Fires in the Night

Fires in the Night

A Tale of the Third Lichaf

Of the Life of Eudo the Wanderer

Sunset came early in the valley of Tenne. A shadow spread out from the western slope, enveloping the trees and their inhabitants.  I stood upon the eastern crest as the sun slowly vanished. I watched the shadow in the valley, seeping from the earth, shining darkly from the rocks and trees and people, taking hold in all the places where the sun could not keep watch.  Soon enough, the shadow-casters became shadow-dwellers, as the sun sank lower still. And the shadow took the eastern slope, until finally it reached my feet, and the whole of the valley was covered. Seeping from the earth, the darkness took the sky. Nightfall had come, and suffering was soon to begin.

It was not was not the first time I had visited the valley. A year ago, on the run from Brother Hartrait, I had entered from the north. I had made my shelter in a pile of leaves and branches, disguising my presence as much as possible. That night, I awoke to the sounds of solemn footsteps and low, harmonious chanting. A procession was passing westward, at least twenty in number. I later learned that they belonged to a tribe called Golek. At length I decided to investigate, and I emerged from my shelter to follow the Goleks’ chanting.

The leader carried a torch, very slowly and with reverence. He stopped in front of a small wooden hut. One at a time, the followers passed under his torchlight, and I saw that each carried an ornate jar.  They surrounded the hut and continued chanting. I tried to guess their purpose. Perhaps this was a blessing for a new home? Or a funeral for one who had died here? Perhaps it was some kind of exorcism, intended to ward off evil spirits? My final guess proved to be correct, but not in the way that I had expected. The chanting stopped. The followers turned to face their leader, as though waiting for some signal. The leader raised his left hand, then brought it down sharply. Suddenly there was a scream. So focused had I been on the Goleks that I had not noticed another person, inside the wooden hut. She had been watching silently. Now she emerged, fell to her knees and began pleading with the leader. Undaunted, the followers opened their jars and splashed liquid on the sides of the hut. The leader stepped forward, raised his torch…

…and the entire structure was engulfed in flame.

I was shocked, but I did not move and I made no sound. I thought they might kill the woman. But they did not. Neither did they allow her to leave, when she tried. They held her in place, and forced her to stare at the fire. She did not scream any more. Finally, when only ashes remained, the Goleks departed, leaving the woman with the embers of her home. I think I should have done something. I should have helped her, somehow. But I didn’t.

Instead, I left the valley. I didn’t know what else to do.

Several months later, I learned more about the ritual I had witnessed. The Valley of Tenne was divided in two; the Goleks lived on the eastern slope, and the Geggm lived in the west. The two tribes did not usually intermingle. The Golek religion venerated fire, and especially the stars, or as they would call it, “heaven-fire”. They believed that, by setting fires on the Earth at certain times, they could “complete the constellations” of the heaven-fire above. Failure to do so left the land vulnerable to demons. So for generations, whenever the stars demanded it, the Golek priests would empty the temple, and lead processions, and they would walk to some spot of land and scorch it thoroughly.  To that extent, their practices were foolish, but not harmful. But somewhere along the way, the Goleks had adopted the idea that human homes made the best infernos, due to their “soul-presence” or some such nonsense. And, with disheartening predictability, the astrologers always chose homes on the other side of the valley.

I learned that the Goleks’ temple contained a holy lantern, which had been burning continuously ever since the temple’s construction. The jars I had seen contained a flammable liquid based on shemon dust. The Goleks called it “holy oil”. I found it darkly humorous that the word “holy” could be applied so liberally. This oil fed the lantern, and the fires of the lantern were revered as a sort of deity. All other torches were lit from it. Year after year, Geggm homes were destroyed. The Goleks did not go beyond that; they did not typically murder or plunder. But all the same, the Geggm suffered. They might have tried to resist, but the Goleks had some manner of deal with Morentoff. And if sorcerers decreed that it was as it should be, well, the Geggm would not interfere.

One year later, I returned to the valley. I spent a few weeks there, secretly observing the people. I watched Golek astrologers on several occasions; they all reported news to their leaders. I saw Golek workmen, bringing shemon dust from the south, taking it to the temple to be made into holy oil. Once I even approached the temple, close enough to see the holy lantern, which was perched on a slender shaft of metal by the western wall. Later, from a distance, I saw the lantern-fire split. They were lighting torches, and I knew that, more likely than not, it was happening again.

I walked away. I climbed the slope. I stood upon the eastern crest and watched the sunset, silently.

What was there to do? I could leave. Or I could stay, and watch. Or perhaps I could confront the Goleks, demand the safety of the Geggm, and most likely get myself killed. A noble death, perhaps. But death, all the same. To leave, or watch, or die; none of these held any appeal for me. An hour later, I was still in the east, staring westward, with a strange and soft conviction in my heart. It was very quiet. There was no wind at all. And then, without any excitement, there was a fire in the west. And I shoved the holy lantern, and the holy lantern fell.

For a moment, this too was quiet. For you see, I had not remained on the eastern crest. An hour ago I had realized another option. I had gone to the temple, and I spent the hour opening each and every jar of holy oil I could fine. I had spilled their contents on every surface. Then I waited by the lantern, facing west, waiting to see if fires would appear. And they did appear. Presently, the holy lantern struck the floor. I made my exit quickly, for soon the entire temple was ablaze.

As I left the valley, I considered my actions again. Yes, I had brought some justice to the Geggm. But I might have hurt them, as well. Who would be blamed for the burning of the temple? Surely the Goleks would not accuse one of their own, and they had never learned of my presence. Perhaps I was selfish, in my hiding and fleeing. I preserved my own life, but I risked innocents in my place. Someone would be blamed for my actions. Someone would probably die.

And so, like a coward, I fled from the valley…from the temples, and the shadows, and the fires in the night.

Swine Flu

Hey, everybody.

I’ve had swine flu since last Friday (though I didn’t really feel it till Saturday night). I’ve missed three days of classes, but I’m finally getting over it (I hope.). It actually hasn’t been terrible, but it has kept me in bed. Anyway, that’s my latest excuse for lack of updates. (Of course, the aforementioned excuse doesn’t exactly cover the time before I got sick, but anyway…)

I’ve decided to provide you with something, incomplete though it is. Here’s the first paragraph from my latest story:

“Sunset came early in the valley of Tenne. A shadow spread out from the western slope, enveloping the trees and their inhabitants.  I stood upon the eastern crest as the sun slowly vanished. I watched the shadow in the valley, seeping from the earth, shining darkly from the rocks and trees and people, taking hold in all the places where the sun could not keep watch.  Soon enough, the shadow-casters became shadow-dwellers, as the sun sank lower still. And the shadow took the eastern slope, until finally it reached my feet, and the whole of the valley was covered. Seeping from the earth, the darkness took the sky. Nightfall had come, and suffering was soon to begin.”

 

By the Well

By the Well

A Tale of the Third Lichaf

Of the Life of Eudo the Wanderer

Thirst. Thirst controlled my mouth, and mind. The flask I carried was long since empty. Sometimes I chewed on it, absently, as though the memory of water might alleviate my troubles. The opposite was more likely true.

I continued to walk. My steps grew increasingly erratic. I found myself looking downward at my feet, which of course did me very little good. I forced myself to scan my surroundings once again. Rekle’s Road was old, unnecessary since the Battle of Tarfin, and therefore unused by most of the modern travelers. That was why I had chosen it. Hazily I considered the irony of it all. I had chosen this road because I was unlikely to meet anyone upon it and yet, because the road was so unused, it was also ill-tended. There was no one there to hurt me, but no one to help me either. Not that I would have expected help, but I might have stolen some water or…something. My thoughts grew dim.

My mouth was unbearably dry. Headaches came and went. Incongruously, the sky was overcast. I dearly hoped that it would rain, but the clouds had been stingy for two days straight. They might yet save me, but I could not depend on it. I had long since learned never to depend on the weather.

There were no rivers nearby. There were scattered plants, but nothing from which I could extract any nourishment. My intention had been to reach the road’s end, where there was a small lake. But the journey had been longer than I had anticipated, and more importantly my previous circumstances had forced me to embark with less than half the amount of water I had intended to bring along.

Death, it seemed, had never lost interest in pursuing me. Lazily I raised my head again, and looked out along the horizon. But this time, something caught my eye. Down the road, on the right, I spied some form of structure. Over several minutes, as I approached, the anomaly acquired more detail. It was about three feet high, and eight feet wide. It was made of stone…a well.

A well, thank heavens, a well! One which had been dug years ago, back when it was needed. In my tired state, I could not run, but I hastened into an awkward trot. As I approached I felt such elation, such gratitude for this little oasis. Finally I reached the edge, threw my head over the side and gazed upon the water! Water! Water, down below, echoing up the walls of stone. I smiled broadly. I even laughed, much as could. And I grabbed at the bucket…

…but there was none. There was no bucket, and no rope, no means of fetching the water. Frantically I circled the well, looking everywhere, but I found nothing. With horror I looked back into the water, and I thought of jumping into the darkness and drinking it myself. But I paused instead. With a heavy heart I considered the well, knowing already what I would conclude. The inner walls were far too slick, and the shaft was far too deep. I could go down into the water, but I could not climb up again.

I slumped against the outer wall. Here again I was facing irony. I could relieve my thirst, but only at the cost of my life. Death, it seemed, was playing games with me.

Had my body contained any water, I think I might have cried.

I thought that perhaps I should get up, keep walking, keep searching. There might be another well, somewhere. Or a lake, or a river. Perhaps I would find some old discarded flask, somehow still containing water. Or perhaps I might find a bucket-and-rope, and then this taunting thing would become the salvation I had hoped it to be. But I did not rise. I did not search. I lay by the wall of the well. And I wished for the coming of rain.

I’m here

Been almost 2 weeks since my last post

Don’t worry, I’m still here

Old Song

Old Song

A Tale of the Second Lichaf

Of the Life of Eudo the Wanderer

In Morentoff, I often thought of my childhood. I clung to my memories, and the stories and songs I had learned from my people. I would recite them to myself, silently, to guard against forgetfulness. The memories of freedom were a treasure to me, because they held remnants of joy, which I otherwise lacked. But then again, those same memories served as reminders of how far I had fallen. The songs of the Geo Mandre, sung silently in the halls of Morentoff, bore such irony as to be almost unbearable. Nevertheless, I continued to recite them in my mind.

Here is one of the songs. Or part of it, anyway. Despite my efforts, I have forgotten many things of my childhood, including the name of this very piece. I further regret that I cannot transcribe the music into words. Thus it seems that, even as I act to preserve the song, it continues to slip away.

Nevertheless, here it is. This is one of the songs I sang, silently, during my years in Morentoff.

I on the meadow
I by the sea
I in the forest
calling to thee

We in the moonlight
We in the sun
We of the breezes
calling as one

I by the the mountain
I tremble
I wonder

Pathways asunder go I

dreams be my starlight
though morning be waking
what seems to be their lullaby

I know
I am
A walker of ages
Though sages no more me can tell

I bid
farewell
to all of the cages
within which the others may dwell

the moon
the sun
the places of living
the birth of the earth
and the promise of giving
I breathe in each moment
each moment is gone
for time be eternal

I shall carry on

every morn is the sun
and the sun disappears
every morn it returns
to allay all the fears
of the people
so foolish
so frightened, and blind
tell me, does wind cease to blow?
for the sunlight
and starlight
the rivers, and moon
can be killed by no craft that we know

and the river is flowing
the ocean is moving
the breezes, they soar through the sky

for we are companions
the spirits of nature
the river, the breezes, and I

Something akin to Writer’s Block

So, I’ve been staring at the computer for about 3.5 hours

And I’ve written about 258 words.

*Sigh*

It’s like, I know I have stuff to write. But my mind feels blank. A form of niros, says I.  I’m holding back for no reason.

But hey, at least I’m still here, at the computer, writing something.

I believe that, in time, I shall triumph over all the random nonsense in my head which prevents me from getting stuff done.

So now, I’m getting back to work.

Shinon

Shinon

A Tale of the Second Lichaf

Of the Life of Eudo the Wanderer

My staf lay in the corner, undisturbed, and disturbing.

My staf lay in the corner, and I stared, either towards it or away from it, but always with it as the compass, as the point of measurement. It and I. I and It.

I felt a powerful urge to pick it up again. To leave the room. To pretend that I had never been here. To go about my studies. To return to my old, normal nothing.

For the nothing that I faced in that little room was far more visceral, and terrifying.

I had come to the Gerenuk Cor, an old and unused portion of Morentoff. There was a row of small, empty rooms. I had heard that they were meant to be secluded. They were once used as meditation rooms. Or prison cells. I wasn’t really sure. In any case, I had come here, seeking seclusion. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. And I wasn’t really alone, anyway. For my staf was still with me.

But the staf lay in the corner, untouched, for over an hour.

I tried to remember my intent, my reason for coming. But my mind was so clouded as I stared at, or not-at,  the old familiar item in the shadows. I remembered its origins.

“This is no ordinary object.” they had told me, “It is not meant for ordinary people. A staf is the heart of a sorcerer. Without stafs there is no magic, no authority, no Federation at all. This is your life. This is your purpose. And we give it to you freely. With a staf, you are one of us, you are mightier than most of humanity. Always keep it with you. Always keep it close. Treasure it, and you will surely be a proud member of this Federation. Lose it, and you will surely die.”

I was alone in the Gerenuk Cor. But they were with me all the same.

I closed my eyes. I tried to focus. My thoughts kept drifting elsewhere, if not to my origins or sorrow then to something trivial, like the color of the walls or the hem of my robe or the air or the ground or the sound of my heartbeat or…

or…

the staf!

I wasn’t holding my staf!

I lunged for the thing with my right hand, grabbed that hand back with my left hand, spun, fell, and knocked my head against the floor. I scrambled out of the room on all fours, hid myself in the next room over, and waited.

Again I grabbed my right hand with my left. I stared at it. I wheezed and grunted like a wounded animal. This hand…I thought, my hands…

There on the floor, with my back to the wall, I began to sob. I knew that the staf remained where it was, in the room next to mine. And all I wanted was to return there, to take my staf, to take my place as a member of the Federation, leaving all of this behind. Except, of course, that wasn’t what I really wanted. I had come here for a reason. There was  purpose to my solitude. Or at least I hoped there was a purpose.

There was  something in me, and I wanted to see what it was. Something besides all the madness of these last – what was it now, two hours? Two hours I had been here? Then I had less than an hour before someone would come looking for me. I couldn’t risk that. And so, with time, and tremendous effort, I started digging through my soul, searching.

I had sensed it before, as a child, before the Federation had entered my life. I had sensed it since then, many times, but I was very good at ignoring it. I intended to dismantle my ignorance. It was a very difficult task.

I felt it, deep, so deep I could not be sure of its reality. It was a feeling, a force, an energy I couldn’t explain. Thoughts and emotions stirred in its path, like a creature of the deepest oceans, rising to the surface and dispersing lesser inhabitants. A staf is the source of all magic, a staf is the source of all magic. I felt a tingling in my fingers. Slowly, instinctively, I extended my right hand. And something was growing, rising within…

I felt it, and opened my eyes just in time to see. An unnatural spark of light appeared at my fingertips. Red, glowing, hovering. Then it vanished. Magic, of my own creation. I stared. It was a painful joy for me. A painful joy.

I was running out of time. I left the room. I retrieved my staf. I headed back, back to the better-known areas of Morentoff. But in my heart I remembered the Gerenuk Cor, and the magic I had crafted therin.

I could only hope that it wouldn’t destroy me.

Commentary on “Foreword”

This is commentary on Foreword

I’ve been kicking around this idea for awhile (as is the case with most of my ideas).

One thing I want to do with this book is present it almost like a historical document.

The main way to do this is to change the physical nature of book, i.e. it should look like this, instead of this or this.

Another thing to do is to address the notion of how the book got here, in your hands.

J.R.R. Tolkien did a bit of this, claiming that Lord of the Rings was based on some ancient history, and that he had translated it all from its original language, etc.. (To be clear, though: He never actually pretended that the book was non-fiction.)

Tolkien said that his fantasy world was really the ancient history of modern-day Earth. That’s not at all the case with Eudo, so the picky reader will wonder how this ‘historical document” found its way into our universe. I dont plan on addressing that question. It’s a work of fiction, get over it. =)

Nevertheless, I’d like to introduce verisimilitude with regards to the origin of the book. So I figured that it was actually compiled by some sort of biographer. My first thought was that Eudo, in his later years, dictated his memoirs to someone else, who wrote them down. But then I decided to move the biographer a few generations into the future. This was so that (A) I’d have  a reasonable excuse for any errors that would crop up, and (B) It’s really odd to associate Eudo with the word “dictate”, because then technically he’d be a “dictator”.

Anyway, the Foreword sets this all up for me. The biographer is named Shelis Falcan. (That’s a girl, by the way.) I don’t think we’ll see much more from her, except maybe at the very end. Or maybe she can make a couple of notes throughout, explaining a few things? Hm…I suppose…

In any case, it’s quite possible that I’ll publish multiple editions of the book, expanding each time, and Shelis will write a new foreword for each of those expansions.

I like the mystery of this. She address a specific someone, a “you”. Who is she talking to? That’s for the reader to guess about. Metafictionally, the “you” is you, the reader, whoever you may be. And notice how I worked the word “fiction” into the end there, thus saying to the reader “Yeah, this book is fictional. But it teaches true ideals.”

I also kept other things vague. I don’t reveal exactly is Eudo is well-known or obscure in this future world. I don’t even reveal what Shelis thinks about Eudo. Sure, she believe his story is important, but does that mean she likes him, or hates him? (Privately, I think of her as a Eudo sympathizer).

I introduce the word “Lichaf” casually. I hope the reader will get the gist of it after he reads a few stories. I like the idea of friends, reading separate copies of the book, discussing with each other what “lichaf” means, along with countless other mysteries.

Shelis mentions that the tales are numbered. Actually, at present, they’re not. But I thought I might do that, like “NameOfTale, The Three-hundreth and Thiry-Forth tale of the Second Lichaf of the Life of Eudo the Wanderer.” These numbers would be in exact chronological order, though the tales would still be printed out-of-order. This would allow people to reconstruct the order if they felt like it, to clarify what happened when. It would lead to speculation, like “woah, this is tale #343, I wonder what happened in all the previous 342 tales…”. I’ll probably use more numbers than I have stories for, leaving gaps so there’s always room for speculation. And I can explain the gaps by saying that those manuscripts were lost with the passage of time.

With regards to numbers, Shelis mentions “my predecessor”. The idea is that, a couple generations ago, some other biographer compiled a zillion tales and numbered them all.

I didn’t write “Foreword” at the top, because I don’t think it should be there. For some reason it seems better that the text should just start. Also, Shelis’s name, at the end, should be an actual cursive signature.

Wow. This commentary is longer than the actual thing.

Commentary on “The Shemonite Cave”

This is commentary on The Shemonite Cave

I wrote this tale soon after I wrote the Prologue. My thought was, since Prologue is intensely up-close, why don’t we back off? I decided to write a story in which Eudo hardly appears, except at the very end. So now the reader has the memory of Eudo’s pain, and now sees Eudo from a distance. In reconciling these facts, the reader comes to realize how little we really know of Eudo (and futhermore, about each other). We know that this pain is deeply within Eudo, and yet it doesn’t show up in this story. I’m trying to highlight the contrast, see?

Furthermore, I introduce the fact that Eudo survives at least three years after his graying, and that the Federation would surely freak out if they knew. This gives us a nice bit of tension for future stories.

Commentary on “Prologue”

This is commentary on Prologue

I might retitle it “The Graying”, in part because it seems odd to have both a Prologue and a Foreword

This feels like a good way to start the book (though I still plan to include the Foreword). It starts right in the middle of action, except it’s not action in the normal sense. I mean, the biggest component of this is his emotional state. The first line, “I felt it in my soul”, was chosen with care. The whole book is meant to be an introspective work. It’s all about how tyranny affects not just the body, but also the mind and soul. Every other story seems to focus on the body; i.e. some form of immediate physical danger, which is dealt with in a physical way. And yeah, the characters in those stories still have minds and souls etc., but I still feel that the emphasis is wrong.