The Eternal City, Part 2

Nessa figured she was less than a day behind the Firbolg. She was sure the girl would be with him, even though there were no signs of her in the meager evidence of her companion’s passage. He was probably carrying her; he would move faster, this way, and would leave less trace.

The tales the farmers told of the Firbolg were of a fearsome, lumbering monster. That was the usual impression given by human farmers regarding anything that came out of the forest to raid their crops, but she knew that this could be a very apt description of an enraged Firbolg. She also knew, however, that they were largely a peaceful, retiring race. They valued their isolation such that they had little to do with each other, much less anyone of another race.

This, of course, led Nessa to wonder, not for the first time, what this particular Firbolg was doing with a young human girl. Neither would be captive of the other; this made no sense. Some other bond must have formed, probably early in the girl’s life. Despite their gentle nature, Nessa found it difficult to believe that the Firbolg had adopted an orphan. Yet, what else?

She hoped to overtake the pair the next day. As she gazed up at the stars, she wondered what the encounter would be like. The Firbolg was no doubt already wondering who could track him so well. He might even have an idea of who she was. So, he would not be expecting a fight. This was good, as she didn’t want to fight, either.

In ancient times, the sword-maidens and the Firbolg had cooperated, thought few in this time were aware of the connection. It was millennia ago, and most people were concerned with this season, and the next. But, the Firbolg, like the sword-maidens, kept the memory. Nessa sincerely hoped her quarry recalled the spirit of those times.

Also, she could be fairly sure she had been spotted by other Firbolg. They had ways of relaying news, and her description would be part of this. So, she kept her armor stowed away on her horse, and carried only the shorter of her two swords. She was careful to leave as little trace of her passing as she could. The Firbolg would respect this, as they considered themselves, so the tales said, keepers of this forest.

She slept well, if lightly, under the bright splash of stars that showed through the canopy. Awaking before sunrise, she led her horse through the forest, not bothering to mount. Something told her she would meet her quarry today.

Two hours into her trek, another trail crossed the one she followed. This trail was far different from the Firbolg’s, and she recognized it as readily. A swath of broken dirt, snapped branches and flattened vegetation marked the passage of a Black Troll.

It was the only species of Troll to travel in the daylight, all other species being nocturnal, and preferring cave-systems. Black Trolls usually stuck to the open plain, and would not be at home, and certainly not welcome, in this forest. It was strange to find one crashing through here.

Nessa’s curiosity nearly got the better of her, but she stuck to her original plan. The Firbolg, if they were inclined to interfere, would take care of the Troll. She might even have felt bad for the beast, if she hadn’t had some experience fighting them.

She pushed on and, to her surprise, an hour later, the Troll’s swath of destruction had circled back around and crossed her path again. This time, the monster seemed to find the same trail she was following, completely obscuring the Firbolg’s passage. Cursing under her breath, she resigned herself to the possibility that she would be facing a Troll as well as a delay in her rendezvous.

Knave

Weird and black in the light,
Hidden without shadow, bright black
Glowing, humming, and razor-sharp,
Heavy-beaked, keen-eyed and impudent,
Half-maker watches the unguarded roads

As the day is born, the day-star rising
Transforming darkness to virginal white,
Street-born refugee, smudge-faced and beautiful
Crosses in her eyes, singing the light
The devil vanishing in transformation to love

The Knave, strange and awake,
Asks his way in a land where he knows no one,
Their minds opaque, murky and dark
Bright black, weird in the light
The Half-maker's folk, shadows in the vapor

Still he seeks that other country,
Where Knave becomes Knight, all his wounds in front
Clad in violet, conversing with the dark
Pleading in the hope of a shift
When such a man Awakens to the Cup!

Christmas, 2008

Icons speak fire through gold.
Awake! Awake! Be not taken in by the world!
The King came and went, and still you sleep,
leaden and unknowing.

The Divine Spark sputters,
but does not go out, tended by unseen hands,
the luminous Yes, just beyond reach.
Alas! the devil is no more,

But He who tests his own,
still He breathes beneath all things,
ancient and terrible, dazzling,
But His light is only a candle,

Next to the light the icons whisper.
Our blind eyes cannot see,
And must be burnt away.
Awake! Awake! The King has come and gone.

The Eternal City, Part 1

This is the beginning of a long story I will be serializing here. I hope to update it once per week, but we'll see how that goes. It is in the nature of a rough draft, as I am writing it essentially as it appears here. I hope you enjoy it.


“Where are you, Hero? I wasn’t gone that long.”

It was the edge of the forest. Kira knew Hero didn’t like to be so close to the settlements. But, she knew he understood the necessity. She’d been waiting for him for an hour after her return from the farm-hold. It was within view of the trees, and Hero’s sight was considerably better than hers, so she knew he would have been able to see her the whole time.

When she had spoken, it had been quietly, the calm of her voice belying the irritation she felt inside. She understood his trepidation. The farmers and other settlers didn’t care for his kind, and they generally drove them off on the exceedingly rare occasions the two parties had the opportunity to interact.

Part of her irritation stemmed from the fact that he wasn’t there to protect her. She had been at the edges of the farm-stead stealing, and had she been spotted there would have been a chase. The only way the chase would have been broken off would have been the appearance of Hero.

The plan, as it had been for years, was that Kira would sneak into the fields under the eye of Hero. If she was spotted and chased, Hero would emerge from the trees, shocking the farmers into stopping. He would then scoop Kira up and they would flee at a speed the farmers could not match.

But, he was nowhere to be found this time. Neither could she track him. He was by far the superior woodsman, and had been born with the natural habit of concealing his movements from others. It was how his kind had survived for longer than anyone could remember.

She waited for a few more minutes, intending to set out looking for him if he didn’t show. Soon, however, she heard a familiar rustle in the gathering dusk. A moment later, Hero emerged from the shadows.

He was taller than any man, almost by half. His bulk was also much greater, and his reach and musculature matched. Green skin was hidden only atop his head and on his chin by darker green hair. Small round ears sat astride a great round head. His eyes were big and piercing with light gray irises. A sharp intellect shown in them, but one that was deeply estranged from the minds of humans. Even Kira, who had been travelling with Hero for years, often didn’t understand the things he did. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, and sat beneath a broad nose with wide nostrils.

Men called Hero’s people the Firbolg. They were ancient beyond the ken of most of the other peoples, and were widely feared. Legend tied them mysteriously to the ancient ruins scattered about the countryside.

We are followed. Hero used the sign-language of his people. They had vocal ability, but used it only rarely. He knew Kira’s language, but they used Hero’s most often. The sign he used for “followed” also meant “hunted”, but Hero’s demeanor led Kira to interpret it in the less threatening way.

Who? She asked. Hero shrugged, a mannerism adopted from his companion. The gesture was far grander when performed by someone of his size, and therefore seemed much more emphatic than the off-hand way Kira used it.

We should travel on, he said. Clearly, Hero didn’t feel threatened by the follower, but the fact they were being tracked was, in itself, a reason to keep moving. Especially for a Firbolg. They had no craving for contact with other peoples, Hero’s relationship with Kira notwithstanding.

To make themselves harder to track, Kira climbed on to the Firbolg’s shoulders. They had travelled this way often over the years, and Hero was practiced at avoiding branches low enough to knock Kira down.

While they travelled, they at some of the fruit and vegetables Kira had taken. Hero had a couple of rabbits in his pouch, and Kira promised to cook them up when he deemed it safe to camp.

They moved deeper into the trees, familiar with this part of the forest. The Firbolg were forest creatures, and Hero, so far as Kira knew, had never been outside of the cover of the trees. Save, of course, for the few times he had come to her rescue at the farms. So, they both knew the forest pretty well.

Hero finally stopped moving late into the night. The sky beyond the trees was clear, and the moon shown bright in a little clearing by a low rock out-cropping. Kira laid out her bed beneath the rock, and prepared a small fire. Years before, when she still lived among her own kind, her mother had taught her a few small tricks that she was told to keep to herself. One was the trick of making a smokeless fire. A small gesture with the fingers of her left hand, a muttered phrase in a language she didn’t understand, and she had a merry little fire to cook by; and there would be no column of smoke to give away their location, no matter how damp the wood.

Hero, as was his habit, sat with his back to the fire while he ate. Kira knew, he preferred to feel the heat on his back, rather than his face. Also, it helped to keep his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was always watchful and suspicious, but especially now, when they were being tracked.

Kira extinguished the fire before she settled in to her bed. Getting rest was rarely a problem for her, since her companion had no need of sleep. He kept watch all night, most nights. Some nights, he slipped away for a few hours.

Kira suspected he went off to visit with others of his kind, though she had never seen another Firbolg. She sometimes asked him where he went, but he refused to say. Actually, it was more like he ignored her, simply not answering.

This night, however, he remained nearby, watchful.

Something New, Soon

I'm working on something new, and will post the first bit of it soon. Hang on!

Monument

Here is a fragment, meant as a preface to a longer story which never materialised. Maybe someday...

Steam puffed from the horse’s nostrils as it crunched upward through snow-covered trees. Night was falling, and the rider was aware that his pursuers were moving closer. He had lost hope of escape hours ago, but there was still one thing that kept him moving. He had changed his goal: he no longer wished to avoid his fate.

In the fading light and the growing chill, the horse reached a small clearing. The rider pulled the beast to a stop and dismounted. The mare danced briefly, sensing her master’s apprehension.

He allowed his legs to adjust for a few seconds; hours in the saddle had left them wobbly and unused to the weight of a man. Then he strode to the opposite end of the clearing and knelt down. There, he found what he was looking for.

Half-buried in a low drift, and covered in winter-dead vines stood a short monument. The stone was no more than a pillar about as high as his waist surmounted by a foot-wide disc. Upon the disc was carved a serene face, eyes half-open, nose narrow, mouth small and quiet.

He pulled vines from the face and knelt down. He said a small prayer and gazed at the face for a short time. He felt calm wash over him. It was done; he had attained this goal, at least, even if the other was lost.

In another moment, he rose and returned to his mount. Rising into the saddle, he kicked her sides and they were off, into the woods. The snow had begun again the process of burying the little monument.


Less than an hour later, five more riders thundered into the clearing. They paused, their leader examining the scene before him. He was a master tracker, but little skill was needed to see what had passed here. Their quarry had stopped to pray. He smiled through his thick, graying beard.

He spurred his great black horse closer to the monument. The light snow had not yet obscured the marks where his quarry had knelt. The bearded man snorted derisively and spat into the face of the statue. He considered raising his mace and smashing the heretical thing, but he stopped short. Somehow, he could not bring himself to do it.

He jerked his horse around and crashed back into the trees, following his enemy’s trail. His underlings followed his example, leaving the little clearing empty, once again.

Soul and Feather

Compare the weight of the soul to a feather
Yours or mine would matter little
We are only human

It is the fate of man to suffer, as the Buddha told us
All life is just that
But where does that lead us?

To the truth, some would say
To Unknowing, others
Perhaps suffering is nothing more than itself

Perhaps it is unwise to agonize over the destruction of monuments to our past
Or the future of our unborn generations who have no say
Perhaps it is only a burning forest or a new highway

Tara will disappear along with our trees and nothing will be the same
But nothing is ever the same
And there is nothing new under the sun

Only man’s suffering over the loss of his past and his future
Can influence the weight of his heart against the feather of Truth
It is that suffering that can alter the balance