconds begins to recite.

"We are the reflection of the moon on the water."
"We are the space between the moon and the fish, between the moon and the fisherman."
"So long as the moon shines and the water reflects, we will be here."
"And yet we can touch neither fish nor fisherman.  Neither fisherman nor fish can touch us."
"Here but not here, eternal but fleeting, we exist as long as we need to.  When we leave, we leave nothing behind."

The small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes picks up his timer and walks away.


You grip the sand timer a little tighter and find yourself surrounded by the smell of saltwater and tar.  The smell propels you to a small, unsteady room filled with cordage and sailcloth.  Through a tiny window you observe the horizon rocking back and forth, and you realize you're aboard a ship.

A large, bearded man sits and smiles malignantly.  Across from him, bound to a chair, is the small man with the lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes.  The bearded man asks, "Should I call you DeGaspard the pirate, or Hakim the poet?"  The small man shrugs as best he can, given his restraints.  "It's all one to me, Ketain.  Call me what you wish."

"You know why you're here, of course," Ketain says.  Hakim frowns and says, "I'm not entirely certain.  Is it because I said your wife has a face like a pound of wax candles on a hot day?  Or is because she actually *does* have a face like a pound of...."

Ketain interrupts him with a blow to his face!  He opens Hakim's belt pouch and pours the meager contents on the floor.  He picks up the small timer.  "If you'd insulted me personally, I'd have merely ripped out your tongue," Ketain says.  "But I will not abide a man insulting my wife.  If you make a public apology, a profuse public apology, I will be lenient...and merely rip out your tongue.  Otherwise..." Ketain *slams* down the timer.  "Otherwise, your time has run out, Hakim."

Hakim sighs deeply.  "The time doesn't really run out, you know," he says.  "The sand only runs from one end of the glass the other.  Turn it over, and time continues."

Ketain picks up the sand timer and *slams* it down again.  The glass cracks.  The sand dribbles out onto the floor.  Ketain looks at Hakim and, raising one eyebrow, smiles.