Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 11 - Ritual, Swing-Flip, a Wedding, and the Loudest Sound in the World
A sacred absurd comedy of belonging and ancient sci-fi folk rites: a swing upside-down, the world's loudest sound, and a marriage because an old man with antlers said so.
The Orb Hall rises like a cathedral carved by hands that remembered mountains.
Darkness pools in the upper reaches—two stories of stone curving without corners, walls breathing like natural cave formations touched by ancient architects who understood prayer.
Wide staircases sweep up from both sides, edges softened by centuries of footsteps, leading to galleries where shadows watch with patient reverence.
At the center: the Orb.
White. Two meters wide. Resting on a small island surrounded by a moat one meter deep, bottom glittering with thousands of colored marbles—offerings dropped like coins in a fountain, blessings taken when needed, a living treasury of light.
The air is thick with frankincense and myrrh—smoke curling through mist in lazy spirals, carrying prayers toward the unseen ceiling.
Candles.
Hundreds of them.
White tapers on every ledge, every niche, every flat surface the architects left for exactly this purpose. Their flames breathe, synchronized with something deeper than wind.
The light they cast is honey-gold, warm against cold stone, painting the mist into living ghosts that drift between kneeling figures.
Eysin and Sylrissa slip in late, breathless from running.
The ritual is already halfway through.
Nine Baltikons sit around the moat’s edge, bare feet in the water, facing the Orb. Faces painted with surma so thick they look like beautiful holes punched into the void. Black rags wrap them until only silver irises float in candlelight.
The air hums with the low Baltic bass note zerks make when waking up—not cranky, but reverent. Calibrating. Syncing to something ancient and good.
The Old Man of the Woods walks through the moat—water to his knees, calm as a heron—moving from one Baltikon to the next.
Barefoot. Beard dragging like ancient moss. White hair wild as winter wolves, crowned with antlers of the great elk that was never born and never died—bone-white, moss-covered.
He wears simple grey wool and faded leather, but around his neck: Orthodox brass crosses layered over pagan bone charms, amber beads the size of eyeballs, and a single iron key older than countries.
In his hands: a leather pouch.
He paints each forehead, cheekbone, throat with fresh surma—not crosses, not runes, but something older. Marks that say: You are going into the dark. Come back.
When he reaches Eysin and Sylrissa at the end of the row, he paints them without a word, as if he knew they’d be late since before they were born.
Three lines under each eye. A spiral on the forehead. A single stroke down the throat like a cut that never bled.
“Three days out there,” he mutters, voice soft enough only they can hear. “If it turns ugly, this keeps your heart from being a little bitch.”
When the last mark is painted, he steps onto the island, both feet on stone, water settling around him.
Glyphs carved into the walls begin to glow—not electric, but alive. Breathing. Responding to gathered intent.
The Old Man raises both arms, voice shifting deeper, older—gravel and honey braided into thunder:
“Voice of Monad, guide our way,
Light the path where shadows play,
Grant us strength, yet keep us kind,
Sharpen tooth but not the mind.
Let us bring no needless harm,
Keep our hearts and hands both warm.
Into the dark we freely go—
Return with joy, or let us know.”
The Baltikons answer, voices braided into one living chord:
“Yahu.”
They step into the moat together—water to knees, cold biting through exhaustion.
The prayer continues, call and response, each line sinking deeper into bone.
Eysin feels the water working.
Her thumb—the reed cut from before, nerve still screaming—suddenly goes quiet.
She looks down.
Skin knits together, pink and new, like watching time run backwards. The nerve snaps into place with a sensation half relief, half electric kiss.
She flexes her thumb. Perfect.
But the third ring on her wrist is rattling.
Not gently.
Like something inside is trying very hard to get out and has just realized the door is unlocked.
Behave, she thinks at it.
It rattles louder.
By groups of three or two, the Baltikons step onto the island, kneel before the Orb, press their Kaestuses to its surface.
Cleaning house. Confirming new firmware. Speaking to ancestors who answer in flickering code.
As they finish, the doors at the front open quietly.
Families arrive—mothers with bread wrapped in cloth, little sisters with lipstick kisses, grandmothers slipping flasks of something that smells like rocket fuel and forgiveness.
They settle on the floor away from the moat, voices dropping to whispers and soft laughter. Private goodbyes. Gentle speech. The kind of intimacy that makes the sacred communal.
Eysin, Arkion, and Sylrissa step onto the island together—the last three, the hall now full of murmured farewells and warm glow of reunion.
Kaestus to Orb.
The third ring wakes like a dreaming octopus on espresso.
Silent beams of impossible colour pour from her wrist, hit the mist, and suddenly the entire room is underwater jazz.
A mother’s gentle scolding about wet socks becomes the world’s tiniest, saddest violin.
A Baltikon’s muttered “fucking cold feet” morphs into a lazy, horny saxophone solo that would make Tom Waits blush.
A grandmother’s cackle turns into a tribal drum that could wake continents.
Someone’s contented sigh becomes a double bass line so funky it should be illegal.
Colours swirl—reds, greens, purples, golds—painting the mist like living stained glass, each emotion a different instrument, the whole hall a symphony only she can hear.
No one else hears a damn thing.
But they see the light show.
Arkion detects new excitement in her zerk—the Framework working on something.
“Is your suit alright?”
Eysin pulls her hand back, the light show dims a little.
The armring morphs—cartoon snake, bright eyes, tongue flicking dramatically.
The zerk spigots on the other hand knit into it a mystery sock.
She stuffs it into the snake’s mouth.
The snake rolls its eyes, deflates with an exaggerated pffffff.
“There!” She grins at Arkion, sheepish, a single bead of nervous cartoon sweat blinking into existence on her temple before disappearing.
Arkion’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“An endless source of joy,” Eysin mutters deadpan, watching the snake settle back into bracelet form.
Sylrissa is deep in trance beside them, eyes silver, breathing slow. She’s missed the entire jazz performance, communing with something ancient and patient.
*
The ritual ends.
Families linger—last kisses, last blessings, last-minute supplies shoved into already-full packs.
Eysin finds herself swept into the current as people begin filtering out through the side entrance into the glass-domed Terratorium.
Before she loses track of Arkion in the crowd, he catches her hand.
“Bonfire outside. Swing spot. Don’t disappear on me.”
She grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
*
They spill into the Terratorium.
The space transformed into a medieval fair lit by oil lamps swaying in the draft, casting wild shadows across moss-covered glass walls.
Two girls—maybe twelve and fourteen—dart between stalls with chaotic energy of people locked inside too long and now drunk on freedom.
The younger, Pond, has dark eyes too old for her face. The older, Lily, moves with a dancer’s grace wrapped in childish glee.
They spot Sylrissa and Bartel trying to have a private moment near a cheese stall.
“Are you two married?” Lily demands, appearing at their elbows like a summoned demon.
Bartel blinks. “Yes?”
“Newly married?” Pond adds, eyes sparkling with mischief that comes from having no childhood and too much time to think.
Sylrissa sighs. “Three weeks.”
The girls exchange glances—instant, unanimous decision.
“You’re our chaperones now,” Lily announces.
“We didn’t—” Bartel starts.
“You’re the hottest couple here,” Pond interrupts, matter-of-fact. “Obviously we’re sticking with you. It’s strategy.”
Sylrissa looks at Bartel.
Bartel looks at Sylrissa.
They both look at the girls, who are now grinning like they’ve won something.
“Fine,” Sylrissa says. “But if you get kidnapped, I’m telling Arkion it was your idea.”
“Deal!”
*
People drip out into the cool night.
Mist clings to everything like a second skin—thick, holy, smelling of pine and cold earth.
The bonfire roars inside its cage of round logs—a giant glowing ribcage laughing at the mist trying to snuff it out.
Beside it: the ancient swing. Thick ropes, wide plank seat, built for giants, lovers, or the terminally insane.
Drums start—hands on thighs, boots on mud.
Dù-dug! Dù-dug! Dù-dug! Dù-dug!
Bodies circle the fire in slow, stomping spirals, voices rising:
In winter’s grip, the wolf pack roams,
Flowers of ice melt ’neath rising suns.
We brothers build the tallest fire,
To bind the hearts in love’s true choir.
With ancient winds and Baltic seas,
We claim the flame eternally!
The dance shifts—partners rotate, hands clasping and releasing in ancient patterns everyone knows without being taught.
Dù-dug! Dù-dug! Dù-dug! Dù-dug!
Eysin finds herself spun from one Baltikon to another, laughing, breathless, the mist turning everyone into beautiful ghosts.
Then she rotates back to Arkion.
Their hands meet in the clasp—his warm, steady.
Instead of spinning her away, he holds on.
Pulls her close.
They’ve stopped moving, but the dance continues despite them.
His eyes catch the firelight.
“Do you know what this dance was made up for?” he asks, voice low enough only she can hear.
She shakes her head, still catching her breath.
“Since Ancient April,” he says, “it’s been a secret kept between brothers. The sisters—” He grins. “They’re not supposed to know until someone asks.”
“Asks what?”
He brings her clasped hands to his mouth, kisses her knuckles—gentle, deliberate.
“I want to marry you.”
The world tilts from the sudden, impossible simplicity of it.
“We can do it right now,” he continues, still holding her hands. “If you want. The Old Man’s over there pretending he’s not watching.”
She looks at him—surma-painted, firelit, completely serious.
“Yes,” she says. “Of course yes.”
*
They slip away from the dance, just far enough from the fire that the mist swallows them.
The Old Man is exactly where Arkion said he’d be—sitting on what can only be described as a “popechair”: an ancient wooden throne someone dragged out here decades ago and never moved, now moss-covered and sacred by accident.
He’s smoking something that smells like history and poor decisions, watching the bonfire with the satisfied air of someone who’s seen this scene play out a thousand times and still finds it delightful.
They approach.
He doesn’t look up.
“You want to marry this girl?” he asks Arkion.
“Yes.”
“You want to marry this dork?” he asks Eysin.
She grins. “Yes.”
The Old Man grunts. Pulls a small clay jar from somewhere in his robes, dips two fingers, paints a single mark on each of their foreheads—overlapping circles, ancient symbol for union, or maybe just two people who decided to stop being alone.
“Then you’re married,” he says.
He presses their foreheads together, mutters something in Old Baltic that sounds like blessing and warning braided into one knot.
The Old Man pauses, eyes twinkling like broken stars.
“The moon just filed the paperwork. I’ll make it official Monday. Try not to get divorced before breakfast.”
He pauses, studies Eysin’s face with eyes that have seen too much and forgotten nothing.
“You’re serving something real now, girl. Both of you.” He taps her third ring. “Keep choosing it. The ego is a jealous mistress.”
Then he’s gone, melting back into the mist like he was never there.
Arkion and Eysin stand there, foreheads still touching, breathing the same smoke-thick air.
“My Bride—” Arkion starts, then stops, voice catching.
She laughs, pulls back to look at him.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just—” He shakes his head, grinning like an idiot. “Do you want to go tell people or just let them figure it out?”
“Definitely let them figure it out.”
“Good call.”
They walk back to the fire.
The Baltikons know anyway.
The moment they step back into the light, someone wolf-whistles.
Then the swarm descends—rough hugs, hand-shaking so enthusiastic Eysin’s shoulder nearly dislocates, Morris pressing a flask into her hand while shouting congratulations in three languages.
They’re interrupted by Pond and Lily appearing like summoned chaos.
“Did someone say wedding?” Lily demands.
“Are there presents?” Pond adds.
Eysin blinks. “Who are you two?”
“Pond and Lily,” they say in unison, then giggle like they’ve rehearsed it.
“They’re coming to Vegas-B with us,” Arkion explains. “Long story. Involves Valen, secrets, and me being a meddling bastard.”
“We’re navigators,” Lily says proudly, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Experimental ones. Very tragic backstory.”
“Not that tragic,” Pond corrects. “We’re outside! At night! With knights! This is the best day ever.”
Sylrissa appears, looking resigned. “They’ve adopted us.”
“You’re the hottest couple,” Lily explains to Eysin, gesturing at Sylrissa and Bartel. “Obviously we had to claim them.”
“But you’re the bride,” Pond says, eyes wide. “So now we have to follow you too. It’s strategy.”
Eysin looks at Arkion.
Arkion looks at the sky like it might offer answers.
“We’re collecting children now,” Eysin says. “Apparently.”
“Could be worse,” he says. “Could be collecting curtains.”
From somewhere in the mist a doily-curtain sneezes indignantly.
*
The music shifts—drums quiet, something gentler rises.
Ocarina. Steel drum. Kalimba.
Ambient, tribal, the kind of sound that makes you want to breathe deeper and slower.
“Swing time!” someone shouts.
A cluster of girlfriends and younger sisters rush toward the ancient swing, giggling, shoving each other for first turn.
Pond and Lily are already sprinting, determined to claim their spot.
Arkion pulls Eysin toward the crowd gathering around the ropes.
They watch as the first group swings—higher, higher, the girls shrieking with delight, the mist parting around them like a blessing.
“Death knot?” someone shouts.
The girlfriends bail immediately, rolling into wet grass, laughing.
Six madmen—Baltikons with something to prove—take their places.
They swing higher, faster, until the swing is nearly horizontal.
Then—
Flip.
The swing goes fully upside-down, completing the loop, the men roaring like they just bitch-slapped physics and physics said thank you sir may I have another.
They land, still howling, fists in the air.
A small crowd erupts.
Pond and Lily are jumping up and down, screaming with glee.
“Did you see that?”
“I want to do that!”
“Absolutely not,” Sylrissa says firmly.
“You’re not our real chaperones,” Lily protests.
“Exactly,” Bartel says. “Which means we can’t be blamed when you break your necks.”
*
Later, under a drunk moon and mist so thick you could carve your name in it:
They march west on foot through dripping forest until the road appears—a pale snake sleeping in the mud.
The convoy is late, waiting for a herd of bison to finish crossing. Massive, shaggy mountains just standing there, chewing philosophy, refusing to be rushed.
They camp under pines that smell like Christmas and cordite.
Everyone’s socks are wet. Wraps are coming undone. Ninja-foot efficiency has turned into cold, angry spaghetti.
Pond and Lily are still buzzing with energy, darting between campfires, asking questions no one has answers to.
“Why are bison so slow?”
“Are we there yet?”
“Can I hold a sword?”
“Absolutely not,” Sylrissa says for the fifteenth time.
Eysin keeps shifting her weight, annoyed.
Sylrissa, poking her small fire: “Take the pebble out of your shoe, sorella.”
Eysin sighs, finally sits, starts unwrapping the mess of her foot wraps.
Arkion kneels beside her. “Need help?”
“No. But you wanted to test the thing.”
Between re-wrapping one foot and the other, she extends her Blindside in slingshot configuration—human-sized, magnetic instead of rubber—and hands it over.
He loads a handful of gravel. The Blindside gives the gravel a charge.
Pulls.
Lets go.
The gravel screams across the valley like a pissed-off hornet and disappears into the dark two kilometres away.
“Whoa, that’s epic!” Lily attempts to contain her excitement, bouncing on her toes. “Can I try?”
“When you’re taller,” Arkion says.
“I’m plenty tall!”
“Taller than that.”
Morris whistles low. “I can’t even get half that range with a regular sling.”
Arkion winks at Eysin. “Can he take a look?”
She nods.
The marksman Morris examines Blindside with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics or really good cheese.
Bartel sits next to him, touching the texture of his new Kaestus, feeling all the fresh writing and connections. And then there’s an odd knob in his palm he didn’t have before, he tests if he can reach it with his thumb.
“Hey, what does this dial do?”
Morris gasps, “No don’t—”
SHRIEEEEEK!
The doily-curtain wheezes once, flips us the bird with a corner, and passes out in solidarity.
Pond and Lily scream—genuine terror, hands over ears.
The Baltikons all look at Bartel.
“Oi, turn it off!”
SHRIEEEEEK!
Two earth-shattering shrieks tear the night apart—dragon-sized seagull, loud enough to sterilize fish and wake the dead.
Half of Osel probably sits bolt upright in bed.
Dogs across three districts start confessing sins.
Bartel turns the colour of old milk.
That’s the dial to the valve of his special Condenser technique.
The Baltikons lose their entire minds—howling with laughter, slapping his back hard enough to rearrange organs.
“Two shrieks,” Arkion grins back. “Still deniable. Three and we’d have had company.”
Eysin points across the road at the house squatting in a barren sinkhole, lights now blazing.
“Speaking of company…”
A wild-eyed man bursts out of the pig pit, covered in mud and righteous fury, waving what might be a pitchfork or a very angry stick.
“WHO IN THE SEVEN HELLS IS MAKING THAT NOISE? I WAS HAVING A PERFECTLY GOOD EXISTENTIAL CRISIS IN HERE!”
Sylrissa, deadpan: “Vinu’s brother.”
Eysin looks at her.
Sylrissa continues, voice flat. “Wrote half the code for psychic super-weapons when he was twenty. Brilliant. Unstable. Then his father died and he moved into the mud with pigs because landmines were frowned upon.”
“What happened to him?”
“The bond with his father was the only thing that kept him together. When that snapped, so did he.” Sylrissa watches the man wave his pitchfork at the sky. “Villagers tried poisoning his pigs once. Thought he’d eat the meat and die. Didn’t work. He’d experimented on himself—chemical alterations, inspired by the Kraken navigators. Can’t kill him. Can only wait for him to kill himself.”
The man spots the bison herd blocking the road—hundreds of shaggy mountains just standing there, chewing philosophy.
He throws his hands up.
“GREAT! EVEN THE BISON ARE PROTESTING! YOU CAN’T LEAVE! THE DIAL ISN’T TURNED YET! THE GREEK SAID IT’S COMING IN TWO PARTS—LINEAR? NO. CURVED! CURVED, YOU DEAF BASTARDS!”
A tiny runt of a curtain—looks suspiciously like the old television cube’s lace doily—comes squealing out of the pigsty after him like an escaped piglet.
Eeeee! Don’t touch that dial!
~ Commercial Break ~
The tiny television-cube doily-curtain skids to a halt at the edge of the firelight, eyes wide with prophecy:
Brace yourselves: someone’s about to turn a shiny new toy into a full-blown cosmic lighthouse beam that might give the bison and the Baltikon knights collective heart attacks.
Behold—the corvettes are en route to Vegas-B.
He touched that dial. Oh yeah!
Continue reading:
Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 12 En Route: Adalsysla → Vegas-B (and a different kind of Lighthouse appears)
Manifest: 20 passengers, 60 bison, one very naked curtain riding the bowsprit like a drunk figurehead.
E-pub/book: Aiming for 2026 February.
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