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.