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Chosen

On a hillside near the edge of a forest, a boy sat down to watch the sunrise.  An hour later, he would rise again a hero, poor little lamb.

The people of the barren duchy had been praying and hoping and waiting for a hero for some time.  And as is always the case, those dreams and prayers had shaped up power. Essence had been pulled from fluxes and pools and shrines, and drawn into those hopes, shaped, and become destiny.

This destiny, a flitting thing of power, had twisted through the landscape.  It had caught prophets, and driven them to speak it. It had filtered through time, and grown, and looked.

Not all are easily claimed by destiny.  Most have their own aura of power; essence shaped by stories they tell themselves, that others tell of them.  Dames and Lords are not subject to it, though what their Names do to power is similar in some respects.

The destiny found that boy, on that hill.  Not a first son, or a second, or third, that had family hopes already wrapped around him.  A fifth, called “boy” more often than his name.

The boy had no story of himself.  He just was, and he was content to be.

And then the destiny took him, wrapped itself around him, and tore open his mind.  Like hot metal, it poured down into him.

The boy on the hill screamed, oh, yes, as the sun went down and he was remade to be a saviour and a hero.  But he did not scream for long - at least, not out loud. That ended quickly. His eyes might show his pain for years to come, if anyone looked so deep, but what chance of that?

A hero rose on that hill, and waited.  Seers would come; mentors and allies, to set him against his enemy.  He would be recognized, and hailed.

The crowds would cheer him as they sent him into battle, their lamb, already sacrificed to their need.  They would be glad of the working of destiny, cruel brutes that they were.

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Cinder Hands

(A reconstructed Fairy Tale)   There was once a smith, a man name Thofyll, whose wife died, leaving him three daughters.  Hard he worked to raise them to their naming, doing his own work and more besides; though he gave them tasks of their own, he had little time remaining. Yet for all that he was burdened heavily, still he was handsome and strong, and his care for his family was clear to all.  So when his time of mourning was done, some few of the women of his village were pleased to try and court him, and a woman named Whilla took him as her husband the next year. Now Whilla spoke gently with all of the girls, to try and work out a good method between them for her entry to that household - for Whilla painted pottery, and the new couple saw that they could move that enterprise far more easily than Thofyll could move his forge. The two eldest daughters were glad to work out such methods, and became fast friends with Whilla. More; because Whilla had come to their father, they were freer in time they had been, and soon took their names.  One became Scyllairnen, and took up arms as a warrior; another became Hythofylla, and took to traveling with the warband of the champion, repairing and maintaining the arms of that company.  Yet they were often at the home of their father even so. The youngest daughter had long since delighted her mother by the trick of juggling three hot coals from the forge so fast they did not burn her; she was called Cinder Hands for this.  And she did not accept Whilla, nor become friends with her.  Instead, Cinder Hands took herself to all the dirtiest of the jobs of the household and of the forge, cleaning the furnaces and hauling the charcoal, scrubbing the cooking-pots and emptying the night-pots, even though she was not asked. Grief ate at Cinder Hands; grief and more, and all of it she spat at Whilla and took out in glowering chore-making throughout the home. She has turned spiteful, said her father Thofyll to Whilla in the night. Perhaps, Whilla returned; but I think that her spite is born of love.  She wants to prove her care for you, and for her mother who has gone, and to defy the world that is for the sake of it.  I knew all those things when my own father died and my mother took a new lover. Yet for all that Whilla felt she understood, their household was often an unhappy one. When spiring came again, and the elders of the village declared a festival, Whilla tried again to reach across this gulf, having fine clothes made for Cinder Hands and her sisters to wear.  But Cinder Hands tore her new clothes to scraps, and would have none of it, refusing to go. When her sisters and father and Whilla had gone, Cinder Hands wept bitterly; her father had done with his mourning, but she had never ended hers.  And for all the Whilla hoped to be kind, Cinder Hands had no readiness to take in caring from another woman; all the Whilla could do with her care was offend. Her weeping did not go unheard, for her mother had left behind her a strong shade.  And the dead, like too many of the living, do not change their hearts or learn new ways; they remain much the same in their views, except that death itself make them more terrible and powerful, or they come under the influence of magic.  So the shade of her mother was in strong agreement that Cinder Hands should not be dressed by another.  No jealously for Thofyll or Whilla was in that shade, for both Thofyll and his lost wife had had their other lovers in the span of their marriage, and been merry about it, but for Cinder Hands she had much love still remaining. So it was that as as she wept, Cinder Hands saw the clothes she had torn stitch themselves together again, growing paler as they did.  White as bone they became, with a shine like silver over them.  And Cinder Hands felt her own face washed with tears, and her tangle of hair made loose and braided anew above her head.  The dark ashes on her hands spun away from her into the air, and were refined to purest black, coming back to paint her in fantastic whorls and spiraling patterns. So dressed by the hands of her dead mother, Cinder Hands went out to the festival, there to put to shame her sisters and Whilla for the admiration.  This she obtained easily; they knew her not, and were only seeking a fine night rather than trying for some impression.  That night Cinder Hands took her name, becoming Siowynna, but none knew even that it was her name-taking that they saw, for it seemed a mere introduction to them of a visitor already grown.  And even in her victory, she was changed, and looking back saw what she had been. In the morning, Whilla found Siowynna behind their hut, beneath a young tree.  Though Whilla knew it not, that same tree was where Siowynna had spread the ashes of her mother.  And Whilla recognized the young woman at last. See me, for I am grown, Siowynna said then. I see you, Whilla replied; what has happened that has changed you? With my own grief I called up my mother, Siowynna returned; and she gave me that same thing as you would have.  Because it came from her hands and not yours, I was glad to have it.  But I am not fool enough, having recieved it, not to see that you would have given it if I had let you.  I did not; I cannot.  I will go this day at noon to seek my life, and leave this one to you. At that, Whilla wept, asking, can there be no glad turning between us?  Must it be this way? Siowynna thought awhile and said, I do not know how it could be; I only know how it is.  I have tried to live the life where I belonged with my mother for too long here.  I must go away and not be reclaimed by it. So it was; Siowynna went in to her father, and spoke with him, and made her farewells and took them.  And then she went out into the world, to seek her life. Some endings are glad, and we should make them where we can.  But sometimes, all that can be done, despite all good will, is to merely make an ending. This they did. (More here: http://eldwood.blogspot.ca/ )

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Little Nut

(A restructured Fairy Tale) Once there were two daughters of a wealthy family. Both were as pale as birchwood, and as beautiful and as prideful of their beauty as songbirds. Each of them strove to become yet more beautiful than the other, through all the arts they could put their hands to, and through all the deeds they thought might give them greater appeal.

The eldest thought that showing off wisdom and kindness would surely make her more loved, and so she cultivated her knowledge in the sacred grove near to the family lands, and was generous and fair to those seeking work in the enterprises of the family. And she became wise and kind, forgetting that it was only a pretence at the start, though she cared for her own beauty no less for all that. When the time came to choose a name, she named herself Naeve.

The younger thought that the air of the forbidden and the cloak of mystery would surely make her more enticing, and so she dared to go into deep crypts and cursed places, breaking seals without cause and learning what terrible things she might learn there. Hidden and isolated, she became arrogant and spiteful; when her naming day came, she called herself Valda.

Naeve sought to marry, and after a year of attendance at every dance and gather, had her choice of a thousand proposals. From these she chose the king of a neighbouring tribe. The people of that tribe celebrated, for she was known for her justice among her own - and because ever since she had made plain her desire to be courted, there had been hot competition among suitors, for she was known for her beauty.

Valda, who dwelled at that time in the bosom of a shattered ruin with the cursed spirit of that place, heard of this wedding, and was not pleased. Her ally the spirit, pleased by her spite, shared with her some power and bid her do with it as she would.

So it was that Valda attended Naeve on the wedding night, as the new husband and wife slept. From the shadows, Valda came to their bedside, and whispered a curse in the ear of her sister. You shall have a child right quick, she said, but only one in all your life. She shall share none of your beauty, and after she comes you will wither and die, and I shall become the beauty that all speak of. And with that, the younger sister left the elder, going back into the shadows from which she had come.

Naeve, who had wakened to the whisper and knew it for the curse it was, went in that same night to the sacred grove where she had studied so long. In terror and desperation, she begged of the wise and of the grove itself that they give her aid and break this curse. The wise had no help to offer, and when they consulted the spirit of the grove, it told them that the curse could not be broken.

But, the grove-spirit told them, it could bless the child with strengths all the same, to last through the time to come.

Could it, Naeve asked of the spirit, grant the child at least a little beauty as well?

At this, the grove was much amused, and answered back that it could grant that in plenty, but that the beauty of the child would share nothing in common with the beauty of her mother, just as the curse had said.

Let her have yours then, Naeve said; if my skin is pale as birch, let hers be as dark as walnut. If my eyes are the crystal pools that men praise, let her have eyes as green as your leaves. If I curve as the willow does in a hundred foolish poems, let her have the strength of oaks instead. If I am a trophy to be won, let her be a champion to win trophies of her own.

Hearing this, the spirit of the grove was no longer amused, but solemn, and said, it shall be so. And though Naeve did not know it, she had given her child another parent, for the grove gave much of itself to the child.

So it was; the girl was born nine months later, and all were amazed. Not least of those amazed was her father, who wondered if his wife had had another lover just before their time together. But this Naeve could not tell him, for she had kept all this a secret and had withered and died in childbed. And the wise would not tell him, for Naeve had sworn them to silence on these matters, so that she might at least have a few months of happiness.

The king called the girl Little Nut, that being good enough until she should be grown enough to choose her own name. He never ceased to wonder if she had another father in the world, but he resolved to raise her regardless, and loved her as a father should.

The secret that Naeve had kept, though, bore bitter fruit some years later. For none knew to fear when Valda made her return, all in pretence of travel in far places. Valda charmed the people with her mystery, and one of those she charmed was the widower king.

When Valda married the king and became queen, she played gently on the king's uncertainty. She cannot be your daughter, said Queen Valda; love her, of course, but remember that you are her caretaker, not her natural father. Perhaps a little distance would be wise? And if Naeve had made a mistake in keeping a secret, then Valda had made one too, in not seeking to discover what her elder had done about the curse. For it was through those whispers of making a little distance that Little Nut was sent to be educated, as her mother had been educated, in the sacred grove.

Even as they raised Little Nut and educated her, the wise did not break their vow of secrecy. But they did teach Little Nut all the ways to consult the spirit of the grove, which had made no such promise. The grove warned Little Nut to be wary of the new queen, and told her that when she had bested seven warriors in one day, it would tell her the whole of the story of her birth and the all the secrets it held. In this way, it hoped, it would set her on the course her mother had wanted.

To know the secrets of your own life is a powerful bolster to action. When she was thirteen, Little Nut bested five warriors in one day - not yet seven, but growing close. And the common folk began to say to one another, she will be a champion.

Queen Valda heard of this feat, and knew fear, for it meant that one day a mighty warrior might grow, and learn cause to hate her. So she sent a gift to Little Nut, as if from the king, of smoked meat and dried apples and hard cheese; the rations many champions carry when they travel. Little Nut thought this very fine, and ate of it - but it was terribly poisoned, and Little Nut fell sick of it. Had she not been born to the strength of the grove itself, she surely would have died.

For three years, Little Nut lay sick, breathing but otherwise not stirring, and the wise built a bier and lifted her onto it, and the grove itself mourned. In that same time, her aunt Queen Valda was busy, busy; the king died of being thrown by a horse that had never spooked before, and his guards were replaced, one by one, with grim soldiers in great masks.

And then one day, Queen Valda received word that the spirit of the grove was wakeful, and that it had taken on form as a hunter. Further, that in that form, it had found some other ally, and borrowed magic to cleanse the poison from Little Nut, and was returning home even then to wake her.

Queen Valda then saw the truth, that it must be the spirit of the grove that was responsible for the aspect and power of Little Nut. And if it were responsible, and if it cared enough to seek a remedy, then it might have further plans. So Queen Valda sent her elite guards to the grove, to finish what she had started with her poisoned gift. These elites went with speed, and cut down those of the wise who stood outside the grove. But they were not swift enough, for as they arrived, they saw the grove-spirit, in its form as a hunter, breathing life and power back into Little Nut.

It was then that Little Nut bested seven warriors in one day. It was then that she learned the secrets of her life. And it was then that she chose her name, and became Yrail. But when Yrail gathered the people and raised them to take the hall of the queen, they found it empty. The queen was not there to face them, or stand for justice; she had fled before their coming.

Yrail went then, into the wood, to hunt the queen her aunt, and bring her to account.

She had many adventures, and some of them I may tell you in time. She has brought justice to many of the cruel, and cast down many who were high, but never have I heard that she found out Valda from that day to this one.

But all this was not so long ago; for all that I know, she pursues her aunt even now.

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Into The Wood

When I was a young girl, I went into the Eldwood, looking for the Grey Witch.  I had enough magic to be a danger, but not enough to be a blessing, and so I sought an apprenticeship. I ventured far and saw much, in the wood; I shared a fire or a few days with many, and asked them what they knew of magic and of where I might find the Grey Witch.  They told me the tales they knew, which were many, but that was all they knew to help me.  I did not find the Grey Witch; she found me. She came upon my camp one morning, and said that she knew why I looked for her.  To prove my worthiness as an apprentice, she demanded that I name my three greatest virtues, which she would test.  I told her that I knew the way of the Eldwood, that I did the tasks I was given, and that I knew many tales of magic. To test the first, she set me to go quickly and bring enough firewood to build a bonfire, and she left me her axe for the task.  I ranged from the morning until the night gathering fallen boughs, as was my custom; I forgot the axe entirely.  When I was done, the witch appeared again just as the sun sank, and asked me why I had not used her axe.  After all, she had told me to be quick. I told her I had forgotten it, for it was my way to gather fallen wood.  I apologised, and she laughed. The axe, she told me, would have turned and blistered my hands if I tried to use it to cut live wood without telling it the great need; it would have taken one of my toes rather than bring down a tree. Perhaps I knew the way of the wood, she said, at least the way she thought her apprentice should know it. To test the second virtue I claimed, she told me to go to a certain hamlet, and to be there by morning.  There, I was to go to the herbalist and fetch from her the tea she made for the Grey Witch and her coven - and to have it back again to my camp by the time it was evening again. I ran through the night, and arrived at that hamlet by morning, but it was not as I hoped.  The hamlet was sick and suffering, and the herbalist had not prepared the tea the Grey witch had sent me to fetch. Nor would he do so that morning; he had sick to tend. Knowing that I had failed through no fault of my own, I sat in shame and wept an hour away.  And then, having nothing else to do, I went to the herbalist and gave him all the help that I could, for all that day and the next and the next, until a week had passed and the sickness had gone from that place. Together, he and I mixed up the tea the Grey Witch asked for, and I took it back to my camp, in the hope that she might forgive me my failure.  She was waiting there for me, and the bonfire was lit and her coven assembled. You have passed this second test as well, she told me; for you did not give up when you failed at the task you were given, but turned instead to the greater work that was in front of you.  And that is the apprentice I want. For my third test, she bid me tell the tales I knew to her and to her coven, there by the fire I had build. So I began, saying, When I was a young girl, I went into the Eldwood, looking for the Grey Witch.  I had enough magic to be a danger, but not enough to be a blessing, and so I sought an apprenticeship.

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Working on a tarot deck.

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Nonsense from my recent art. https://www.pinterest.com/levikornelsen/skinchangers-illustrations-bits/

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And more art time.

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Art time!

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This is how sardines is played:

You hide in a dark house, in some corner, and you wait while others search. When they find you, they climb into your hiding place with you. Cozy and most often trying not to giggle, which makes it easier for more people yet to find you too, and climb in as well, until everyone who has been invited to play is squashed in together. And then someone else takes a turn to hide.

It is important not to hide too well; half the fun is in being found and joined. But it is also important not to hide too poorly; the other half of the fun is being a secret that must be discovered, and knowing that you are being searched for.

I think that she is playing sardines. Hiding, but not too well. Wanting to be searched for, and found.

Maybe we all are.

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My father once told me that God didn't make the world to be naturally just and fair, because He wanted that to be our job.

I don't think that's strictly true.

But it's true enough.

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I remember being laughed at by other kids.

I suspect that most of us remember that, on the occasions that it happened.  I recall my many foolish moments.  And I recall the cruelty of the other children - though I don't recall the many times I must have laughed at others, or my own cruelty.

But I also remember this:

I owned a sheepskin jacket.  I could hold it by the collar, and fling it up into the air.  It would spin, flipping once, arms flying out, and come down - and I could spin, myself, and snatch it from the air.  I would then attempt to snag it by the collar, and end facing the other way, jacket hanging over my shoulder as if I'd folded it there.

I practiced this trick for hours, and slowly learned to do it consistently.

And then, being introduced to a new class, I demonstrated it, showing off. They jeered at me, as someone especially silly.

The thing is? I got it right.  And I still think it was pretty damn cool.  But I still remember the snickering, too.  

I've decided that I need higher ceilings, and a leather jacket.

Time to start practising again.

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Something Grey

There is a people called Human. Like all peoples, they came to be on their own world, and took possession of it. They had no symbiote, this people. No agent within them. So, where they needed tools, they fashioned them from wood and stone and metal. When they needed to grow strong or swift, they worked their bodies in labour; they could not imagine their flesh anew. The people called human had some who looked within, and they knew much of their own flesh. But knowing and doing are not the same, for those peoples who live alone in their skin. Lumpish and weak, half-blind and slow, they went about gathering strength over those things they could see and touch, and dreaming sadly of more. The gods looked on their world, and saw that it was ripe. Filled with succulents, and without any sign of defence. And so the gods laid their plans; they reached out and found sicknesses and particles, and crafted a symbiote for the people called Human. This was no gentle ally, though. No welcome presence. The gods crafted their symbiote to obedience of their own signs and symbols. They made it to invade the flesh, covert what it could to their service, and slay the rest.  Their agent was made to transform the people called Human into tools, draped in their own rotting and unchanged meat. With such agents, he gods could lay foundations, draw up forms of their own, and dispatch avatar-fragments of themselves to the world of humanity. And there, the gods would rule for long eons, as they rule on so many other worlds, shaping and shifting their new servants into whatever forms amused them. This was their plan, and they set it in motion. The humans, for their part, had long held a nightmare of walking, rotting death. And as the harbinger-plague, sent by the gods, exploded through their world, the people called Human who were not overcome gave these things that name. They called them Zombie, and marveled that their legend had come true.  Their legend gave them the strength to mount a resistance, false as it was.  As they began to band together and give battle, though, they learned the truth, piece by piece. The people called Human, denied the aid of a symbiote, had honed other methods for seeking out the natureds of tools and illnesses. Even as their numbers dwindled and the servants of the gods laid claim to their world, the people called Human put these methods into action. There was no secret in the Human method. Look at the world, imagine how it might work, devise a test to see if you are. Fail. Again and again, fail, gathering truth from failure. The resistance made new weapons. They began to learn the language that the gods had wrought into that harbinger. They called up fire and thunder, girded and armed themselves, and made plain their intent to fight impossible wars. The people called Human, when any sane people would have despaired, instead swore terrible oaths of vengeance against the gods. Just as we did, so long ago.

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It was Jill.

Quite a number of months ago, amidst one of the deepest stretches of my depression, drunk, lonely, I encountered a woman of significant charm, grace, and wit. Naturally, I made an immense fool of myself, even forgetting that we had met before and that I ought to know her name. Ever since, I see her name from time to time where my old friends are writing to one another. Because I am still embarrassed, it stands out, and I notice her being by turns brilliant, sardonic, and kind.  And so I sit, witness to loveliness, and set out from it by an impassibly awkward gulf. It seems unlikely I will ever have occasion to use it, but I suspect that I won't actually be able to forget her name again.

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Even When We Did Start To Get

That this wasn't a usual illness, people focused almost entirely on that.  A good deal of the side strangeness never got air time.  Someone calls in to a radio show with a sniffle, says that their dog got ill, and just melted down into a puddle of meat that's still wandering around the back yard?

Odd.  Worth a moment.  But again, easy to say "You've got that sniffle.  Are you sure you're not hearing a few things, getting a bit off in the head?" A few dogs did melt down, though, into what I've heard called wallows on the network.

I really started to get it myself pretty late in. There was that Japanese doctor - a survivor from the very first outbreak - that got interviewed the day before the lights went out here.  She talked about how some of the plague victims that were seriously injured bloated up, or hugged each other and just kind of fused like that.  I compared that with the funny little edge cases, and it started to click for me.

I don't think the plague just kills and reaminates.  I think it transforms.

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"Those Damned Mackerel-Snappers"

That's what gramma used to call Catholics.  Fish on Friday, it was a tradition.

It was in fish before it was in people.  The plague, I mean.  It didn't make the fish sick, or do anything to them like what it does here.  It couldn't have been in the fish long, either; we would have seen it.  But it came to us that way even so.  If it had come to us from some landlocked source, it wouldn't necessarily have gone global.  No such luck.

The undead apocalypse was brought to you courtesy of Sushi eaters and Catholics. Almost sounds like one of those political rants come true. There is some truth to it, though.  Once you've got the plague, you've got anywhere from three days to a few weeks to beat it or die and rise, and you're infectious in all the ways normal diseases spread during a good part of that time.

If you were feeling terrible, you might stay home from work, or not.  And you might go to church, or not. Many did.  It wasn't the only path the plague took through the world, but it was one of the big ones.

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The First Anyone Heard Of People Turning

Was about a some kind of outbreak in Japan.  The story was sanitized. People getting sick and falling almost comatose in some kind of physical crisis, then waking back up brain-damaged and ravenous.

Maybe you saw it, maybe not, but that story did a lot of damage in really coming to grips with what was going on.  A week later, when the outbreaks in Vancouver, Honolulu, and Seattle hit, the news wasn't so much scrubbed as slanted.  

Of course, people attacked by the ill would say things like "monstrous" and have wild stories.  But the victims of the illness had brain damage, you understand.  Those they attacked might be upset for a reason, but nobody in the media wanted to push the same stuff they were ranting about too hard when the response would so obviously be "How dare you call them monsters?  They're victims of a disease."

Plenty of people took the threat of the disease to heart, and all the governments bordering the pacific were on it quickly, by the standards of the time.  Within a day of an outbreak, there were security cordons.  For the Seattle turning, the US responded with a full-scale quarantine inside a few hours of the first rising.

It was far too little, much too late, of course.  The whisper flu had started shouting.