Chapter 8 — Bone Handicrafts
And thus begins Chapter Eight.
Now, children.
When last we left the Unbegun,
he had escaped an ashram because they refused to permit cigarettes,
accidentally discovered a secret cafe,
meditated with strangers,
received agricultural therapy from a mysterious Tibetan woman,
and left carrying a fidget cube and an unopened prophecy.
The council nods.
A productive morning.
And so I walked.
No map.
No destination.
Just vaguely in the direction of Odin’s Abode.
Or at least,
what I had decided was the direction of Odin’s Abode.
The council remains skeptical.
Then,
I entered a market.
The council immediately becomes concerned.
Children.
Markets are dangerous places for creatures like me.
Not physically.
Financially.
Because I possess what scholars refer to as:
Crow Brain.
The council nods.
Shiny object?
Want.
Strange object?
Want.
Object with no practical purpose whatsoever but possessing excellent vibes?
Absolutely want.
And this market
gods.
It had everything.
Trinkets.
Jewelry.
Little statues.
Oddly shaped objects whose function remained entirely theoretical.
Clothes that looked like someone had given fabric access to psychedelics.
Food.
Beads.
Scarves.
Bracelets.
Incense.
Things hanging from ceilings.
Things piled onto tables.
Things hidden inside boxes.
The council watches my wallet nervously.
But children.
Something unexpected had happened.
The Unbegun had created a rule.
The council gasps.
A rule?
Correct.
Do not buy everything you like.
The council falls silent.
Who are you?
Patience.
The rule continued.
I could look at everything.
Touch everything.
Admire everything.
Want everything.
But I would buy only one thing.
The thing I liked most.
The council applauds.
Financial maturity.
Let us not become dramatic.
I still had almost no money because I had previously spent it on being thrown from a platform and purchasing industrial grade agriculture.
But yes.
Growth.
And so,
I wandered through the market.
Saw something cool.
Did not buy it.
The council gasps.
Another cool thing.
Did not buy it.
Children.
This may genuinely have been more difficult than bungee jumping.
The council nods.
Then I saw the shop.
Bone Handicrafts.
The council pauses.
Bone?
Exactly.
I stopped.
Looked at the sign.
Looked inside.
Then back at the sign.
Bone.
Children.
You cannot place that word in front of the Unbegun and expect him to behave normally.
I entered immediately.
The council applauds.
And holy moly.
The place was magnificent.
Keychains.
Bracelets.
Necklaces.
Decorations.
Handles.
Knives.
Beads.
All sorts of strange little objects,
made,
presumably,
from bone.
The council raises an eyebrow.
Presumably?
Children.
I am not a forensic scientist.
For all I know,
half the shop was polished stone,
resin,
plastic,
howlite,
or some ambitious goat’s former infrastructure.
The archive cannot confirm.
But the shop said bone.
Therefore,
bone.
The council accepts this scientific standard.
Now.
I browsed.
Slowly.
Remember the rule.
One thing.
Only one.
And eventually,
I found it.
A bracelet.
White beads in the shape of skulls.
The council leans forward.
Children.
It looked cool as hell.
That was the entire evaluation process.
No deeper symbolism.
No spiritual calling.
No revelation from the universe.
Skulls.
Bracelet.
Cool.
Purchased.
The council applauds.
Relic acquired.
Now.
I examined it outside.
Turned it around in my hand.
Looked closely.
And began to suspect something.
The council waits.
This might not actually be bone.
Perhaps howlite.
Perhaps some other material carved to resemble it.
The council nods.
A reasonable conclusion.
Children.
I will be telling people it is bone.
The council collapses.
Reality is occasionally less important than presentation.
And besides,
“Look at my howlite bracelet”
possesses significantly less narrative power than:
“This bracelet is made of bone.”
The council reluctantly agrees.
Now.
As I continued walking,
another thought appeared.
The council becomes concerned.
The necklaces.
Children.
Remember the relic from Kasol?
The little bone tag bearing its name.
And now,
the Rishikesh tag.
Bone as well.
Or bone ish.
The council understands.
And this bracelet?
Bone.
Therefore,
obviously,
they belonged together.
The council applauds.
The Bone Archive.
Exactly.
Instead of wearing the necklaces separately,
I would attach the tags to the bracelet.
One wandering.
One tag.
One bracelet carrying the roads with it.
The council grows interested.
At the time,
this was simply because:
Bone plus bone.
Children.
Do not assign me too much depth too quickly.
But I liked the idea.
Kasol.
Rishikesh.
And someday,
perhaps,
more.
Little pieces from each wandering,
gathered around one wrist.
A portable archive.
The crow was delighted.
Now.
There was only one problem.
I had to attach them.
The council stares.
Children.
I possess many skills.
Tying tiny pieces of string around tiny objects is apparently not among them.
I found a chai stall.
Sat down.
Ordered tea.
Placed the bracelet before me.
Removed the tags.
And began surgery.
The council watches.
Attempt One.
Failure.
Attempt Two.
Failure.
Attempt Three.
Somehow worse than Attempt One.
Children.
The string slipped.
The knot came undone.
The tag rotated.
The bracelet escaped.
At one point,
I believe I had successfully tied the necklace to my own finger.
The council applauds.
Engineering.
I persisted.
Because stubbornness is one of the few resources I possess in unlimited supply.
Another attempt.
Failure.
Another.
Failure.
And eventually,
the woman running the stall noticed.
The council smiles.
An older woman.
Grandmother age.
The sort of woman who had probably witnessed thousands of idiots pass through her chai stall,
but perhaps none quite so committed to losing a fight against string.
She watched me struggle.
For some time.
Then she gestured.
Give it here.
The council erupts.
SALVATION.
I surrendered the bracelet.
Immediately.
Children.
There are moments when pride must be abandoned.
This was one.
She took the tags.
The bracelet.
The string.
And began working.
No struggle.
No confusion.
No existential crisis.
Just fingers that knew what they were doing.
A knot here.
A loop there.
Tighten.
Adjust.
Done.
The council falls silent.
Magic.
Children.
What I had failed to accomplish through approximately seventeen engineering attempts,
this woman completed with the casual efficiency of someone tying a grocery bag.
She handed it back.
The bracelet now carried the tags.
Kasol.
Rishikesh.
Together.
The council smiles.
I stared at it.
Perfect.
Exactly what I wanted.
I thanked her.
Bought another chai.
The council nods.
Then we talked.
Or attempted to.
You see,
once again,
language presented itself as a theoretical inconvenience.
She knew little English.
I knew little Hindi.
And yet,
somehow,
conversation occurred.
The council waits.
About what?
Children.
Excellent question.
I remember pieces.
Where I came from.
Where she was from.
My travels.
Her stall.
People passing through.
Probably family.
Probably food.
Possibly several completely separate conversations that both of us believed were about the same subject.
The council laughs.
It did not matter.
I drank chai.
She spoke.
I responded with the portions of Hindi stored somewhere beneath decades of neglect.
She laughed.
I laughed.
When neither of us understood,
we simply smiled and tried again.
Then I ordered another chai.
And another.
The council starts counting.
Children.
I had entered the stall to tie a bracelet.
I remained for two hours.
The council grows quiet.
Two hours.
With someone whose language I barely spoke.
No grand story.
No wild event.
No mysterious pill.
No death ride.
No adventure.
Just tea.
A plastic chair.
An old woman.
And conversation held together almost entirely by effort.
And perhaps that was why I stayed.
Because Rishikesh kept doing this.
Kasol had thrown people at me like fireworks.
Loud.
Sudden.
Brilliant.
Gone.
Rishikesh seemed to offer people differently.
Quietly.
Sit here.
Drink this.
Talk for a while.
No need to know where it leads.
The council listens.
Eventually,
I looked at the time.
Two hours had disappeared.
Not through intoxication.
Not through sleep.
Not because of dangerous agriculture.
Just conversation.
Children.
There is something strangely comforting about discovering that two people do not need a shared language to enjoy each other’s company.
A little patience.
Some gestures.
Enough laughter.
And several cups of chai apparently do most of the translation.
The council nods.
Eventually,
I stood.
Paid what I owed.
Then added a little extra.
Not much.
Just enough to say:
Thank you for the bracelet.
Thank you for the tea.
Thank you for the two hours.
She protested slightly.
Naturally.
I insisted.
Naturally.
The council approves.
Then I waved.
She waved back.
And I left.
No contact details.
No names archived.
No promise to return.
Just another stranger who briefly entered the wandering,
fixed something I could not,
sat with me for a while,
and remained behind when the road continued.
The council grows quiet.
Children.
I think I’m beginning to understand why those people remain in memory.
Not because they stayed.
Because they didn’t have to.
Now.
I continued walking.
Still mapless.
Still only vaguely aware of where Odin’s Abode might be.
And yet,
eventually,
the roads began looking familiar.
A turn.
A slope.
A shop I had seen before.
Then another.
And there it was.
The council applauds.
Odin’s Abode.
Again.
Children.
At this point,
I began developing a theory.
Perhaps I wasn’t getting lucky.
Perhaps Rishikesh was simply designed this way.
Every road seemed to bend,
twist,
climb,
descend,
and somehow deposit me back in the same general area.
Like the city had placed Odin’s Abode at the center of some strange navigational vortex.
The council nods.
Or perhaps you were slowly learning the roads.
Children.
We will not entertain sensible explanations.
The city was magical.
Moving on.
Now.
I approached the hostel.
Bracelet on my wrist.
Two tags now hanging from it.
The beginnings of something.
Kasol.
Rishikesh.
Two wanderings.
Two pieces.
The council smiles.
And nearby,
I noticed something else.
A food cart.
The council freezes.
Children.
Food.
Actual food.
Remember food?
That ancient substance normal humans consume regularly in order to remain alive?
The Unbegun had once again remembered its existence.
I approached.
The council leans forward.
And thus concludes Chapter Eight.
The Market.
The Bone Shop.
The Bracelet.
And the Grandmother Who Defeated String.
I had entered the market promising myself I would buy only one thing.
Somehow,
I kept the promise.
The council applauds.
Historic.
And somewhere between skull beads,
bone tags,
bad knots,
and too much chai,
another little tradition had taken shape.
Kasol on one side.
Rishikesh on the other.
Not souvenirs sitting forgotten inside drawers.
Not things purchased because tourists are apparently legally required to purchase magnets.
Pieces of the road.
Carried together.
The first wandering had given me the idea of collecting relics.
The second had given them somewhere to live.
And perhaps,
years from now,
if the bracelet survived,
more tags would hang from it.
More roads.
More cities.
More versions of the Unbegun.
The council grows quiet.
But that belonged to later wanderings.
For now,
I had considerably more urgent concerns.
Because standing before me was a food cart.
And children,
I had finally remembered that tea,
weed,
and spiritual experiences do not constitute a balanced diet.
