Spindle of the Many


The Spindle is difficult to perceive from outside, for its geometry does not project cleanly into realms of a single ground or a single sky. It is akin to a mountain, to book, to a nested orrery, to a potter’s wheel. It is an entwining of abstract spaces made concrete by particular substances, clay or stone or flesh or thorns, caught upon a solid core of an unknown nature. The core turns and turns the terrain like thread and from this are formed whorls, layers, striations, snarls, and loops. These catch spaces, give them heft, imbue them with a kind of polarity that draws like to like.

In ascending the Spindle, one must traverse spaces both physical and immaterial. Dwellers in the layers rarely leave them, and as a result have become parochial, cloistered, or fixated on subtlties inscrutable to outsiders. Those who find their way to such places may find that the light seems clearer, or the contours of the horizon more closely match the sound of their heart and breath. Their ideals may shift, they may come attached to strands of terrain, they may forget that worlds exist outside the Spindle.

A book, which has now been lost, claimed that the Spindle itself grows from a holy river, far underground. The ground surrounding its base is not ground at all, but densely packed thorns and vines. Descent into this dark organic cavelike structure is possible, but most hold that whatever promised treasure or wisdom that lies beneath is not worth the risk.