Dream d2631-s: What the Scrap Receives

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the ink smell hit me before I sat down - sharp, a little sour, the particular smell of a pot opened and closed too many times. There were eleven at the table tonight. The Scribe of the Eastern Shelf had given out paper from the bottom of the pile, the kind with old marks already on one side, and they were practising the second mark on the blank backs.

I watched without counting. That was the instruction for tonight: watch the strokes, not the hands.

Some pressed gently. The Second-Tier Reader from Pewterlow worked with a light wrist, the mark coming out thin and even. I recorded: light. Even. Second pass identical to first.

The Keeper of the Inlet Works held his instrument like a man expecting something to resist him. The mark he made was heavier at the beginning and trailed off. I recorded: heavy entry, drag at the close.

Lano had found the warm spot under the table where two sets of legs almost touched. I could hear her shift, the small sounds of a dog settling.

The young one - the Second-Year Clerk from the grain office, no title yet, just a function - pressed too hard consistently. Her marks bit through on two sheets. She turned them over to see what had printed on the paper underneath, set them face-down, reached for fresh scrap. I wrote: bites through. Two sheets. Does not ask what to do next.

The Registrar of Sealed Rooms made no mark at all for the first quarter of the hour. She sat with the instrument in her hand and looked at the marks others were making. Then she made hers. I recorded: late start, one pass, no correction.

Rurik had come in at some point and taken the high shelf above the ink jars. From there he watched the table. One slow blink, then stillness again.

The question I had been given to record was not who had learned the mark and who had not. The question was only: what does the scrap receive? A light impression can be lifted off with the eye, carried in the mind, passed along as description. A heavy one bites into the surface and becomes part of it.

Of the eleven, three pressed light. Five pressed in the middle range. Three pressed hard. One of the three who pressed hard worked deliberately - I noted that: deliberate. Two did it without seeming to know. I noted that too, and did not write which ones.

The Scribe of the Eastern Shelf collected the scrap at the end. Not to examine it - she stacked it face-down and set it at the corner of the table for whoever needed scrap next. The practised marks on the back would become the surface someone else worked over.

Lano came out from under the table when the chairs moved. She stood near the door, not waiting to leave, just standing. I do not remember what came after, only the ink smell and the sound of eleven people folding the night closed behind them, the scrap left in its stack, holding everything it had received.

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