gossamer

<div class="box"> You are a gemstone merchant traveling to the Grand Bazaar. You have loaded your wares onto the hot air balloon. [[Climb aboard->Welcome aboard!]].</div>

<div class="box">The burner roars and a blast of heat hits your face as you clamber into the basket. The balloon begins to drift through the air, ascending higher and higher until it grazes the bottom of the cloudbank. [[Look down the side of the basket]] [[Speak to the pilot]] </div>

<div class="box">Flanked by green mountains, the entire valley below is spread out before you. A sinuous river glinting silver and white cuts across the center of the valley. You grip the side of the basket as a [[wave of vertigo->Vertigo]] washes over you.</div>

<div class="box">The pilot is an old woman with black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. She murmurs to herself as she fiddles with the propane cylinders. You say, [["How long will the journey take?"]] [["Do you have a piloting license?"]] [["I feel sick."]] </div>

<div class="box"> "If fortune smiles upon us and I can maintain our current altitude, half a day at most," the pilot says. [["The market opens at dawn. I need to arrive before then."]]

<div class="box">The pilot stands up straight to adjust the valve controlling the flame. "I have been ferrying passengers to and from this valley for thirty years," she says. "That is longer than you have been alive." [["Sorry, dumb question."]] [["So you don't have a license?"]]

<div class="box">The pilot swivels her head and stares at you disapprovingly. "What's wrong with you?" [["I have the stomach flu."]] [["Nothing. Excuse me-"]]

<div class="box"> A crisp wind buffets the balloon and brings with it the smell of vanilla and mastic, effectively whisking away your vertigo. The valley, with its dew-drenched meadows and dark, fragrant woods, is a haven for grazing deer and warbling thrushes. [[There! A swallow flies up to the balloon]] [[Examine the mountains]]

<div class="box">You double over, clutching your stomach. The old woman gazes at you inquisitively. "What is it? Do you see something on the ground?" she asks. [["N-no. I just think I'm gonna throw up."]]

<div class="box"> It is a tiny creature, about the size of your hand, with blue plumage and beryl eyes. [[Offer your pinky finger]] [[Stay still, don't want to scare it off]]

<div class="box">The mountainsides are dotted with sulfur-yellow dandelions. Slender ribbons of water dribble out of cracks in between the rockfaces. The peaks are concealed by a blanket of mist.

<div class="box">"It's all right." The pilot goes back to the propane cylinders. [[Study the scenery passing by]]

<div class="box">The pilot snorts. "Of course of I have a license! You think any old geezer is allowed to pilot this baby?" She slaps the side of the basket.

<div class="box">"Oh, jeez. Let me get you some ginger ale." The pilot turns around and begins rummaging around in her bag. [["That won't be necessary. Don't worry about me."]]

<div class="box"> "Then you shouldn't have signed up for a hot air balloon ride, idiot," the old woman says. You are stung by the pilot's lack of sympathy. [["Well, I had no choice."]] [["Just kidding! I love heights."]]

<div class="box"> "This was the only viable method of transportation," you say. The pilot is silent. [["Do you understand what I'm getting at?"]]

<div class="box">''"What!"'' The pilot reaches above and closes a valve. The flame propelling the hot air sputters out. Before you know it, the balloon has descended gently onto a grassy outcropping on the side of the mountain. "Get out," the pilot spits. [["Wha-?"]]

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<div class="box">You slowly extend your arm and hold out your finger. The opal-and-iris throated bird comes nearer and hovers in place for a few seconds, seeming to consider the perch, but ultimately deems it too risky and darts away. [[Watch it leave]]

<div class="box"> The swallow approaches you cautiously. As soon as it alights on the edge of the basket, a russet shape zooms past the space the thrush had occupied a moment before. You twist halfway out of the basket to see what the blur was. [[Look east]] [[Look west]]

<div class="box"> At first, you look directly into the sun. Then, the lush mountainsides resolve themselves into rockfaces and patches of wildflowers. A strange bird bursts out of the mist overhead. [[Strange bird? No,that's a...]]

<div class="box">A russet-feathered falcon is gliding away several hundred meters below. The falcon had missed its prey (the swallow) by a hairbreadth.

<div class="box"> Wyvern! Its wingspan is twice your height. You feel the basket dip as its claws scrabble and gain footing on the top of the balloon. Thankfully, it appears docile as it does not tear through the fabric. [[Tell the pilot]] [[Protect the swallow]]

<div class="box">The hot air balloon pilot is an old woman with black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. Her back is turned to you. She murmurs to herself as she fiddles with the propane cylinders. [["Excuse me-hi. I believe a wyvern has landed on the hot air balloon."]]

<div class="box"> The swallow is skittering back and forth along the edge of the basket. It seems torn between fleeing from the dangerous human and remaining in the safety of the basket. [[Retrieve a fig from your suitcase. Birds eat figs, right?]] [[Scoop up the swallow with your hand]]

<div class="box"> The swallow flies behind a column of mist. In a blink of an eye, that cerulean bird has vanished from your view. [[The cold hand of melancholy wraps around your heart]]

<div class="box">The pilot sighs. "There is a way to go faster, but it makes things a lot harder for me." [[Offer a bribe]] [[Accept her statement]]

<div class="box"> "Please do whatever is necessary to get there faster," you say. "I'll give you one of my wares in exchange for your generosity. My stones are more valuable than all the treasures in the citadel. Take your pick." [[Open one suitcase to show off the gemstones]]

<div class="box"> "I guess I'll trust your judgment." The pilot nods. "You know what they say, punctuality is the thief of time." <br> [["I didn't know people said that."]] [[Ask if the conditions are favorable today]]

<div class="box">You unclasp your suitcase and reveal the bounty within. The pilot's eyes roam hungrily over rows of scintillating jewels. Which one do you offer to her? [[Chrysoberyl]] [[Agate]] [[Amethyst]] [[Selenite]] [[Bezoar]]

<div class="box">"How go the wind currents?" The old woman shakes her head. "Almost none. I had hoped for a nice draft that could push us along." [["Wait. If there's no wind and you don't steer, then we remain in one place, right?"]]

<div class="box">"They do," the pilot says.<br> You shrug and plop down on one of your suitcases. You produce a copy of //Swann's Way//. It is a limited edition copy, bound in a tawny satin and wrought with fleur-de-lis. You are enamored by its adornments, but you're more excited to read it, which you'll have plenty of time to do on the ride.

<div class="box">"I'm not worried about you, I'm worried about my balloon. If you need to toss your cookies, do it over the side, will you?" [["No problem."]]

<div class="box"> "That's right, I'm kicking you out. You're going to infect me." [[Refuse to get off]]

<div class="box"> The balloon has traversed the length of the valley in only a minute, and the uncultivated moors and forests below have transformed into uniform squares of farmland. It's like a checkerboard from above. [[It's getting too sunny]]

<div class="box"> You don your sunhat and shed your shawl, a fine garment you bought from the Bazaar last time you went - Turkish gold brocade embroidered with turquoises with verses from the Qur'an. [[You continue admiring the beautiful scenery]]

<div class="box"> The huge sunlight flames like a monstrous dahlia with petals of fire, and everything is awash in gold and scarlet. The checkered farmland is pierced by one solitary church tower. [[Sit down and relax]]

<div class="box"> You plop down on one of your suitcases. You produce a copy of //Swann's Way//. It is a limited edition copy, bound in a tawny satin and wrought with fleur-de-lis. You are enamored by its adornments, but you're more excited to read it, which you'll have plenty of time to do on the ride.

<div class="box"> "I can't get off," you say. <br> Suddenly, you feel strong hands grab your waist and lift you up, out of the basket, and let go. You tumble down into the soft grass. [[Scramble back up and get back in the basket!]]

<div class="box">The pilot regards you with her chin turned up, not a shred of remorse in her eyes. She turns on the flame and the balloon takes off. After a couple of moments, she throws your suitcases overboard. Just like that, you're alone and stranded. [[At least she didn't steal your gemstones]]

<div class="box"> To be completely honest with yourself, you aren't nauseous because you're high up. You're nauseous because you're [[deathly afraid]] and must confront the truth.

<div class="box">The pilot raises an eyebrow. "Then why do you feel queasy?" [["I have the stomach flu."]]

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<div class="box">"Hmm?" The pilot pauses in her work. "Oh, yes. That's perfectly normal. Wyverns round these parts treat balloons like mobile rest stops. It'll fly away eventually."

<div class="box">You unzip your suitcase and fish around for the bag of figs you brought along. You nab one that is slightly overripe and heavy with juice. [[Break it open]]

<div class="box"> You go to scoop up the swallow, but as soon as your hand comes within a foot of it, it chirps in fear and flits away, swift and elusive.

<div class="box"> The fig splits apart easily, and the juice drips down your wrist. Its rose-red flesh is riddled with seeds that make your scalp prickle (you have mild trypophobia). [[Hold out one half to the swallow]]

<div class="box"> The swallow hops forward shyly. Three hops, and it's pecking at the fig in your palm. Watching it feed, a troublesome thought snakes its way into your mind. [[Hurl the swallow into the blue abyss]]

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<div class="box">The pistachio-green chrysoberyl turns orange by lamplight. You obtained it in Alexandria from a Persian collector, with whom you exchanged merchants' tales over glasses of champagne. [["I recommend the chrysoberyl," you say. "It casts out sprites and demons."]]

<div class="box">The agate is a burning gem from the east, reeking with frankinscence and echoing with the strains of plucked lutes. Tucked between layers of ruby and sapphire, the broken rainbow of the agate blooms like a spray of jessamine. [["I recommend this. The agate of India makes a man eloquent," you say.]]

<div class="box">Carbuncles of fiery crimson with tremulous four-rayed stars accompany the violet amethysts. [["I recommend these," you say. "The amethyst drives away the fumes of wine."]]

<div class="box">The selenite is milky and smooth, a white face buried within black velvet powdered with crescents. [["I recommend this," you say. "The selenite waxes and wanes with the moon."]]

<div class="box"> The bezoar is less a jewel and more a highly coveted artifact. It hearkens back to the steaming, lotus-covered water-ways of Smyrna, where ibises abound and grave turbaned men smoke long tasselled pipes. [["I recommend the bezoar," you say. "It is a charm that could cure the plague."]]

<div class="box"> The pilot wears an inscrutable expression as she eyes the agate in its nest of rubies and sapphires. After a long pause, she shakes her head. "It's pretty. But I will become too wary of theives," she says.

<div class="box"> The pilot exhales deeply. She admires the selenite for several long minutes. [["Is it not a perfect, pure specimen?" you prompt.]]

<div class="box">The pilot ponders them. "They're see-through." <br> You nod. "Yes," you say, [["from their translucency they are known in the east as 'woven air' or 'evening dew.'"]]

<div class="box"> "Ha...sprites and demons, eh?" The pilot says, mirth bubbling in her voice. "Demons don't trouble me much these days, I'm afraid." [[You had not expected her to like the chrysoberyl. It is a common mineral, after all.]]

<div class="box"> The pilot's eyes are smoldering embers of desire. "Mmm," she says appreciatively.<br> You add, "it was found in the heart of an Arabian stag." [[You allow her to reach out and run her fingers over the bezoar's rough surface.]]

<div class="box"> Judging by the way she's caressing it, you figure you've got this in the bag. She cannot resist the lure of the panacea. [["You'll take it, then?" you ask.]]

<div class="box"> The pilot murmurs something under her breath, then seizes the bezoar with both hands and nods. "Yes. Yes, I'll take it," she says. [[You raise a silent triumphant cheer in your head]]

<div class="box"> "Thank you. So how exactly will you help me?" <br> The pilot, gently setting the bezoar down in her pile of supplies, reaches overhead to close the valve. "I am going to descend," she says. [[Descend? Did she say descend?]]

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<div class="box">"Indeed," the pilot acknowledges. [["But you don't want it."]]

<div class="box">"It is not worth the risk," the pilot admits.

<div class="box">The pilot smiles. "That's very romantic." The pilot sweeps one last perfunctory glance over the violet gems, then turns her gaze out toward the mountains. "I never drink wine," she says. "I'm sorry, I can't accept your deal."

<div class="box"> You nod. "I understand. Perhaps something else may catch your eye."

<div class="box"> The pilot scratches her temple. "Theoretically," she says. [["If there's no wind, couldn't we just stay in one place and let the spinning of the planet take us to our destination?"]]

<div class="box">"No," the old woman replies. [["Why not?"]]

<div class="box"> The pilot makes a dismissive noise. "It's a phenomenon of the natural world." [["But how can the air spin with the world? The air is not attached."]]

<div class="box"> The pilot rolls her eyes. "The air does not have to be attached to the ground like a balloon to a string. Its momentum carries it along with the planet's rotation, and us with it." [[You are skeptical]]

<div class="box"> The pilot continues, "If you're on a merry-go-round and you jump up, you will land in the same spot where you jumped even though the floor is moving. You are not attached to the floor. Your momentum carries you forward with the [[merry-go-round."]]

<div class="box"> //It was just a wild bird,// you think. //Why do I suddenly feel this sad?// [[You decide to check on your gemstones]]

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<div class="box">You blink. "Merry-go-round?" A feeble buzzing sounds in your ear. The propane cylinders gleam metallically in the apricot-colored sunlight. A hint of oakmoss tinges the air. [["I think I was spaced out for a moment there, sorry," you say.]]

<div class="box"> The pilot shakes her head. "Oh, how easily the young succumb to the malady of dreaming. At least try to pay attention next time," she admonishes.

<div class="box"> "The air spins with the planet," the pilot responds. [["How?"]]

<div class="box"> You committed a grave wrong in the past. Now you are returning to the place where it all originated: [[the Grand Bazaar.]]

<div class="box"> Last time you were there, you met a fellow merchant, a Persian man from Alexandria. You and him shared an intense obsession with the world's precious minerals, and your booths were side-by-side so every day you had conversations for [[hours on end.]]

<div class="box"> Naturally, you fell in love. How could you not? You accompanied him on his walks in the Old City. Together, you enjoyed the fare of the rocking fish boats in the Bosphorus. You fed the street cats with him. You prayed with him in the Hagia Sophia. [[Months pass.]]

<div class="box"> Your infatuation with him has melted into soft affection, much like that for a friend. There is nothing more pitiful than waning love. [[He asks you to marry him]]

<div class="box"> For reasons unbeknownst to you now, disdain filled your heart at his proposal. You rejected him carelessly, [[brutally.]]

<div class="box"> He left the country soon afterward. Since then, guilt and remorse have chewed away at your conscience like mice devouring a round of cheese. Why did you do that? Why did you say that? Why weren't you more tactful, more gentle? If not a lover, he was at least a dear friend. [[You tried to make amends.]]

<div class="box"> A year later, you wrote him a long letter full of apologies. His mother responded in a letter half the length of yours. [[When you read what it contained, your heart dropped to your toes.]]

<div class="box"> He had killed himself the week after he left the country. His funeral was a private, intimate affair. You were not notified. [[Your hands shake.]]

<div class="box">The consequences of your actions have not truly sunk in yet. Your emotions are floating on the periphery of your consciousness, like a layer of pork fat on the surface of broth. [[You must write back to his mother.]]

<div class="box">You covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. [[When you had finished the letter, you felt that you had been forgiven.]]

<div class="box"> You retrieve the letter from your satchel now. You plan to deliver it to his family in person. You re-read it, and feel [[your eyes sting.]]

<div class="box"> What's despicable is that you aren't even crying to mourn him. You're crying out of pity for yourself. [[Blink away the tears]]

<div class="box"> You inhale, exhale. [[Place the letter back in your satchel]] [[Throw the letter overboard]]

<div class="box"> Your limbs freeze up. A sudden convulsion assails your body, and a voiceless message echoes through the chambers of your mind: [["You will not be awarded the mercy of death."]]

<div class="box"> That was a wretched attempt at resolving so heinous a deed. No words could ever absolve the crimes you have committed. Your nausea subsides as you watch the sheaf of paper tumble down to the trees below.

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