You can't push that.You can't push that.You can't use $2 to push anything.You can't examine that!You can't examine that!You can't search that!This game is not intended to be a puzzle, so I'm not giving anything away by telling you what to do. Basically there are two commands: 'push button' and 'examine' (or 'x' or 'look at') followed by the name of the figure. You can also examine the crystal ball by typing 'x ball' or 'x globe'.$pThere's no real score, but if you want to know how many figures you've seen and whether you've seen them all, the command 'score' will give you an indication. To quit, type 'quit' in lower case letters.Unfortunately hints are not available in this game.The author retains the copyright to this game. $pThis game was written using the ALAN Adventure Language. ALAN is an interative fiction authoring system by Thomas Nilsson $nemail address: thoni@softlab.lejonet.se $pFurther information about the ALAN system can be obtained from the World Wide Web Internet site $ihttp://www.pp.softlab.se/thomas.nilsson/alan $pThe poem 'Priestess' appeared originally in the _Centennial Review_, Spring 1998 issue.You push the $1.You can't push that.Using the $2 you push the $1.You can't push that.There is nothing special about $o.You can't examine that!Done.Done.$nTime passes...Press the F3 key to repeat your last command.Unfortunately you cannot 'undo' commands in this game.inventorycrystal_ball$pLooking into the ball you see the reflection of someone who's quite good-looking, really. At the base of the globe is a big, gold button that looks as if it might do something interesting when you push it.big gold button$pWritten around the circumference of the button, you read tiny letters that spell 'Sestina Sculptures.' The button looks as if you should be able to push it.$pSlowly a gold mist forms in the crystal ball. You see what appears to be lightning and then flashing knives. Finally you realize that what you see are six words being used to sculpt the figure in the ball:$$ 'butterfly', 'dog', 'flower', 'mountains', 'quest', and 'youth'. Then all at once the Fool appears.$$ 'cup', 'element', 'infinity', 'magic', 'rose', and 'sword'. Then all at once the Mage appears.$$ 'black', 'book', 'crescent', 'desert', 'flow', and 'white'. Then all at once the Priestess appears.$$ 'bounty', 'color', 'fountain', 'garden', 'mirror', and 'temptation'. Then all at once, the Empress appears.$$ 'armor', 'blanket', 'eyes', 'grim', 'horizon', and 'throne'. Then all at once the Emperor appears.$$ 'altar', 'blessing', 'chant', 'faith', 'ritual', and 'smoke'. Then all at once the Hierophant appears.$$ 'naked', 'peak', 'snake', 'sun', 'tree', and 'us'. Then all at once the Lovers appear.$$ 'balance', 'circle', 'city', 'speed', 'spiral', and 'stars'. Then all at once the Chariot appears.$$ 'blind', 'court', 'law', 'right', 'scale', and 'wrong'. Then all at once Justice appears.$$ 'lantern', 'lonely', 'path', 'plain', 'repent', and 'time'. Then all at once the Hermit appears.$$ 'down', 'fate', 'gamble', 'laughter', 'luck', and 'up'. Then all at once Fortune's Wheel appears.$$ 'beast', 'bite', 'discipline', 'energy', 'gentle', and 'wild'. Then all at once Strength appears.$$ 'dream', 'hero', 'knot', 'pain', 'sacrifice', and 'wind'. Then all at once the Hanged Man appears.$$ 'body', 'crows', 'fire', 'grave', 'plague', and 'war'. Then all at once Death appears.$$ 'heaven', 'music', peace', 'quiet', 'safe', and 'water'. Then all at once Temperance appears.$$ 'chain', 'dark', 'enemy', 'hell', 'shit', and 'violence'. Then all at once the Devil appears.$$ 'build', 'destroy', 'night', 'quick', 'rain', and 'storm'. Then all at once the Tower appears.$$ 'bird', 'chaos', 'give', 'milk,' 'river', and 'spring'. Then all at once the Star appears.$$ 'evolve', 'form', 'heart', 'mind', 'pull', and 'reflect'. Then all at once the Moon appears.$$ 'air', 'child', 'light', 'love', 'spirit', and 'wall'. Then all at once the Sun appears.$$ 'call', 'deep', 'earth', 'sleep', 'soul', and 'wake'. Then all at once Judgment appears.$$ 'begin', 'dance', 'end', 'home', 'know', and 'nothing'. Then all at once the World appears.fool$pYou see a young mountain-climber in a green jerkin and a purple-feathered cap. Inside your ear, a voice begins to chant: $pUnder a sunlit sky a youth $nlanguidly holding a flower $nfollows a butterfly $nthrough high mountains. $nRunning beside him is a little dog. $nFor what does the youngster quest? $pAdventure, romance, the exotic--the quest $nincludes every possibility in youth, $nBefore settling down to the dogged $nroutine of age, you should delight in the flowers $nof the world, exploring moutains $nand hunting for some rare butterfly. $pOnce you have sighted the butterfly, $nthe path of your quest $nis established. Gaily up the mountains $nyou climb, thinking yourself secure in the immortality of youth. $nThe whole world opens before you like a flower $nand you pay no heed to the barking dog. $pIt is a wild little dog $ntrying to distract you from the butterfly $nbut tenacious like the flower $nwhich sticks to your hand throughout the quest. $nGradually you waste your youth $nroaming in the mountains. $pImperceptibly the mountains $nbecome more familiar and the little dog $ntamer. This is one sign of youth's $npassing; another is the dimming of the many-hued butterfly. $nSoon it is an effort to remember the quest $nand one day it seems as if every flower $phas withered. At last you notice the flower $nin your hand. It flickers in the light of the sun on snow-capped $N$Tmountains $njust before it vanishes. Now your quest $nis everywhere for the flower, and the little dog $nsnaps fiercely at your heels. The butterfly $nvanishes too, and with it all the hopes of youth. $pNow the mountains resound with echoes of the little dog's barks: $n'Alas, poor youth! In all your quest $ndid you never see that flower and butterfly are one?' $pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.mage$pYou see a dark-haired man in a scarlet robe with one hand upraised and the other pointing to the ground. In your ear a voice chants: $PSurrounded by roses $Nhe stands behind the table of elements $Nbrandishing the staff of magic. $NCrowned with infinity, $nhe knows when to wield the sword $nand when to offer the cup. $pSomeday I hope to drink a cup $nof his wine made from roses. $nSomeday I hope to use his sword $nto cut through the illusory tangle of elements. $nSomeday I will understand infinity $nand work my own magic. $pFor now, I live in a world without magic, $nbeginning every morning with a cup $nof mundane coffee, fearing that I will spend an infinity $nof time puttering around with roses $nin my off-hours, caught up in all the elements $nof suburbia. It would take a sword $pto set me free, but I have never seen a sword, $nonly paring knives. I long for magic, $nfor some startling rearrangement of the elements: $nthe Holy Grail instead of just a cup $nand a friend whose soul has the whorled depth of roses $nspiralling into infinity. $pHow can I enter infinity? $nBy slicing through the walls around me with the sword $nof wisdom, by seeing how the roses $nextend endlessly beyond red. Magic $nis where you find it. Any cup $ncan be the Grail. It does not require special elements. $pThe Periodic Table of Elements $nprovides matter enough to fill infinity. $nNothing else is needed. The chipped cup $nI drink from, the sword- $nlike letter opener I use on bills, the roses $nI plant by the sidewalk--these are the essence of magic. $pAbracadabra! Open Sesame! Words are the magic sword $nI use to transmute elements into roses $nand to fill my cup with infinity. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.priestess$pYou see a woman sitting in front of a veil, dressed in blue, with a book in her lap. In your ear a voice chants: $pSomewhere in the desert $nis a woman in flowing $nrobes, wearing a crescent $ncrown. Her skin is colorless, white, $nand her long, long hair the deepest black. $nI read about her once in a book $pbut have forgotten her name. The title of the book, $ntoo, escapes me, but it was about the desert $nand illustrated with photographs in black $nand white, showing places where everything flows $nbut water, and buildings are intensely white. $nFlags in that region are adorned with a crescent, $pfor where the sun is a killer, the crescent $nmoon is the guardian of the sky. It is a simple place: one book $ncontains all philosophy, and everyone dresses in white. $nThe language of the desert $nis not simple: coughing gutturals, flowing $nl's and r's, and no vowels, so 'black' $pcould easily be 'block' or 'bleak' in the black $nscript of the calligrapher. Some nights the crescent- $nhorned lady spreads her flowing $nhair across the sky, so that all can read the stars like a book $nof wordless poetry. At night the desert $nhas two colors only: white $pstars against black sky; black shadows against white $nsand. In the daytime there is no black $noutside, for the sun surrounds all objects in the desert $nwith pounding, sparkling, glittering crescent $ncurls of light, light that fills the head of the book- $nlearned visitor with the ebb-and-flow $pof pain. Like sand in a storm light flows $nand diffuses, making the whole sky white $nand empty like the blank pages of a notebook $nwaiting for the stars of black $nletters to relieve the loneliness of the desert. $nAnd all this is blessed by the lady of the crescent. $pTwice a month in the desert the crescent $nmoon appears, presenting her book of mutability: white $nand black always flowing into each other, yin and yang. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.empress$pYou see a woman gowned in pink, reclining upon a couch under a grape arbor. In your ear a voice chants: $pSo often she is blamed, for bounty $nthat we consider to be temptation, $nfor the weeds in the garden, $nand for the copious fountain $nof tears we shed. Her mirror $nreflects all the colors $pof the universe, but the only colors $nwe see are the ones of our face. Even this is bounty $nfor without such a revealing mirror, $nwe would never learn the results of giving into temptation, $nnor would we be able to observe her fountain $nof love watering our interior gardens. $pHer universe is formed of a series of gardens $nwith flowers and fruits, jewels, fishes, and faces of every color, $nbubbling up from her depths in a fountain $nof unending and ingenious bounty. $nWhy do we call some of her flowers temptations $nand try to pretend we didn't see what appeared in her mirror? $pWe fear what is in the mirror $nand trying to smash it, instead wreck her garden. $nIn trying to uproot temptation, $nwe would eliminate all color $nfrom the world, trample upon its bounty, $nand pollute its fountains. $pIf for one moment we drank sincerely from her fountain, $nthe face in the mirror, $neven the faces for which a federal bounty $nis offered, would appear as pristine as the first faces in the Garden. $nIf for one moment we saw every color $nclearly, then desires would cease to be temptations. $pO Mother Earth, lead me into temptation, $nfor I have long abstained from the Fountain $nof Youth and am weary of a grey-colored $nasphalt existence. In the mirror $nI see an old woman, a garden $ngone to seed. Please, bless me again from your bounty. $pBounty rejected produces a fountain of bitterness. $nThe temptation is to avoid it, to look away from the mirror, $nto hide in the garden, trying to be colorless. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.emperor$pYou see a crowned man brandishing a sword with a city in the background. In your ear a voice chants: $pHe sits upon a massive throne, a blanket $ncovering his armor. Grimly $nhis eyes scan the horizon. $pWhen I was little, my father had an armchair, a throne, $nand I would crawl into his lap with my blanket $nand listen to the tales of the Brothers Grimm. $nThat was when, in my eyes, $nmy father was the greatest ruler on the horizon, $na genuine knight in shining armor. $pWhen did I first encase myself in armor? $nWhen did my father withdraw to a remote throne? $nWhen did the magic towers on the horizon $nbecome smokestacks exhaling an orange blanket $nof smog, causing my eyes $nto tear and my heart grow grim? $pI remember the past as grim, $na constant shifting battle requiring armor, $nrequiring vigilance and open eyes, $nlest some usurper occupy my throne $nand smother me in a blanket. $nI remember a horizon $pbounded by fear, a horizon $nfilled with tiny grim $nwarriors billowing across the plain like a blanket $ncovering the sleep-drugged earth, their armor $nwinking in the sun as they approached my throne $nreflecting so much light I had to shield my eyes... $pNow I try to make my eyes $nenvision a friendlier horizon. $nNow I try to share my throne, $nto stand down from my position of grimness. $nNow I try to exchange my uncomfortable armor $nfor a soft and fuzzy blanket. $pBut always there must be a guard wrapped in a blanket, $nwith paranoid, watchful eyes, $nsomeone who takes care of his armor, $nanticipating the eruption of enemies over the horizon, $nsomeone always ready for something grim. $nCall him a father if you will, the king upon his throne. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.hierophant$pYou see a dark-skinned priest robed in purple presiding over an altar decked with flowers, fruit, incense, and candles. In your ear a voice chants: $pPersonal faith requires no altar, $nbut groups find a blessing in ritual, $nhence the mysteries of incense smoke and chanting. $pChildren enjoy ritual. $nThey make offerings full of faith $nupon makeshift and gaudy altars. $nThey like to watch the smoke $ncurls of incense. They like to chant. $nTheir innocence is a blessing. $pThe elderly, too, find blessing $nin the steadiness of ritual. $nThey lose themselves in the chants $nof a memorized faith. $nThrough age's softening smoke $nthey perceive what sustains them on the altar. $pDoes it matter for which figure the altar $nis built? You can still receive a blessing $nwhether it's Christ or Buddha or the Great Mother. The smoke $nfrom your offering is the chief element in the ritual. $nWhat matters is your faith, $nnot the words of the chant. $pEven so, words are necessary to chanting, $njust as figures are necessary to altars. $nCandles, flowers, and fruit are given in every faith. $nSome say they are bribes exchanged for earthly blessings, $nbut that is too easy an interpretation of ritual, $nan understanding obscured by cynical smoke. $pWhat mystery lies behind the veil of smoke? $nWhat truths are concealed in the chants? $nThe significant action in a ritual $nis the construction of an altar. $nThe act of giving is itself the blessing, $nthe faith itself the faith. $pWhatever the faith, $nthe incense produces sweet smoke. $nWe give thanks for our blessings $nin Latin, Swahili, and Sanskrit chants. $nCommunities find their identities on altars $nand unite their members through ritual. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.lovers$pYou see two people embracing beneath an apple tree. In your ear a voice chants: $pIt began with Adam and Eve, naked $nin the Garden of Eden. That's us; $nwe have found our way to the peak $nof the world, to a place where the sun $nalways shines, where the Tree $nof Life grows despite the poison of the snake. $pIt will take time before I cease fearing the snake. $nWhenever you and I lie naked $ntogether in the shadow of the tree, $nI listen for its slither coming towards us. $nBut I hear nothing, not even the movement of the sun $nfilling my body with valleys and peaks $pto delight your eyes. Take me to the peak $nof enchantment with your magical snake. $nBurn me with the fiery sun $nof your gaze. I lie here naked $nfor you and no other. No one exists but us $nin this particular universe formed by this particular tree. $nThe Garden of Eden is encompassed by the tree's $nboughs; there is no higher peak $nof paradise than what we make between us. $nAs long as we are together, no snake $ncan harm us; as long as we are naked $nwe need not fear the rays of the sun. $pIs it inevitable that the course of the sun $nwill call us away from our haven under the tree? $nIs it inevitable that we must clothe our naked $nflesh and depart the ecstatic peak? $nI think these are the whispers of the snake. $nI think we could stay as long as it pleases us. $pHow strange that once 'us' $nconsisted of you and me, sharing nothing but the same sun. $nNow we are bound to each other in the coils of the snake. $nI knew he was under the tree, $nthat he lurked somewhere upon this mountain peak. $nI did not notice at first, because he was so close, and I so naked. $pI have drunk the snake's poison and bitten into the Tree $nof Life's naked apple. The sun still shines; $nlet us keep climbing to the top of the peak. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.chariotYou see a youth whose head is surrounded with stars driving a blue chariot drawn by a light brown horse. A city is nestled among the hills in the distance. In your ear a voice chants: $pI want to depart the city $nand go exploring among the stars. $nI want a vehicle with speed, $nwith its energies balanced $nand in harmony. I want to ride on circles $ninto time's endless spiral. $pI follow the path of a Moebius spiral, $nlooping and convoluting throughout the city, $nround and round in circles, $nfar from the field of stars. $nIf only I could balance $non a line, then I would make good speed. $pI want to travel at the speed $nof light (or faster), to dance in a chromosome spiral. $nI want to find the balance $nbetween movement and rest, between city $nand nature. I want the stars $nto gather round me in a circle. $pWhirling in a circle $nthe racers speed, $nlike photons trying to escape from a star. $nThey think it a circle, but it is a spiral. $nThe city they leave is not quite the city $nthey return to. Keeping your balance $pis difficult in a world where nothing balances, $nwhere the pure symmetry of the circle $nis illusion, the community of the city $nillusion, the sensation of speed $nillusion, where the outermost edge of the spiral $ntakes you to a place of no stars. $pHow beautiful are the stars! $nSurely they live in balance, $ncomfortable with spirals $nthat flatten into circles. $nSurely they enjoy moving at the speed $nof light, to join the throngs in the city. $pFaster, faster! Drive with speed through the city, $nbalancing carefully on the highway's spirals. $nDon't ask if you're going in circles; don't waste time on the stars. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.justice$pIn a gray room with pillars you see a white-haired woman wearing a blindfold and holding a balance in one hand and a gavel in the other. A voice in your ear chants $pWe like to believe in the actuality of our laws. $nWe like to think that our courts $nweigh accurately in their scales, $nthat they ensure the triumph of right $nand that proper penalties are assessed wrong- $ndoers. We are blind. $pOccasionally we suspect the universe is completely blind, $nfollowing no discernible moral law, $nfor all the benefits of fortune to go the wrong $npeople, the ones who shamelessly court $nthe rich and powerful, who guarantee their rights $nby putting a plump thumb on the scale. $pIn a moment of bitterness, the scales $nfall from our eyes, and we are no longer blind. $nThere is nothing to be called 'right,' $nand what we protect with our laws $nis simply a marble-pillared court $ntiled with porphyry. This is all wrong. $pIs it better to have a system that's wrong $nor to destroy the scales $nand close the courts? $nSince Justice is blind, $nwhy make an effort to shed light on the world through laws? $nWe can no longer uphold the right; $pwe can only go after our rights, $nin a battle that is wrong, $nwaged with a multitude of laws $ndesigned to weight the scales $nin favor of the rich, who turn a blind $neye to the misery in low-income housing courts. $pMeanwhile, biding her time in a dusty corner of the court $nsits the one arbiter of right, $nthe only being not blinded $nby all our evasions and self-serving wrongs. $nJustice continues to balance her scales $nwith love and courage and natural law. $pThe blind find beauty; wrongs are redressed. $nThose who engage in right action are courted, $nObserve the movements of the scales; then formulate your laws. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.hermitYou see a hooded figure with a staff holding a lantern. Behind him shines a full moon. A voice in your ear chants: $pWhat is the virtuous path? $nOne that takes time. $nOne that consumes you in repentance. $nOne that is plain $nand lonely $nand lit with the lantern $pof conscience. Diogenes carried a lantern, $nsearching for an honest man on every path, $ntrying to find the lone $nsoul who would say, 'It's daytime! $nCan you not see the sun plainly? $nPut out that light and repent $pof your foolishness!' Diogenes never repented. $nNo one understood why he carried his lantern. $nThey thought he was trying to make plain $nthe city's dark and labyrinthine paths, $nbut he wanted to see who would take the time $nto investigate this loner. $pHe wanted to see who would step out of his own loneliness, $nwho would look beyond the sign saying 'Repent!' $nand take a little of his precious time $nto chat with a crazy guy carrying a lantern $nin broad daylight, revealing a path $nthat can already be seen quite plainly. $pSometimes you can't see what's plain $nas the nose on your own lone $nface. You drag your feet along the path, $nregretting everything, repenting $nnothing. And then someone blinds you with a lantern $nsaying, 'How much time $pdo you have?' No time $nat all to waste, that's plain, $nbut time enough to take a lantern $nand join the ranks of the lonely $nwanderers, accepting each painful step in repentance $nfor too many days (and nights) on the primrose path. $pHow do you measure the time of repentance? $nWith every lonely step on the path $nacross the dry plain, with every lighting of the lantern. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.wheel$pYou see a brightly-colored wheel on a stand. A ladder leans against the left side, a throne sits on top, and on the right, a crowned figure tumbles to the ground. A voice in your ear chants: $pI can't understand the workings of fate. $nI can't understand why I have such bad luck $nwhile others, less deserving, dance way up $nhigh, looking down on the rest of us with laughter. $nI can't understand what impels gamblers $nto keep throwing their money down. $pPeople complain that I'm melancholy, down- $nhearted, cursing the whole system of fate. $nInstead of pondering the imponderables, I should take a gamble, $na flutter, and chance my luck. $nI should learn to accept what happens with laughter $ninstead of crying and giving up. $pI've seen too much--the young going up $nthe ladder of success with arrogance, the old tumbling down $nwith fear. What cause is there for laughter $nin the tragic inevitability of fate? $nUltimately we all run out of luck, $neven the most astute gambler, $peven the mustachioed, bold-eyed riverboat gambler, $nwho knows by instinct (or something less reputable) which card will turn up. $nWhat is it like to live on the edge of luck, $nto experience every emotion before sundown, $nto challenge indifferent fate $nwith defiant laughter? $pYes, I am too timid. My ears ring with the laughter $nof those unafraid to gamble $nwith an always winning fate. $nAwkwardly I try to dance through the dizzying ups $nand the heart-stopping downs $nof that cruel partner, luck. $pI keep hoping my luck $nwill change, and I'll be able to join in the world's laughter. $nThe wheel has cast me down $nso many times that I should no longer mind gambling. $nPerhaps this time I will rise up $nand be greeted by a smiling fate. $pWhat is luck's purpose? To teach us laughter, $nto show us that what goes up must inevitably come down, $nto lure us into gambling that our fate will be the reverse. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.strength$pYou see a woman dressed in blue restraining a golden-maned lion. A clump of trees is in the background. A voice in your ear chants: $pIt is hard, administering discipline. $nWithin me is a rampaging beast $nthat requires all my energy $nto restrain it from biting. $nIf I made no effort to be patient and gentle, $nI would certainly run wild. $pFor years, therefore, I have repressed my wild $nside, conforming to a strict discipline $nin the attempt at least to appear gentle. $nI don't want others to see the beast $nchained up inside; I don't want to be punished for biting. $nIt's no wonder I am tired and lack energy. $pTo maintain a flow of energy, $nyou must engage the creatures of the wild $nand not flinch from their sharp biting $nteeth. This requires discipline, $nlest fear of the beast $nmakes you ungentle. $pKilling what scares you is not gentle. $nKilling unleashes violent and frightened energies, $nturning everyone into a beast $nwith rolling eyes and wild $nshrieks, undisciplined $nin its clawing and biting. $pWhen you feel the urge to bite, $nfind something you won't hurt. Gently $nsink your teeth into it, paying close attention to what happens. $n$tThis discipline $nwill gradually restore your energy, $ngiving you mastery of the wild $nand making you King (or Queen) of the Beasts. $pThat is how Beauty tamed her Beast, $nloving him despite his bites, $nstaying with him in the wild $nuntil he became gentle. $nThe reformed beast has tremendous energy $nand responds to her discipline $pwith love. Be wild. Be gentle. $nLet your beast bite $nenergetically into discipline. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.hanged man$pYou see a man dressed in green dangling upside-down, with one foot bound to a gallows. His face is calm, even happy. A voice in your ear chants: $pSometimes the wind blows dreams topsy-turvy. $nSometimes the hero is twisted in a knot $nof pain; sometimes the good guys are sacrificed. $pIn a dream $nI saw the hero, $ndying in sacrifice $nfor our pain. $nI tried to cry out, but a knot $nin my throat prevented me, and the wind $ptook away my words. How the wind $nblows, on the edge of a dream! $nIt whips your hair into elf-knots $nand whirls the hero $nfrom one adventure to another, oblivious of pain $nuntil the time for sacrifice $parises. What is it like to be a sacrifice? $nBuffeted by the cruel wind $nof a crowd indifferent to your pain, $nyou see death coming like something from a terrible dream. $nYou discover that you are no longer a hero, $nthat you are not $panything any more, just a bag of clothes tied up in knots. $nIn that moment you must sacrifice $nyour concepts of heroism. $nYour life narrows to the breath of wind $nacross your face. You drift in and out of dreams $ntrying to escape from pain. $pDeath is filled with pain, $nlong-reliable muscles contracting into knots, $nand long-accustomed thoughts becoming nightmarish dreams, $nin which you suspect your glorious sacrifice $nhas no greater value than a dandelion seed blown on the wind. $nQuite possibly you were not the hero $pof your own life. Quite possibly there is no hero $nbut only pain $nand a howling wind. $nMake fast your illusions with tight knots $nlest the universe require a sacrifice $nof egoistic dreams. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.death$pYou see a skeleton wielding a sickle. On his shoulder is perched a crow. Behind him a city is in flames, white smoke billowing into a black night sky. In your ear a voice chants: $pIt is a question that plagues $nevery culture: what should be done with the body $nwhen there is no more life? Wars $nhave been fought over whether it should be laid in a grave $nor consumed in a purifying fire. $nPractical people give it to the crows $pto recycle, but most of us dislike the notion of feeding crows $neven though we have often fed viral and bacterial plagues. $nWe prefer the more sanitary vision of fuel for fire. $nThe idea that other creatures will live off the cast-off body $nis so distasteful that we line our graves $nwith lead to keep out the worms. This is our declaration of war $pagainst nature. From this individual war $ncome the great wars, producing battlefields of carrion for crows $nand vast ditches dug as graves. $nThe false sense of self-importance is the first plague, $nthe one that insists one's own body $nshould be exempt from Nature's cook-fire. $pAnd I am no different, shrinking from the thought of the final fire. $nAt my deepest level a war $nrages between clean spirit and soiled body. $nWithin me something crows $nof immortality. Thousands might succumb to a plague, $nbut I will avoid the grave. $pI try to confront the terrors of the grave, $nto imagine the small rustlings of decay, the hiss of fire. $nI read accounts of the bubonic plague $nand eyewitness descriptions of wars. $nDaily I hear the cawing of crows, $nbut I still think my body $pwill somehow remain intact, or that ghost and body $nwill separate easily, with no disturbing claustrophobia in the grave, $nor noisy crunching of crows' $nbeaks, or stinging heat from the crematorium's fire. $nMy ghost will float above earth's wars, $nremaining untouched by humanity's dreadful plagues. $pSomeday death will shove my body into a grave, $ndefeating me through war or plague, $nbut my inner fire will continue; perhaps I'll return as a dainty and ladylike, $n$tprim, and persnickety, shiny black, patent-leather crow. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.temperance$pYou see an angel whose wings shimmer with many colors pouring water from one golden cup to another. Behind him is a lake bordered by reeds and irises. In your ear a voice chants: $pIn the middle of distress comes a moment of peace, $na moment that is quiet $nexcept for the music $nof lapping water, $na moment in which you feel safe, $na moment that gives a foretaste of heaven. $pNevertheless, those who think heaven $nis a place of residence for the peaceful $ndead, a place eternally safe $nfrom disruptions, a nursing home eternally quiet, $nwill see their illusions evaporate like boiling water. $nIt is not merely a place of music, $pbut a place where even noise sounds like music. $nThe landscape of heaven $nis always pleasant, even when watered $nby freezing rain. If your mind is at peace, $nand your brain quiet, $nyou will find safety $peven in the middle of danger. True safety $nlies only in conflict, the harmonies of music, $nthe rhythms of quiet. $nContrasts form a heaven; $nyou cannot have peace $nif all differences melt into a watery $pmush. Learn to swim in the water, $nfor no ship is entirely safe. $nUnless you take part in the war, peace $nis too dull, lacking music. $nEarth is where you will find heaven; $neverywhere else is just too quiet. $pTake time to sit quietly, $nto listen to water $ndripping from a faucet, or some other unheavenly $nsound. Eventually you will move safely $nthroughout the universe; you will hear the music $nof the spheres (car alarms included) and find peace. $pIt is tempting to cling to this peace, to try to stay quiet $nand enjoy the music. But the river water $nkeeps moving. Resistance is unsafe; let yourself fall $n$tinto the cacaphony of heaven. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.devil$pYou see a squat, brown, horned creature with a torch in one hand and a whip in the other. He is perched on a purple block to which a small man and woman are chained. In your ear a voice chants: $p'I thought I'd found heaven, so why do I feel like hell?' $nIt's inevitable: after a banquet comes a shit; $nafter bright day comes the dark $nof night. Close friends turn into enemies $n(remember your ex?), the objects of pleasure become chains, $nand the gentle world of contentment is inexplicably filled with violence. $pI want to resist the violence, $nto escape falling into the fires of hell. $nThe more I struggle against my chains, $nthe more they tighten; the more I try to avoid shit, $nthe more likely I am to fall into it--metaphorically;$n$tthe more I placate my enemies, $nthe more voracious they become. All is dark $pabout me. Afraid of the dark $nI spin into madness, fighting violently $neveryone who comes near me, for they are all enemies. $nThe city where I live is a junkyard hell; $nthe countryside reeks of cowshit. $nDrugs might help me slip out of reality's cold chains, $pbut drugs become chains $nthemselves. Despairing, I go into the dark. $nI am tired of shit. $nI am tired of human violence. $nI am tired of the hell $nwe have created through greed. All of humanity is my enemy. $pI will punish my enemies. $nI will bind them in chains $nand throw them into the hell $nthey deserve. Perhaps when they're alone in the dark $nand threatened with violence $nand forced to eat shit, $pthey will give up polluting the world with shit. $nPerhaps they will cease to see others as enemies; $nperhaps they will let go of violence $nand help to free prisoners from their chains. $nPerhaps when they become accustomed to the dark, $nthey will find their way out of hell. $pDark logic forges our chains: $nIf friends exist, then so do enemies; if heaven, then also hell. $nHuman beings make shit; therefore, they must be violently purged. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.tower$pYou see a tower struck by lightning in a storm of golden rain. A crowned man and woman fall from the tower to the rocks below. A voice in your ear chants: $pIt can come upon you so quickly $nin the middle of the night, $nthe thunderstorm, $nfilled with lightning, tornadoes and icy rain, $nthat in one instant destroys $nwhat you took years to build. $pThe Bible advises you to build $nupon rock rather than sand, but slow or quick, $neven the most solid rock is destroyed. $nAt some time you will find yourself without shelter for the night, $nno roof to keep out the rain, $nan infant wailing in the storm. $pFor a while you cry and storm $nwith rage, but then you begin to build $nagain. Again troubles rain $nupon you like tiny knives cutting you to the quick. $nIn the soul's dark night, $nyour belief in the future is destroyed. $pEverything eventually will be destroyed. $nA local Apocalypse occurs whenever a storm $nfells a tree, whenever night $ndescends, or a building $nis demolished, whenever the quick $nbecome the dead. Every rain $pdrowns a cosmos of ants. Alone I am a drop of rain, $nmy existence destroyed, $neasily and quickly $nas soon as I am pushed out of a cloud by a storm. $nAfraid, I begin building $na protective cocoon, a fortress, in which to survive the night. $pLighting pierces the night, $nshattering a monolith into bits of rain, $nshattering the edifice so carefully built. $nThe winner is always Kali the Destroyer, $ndescending upon you out of the storm $nthat arose from nothing, quickly. $pDo not let the storm frighten you. The seed-case you built $nwill be destroyed, but overnight you will see $na quick-growing sprout, nourished by rain. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.star$pYou see a young naked woman pouring water into a lake. A bird sits in a tree above her, and there are seven stars in the night sky. In your ear a voice chants: $pOut of chaos flows the River of Heaven, $nthe Milky Way, creation's spring, $ngiving us carbon and silicon, rocks and birds. $pDestroying illusions produces chaos, $nthat vast pool of spilled milk $nwhich becomes the sacred river, $nthe burbling well-spring $nof life, the substance that gives $nitself to all--every fish, insect, animal, and bird. $pThe messenger to Noah was a bird, $nbringing an olive branch to signal the end of chaos. $nThe flood was an excess of giving, $nan overly generous supply of milk, $nan explosion of springs $ncreating torrential rivers. $pToday the river $nis peaceful, and birds $nchirp merrily, welcoming spring. $nThe universe is in joyful chaos, $na place flowing with milk $nand honey, in which everyone gives $pto everyone else. Giving $nis the only way to create rivers. $nIt is what makes milk $nout of water and a Phoenix out of a mere bird. $nGiving transforms chaos, $nmelting winter into spring. $pThe lengthening days of spring $nare filled with giving. $nEarth is carpeted with a chaos $nof flowers; a river $nof crocuses greets the returning birds; $nand cows give milk $pto their calves. Drink my milk, $nsays the goddess of spring. $nClothe yourself in flower petals and bird $nfeathers, and find a lover to give $nyourself to on the bank of the river. $nBreak free from restrictive order; dive into chaos. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.moon$pYou see the Man in the Moon looking down on a hilly landscape with two towers on either side of a road. A dog and a wolf sit in front of the towers, and a scorpion crawls out of the water and on to the road. In your ear a voice chants: $pFaith is what causes you to evolve. $nYou begin with a creepy-crawly form $nand then develop the feelings of a heart $nand the complex structures of a mind. $nAlways you are pulled $ninto the unknown by the moon's reflecting $plight. You have much to reflect $non: What is the direction in which you'll evolve? $nWhat force pulls $nyou from one unusual form $nto another? Is there a mind $nplanning your growth? Does the maker of the universe have a heart? $pLook for the answers in your own heart. $nWhat you see reflected, $nlike sunlight on the moon, is the one mind $nof the universe. It evolves $nas you explore the consequences of form. $nSomething is pulled $pout of emptiness; something responds to the pull $nof light with a loving heart. $nSomething is willing to take form $nin order to reflect $nlight. Something is willing to evolve $ninto a mind $pthat perceives light. What is the mind? $nA history pulled $nthrough the changes of evolution $nshaped into a heart $nthat is able to reflect $non the interplay of emptiness and form. $pHow strange that this limited form $nshould be an expression of the vast mind. $nWhat odd structures does it reflect? $nWhat curious memories have been pulled $nout of the great unconscious heart $nin which emptiness evolves? $pIt is a mystery what forms the heart $ninto something that will reflect mind. $nThe pull of mystery is what makes evolution. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.sun$pYou see a many-rayed golden sun smiling above an infant playing in the grass. A voice in your ear chants: $pBetween the sun and the spirit-child $nis a wall of air $nthrough which light travels at the speed of love. $pWhat is light? $nSomething which helps us distinguish solid wall $nfrom insubstantial air. $nAnd what is love? $nSomething which helps us distinguish solid child $nfrom insubstantial spirit. $pNo, protests the spirit, $nyou have quite misunderstood the nature of light. $nIf all you perceive is a child $nseparated from the world by a wall, $nthen you are not reading the language of love. $nMake yourself as open as air $pand let this air $nbe inhaled by the spirits $naround you. It is an act of love $nthat will lighten $nthe thick heavy wall $nimprisoning a joyful child. $pWhatever happened to the child $nin your baby pictures, the one happily playing with air? $nWhen did the heavy wall $ndescend, separating the world into matter and spirit, $ndarkness and light, $nfear and its opposite, love? $pThere is only love. $nLook at the people around you. They are children. $nTheir faces fill with light $nwhen they are given air $nto breathe, when their spirits $nare released from the dungeon walls $pbuilt by fear. How can you dissolve the wall? $nLook at it patiently, with love. $nTrapped within the wall are spirits-- $nall the painful memories from childhood. $nBreathe on them with the air $nof forgiveness and smile when they turn into light. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.judgment$pYou see a winged angel in the sky blowing a trumpet. Below, a man and a woman emerge from coffins floating in the sea. In your ear a voice chants: $pIt is one of the strangest things on earth, $nthat moment of waking $nwhen you go from nothing to a full-fledged soul $nWhat happens in the realm of sleep? $nYou think you have a deep $nunderstanding of the matter, but really, you just know what it's called. $pAt any moment Gabriel's trumpet can call $nyou away from your duties and pleasures on earth. $nThe more deeply $nyou are involved, the more painful it is to wake $nfrom your soothing and dream-filled sleep. $nNevertheless, your soul $presponds. What is your soul? $nThat which answers when your name is called. $nIt doesn't go anywhere when you sleep. $nIt doesn't go anywhere when you are laid to rest in the earth. $nIt is always awake $neven when buried deeply $punder mounds of stuff. It is not necessary to dig deep $nfor some treasure called soul. $nAll you have to do is wake $nfrom the dream of nomenclature called $nthe real world. Plant Earth $nis simply the garden plot where seeds sleep. $pLike any seed you will sleep $nuntil you are ripe and ready to send your roots deep $ninto the warm and nourishing earth. $nUntil then, let your soul $nbe easy. There is no such thing called $ndeath; there is only transformation. Once you wake $pfrom your illusions, you will join the Buddha in saying 'I am awake.' $nUntil then, it doesn't matter what shape you sleep $nin. All that changes is what you are called. $nForms are like nightgowns; now you are a barracuda deep $nin the ocean, now a purveyor of poems for the soul, $nnow a worm turning dead stuff into earth. $pWho blows the trumpet that summons your soul from its deep $nand pleasant sleep of a place called $nearth? Wake up and find out! $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.world$pYou see a figure dancing in a ring formed by a rainbow snake eating its own tail. In the four corners are a man, an eagle, a bull, and a lion. A voice in your ear chants: $pOut of nothing comes the beginning, $nwhich leads to the dance that has no end, $nuntil you know how to find your way home. $pIn the beginning $nof your life you leave home, $nfor it seems as if you know $nonly too well how your parents' sentences will end, $nand there is nothing $nnew, and no room for you to dance. $pSo you throw yourself into the dance $nand begin $nto experiment with making something from nothing, $nwith creating a home $nto which you can come at the day's end. $nYou want a place where you know $pWhat will happen next, where you know $nwhere to put your feet in the dance. $nYour life seems to stretch without end, $nand you can hardly remember the beginning, $nwhen your mortgaged and decorated home $ncontained nothing $pbut some orange-crate furniture. Nothing $nwould ever change, you thought, for you knew $nthe address of your home. $nGradually you forgot how to dance $nand forgot that you were surrounded by a snake whose beginning $nwas constantly eating her tail's end. $pJust when you thought you'd reached the happy end $nof your story, you discovered that nothing $nturned out the way you thought it would in the beginning. $nNow you have been thrown into the unknown $nand must learn how to dance $nto strange music. Now you are home- $psick, for a while, until you make yourself at home $nwith surprise endings $nand unexpected pirouettes in the dance. $nOnce you learn that nothing $nis predictable, that nothing can be known, $nthen you will find yourself in beginning, and ending, and again $n$tbeginning. $p$pAs suddenly as it appeared, the scene vanishes, and you see only the reflection of someone who is quite good-looking, really.Tent$pYou lift the flap of the tent and walk in. A card table is here and a folding chair, but what really draws your attention is the large glass globe sitting on the table. You wonder if you should wait for a gypsy fortune teller to show up, but there's only one chair. You sit down.NowhereHeroHuh?I don't understand.I don't know what you mean by 'all'.I don't know what you mean by 'it'.I don't know what you mean by 'them'.You can't refer to multiple objects with '$v'.I can't guess what you want to $v.You must supply a noun.You must give an object after 'but'.You can only use 'but' after 'all'.That doesn't leave much to $v!I don't know which $1 you mean.I can't see any $1 here.You can't go that way.You can't do that.You can't $v the $1.There is nothing here that you can $v.There is$$, and here.is here.Thecontains, and $$.Theis empty.You have scoredpoints out ofI don't know that word.<More>(again)Enter file name to save inThat file already exists, overwrite (RETURN confirms) ? Sorry, save failed.Sorry, could not open that save file.Sorry, the save file was created by a different version.Sorry, the save file did not contain a save for this adventure.Enter file name to restore fromAre you sure (RETURN confirms) ? Do you want to RESTART, RESTORE or QUIT ? a$pWalking through the museum, you come to a tent of blue cloth spangled with gold stars of all sizes. A card on the tent reads: $pCRYSTAL BALL, An exhibit in Alan, by Fatima (1999), last compiled 07-04-99, Serial 990407, Release 1.0. (For assistance, type 'help'.