Light skin in the colors of sand and clay with a dusting of shale; the sound of hammers, of chisels, of foremen calling orders, or drummers setting the speed of stone-porters’ feet: these are the sounds of industry in Ůtef. A heartbeat in the desert. At night, there is laughter. There is singing. There is chatter in a southern, boggy language. Foremen drink tea and ale with stone-porters and chiselmen. Architects and surveyors—foppish in their expensive sandals and white, pleated kilts—huddle among themselves, accepting honeyed pastries from barefoot waiters. There is music, and an occasional priest in red, flowing robes, inspires momentary silence or the touch of one finger to a solemn, bowed forehead. The priests are as welcome as the workers, their foremen, and the architects. They priests are a reason for human settlement and human industry in this strange, dusty desert. There are other reasons as well, but no one mentions the Kását, their bloodthirsty brül, or the rampage he inspires. No one mentions the onions: uncomfortable refugees in their underground warrens, or along riverbanks. Those underground are fed light from mirrors and water from an unfamiliar river, dipping (as if for protection) beneath the skin of the desert. It simply gouges its way through hard, sand-colored rock, and rock in shades of rose and ash. It shapes a narrow valley, loud with whitewater cataracts and falls: and then—there!—where the border of Ůtef fades to diffusion in the east, the river vanishes underground. The river has drawn the founders of Ůtef, and it is the founders of Ůtef who have chosen to erect temples and palaces for the people. It is the founders of Ůtef—bog-land warriors—who have chosen to defy the Kását. Here is where they make their stand, where they build their houses, their temples to the old onion gods and the newer gods who wear the horns and faces of rams. Here is where they build the first of their forts, and manufacture weapons of inscrutable, dark pedigree. Here is where Ůtef distills its anger and the resolve of its people to start over. And soon (or later) the Kását will come. They will see the two-headed rams, or hear warnings blown through their horns. They will not know the people of Ůtef, though they may well recognize Ůtef’s pale, frightened ancestors. Here, in the desert (where onions grow underground, and rams are carved into the skins of forts) the Kását rampage will stop. But for now, there is only the sound of industry and fortification, and at night, laughter and the silence of a priest walking amid the surly, dusty crowds. * I thought of Ůtef as I looked at this photograph. Chicago and Ůtef bear little in common, but I have always been quite moved by the Uptown-Broadway building. It has appeared (in a largely fragmentary manner) in my gallery and in CoreyBlack’s gallery as well. It’s an extravagant encrustation of mixed architectural metaphors. At times, I am reminded of something Agaran when I see it. At other times, I’m reminded of something ancient Egyptian (despite the fact that the ancient Egyptians never built anything in such a style.) In looking at the ram’s head-detail in the photo above, I found my thoughts drifting in the direction of Ůtef, and found it strange that two rams would make me think of a displaced culture, worshipping onions in the middle of a desert. There is more to the Onionworld Saga, and there will, undoubtedly, be more onion-skin photographs. Later. But until then, here’s just a peek into an unexpected development in that realm. (Of course now that I’ve posted this picture, I wonder what Hej would think of the Uptown-Broadway building.) As he doesn’t speak English, or any other Earth-familiar language, his answer will—undoubtedly—be a cryptic one. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.