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.
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.
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