Permutation Challenges
Permutation challenges require a character to try various combinations.
Set the levers in a railway signal box in the correct sequence to divert a train onto a different track, preventing a collision.
> Identify the correct sequence of levers.
The signal box is a relic of iron and wood. I look at the levers. “Which do I need to pull?” My eyes scan the labels. The faded diagram reveals its secret, the sequence. As I set the last lever, the train shifts track, a behemoth redirected by my hand.
Set the dials on a vintage radio transmitter in the correct sequence to broadcast a coded message to resistance fighters during wartime.
> Determine the correct sequence of dials.
The radio transmitter hums with the ghosts of a thousand messages. I study the dials. Their worn faces testify to countless hands before mine. “What frequency do I need?”
The codebook has the answer. I turn the dials with a reverence born of desperation. “Let’s hope they receive this,” I think, the final dial clicking into place, the coded words flying through the ether to the resistance fighters.
Rotate sections of a stained glass window to form a complete image, casting a light pattern on the floor that points to a hidden trapdoor.
> Identify the correct image pattern.
The stained glass window is a kaleidoscope of colours, each fragment a piece of a forgotten story. I examine the sections, the light filtering through like a benediction. The pieces begin to align, the image taking shape in my mind.
I turn the sections with care. “Almost there,” I mutter, sliding the final piece into position.
To activate a mechanism, place a series of gears in the correct positions on a mechanical device.
> Study the old blueprint for gear positions.
The blueprint is a map of ingenuity. Its lines speak to a forgotten craftsman. I examine it and pick up the largest gear. The first gear finds its home, the blueprint’s secrets unfolding. I fit the gears with the precision of a surgeon, each one a step closer to activation. The final gear clicks into place, and the mechanism springs to life.
The surreal “Parables of Elián” fantasy shows elements of interaction culminating in permutation. In ‘The Thirsty Soul,’ Elián engages with the child, the investor, and the crowd, responding to their questions and reactions. In ‘The Incomplete Bridge,’ Elián interacts with the physical environment by placing the guitar case in the gap to complete the bridge.
Parables of Elián
West Island, 1923
I will tell a story about you telling stories.
Tell me what they are about.
Listening. Now, your guitar …
Elián slides his guitar strap over one shoulder, letting the instrument’s body rest against his hip. Foot traffic pulses around the square, the beat of another workday. He finds his corner of cobblestone and brick—the perfect stage for a parabolero, a teller of parables.
His fingers coax out an inviting melody, soft and yearning. Notes tug bystanders gently by their sleeves. The guitar case lies open before him, fluttering slips of paper within—the currency of story.
A child skips to the front, wide-eyed and innocent. “Are you playing for money, mister?”
Elián smiles. “No, little one. I play for ears willing to listen, for hearts open to wonder.”
An investor walks past—almost. The parabolero’s melody hooks him. He pauses, one foot poised for the next step. “Got a song for me?” he calls out, half-joking, half-defying the pull of the parabolero’s spell.
Not a song. This is where you tell a story.
“Better,” Elián responds, tuning his strings. “I have a story.”
The investor folds his arms and leans against the nearest wall, surrendering seconds of his day to a street corner bard.
The one about water flavour, tell that one.
Elián’s voice breaks into song, clear and resonant.
In the village market,
the water runs clear
from an ancient fountain
whose source disappeared.
The fountain’s not special,
but the water alone
is a prophet of hearts.
And for this, it is known.
The flavour will alter,
from this person to that,
according to the character
partaking of it.
To the kind and the just,
the water is sweet,
but bitter and salty
to the cruel and the greedy.
So the villagers drank,
and from no other source,
to measure their virtue
and by it set course.
Then came a stranger
to the town square.
“This water is tasteless.
The flavour of air.”
Elián strums a minor chord. A pause fills the space, the only interruption the soft shuffle of people in the crowd edging closer.
“Don’t stop now,” A voice rings from the back—a young woman with a stack of books bound in straps.
Psst: not a competition, personal journey.
With a flourish of his fingers, the song rolls forward.
The locals wondered
how this could be,
their water no flavour
of morality.
Your virtue,
the stranger spoke freely,
is not a competition,
but a personal journey.
The path to integrity
is no water’s to judge.
Masure within
with honesty and courage.
Silence unfolds at the song’s end, the assembly quiet, reflecting. The investor straightens, unhurried now. He approaches Elián, sincerity softening his eyes.
“You’ve made your point, minstrel.”
The girl with the books lingers, thinking of the waters within her well. The child claps, the simple joy of the story washing over her without the weight of its meaning.
As the square regains its pulse, the minstrel gathers his papers, the music lingering in the minds of those with ears to hear.
Was it not Isaac Newton who said, ‘We build too many walls and not enough bridges’? That would be true of West Island and the tale of The Incomplete Bridge.
The fog around West Island is so thick it makes you wonder whether you’re still here. And even if you could see, you still couldn’t see the bridge to the mainland. A ship in the night knocked it down faster than a diet plan at a buffet.
West Islander 1 (with the excitement of a dictionary): “That bridge was practically family. Now we’re more cut off than a hermit’s phone line. ”
West Islander 2 (staring into the fog as if it owes her money): “Well, maybe East Island’s bridge held up, though the odds are as solid as a chocolate teapot.”
Build a bridge.
Carpenter (working wood like a beaver with a deadline): “This bridge will be a rock in a sea of uncertainty.”
Metalworker (welding as if trying to fix a broken heart): “Straight as an arrow. Because who ever heard of a meandering arrow?”
But their resolve dissolves like sugar in tea.
West Islander 1 (with the optimism of a raincloud): “We’re probably building a bridge to nowhere. Nowhere is nice this time of year.”
West Islander 2 (as cheerful as a tax return): “If we even make it, the East Islanders will pretend they’re not home.”
Enter Elián, carrying his guitar as if it’s the answer to a question nobody asked.
Elián: “You know, the fog is nature’s way of saying ‘Surprise me.’”
West Islander 1: “The bridge stands half-complete, like being half-dressed—you’re not quite ready for anything.”
Put the guitar case in the gap.
Elián strolls out and puts his guitar case in the gap. It fits like the last puzzle piece that was mostly sky anyway.
Elián: “Those East Islanders, they’ve been building too. They’re just really into surprises.”
Like a magician revealing the trick, the fog lifts just enough to unveil a counterpart stretching from the opposite shore.
Now, sing us the moral.
Elián strums a tune more contagious than a yawn, his voice smoother than a politician in election season.
A bridge is not
a journey’s pause.
it links ‘what if’
and ‘just because.’
Sometimes, you build
a bridge and hope
it spans above
the walls below.
The West Islanders shuffle across, meeting the East Islanders in the middle. Exchanges of sheepish half-smiles float between them like dandelion seeds in the breeze.
As the fog begins to lift, revealing the completed bridge, Elián notices the ship that took out the bridge floating aimlessly.
Investigate the ship.
It’s abandoned.
Unless the ship
can pass these waters,
no bridge is safe
from this marauder.
Elián steps aboard, wooden planks creaking underfootand makes his way to the navigation room, where an array of instruments lies in disarray.
A sextant, a compass, and an astrolabe—all need adjustment.
Sextant, horizon; compass, north.
Elián aligns the sextant with the horizon, ensuring it measures the angle of the stars accurately, then calibrates the compass, making sure it points true north.
Finally, Elián adjusts the astrolabe to the correct latitude and longitude, matching the ship’s current position.
Chart the course.
With the instruments calibrated, Elián rings the ship’s bell and sets a course through the waters surrounding West Island, avoiding reefs and currents, into harbour, ensuring the ship can navigate safely.
The ship glides smoothly through the waters, the fog lifting to reveal a clear path ahead. The bridge and the ship, both symbols of connection and hope for those who listen.
Permutation involves finding an effective combination or sequence. The challenge in the second parable, ‘The Incomplete Bridge,’ is calibrating the ship’s navigation instruments. This requires the correct order to ensure safe passage through treacherous waters: align the sextant, set the compass, and calibrate the astrolabe. This sequence is crucial for the instruments to function correctly and reflects the essence of permutation.
Permutation implies some attempt-and-adjustment within the narrative. The protagonist need not literally try this, then try that, working through all combinations, but this aspect of guess-and-test distinguishes permutation from patterning.
Permutation is putting the lenses of an antique telescope in the correct order to focus on a distant landmark or adjusting the sails and gears of a historical windmill in the correct order to grind grain. By comparison, in the Fibonacci pattern, 13 is next after “1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8” and needs no guess-and-test.
