"But Father, how can language and machine mix?" said Indrá. "Language is life and machine is metal."

"Good! Always ask what you do not know, whether to yourself or others. A man with questions is never without direction. A man with answers is lost without questions." Mōden grabbed a steel plate. "What is this, metal or life?"

"Metal."

His father pointed to himself. "What is this, metal or life?"

"Life," giggled Indrá.

Mōden's ring shone enigma, gifting a quill to his fingers. He dipped no ink yet etched crimson strokes upon steel. "This quill draws blood from vein unto metal." He finished with a flourish and pointed to the bloodlet metal. "What is this, life or metal?"

"Both ... and neither?"

"Hah!" Mōden clasped Indrá's shoulder, leading him to a spirit generator in the workshop's corner. "Yes, perhaps it is so. It is metal beset with the potential for life. But metal cannot live, so it is both and it is neither."

He powered on the generator and lofted cables red and black. "Red is full, black is empty. How does spirit energy flow?"

"From full to empty."

"That it does!" Mōden attached the cables to both ends of the crimson sentence: red to its left and black to its right.

A hum sounded and a ball of aqueous light formed in the space above like a star plucked from heaven. "Can you guess what I wrote?"

"'Let there be light?'"

"For all I know, you're correct! I wrote what my teacher wrote and his teacher before him." He bellowed a mighty chuckle.

"So ... you're illiterate?"

Mōden choked. Squinting, he said, "Did you just call your father, his beloved master, and his venerated grandmaster illiterate?"

Indrá mirrored his squint. "Well, could they read what you've written?"

"They could not."

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"Then I suppose I did."

Silence.

"You're wrong to say that," said Mōden, grave. "It's insulting to me and to the dead I so cherish."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"We prefer the term: 'Hard of reading.'"

Pfffft!

The father and the son cried laughter so loud it was silent. They wheezed in the way of seagulls on the shore of swells shining a cloudless blue. When their cheeks lost their rose and their breaths their rasp, Indrá said, "Is Asâmbï a language where letters are words and words are sentences?"

"Not quite," said Mōden. He ran a finger along the glowing steel. "The Cants of Asâmbï cannot be chained in sentences. Otherwise, what use is artifice in a world with calligraphy? No—every effect brooks no other. It is the artificer's job to combine. To elevate."

"Like a house ... Wood, brick, and mortar are spawns of nature—they know not houses. To shape them is to create something new. Something elevated." Indrá beamed at his father's nod, his eyes flitting about their sockets. Possibilities so new, so alien, branched and bloomed like ink in water. "What Cants do we know, Father? Are they known, or are they found? How many exi—"

"Slow down, Indrá! What is knowledge: food, or beverage?"

"Beverage ..."

"And how do we drink knowledge?"

"We sip it. Slowly."

"Or?"

"Our tongues burn and we lose all taste. I'm sorry, Father." Indrá wagered a smile. "A glass of jäger was set before me. More hungry than thirsty, I ate the cup and spilled the liquor. Now, I am stupid and sober and my trousers are wet."

Mōden grinned, patting his son's shoulder. "To err is human. To evolve is divine. Come closer, I have something for you."

"Another gift?"

"That is up to you." He exchanged his quill for a small black booklet. "I hold in my hand the Philosopher's Tome. It was given to me by my master when I was four years your senior."

He clasped Indrá's hands and folded them tight around the booklet. "The Philosopher's secrets are not gifted but earned. Every page is a task, every task a reward. To unlock the next, you must solve the text. Read as I have to its end, and we'll build a box time cannot mend."

Indrá squeezed the booklet, wishing never to let go. "What then? Once the box is built ... what then?"

"What else?" Mōden took back his hands. "We'll walk the world, you and I. Our food will be warm and our beverages cold."

"Not scalding hot?"

"Heat rises, my boy. By then, we'd have already sipped away the heat above. Only then will we have earned a taste of cold."

=====

Washed of filth, Indrá nestled into his sleeping bag. The moon's silver haze fell upon his tome bound in black. His eyes strained to read symbols pasted on yellow hide, but the yearning would not cede to the throes of the dark.

> You loll in the eve of the Philosopher's wisdom. The beginning and the end are yours to choose; only the middle is deaf to all that is you.

>

> Wisdom knows naught limit, as does this tome, whose secrets can be mined from crust to pith. Even still, there will be more to ply from its sheaf.

>

> First among many, or last among few, the Cant of hovering yet eludes you. Feed this book an artifact that flies, and the need to remain grounded forever dies.

Dreams eager and giddy struck Indrá like summertime eddies. Their retreat was no less brusque to the pull of slumber. For how can a spark of joy resist the winds of fatigue?

Bright of burn, short of tenure.