Eaters of Glass, pt 2

One thing that's always bothered me is the rigidity of modern fantasy in it's delineation between what is divine and what is mystical. Fantasy RPG's have drawn a hard line between the two, which has become enforced over the years. I've always wondered where that separation occurred and why, as the mystical and occult have long been held to be aspects of one another. 

 

Tolkien certainly didn't make the distinction, as Gandalf, Saruman, and even the villain Sauron were all essentially angels that took flesh. Magic was a harnessing of the natural order of things, tapping the divinity of creation to enforce or bend the rules that the Creator established long ago. There is a  long-held view that the supernatural is at least in part a unit in theology and I don't understand this more recent need for separation. The second part of "Eaters of Glass" addresses this to some degree, with more to follow:

 

 

The tickling on my sacred marks has grown stronger and I know the others feel it too. It is strongest amongst the foundlings, although whether they squirm from that sensation, the cold water, or youthful impatience, I do not know. Belan reaches out to the youngest foundling, a girl with a tangled nest of flaxen hair, who clasps his forearm so they touch wrist to wrist, whirling knots and dotted lines touching, her eyes widening in delight with the sensation I know is soon to pass through each of us. She reaches out to a boy huddled against the hiked skirts of the foundress, he to the foundress herself, and one by one we make a circle facing one another standing in shallows of the river.

 

I am among the last to join and when my arm locks with that of Jendra's, the tickling becomes a tingle of pleasure. The numbness of my feet fades and the water feels as warm as it appeared to Belan, the stones I stand upon no longer uncomfortable but instead cradling my feet, the tinkling of the river as it flows away now a song with words I could understand if they were sung slow enough. With each clasping of arms, the sacred marks pulse with pleasure, each addition to the circle a different sensation: one like cool rain on a warm day, another the sweet relaxing of sleep after a long day's work, the next the stomach-twisting pleasure of a first kiss. All our joys become melded as we are joined, until at last Miika holds his arm out to Belan, who waits with the Blackwood, ready to complete the circle. 

 

When the wand touches the sacred mark at Miika's wrist, our hands are no longer needed to hold our arms together. Like the lodestones the foundlings play with, the sacred marks hold us rigid, bound to one another by a force stronger than muscle and bone. The sun shines down on us, feet on stone, water around our ankles, wind in our hair. The sensation of each of our individual joys becomes melded into a greater pleasure, that of connection and stability, of family and village life, of love. I know this joy is not my own, though it is a joy that all of us feel in the ceremony, which is it's purpose, afterall.

 

Belen takes his wand away from Miika's sacred mark and as our sacred marks release their hold on one another, we are left with that sense of connection, now less physical sensation than shared knowledge though a light tingling pulses through our bodies from the sacred marks in time with our heartbeats. Turning to one another, we embrace and hold each other close as though this act may restore some of what we felt for that brief moment. The foundlings hold one another's hand, as do some of the adults, and follow Belen to the middle of the shallow riverrun where he lifts a small basket from the water.

 

The loose weave of the basket allows water to drain easily and sunlight to reach through to glimmer off it's contents in a sparkle of blues, greens, and bright white across the riverbed. Belen gently shakes the basket to rid it of further dripping and the sparkling light produces a musical tinkling clatter. The knot holding the basket's lid in place comes undoes itself with a touch from the Blackwood wand and stooping, he lowers the basket to the curious eyes of the foundlings.

Inside, the basket is filled with smoothed shards of glass, polished by the movement of sand and water. The glass is brought to our village by the heavily robed Marschites at the end of summer, in payment for their portion of the barley crop. They always bring a bag of sharp edged, multi-colored glass for each village on their trade route and Belen places it in several of these baskets in the river's course to soften the edges over the course of the seasons. He straightens his back, looks around our circle into the eyes of each young man, woman, and foundling and speaks.

"As we grow food to nourish our bodies and keep our flesh hale, so too must we feed our hearts and minds to remain strong. Our people's hearts and minds are bound to one another and the sacred marks on our bodies show the strength of our connection. There is a fire within us that brands these marks on our flesh and it must be fed to remain burning," Belen reaches into the basket with the Blackwood wand and stirs the contents like a fostress over a soup kettle before sliding the wand into the belt at his waist.

He reaches in and withdraws a thumb-sized piece of smooth, white glass, holding it up so that sunlight blindingly reflects on the few faces that remain free of river-polished frosting. The words carry some hidden meaning, but the ritual of repetition obscures those that have heard them each year know them. "The glass is earth shaped by fire and air and water. It is a vessel for the sun, the greatest giver of life burning with the fire of the sacred. As the sun has returned from it's journey away from us, so we return to it. May this gift feed the fire of your heart," grey eyes soften with a smile as he hands the white glass to the youngest. "May this gift feed the fire of your heart," he repeats to each of us, the largest pieces given to the foundlings while the older among us receive slightly smaller pieces. He takes a piece for himself last, repeating the prayer one last time, "May this gift feed the fire of your heart," before placing the glass in his mouth.

We all do the same, though the younger foundlings hold theirs in little fists. The piece of glass given to me is the rich green of pine needles, the size and near to the shape of my thumbnail, flat and rounded. It is cool at first, but warms quickly in my mouth as I work my tongue around it like the beetroot candy we make sometimes. The gentle pulsing from the sacred marks on my throat begins to itch and tingle as I roll the glass around my mouth, sometimes gently clinking against my teeth. It begins to dissolve, just like the beetroot candy, but where the candy is sweet and fragrant, the glass tastes of the air before the storms of early summer when the wind blows hot and cold together and fills the sky with lightning.

All of my sacred marks begin to itch lightly, though not enough to bother scratching as they did in years past. The foundlings rub here and there, at one wrist or across their chests. One does a curious hopping dance in the shallow water of the river prompted by the sensation. Once the glass is gone from our mouths, Belen ties the basket closed and returns it to the water, gesturing for us to return to shore. We dry our feet and put on our shoes, unhitching skirts and rolling down pant legs. The foundlings are eager for the midday feast the elders will have prepared for us to nourish our bodies as Belen has nourished our hearts.

Eaters of Glass

What follows is a bit of fiction that I started writing quite a while ago, developing the world and story in fits and starts the way my writing always progresses. I'll read something that sparks an idea, have a dream about something else, then somehow connect the dots between those things. 

 

What started as a musing on the difference between fantasy and science fiction became tied up very quickly in Arthur C Clarke's famous Third Law: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." What happens then, when technology is so advanced that it's ability to sustain/maintain itself is essentially infinite and the very people that utilize it no longer understand it or know how it is used? Those that do know are as wizards... Here's the first installment:

 

 

 

When the first days of spring lift the winds of winter and the sun warms the frozen earth and thaws the river ice, my people gather at the Blackwood tree for the blessing of our wise man, Belan. The sun is a hand above the treetops as we leave the thatched homes with hearths kept warm by our elders, cloaked against the morning chill in groups of twos, threes, and fours to walk the cobbled paths to the meeting place near the common well where we gather our water. Once assembled, foundlings scamper in the dewy grass heedless of ceremony while Belan moves among us, Blackwood wand in hand, to touch our foreheads with the ash. Not one of us knows where the ash comes from as Belan has lit no fire and regardless, Blackwood does not burn.

Blackwood does not make windfall. Blackwood cannot be felled. It's trunk and branches turns the blade of axe and saw. Like other trees, it grows bare when the winds turn cold and lush during the warm seasons yet it's leaves never fall. When I was a foundling, I once climbed the slick trunk to it's lowest branches and spent an autumn afternoon trying to discover this mystery. My fostress lashed me soundly for my absence in the fields that day and though I know the leaves grew thinner, for I noticed those nearest me when they were gone, never once did I see where they went.

The secrets of the Blackwood tree are known only to the wise men among us. Only they may pluck it's leaves for their tinctures and salves, but where their wands come from, no one has seen. It has been said in whispers and tales told around hearthfires that the Blackwood itself gives the wise men their wands and it is with this thought in my mind when Belan finally stands before me.

His lined face is bent to the wand in his hand and when he raises his bright eyes to mine I feel he knows my secret wonderings. A nod, so slight and brief I question whether or not it was imagined, gives me pause. Eyes the color of stormy sky hold me in place as the wand rises to leave it's mark and before Belan moves on to minister the blessing to the others he gives me a warm smile. The ash tingles and crawls against my skin and I feel a warmth spread from it, a goose-pimple raising of skin that travels in waves from head to foot and an echoing return of warmth and tingling from the intertwined lines and knots of the sacred marks on my wrists, ankles, neck, chest, and thighs before fading to the lightest of tickling.

When the last of our village has received his blessing, Belan leads us to the riverbank and takes the path upstream. Snow along the banks and iced puddles begin to thaw as the sun rises as we near the bend where the river moves swift with run-off through the stony shallows. The foundlings run ahead of us to find dry seats on the sun-warmed stone, tossing their cloaks aside and working at the leather laces of fur-lined boots. The youngest strode to the water's edge only stopping at a gentle reminder from the fostress, impatient at the slower plodding of adults and eager to begin to festive ceremony that marks the end of winter's seige and the beginning of the planting season.

We fold our cloaks and lay them on dry spots or hang them from the branches of the willows and hazels; shoes are carefully laid nearby and stockings stowed inside them, trousers are rolled up and skirts tied high. As the first of us strides to the icy cold water, the younger foundlings splash in with shrill screams and deep breaths while the older ones watch on laughing and giving a good-natured ribbing. Though we have performed the ceremony every year since our own days as foundlings, the water's chill is enough to numb feet in moments and stir light-hearted epithets, the stones of the riverbed pinch and poke despite their smoothness. Belan alone strides through the water as though it is warm as a bath, stooping to wet his fingers before touching them to his lips before waving us to stand together.