Chapter Six: Teller
Against the gray stone wall of the Temple vestibule stood a pair of boots, their placement too precise to be careless. Set at a perfect right angle, the laces tucked neatly inside, the boots were caked in drying mud. They weren’t new or valuable, but their owner treated them as if they mattered. Rainy owned those boots. Though designed for rugged men, she wore them with practicality, ignoring the norms her clan adhered to so rigidly.
Rainy was a peculiar girl, always had been. Bright, analytical, but painfully naïve, she moved through the world with a strange mixture of sharp insight and unpolished innocence. Her maps were remarkable—a level of accuracy and artistry rarely seen. Yet even that brilliance was overshadowed by the larger truth: Rainy could not conform. And that was a very big problem.
The old woman regarding Rainy from the Temple’s veranda had been both surprised and unsurprised by the girl’s ascent. She really didn’t care whether Rainy succeeded or failed. Success would lead her to Tell, while failure meant the ceremonial fires or outcast status —a release from the duties the old woman had grown weary of. Either way, Rainy’s fate seemed sealed. The old woman had learned long ago not to grow attached to pupils, finding it far easier to treat them as tasks rather than people. Rainy was far too easy for her to dismiss. This one was uniquely inept; she would never be a true Teller.
Still, the woman couldn’t deny the flicker of pride she felt. Rainy was extraordinary, even if that brilliance carried its own dangers. She had spent her life navigating the stupidity and superstition of the villagers, their shallow rituals and ignorant lives a constant source of frustration. But Rainy was different. She was sharp, observant—too clever for her own good.
The old woman opened the oval door to the Temple and stepped inside, letting its familiar, musty air greet her like an old, reluctant ally. The stone walls stretched high above, cracked and discolored by time, but still imposing. These halls, once vibrant with the footsteps of scholars, had fallen silent. She had been their sole caretaker for years, maintaining the illusion of relevance in a world that no longer cared.
Rainy, however, also represented a spark—a reminder of what might be possible in a place that had forgotten its own potential. And that made her dangerous. The Oceede did not want nor need the past.
“Soon,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the boots by the door. “It’ll be soon.”
Her lips curved into a thin, wry smile as she prepared to face another day of pretending to be the kindly Master Teller. Rainy might suspect her, might even see through the mask she wore, but it didn’t matter. She would handle her, just as she always did.
The Temple was quiet as ever, its vast, empty halls a testament to a past that felt like a distant dream. Somewhere in this place, buried beneath layers of dust and time, lay answers to questions that were no longer asked.
The ancient knowledge, long buried beneath the ignorance of the Oceede, lingered faintly in these stone halls. Once a society of enlightenment, their legacy had been reduced to superstition and blind faith. The Oceede no longer worshipped what they barely understood, clinging instead to the meaningless stories while the wisdom of their ancestors crumbled into dust.
The Oceede people are like children chasing leaves in the wind, and they need a Teller to give shape to the illusions. When the breeze carries a leaf out of sight, they forget the pursuit and turn to their next game. Then, the Teller can dismiss the conversation without further deliberation.
But, what compelled Rainy was something deeper—something delicate and painful, a thread unraveling secrets before her fingers as she runs her hands over the books and tapestries of forgotten maps. She acted like a Reader. The word tasted foul in her mouth. It was exactly what was happening; the girl was too inquisitive for anyone's good.
A Reader sees more; watches the wind toss the leaf into a rushing river, sees it disintegrate into atomic grains, and perceives the transformation of those fragments as they take on new forms and purposes in the unending cycle of matter and time, then the Reader has the gall ask "why?" Rainy saw too much.
It was not such knowledge that drove the old woman, she didn’t care; not for the gift or the traditions. Not the rituals or the girl or even the task itself. The old woman wanted power, simply that. It promised her salvation from the endless disintegration of existence, from becoming nothing more than dust on the wind. And she was close now. So close. Rainy was a key; who knew what she might unlock. And, at very least perhaps she would be a sacrifice, to keep the ignorant Oceede in line.
First, though, the old Teller thought, she must maintain her mask and complete the day’s duties. Today is a ceremonial day for the Oceede—a day requiring signs and rituals to satisfy their beliefs. Though the temple remains empty out of fear, appearances must be kept. And with the girl here, she had to be extra vigilant.
The temple floor was already spotless when she arrived, the girl’s doing, no doubt. Rainy had been coming early, and her diligence unnerved the old woman. Candle in hand, she moved into the main chamber. The cracked tiles bore the patterns of twelve concentric rings.
The centerpiece of the chamber was not truly an altar but a granite throne, supposedly hewn from the same stone as the statues marking the Valley of the Elder Children. She doubted the legend, finding it improbable that such a massive slab of rock had been transported across such distances. Yet here it stood, solid and enduring, a relic of a culture long gone. She didn’t need to understand any of that.
The Oceede people clung to fragments of the ancient traditions, though distorted and incomplete. Their rituals were a patchwork of misunderstood symbols, and the gaps in their collective memory—gaps the Tellers could fill with rhetoric. The Oceede were content with their illusions, and she played along, burning scents that filled the chamber with sweet, smoky aroma.
As the old woman prepared to leave the temple’s dimly lit hall, the telltale scrape of a stool being dragged across the upper library floor reached her ears. The girl was here of course, as she always was. The woman sighed, the sound heavy with her growing impatience.
“What are you looking for up there, child?” she asked, her tone laced with barely concealed irritation.
Rainy appeared at the railing, her expression startled but quickly softening into an apologetic smile. “Teller, forgive me. I didn’t hear you.”
The old woman forced a placid smile, slipping effortlessly into the guise of her role. “That’s fine, daughter. Now, what troubles you?”
Rainy hesitated for a fraction of a moment, her hand brushing against the hidden book in her pocket. Then she lied. “I was memorizing something to recite while I work for my father today.”
The little book she concealed in her pocket felt like the spirit thread of a great tapestry, the compass Rose to a grand map. The book seemed to know she was looking. Rainy’s heart raced as she felt the tension of her forbidden task.
The Teller’s keen eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She knew better. The girl’s overly polite smile and restless energy betrayed her. But the old woman let it pass for now. Soon, the girl would serve her purpose.
“Did you find something challenging?” the old woman asked, her voice tinged with feigned warmth.
“Oh yes, Teller!” Rainy’s eagerness to leave was almost comical in its transparency.
The old woman dismissed her with a grandmotherly nod, watching intently as Rainy hurried toward the temple’s exit. She noted every nervous glance, every hesitant step. The girl’s deception didn’t matter. Her fate had already been decided. Rainy Gea would soon come forward claiming visions, claiming to see what only a Reader could. And when she did, exile at very least, was waiting.
“Be here tomorrow, child,” the old woman called after her, her tone calm but firm.
“Thank you, Teller.” Rainy’s voice echoed faintly down the corridor as she disappeared through the door.
The old woman’s smile returned, this time tinged with a flicker of malice. “Be careful, child,” she murmured to herself, knowing it wouldn’t matter in the end. Soon, everything would fall into place once more.
She watched as the form of the young Teller vanished down the trail, her naive optimism cloaking her like a veil. The girl had yet to grasp the delicate art of weaving an entertaining tale—one that danced lightly over the surface without delving too deeply. Her stories always strayed into treacherous territory, burdened by morals or riddled with forbidden truths that unsettled those who listened.
Such recklessness would be her undoing, the old woman mused, for the temple had no room for a voice that dared to disturb the careful order of things.
Rainy was a peculiar girl, always had been. Bright, analytical, but painfully naïve, she moved through the world with a strange mixture of sharp insight and unpolished innocence. Her maps were remarkable—a level of accuracy and artistry rarely seen. Yet even that brilliance was overshadowed by the larger truth: Rainy could not conform. And that was a very big problem.
The old woman regarding Rainy from the Temple’s veranda had been both surprised and unsurprised by the girl’s ascent. She really didn’t care whether Rainy succeeded or failed. Success would lead her to Tell, while failure meant the ceremonial fires or outcast status —a release from the duties the old woman had grown weary of. Either way, Rainy’s fate seemed sealed. The old woman had learned long ago not to grow attached to pupils, finding it far easier to treat them as tasks rather than people. Rainy was far too easy for her to dismiss. This one was uniquely inept; she would never be a true Teller.
Still, the woman couldn’t deny the flicker of pride she felt. Rainy was extraordinary, even if that brilliance carried its own dangers. She had spent her life navigating the stupidity and superstition of the villagers, their shallow rituals and ignorant lives a constant source of frustration. But Rainy was different. She was sharp, observant—too clever for her own good.
The old woman opened the oval door to the Temple and stepped inside, letting its familiar, musty air greet her like an old, reluctant ally. The stone walls stretched high above, cracked and discolored by time, but still imposing. These halls, once vibrant with the footsteps of scholars, had fallen silent. She had been their sole caretaker for years, maintaining the illusion of relevance in a world that no longer cared.
Rainy, however, also represented a spark—a reminder of what might be possible in a place that had forgotten its own potential. And that made her dangerous. The Oceede did not want nor need the past.
“Soon,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the boots by the door. “It’ll be soon.”
Her lips curved into a thin, wry smile as she prepared to face another day of pretending to be the kindly Master Teller. Rainy might suspect her, might even see through the mask she wore, but it didn’t matter. She would handle her, just as she always did.
The Temple was quiet as ever, its vast, empty halls a testament to a past that felt like a distant dream. Somewhere in this place, buried beneath layers of dust and time, lay answers to questions that were no longer asked.
The ancient knowledge, long buried beneath the ignorance of the Oceede, lingered faintly in these stone halls. Once a society of enlightenment, their legacy had been reduced to superstition and blind faith. The Oceede no longer worshipped what they barely understood, clinging instead to the meaningless stories while the wisdom of their ancestors crumbled into dust.
The Oceede people are like children chasing leaves in the wind, and they need a Teller to give shape to the illusions. When the breeze carries a leaf out of sight, they forget the pursuit and turn to their next game. Then, the Teller can dismiss the conversation without further deliberation.
But, what compelled Rainy was something deeper—something delicate and painful, a thread unraveling secrets before her fingers as she runs her hands over the books and tapestries of forgotten maps. She acted like a Reader. The word tasted foul in her mouth. It was exactly what was happening; the girl was too inquisitive for anyone's good.
A Reader sees more; watches the wind toss the leaf into a rushing river, sees it disintegrate into atomic grains, and perceives the transformation of those fragments as they take on new forms and purposes in the unending cycle of matter and time, then the Reader has the gall ask "why?" Rainy saw too much.
It was not such knowledge that drove the old woman, she didn’t care; not for the gift or the traditions. Not the rituals or the girl or even the task itself. The old woman wanted power, simply that. It promised her salvation from the endless disintegration of existence, from becoming nothing more than dust on the wind. And she was close now. So close. Rainy was a key; who knew what she might unlock. And, at very least perhaps she would be a sacrifice, to keep the ignorant Oceede in line.
First, though, the old Teller thought, she must maintain her mask and complete the day’s duties. Today is a ceremonial day for the Oceede—a day requiring signs and rituals to satisfy their beliefs. Though the temple remains empty out of fear, appearances must be kept. And with the girl here, she had to be extra vigilant.
The temple floor was already spotless when she arrived, the girl’s doing, no doubt. Rainy had been coming early, and her diligence unnerved the old woman. Candle in hand, she moved into the main chamber. The cracked tiles bore the patterns of twelve concentric rings.
The centerpiece of the chamber was not truly an altar but a granite throne, supposedly hewn from the same stone as the statues marking the Valley of the Elder Children. She doubted the legend, finding it improbable that such a massive slab of rock had been transported across such distances. Yet here it stood, solid and enduring, a relic of a culture long gone. She didn’t need to understand any of that.
The Oceede people clung to fragments of the ancient traditions, though distorted and incomplete. Their rituals were a patchwork of misunderstood symbols, and the gaps in their collective memory—gaps the Tellers could fill with rhetoric. The Oceede were content with their illusions, and she played along, burning scents that filled the chamber with sweet, smoky aroma.
As the old woman prepared to leave the temple’s dimly lit hall, the telltale scrape of a stool being dragged across the upper library floor reached her ears. The girl was here of course, as she always was. The woman sighed, the sound heavy with her growing impatience.
“What are you looking for up there, child?” she asked, her tone laced with barely concealed irritation.
Rainy appeared at the railing, her expression startled but quickly softening into an apologetic smile. “Teller, forgive me. I didn’t hear you.”
The old woman forced a placid smile, slipping effortlessly into the guise of her role. “That’s fine, daughter. Now, what troubles you?”
Rainy hesitated for a fraction of a moment, her hand brushing against the hidden book in her pocket. Then she lied. “I was memorizing something to recite while I work for my father today.”
The little book she concealed in her pocket felt like the spirit thread of a great tapestry, the compass Rose to a grand map. The book seemed to know she was looking. Rainy’s heart raced as she felt the tension of her forbidden task.
The Teller’s keen eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She knew better. The girl’s overly polite smile and restless energy betrayed her. But the old woman let it pass for now. Soon, the girl would serve her purpose.
“Did you find something challenging?” the old woman asked, her voice tinged with feigned warmth.
“Oh yes, Teller!” Rainy’s eagerness to leave was almost comical in its transparency.
The old woman dismissed her with a grandmotherly nod, watching intently as Rainy hurried toward the temple’s exit. She noted every nervous glance, every hesitant step. The girl’s deception didn’t matter. Her fate had already been decided. Rainy Gea would soon come forward claiming visions, claiming to see what only a Reader could. And when she did, exile at very least, was waiting.
“Be here tomorrow, child,” the old woman called after her, her tone calm but firm.
“Thank you, Teller.” Rainy’s voice echoed faintly down the corridor as she disappeared through the door.
The old woman’s smile returned, this time tinged with a flicker of malice. “Be careful, child,” she murmured to herself, knowing it wouldn’t matter in the end. Soon, everything would fall into place once more.
She watched as the form of the young Teller vanished down the trail, her naive optimism cloaking her like a veil. The girl had yet to grasp the delicate art of weaving an entertaining tale—one that danced lightly over the surface without delving too deeply. Her stories always strayed into treacherous territory, burdened by morals or riddled with forbidden truths that unsettled those who listened.
Such recklessness would be her undoing, the old woman mused, for the temple had no room for a voice that dared to disturb the careful order of things.