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631 lines
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+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER THREE
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+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
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| ++ | F S F NN N E T
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| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
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| | F S F N NN E T
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|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
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/___________\ ==========================================
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
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___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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CONTENTS
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X-Editorial Orny
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The Awakening Orny
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Spirit of the Wood Rich Jervis
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Dreamer's Holiday Joseph Curwen
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Dawn Watch Jim Owens
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Date: 042086 Dist: 143
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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X-Editorial
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Greetings, all. Well, there is so much to write of here, yet so
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little space. Enclosed you will find 4 new Dargon stories (the last
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of which takes place well before the current ones). I must apologize
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for the delay, but I think you will find it worth the wait. Also,
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there will be another issue out before the end of the semester, if I
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have my way, although who knows? I might mention that if you look at
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the distribution, we are growing at a phenomenal pace, and I'd like
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to again thank all the new readers for their interest.
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As for new books, look for Janet Morris. She's released two new
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books that are the first Thieves' World novels, titled "Beyond
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Sanctuary" and "Beyond the Veil" (the latter available only in
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hardcover as far as I know). Also, new Robert Anton Wilson, Piers
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Anthony, Anne McCaffrey, and a reprint of an old Tanith Lee book.
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Two more items. For those of you who will be around this summer,
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a user at Cornell is planning on running a play by mail Diplomacy
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game over BITNET. For more details send a mail file to UXHJ at
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CORNELLA. Finally, for those of you with accounts that will expire
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soon, please let me know so that I can delete you from the
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distribution list. This will help save me from having to sit up all
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night watching sent file messages, as well as the annoyance of
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filling up your node's spool space.
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-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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The Awakening
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The morning sun was boldly creeping towards the edge of
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Hartley's sleeping mat when he woke. Sitting up, he shed the single
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wool blanket he had been given by one of the peasant women from the
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nearby village of Greenmont. He had left the shutters and door of
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his modest dwelling open, and the smell of the surrounding pine
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woods and the warm sun permeated the room. Shrugging on a light
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brown tunic, Hartley leaned out the window and took a deep breath.
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This was one of those special May mornings Hartley had been taught
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were called Truespring, when spring finally came in a burst of
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warmth and lush greenness. The sky was clear and deep azure, and the
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leaves on the old Maple out back were calm, signifying that the rest
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of the day would not see any spring showers. A nuthatch hung upside
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down on a Cedar, nibbling at the piece of suet Hartley had hung only
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yesterday afternoon. Truespring had come at last, and Hartley's soul
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was healed, after the long days of winter. He could feel the raw,
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rejuvenating power of Nature, and he rejoiced in it.
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After several very long moments of private reverie, Hartley left
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his small cottage with a pewter basin. He walked barefoot down a
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well-known path, carpeted with a dun-colored mat of last years
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fallen pine needles, eventually coming upon a small woods stream.
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The druid climbed upon a stone that jutted into the stream. After a
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moment of excited consideration, Hartley tossed the basin towards
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the path and stripped off his tunic. The water would be very cold,
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but after the winter, Hartley couldn't wait until he could swim a
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little and wash all over. After steeling his nerves in the sunlight,
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he leapt into the spring runoff. He thrashed around in the water for
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a bit, getting clean, and hopped right back up onto the rocks. He
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shouldn't stay in too long, after all.
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He laid down on the sun-warmed boulder for a time, drying off
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and listening to the babble of the rushing water and the voices of
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the woods. After several minutes, he donned his robe and filled the
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basin, bringing it back to the hut with him.
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Walking around to the front of the cabin, Hartley came upon his
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garden. Here grew all varieties of flowers and herbs, and, soon,
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vegetables. He sprinkled water from the basin around. Most of his
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flowers were up, and the Lilacs were blossoming in white and
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lavender. His patch of Lilly-in-the-Valley were also blossoming
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fragrantly. There was a great deal of work in his garden, but
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Hartley knew that it was well worth the effort. It was still a
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little early to plant many vegetables, although he ought to head
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into town and buy some pea and corn seeds. If he was lucky he could
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get two groups of peas before fall, so he planned to get them in the
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ground as soon as possible. As for corn, that took all summer to
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grow, and should be planted as soon as possible.
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He bent down and picked a single Lilly-of-the-Valley stem and
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smelled its sweet bell-like blossoms. Placing the basin down, he
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walked to the far side of the garden, where he had built his altar
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to the twin gods. The altar was nothing more than a small gathering
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of stones, but it meant more to Hartley than any other place he
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knew. The snow had melted from it, revealing the remains of prior
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offerings: a few golden leaves, a pine tassel, and so forth. He
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knelt before the altar, placing the Lilly blossom atop it. For
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several minutes he sat in silent meditation, worshipping the works
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of the two gods, the strong-willed man called Nature and the
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softness of Mitra, goddess of Love. Hartley had been taught early
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the worship of Nature, and knew little of Mitra save that she was
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the all-mother, and Nature's twin companion.
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After this ritual was complete, he quietly returned to his home
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and prepared for a trip into town.
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-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Spirit of the Wood
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The acrid smell of the 'smokers' stung loric's eyes and he
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rolled onto his side to cover his head with his lightly tanned arm.
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This position was soon ruined also, as an errant beam of early
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morning sunlight stole under the shade on the window and hit him in
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the corner of his left eye. Soon the battle of boy versus nature was
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over and Loric groaned as he gave up and sat up.
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He watched the dancing motes of dust pirouette in and out of the
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beam of golden light for a few moments and then moved to the window
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through which it came.
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Loric never ceased to be moved by the sight of his village in
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the Trees. The web-like network of vines that linked his home to the
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surrounding trees, the home of his uncle down that one, that of his
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sister Silsia at the base of the other (she was an unmarried female
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and was considered somewhat a rouge by the other villagers, except
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Loric who worshipped the ground she walked on even if it was in fact
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ground and not the vines he had been born to.
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There was a natural depression of the land between here and the
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village of Greensward, with the lake shimmering in the exact center
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like a jewel of surpassing beauty, in fact the only gem Loric had
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ever seen was the blue polished stone that his uncle wore in his
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headband, as a sign that the Spirit of the Wood had chosen him to
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lead. He was a demanding taskmaster and not taken to change but fair
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to all, and his leadership had gotten the people through several
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hard winters when the ice-ladened vines had snapped and fallen upon
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the 'Downlanders' below.
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The mention of the Spirit of the Wood reminded Loric of his
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morning prayer. His was a simple one and not really a rhyme to be
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proud of but his Grandfather had assured him that as time went on he
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would achieve better rapport with the spirit and the Hearth-song
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would reveal itself more clearly.
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Making a simple hand gesture of acknowledgement to the rising
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sun, he sang to the Spirit of the Wood:
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"Spirit of the Wood,
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Spirit of the Wood,
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I'd come be with you,
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If I could."
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This done Loric took a step outside to see where his Grandfather
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was this morning. Loric's father Dernhelm had been one of the
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'Downlanders that has perished in the winter and since that time
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Loric had lived with his Grandfather, whom everyone in the village
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called Oldsir. Loric's awe for his older sister was only
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over-shadowed by that for his Grandfather, who though blind for
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nearly all of Loric's two years and twelve still negotiated the
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vines connecting the upward village with the ease some never
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developed. Several of the younger men who were jealous of his seat
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on the arboreal council urged him to join his wife and family on the
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ground but he always said "If I go below again it'll be on my head!"
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"That's a strong oath for a young man to take," commented a
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voice from above him. "Shall I swear witness to it, Loric?"
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"Oldsir I was talking to myself, and besides, I have yet to take
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the Shreaving, and I can swear no oaths before then."
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"It is only three more nights till the Moon shows itself full
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upon the land, I think perhaps you are ready to try."
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Loric was surprised, it had been only a cycle earlier that he
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had begged Oldsir to allow him to accompany the young men to the
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ground where the Rite of Shreaving began. He looked closely at his
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grandfather, somehow sensing the weariness and pain that sometimes
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took his Grandfather and shook him for nights in a row. Oldsir
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turned tired, sightless eyes upon Loric and in a flash of
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inspiration Loric saw what it was that his Grandfather was fatigued
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from. His eyes bore the tale-tell spider-tracing of a Vision. The
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Spirit of the Wood had spoken to Oldsir, or perhaps through him
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during the night. No one alive in his village had ever had two
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visions from the Spirit. This meant that something of extreme import
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to the village was about to occur.
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Oldsir's eyes showed Loric something else equally disturbing.
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They revealed to Loric that his Grandfather was dying.
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The days between that moment and the day of Sheaving were filled
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with a combination of early congratulations from the villagers,
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getting his garb fitted for him by his sister, and quiet reflective
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evenings as his Grandfather taught him the oral histories, and
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shared with him the knowledge of dreams and visions that The Spirit
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gave him.
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Loric feared that Oldsir would not live through the days of
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Shreaving to see if he became a man. But his Grandfather seemed at
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peace and showed no outward sign that his time of death had been
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revealed to him. He seemed to convey a quiet dignity that Loric
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tried in vain to accept. He felt like shouting and fighting but
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there was nothing but shadows for him to vent his anger on.
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"Why?" He said finally, unable to keep his fear to himself,
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"It's not fair!"
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"Is it fair that you were born to my son and not to another,
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that the rain falls on the Windbourne mountains and leaves the
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Plains of Woe a place where only djervishes can walk?"
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-Rich Jervis <C78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Dreamer's Holiday
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The Grand Hall of the Keep of Dargon rivaled the local shrines
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and temples in augustness of stature, especially on this night, the
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eve of the opening of the Spice Market at the Dargon festival. The
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ivory white hall's sumptuous furnishings had been commissioned by
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the somewhat frivolous and eccentric grandfather of the the current
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Duke. The high flanking windows were decorated with rose red and
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aquamarine tinted glass arranged in somewhat bizarre geometric
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patterns. Paintings of obscure artists dotted the alabaster white
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walls. Short flights of burnished wooden staircases were the only
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entrance onto the central dance floor on which was centered a great
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ebony clock marking the hours in hollow base tones.
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This was the forth night since the beginning of the fairs that
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the hall was filled by a voluptuous company. But this night was
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special, second only to the opening of the fairs themselves in its
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festivities. While small clusters of nobles and merchants mingled on
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the edges of the hall discussing the fairs, elegant couples danced
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gracefully to the controlled harmonies of the performing orchestra.
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One such couple was Kite and Pecora. Youthful, aristocratic,
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handsome, recently engaged, and remarkable pleasant, they were
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favored and envied by all.
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"Your friend Raffen doesn't seem to be having a good time this
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evening," Pecora observed indicating a lone man standing in one of
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the darker corners of the ivory white hall. A nearby coal brazier
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sent ruddy red light onto the man's extremely white face causing an
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astonishing macabre effect of which Raffen was apparently unaware.
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"He doesn't fit in here for all his efforts. He was invited as
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entertainment only. The court wanted to hear of his travels in the
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south," Kite responded somewhat worried.
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"Other wealthy merchants are here," Pecora suggested.
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"Yes, but Raffen isn't wealthy. He holds several commenda."
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Noticing her look of noncomprehension Kite added "Agreements with
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southern merchants to act as their agent in the fairs. But he lacks
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any real property of his own. The payment for his services is
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relatively small. A brillant man but still a commoner." Kite's voice
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was wistful. He often regretted the social conditions of his
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society. "He realizes why he was invited. Perhaps he resents it," he
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added somewhat gravely.
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"He's been alone most of the evening. Perhaps his novelity has
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worn off," Pecora observed.
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"I don't know about that. I overheard Sir Ponte and Duralt's
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younger brother discussing adopting the custom of wearing facial
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talc which Raffen picked up while in the south. I suspect that they
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want to share in Raffen's attention."
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"Those two would try to capitalize on anything to get the
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ladies' attention. But Raffen's not exactly a lady's man... Too
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introverted. I don't think that he wears the talc to attract women,
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though it does cover his rough complexion well," Pecora said.
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"It wasn't so long ago that Sir Ponte had designs on you," Kite
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chided playfully.
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"I knew that there was some reason for our engagement. I just
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hope getting rid of Ponte is worth the price," Pecora responded with
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equal playfulness and kissed Kite.
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"It's Raffen's brooding that chases everyone off," Kite added
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after a moment. "He always has something on his mind, though he
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never admits what it is."
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"Yes, he always appears so contemplative...depressed. He doesn't
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dance and often seems so distant."
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"Yes, but conversations with him are never dull. Maybe we should
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go over," Kite suggested.
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"I'd rather have you to myself.... There's Pravo. Why don't you
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introduce them. He's also something of a misfit."
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"Good idea. Be back in a moment." Kite smiled as he crossed the
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dance floor.
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As Kite and Pravo approached, Raffen stood admiring an arresting
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oil painting detailing an immense cavern wherein cowled riders fly
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gray, corpse-like humanoids with large membranous wings from
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galleries and high ledges over a darkened, sluggish river flowing
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over uncountable cataracts into a distant chasm.
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"Raffen, have you met Pravo, one of Dargon's most distinguished
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scholars?" Kite asked. The gentleman looked distinctly uncomfortable.
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"No, I'm sure that I would recall such a pleasurable
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experience." Raffen replied driely.
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"I'm sure that you will find that you have much in common. But
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I'm afraid that I will have to leave you to yourselves. If you will
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excuse me, duty calls," The departing Kite explained gesturing
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toward Pecora who seemed to be signalling him.
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"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Raffen, since hearing
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of your travels to the far south," Pravo said with a bit of hesitation.
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"Yes, it seems my adventures have sparked great interest in this
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court," Raffen said with artificial warmness tainted with agitation.
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"But my interests are different than most, I'll warrant," Pravo
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said looking about court, perhaps checking for eavesdroppers. "I am
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less concerned with brillant scenes and deeds of daring than with
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the cultures and religions which you encountered."
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"That is well because my meager collection of brave and daring
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deeds are to the point of exhaustion." Both laughed. Raffen began to
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develop an interest in the man.
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"You see, I am something of a scholar, perhaps you've
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encountered my works, 'Legends and Myths of Thasodonia' or 'Northern
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Nights'?"
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"You wrote 'Legends and Myths' !?!" Raffen said with some
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excitement. "I've read the work and liked it a great deal."
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"You needn't flatter me, I have no great influence here," Pravo
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said looking somewhat uncomfortable.
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"No, I'm serious. Your rendition of the Tchai myth was the most
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complete that I've yet encountered."
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"Oh! Then you really have some interest in my field," Pravo said
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looking pleased. "Perhaps you can be of some help."
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"Hopefully, how might I help you?" Raffen offered with a
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slightly sarcastic flourish.
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"I'm compiling a collection of creation myths. Perhaps you could
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contribute something from the South," Pravo asked hopefully.
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"Oh...... I'm sorry but my business there was remarkably
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consuming. I had little time to really observe the people."
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"Unfortunate." Pravo appeared disappointed. "I was hoping to
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uncover something unknown in this area," Pravo said turning away,
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showing obvious signs of intent to depart.
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"No wait. Let me think.. I do remember one rather unusual tidbit.
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Have you ever heard the word 'Squarg'?" Raffen asked with a smile.
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"'Squarg'?.... No, not that I recall," Pravo replied somewhat
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confused, trying to determine if Raffen was joking. "It doesn't seem
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to fit into the linguistics of any language with which I am
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familiar. What does it mean?"
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"As all really good words, it stands for a concept which is
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difficult to express otherwise. Perhaps because it is not of truely
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human origin," Raffen added solemnly.
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"A nonhuman word? No wonder I did not recognize it.
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Interesting... Please attempt to define it as best you can," Pravo
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requested somewhat reassured but still confused.
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"The best method of defining it lies in the creation myth in
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which it originated."
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"Oh then, by all means tell it as best you can," Pravo asked
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seeming very attentive.
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"As the myth goes, the word was coined by the first sentient
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creature," Raffen began then stopped.
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"Oh, I see. Go on."
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"Soon after it was created, the sentience was guided by the All
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Creator to a point from which it could view the entirety of reality
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so that for the first time the Creator could share his handiwork
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with another capable of appreciating it." There was a moments
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hesitation in Raffen's speech followed by an encouraging gesture
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from Pravo. "The astonished creature looked upon the vastness of
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time, space, void, living, and nonliving. In response, the creature
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uttered what was probably the first word, though it is almost
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certain that this creature possessed no vocal abilities as we know
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them. And this first word, this first independent thought, was
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'Squarg', or so that is the sound which man has given that word. It
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stands for many things. It symbolizes all the wonder and rapture
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inherent in a glimpse of the entirety of reality, but at one and the
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same time, it relates a certain feeling of pride and contempt,
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hubris against the Creator. As if one were to say 'Is this the best
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that you could do?' and 'Beware God, I am Man. These realms are mine
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to do with as I please and I will do better.' There are other
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nuances of course but these are even more difficult to define. All
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in all not a very complex creation myth. I hope you will forgive its
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brevity and lack of plot," Raffen finished.
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"No. No. It is fascinating and original. Unlike any that I've
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heard before. A major contribution for my book. How did you come by
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it? Some nonhuman work?" Pravo asked in apparent euphoria.
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"Perhaps. I first read it in a book called The King in Yellow
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though I've seen it elsewhere since," Raffen replied.
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"The King in Yellow!?...hmph.. Yes, I've heard of the book,
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though I've never seen a copy. I'd almost attributed its existence
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as a myth itself what with the remarkable rumors that surround it."
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Raffen nodded. "It is said that few survive a perusal with their
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sanity fully intact. It has been said to have been the doom of many
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great minds."
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"Yes, that is true," Raffen affirmed, lost in thought.
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"It was written by an artist, I believe," Pravo offered.
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"Yes... It has been and will be written by many artists
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individually," Raffen replied, his voice trailing off in volume.
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"Pardon, I didn't quite hear that. It's becoming dreadfully
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noisy in here. Perhaps we could step outside." Pravo pointed toward
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the balcony.
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"It is little better out there. But yes, let's." Both exited to
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the dark balacony which overlooked a street crowded with celebrating
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townspeople.
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"About the origin of the book," Pravo began.
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"It was written by an artist/poet who was attempting to define
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and codify a system of creative motifs and symbols which are common
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to all cultures. Metaphors and images which transcend all cultures
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and all peoples. It is these primal truths which are said to drive
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men mad," Raffen said in a serious tone.
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"You seem quite sound and you've read the book." Pravo attempted
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weak humor.
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"I sometimes wonder..."
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Stunned into silence for a moment, Pravo said finally "I am
|
|
quite anxious to read the book myself, perhaps you have it at hand?"
|
|
"No. My copy is in a safe place very far away. Very far..."
|
|
Again Raffen trailed off.
|
|
"That is unfortunate. Still, I will do my best to locate a copy
|
|
here in Dargon." Pravo seemed somewhat irritated and unsettled by
|
|
Raffen's tone.
|
|
"Any intellect with the ability and the desire to read the book
|
|
will eventually locate it," Raffen offered somewhat mysteriously.
|
|
The scholar chuckled weakly. "Then I have some hope... I
|
|
think..." Very unsettled, Pravo looked deeply at Raffen who stared
|
|
off across the festivities below.
|
|
A rather plain looking, middle-aged matron stepped out onto the
|
|
balcony and expressed her desire to dance with Pravo before the
|
|
musicians departed. Pravo could hardly refuse.
|
|
"I hope that we will get a chance to speak again," Pravo said as
|
|
they drifted apart, possibly relieved by the interruption.
|
|
"I am certain that we will," Raffen replied, uncertain whether
|
|
he was heard over the buzz of the company. Seeing that the ball was
|
|
nearly at an end, Raffen decided to make his excuses and depart.
|
|
|
|
Atros felt no guilt for assuming Raffen Yeggent's identity even
|
|
though it had required slaying Raffen. The two had met along the
|
|
road to Dargon and had remained traveling companions for several
|
|
days. Atros had been wary of this relationship from the start,
|
|
particularly since he wanted to severe his ties with the city of
|
|
Magnus. It might prove difficult later if a witness existed who
|
|
could attest to the specifics of his journey. But the somewhat
|
|
lonely Raffen had forced himself on Atros and Atros hadn't pressed
|
|
the issue. Raffen had been a talkative sort describing in detail his
|
|
background, recent travels, business matters, and future plans.
|
|
Atros did his best to remain noncommital to Raffen's occasionally
|
|
probing questions but it grew to be strenuously difficult at times.
|
|
Still, Atros felt so refreshed and contented by virtue on the
|
|
continued use of the nepenthe that he had almost enjoyed the verbal
|
|
fencing at times.
|
|
Atros had sensed almost immediately that Raffen wasn't what one
|
|
might call a highly scrupulous individual. Raffen's main pursuit in
|
|
life it seemed lay in acquiring wealth. His scruples, if they
|
|
existed at all, didn't seem to interfere. Hence, Atros wasn't
|
|
particularly surprised by the interest Raffen had shown in his
|
|
collection of rare books. This wariness had cost Raffen his life and
|
|
saved Atros his own. Raffen had sought to slay Atros in his sleep
|
|
but hadn't anticipated a prepared defense. Atros had made quick work
|
|
of him, only later realizing the opportunity which Raffen had
|
|
afforded him. Raffen had mentioned that he had never visited Dargon
|
|
previously nor was anyone there capable of recognizing him. Atros
|
|
immediately saw the potential profits in assuming Raffen's business
|
|
dealings at the fair but hadn't anticipated being propelled into
|
|
courtly life.
|
|
Had Atros known of the notoriety involved, he might have chosen
|
|
to act otherwise. Atros knew that he could not maintain the disguise
|
|
for long. The continued use of the drug, and the peaceful sleep it
|
|
offered, had allowed him to lead an almost normal existence. His
|
|
distinctive nervous twitching had ceased, but only for so long as
|
|
his supply remained. Thus, he had let it be known that he would
|
|
depart after the fairs though he anticipated settling in Dargon for
|
|
some time. The facial talc was a convenient affectation to help
|
|
reduce the possibility of being recognized latter. But still, he
|
|
feared discovery because he knew he possessed many unconscious
|
|
mannerisms which were difficult to conceal without concerted effort.
|
|
He tried to make the best of the situation and enjoy a holiday at
|
|
court, a priviledge seldom enjoyed by many.
|
|
|
|
The street festival was still in full force when Atros left
|
|
Dargon Keep on his way to the bordering house in which he was
|
|
residing. He wound his way through the narrow, winding streets
|
|
filled with indentured servant and aristocrat alike. Each receiving
|
|
shares of revelry according to their temperment rather than their
|
|
social standing. Here at least was a Dionysian revelry which
|
|
contrasted sharply against the austere courtly celebration.
|
|
Celebrants in grotesque animal masks and other more bizarre
|
|
customing danced in wild revelry to the tune of frenzied music and
|
|
racous laughter. Body paints and large, fluttering banners lent
|
|
colouring to the normally drab streets and alley ways. Prostitutes,
|
|
both amateur and professional, fronged and cajoled the crowd. Cheap
|
|
alcohol was the prevalent intoxicant though Atros observed other
|
|
more questionable substances being huckstered in the darker corners
|
|
of the street. Anything and everything could be had in abundance. It
|
|
seemed that a delicious romp was being had by all.
|
|
Atros did not view the excessive crowding and noise as an
|
|
annoyance. He enjoyed becoming one with the organism of the crowd;
|
|
to allow himself to become lost in the fusion of opposing emotional
|
|
forces of the gathering. For a time he could let the mood of the
|
|
crowd become all, loosing his own worries, fears, and regrets. As any
|
|
such gathering, with its loud noises, bright sights, and wild
|
|
dancing, its surface was coloured by great gaiety and joy. These
|
|
were things to be cherished and saved, hoarded for harder times: the
|
|
soft glow of happy faces, the energy of youth, and the vitality of
|
|
age. But Atros' strong empathic ability soon penetrated this surface.
|
|
Beneath lay darker forces: tensions, deep emotional needs, and
|
|
emptiness. These people had come to escape some emptiness which they
|
|
could not fill in their day to day lives. They came to forget the
|
|
mundane realities of their world for a time and indulge in their
|
|
fantasies. But by doing so they brought these emptinesses with them.
|
|
Atros sensed that few, if any, were really happy or content with
|
|
their lives. All sought release from their confinements, to become
|
|
more than themselves if just for a short interval. And to some
|
|
measure they were successful. They achieved through strong drink,
|
|
orgasmic dancing, casual flirtations, or narcotics what could not be
|
|
won in mediocrity. Atros did not judge them for this; he knew
|
|
himself to have much worse faults and difficulties. But he could not
|
|
avoid feeling a certain unescapible sadness. This fused with the
|
|
gaiety to create an overwhelming bitter-sweet atmosphere for Atros.
|
|
Atros was so involved with the mood of the crowd that he didn't
|
|
notice the prescence of his old acquaintance the alchemist until he
|
|
was quite near.
|
|
"Gilman! Alive!" Atros' shout was drowned out in the hubbub. He
|
|
quickly darted into a nearby entry way which he found to be occupied
|
|
by a young couple who obviously resented the intrusion.
|
|
In the safety of the darkness Atros began to mutter to himself,
|
|
causing some concern in the two youths who soon left Atros to
|
|
himself. "Gilman alive....impossible....I don't make mistakes like
|
|
that. He was certainly dead. The wound was fatal....No man lives
|
|
after loosing that much blood."
|
|
Atros glanced out the archway to see Gilman walking rapidly away
|
|
apparently scanning the crowd. Atros' hope that he had mistaken a
|
|
similar man for Gilman quickly faded. It was the same bedraggled
|
|
gray hair peppered with black; the same loping gate as well. Atros
|
|
was certain that he'd seen Gilman wearing that course woolen frock
|
|
before as well. Even the momentary glimpse of the man's shoes
|
|
confirmed that Gilman was alive and in Dargon.
|
|
Atros could think of only one explanation for the normally
|
|
sedentary Gilman to come to Dargon. He must know or suspect that
|
|
Atros was here. His prescence in the crowd was now easily
|
|
explainable. How better to find a man in Dargon than to attend a
|
|
festival with the better part of the city's visitors and population
|
|
in attendance? But had Gilman seen him? As Atros wiped his sweaty
|
|
brow and his fingers came away covered with white talc, he realized
|
|
that Gilman could not have recognized him. His fearful reaction had
|
|
been foolish. Once more Atros glanced out but could not locate
|
|
Gilman in the crowd. Atros mentally whipped himself for not
|
|
following Gilman immediately as he strode out into the street to
|
|
begin the search.
|
|
If Gilman were truely searching for him, why had he come alone?
|
|
He must realize how outmatched he was. Atros would have anticipated
|
|
two or three armed bodyguards accompanying Gilman at the very least.
|
|
Nor had Atros believed that Gilman would go to such lengths to seek
|
|
him out personally. Gilman just wasn't the vengeful type or so Atros
|
|
had believed. But Gilman was alone, which obviously meant something,
|
|
though Atros didn't know what that was. It suddenly occurred to him
|
|
that perhaps following Gilman hadn't been a wise idea. Perhaps
|
|
Gilman had set himself up as bait to draw Atros into some sort of
|
|
trap or ambush. Since it was unlikely that he could find him in any
|
|
event, Atros gave up the search.
|
|
Atros walked home using an indirect route and checking often for
|
|
followers, but there were none. As he walked he considered Gilman's
|
|
survival. Perhaps the apprentices had arrived much earlier than
|
|
Atros had expected and somehow rescued the old man. This seemed
|
|
unlikely though Atros spent a few moments worrying that he had been
|
|
seen. Not that that really mattered now that the victim was alive.
|
|
Besides, even if Gilman had received some sort of aid in time, he
|
|
didn't seem to be suffering from his wound. He appeared as whole and
|
|
sound as any time Atros had seen him in the past. If anything he
|
|
seemed more healthy. Atros considered further. He had read of
|
|
alchemical preparations said to restore health to the nearly dead or
|
|
to quicken the dead, but he had thought these well beyound the
|
|
abilities of Gilman. Gilman might have obtained something of this
|
|
sort during his career and his apprentices might have administered
|
|
it to him. Atros had one further worry. It was said that one who
|
|
imbibed a special preparation of the Philospher's Stone, the secret
|
|
ingredient and goal of the highest forms of alchemy, would enjoy a
|
|
greatly extended life and would be very resistant to death by
|
|
mishap. If Gilman had done this, not only had he thereby survived
|
|
Atros' previous attempt on his life, but he would also survive any
|
|
getsequent. Invulnerable enemies came near to heading Atros' list of
|
|
undesirable possessions. One thing was for certain, all was not well.
|
|
-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
|
|
|
|
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
|
|
|
|
Dawn Watch
|
|
The stream was peaceful, the approaching dawn dimly lighting it.
|
|
A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and frogs peeped quietly in the
|
|
marshes nearby.
|
|
Eli Barel was asleep in his house nearby. He slept the deep
|
|
sleep of a man who had worked hard, and would soon work hard again.
|
|
He and his eldest son had worked until evening to put a roof on
|
|
Widow Rachel's house, and with the light they would start to cut her
|
|
some wood to last her through the winter.
|
|
Had he been awake he might have heard the sound of the frogs,
|
|
but certainly not the sound of the stream, shielded as it was by the
|
|
fifty foot drop over the limestone cliff.
|
|
The peace of the stream was rudely broken by the rough sounds of
|
|
hooves. There was a stirring of the underbrush, and a horseman and
|
|
mount stepped out of the tall grass on the far side of the stream.
|
|
As he crossed the water, muddying it, he looked up at the face of
|
|
the cliff. A band of twenty or so men, all roughly clad and
|
|
unshaven, followed him across. At least three bore the angry marks
|
|
of a skull branded on their foreheads, the marks of condemned men.
|
|
Most carried swords at their sides, and some had bows slung over
|
|
their shoulders. All had a predatory air to them.
|
|
As soon as he was in the shadow of the cliff, the leader turned
|
|
to face the others, his arm raised for silence.
|
|
"At the top this cliff is the first of many houses. In those
|
|
houses are groveling vapor-worshippers! There is no one to protect
|
|
them, and they will not fight! Take any booty you want, but don't
|
|
burn anything. Kill everyone! We will leave no survivors!" He
|
|
punctuated the last with a dark scowl.
|
|
"What of the women? We were promised women!" A deep muttering
|
|
rose from the assembled men. A lecherous grin broke across the
|
|
leader's face.
|
|
"I didn't say how you had to kill them. It's been a long time
|
|
since I've had an infidel's wife!"
|
|
Mocking laughter was his only reply. Suddenly one of the raiders
|
|
in the back gave a shout, and pointed up.
|
|
The leader swiveled in his seat. He looked to the top of the
|
|
cliff. There stood a man, holding a staff. He was clothed all in
|
|
white, and his face was set with an angry look. He glared at the
|
|
cutthroats below with an air of authority that gave even the leader
|
|
pause. The murders only paused a moment, though.
|
|
Those of the raiders who had bows grabbed them, but before any
|
|
could raise them the figure leaned forward, and struck the end of
|
|
the rod on the ground, a foot or so short of the cliff edge.
|
|
The moment it struck the ground shook. All but two of the
|
|
raider's horses fell to the ground. At the same moment, a huge slab
|
|
of limestone calved off the face of the cliff. It crumbled as it
|
|
fell, causing an avalanche. For a few long moments, rock and dust
|
|
poured from the face of the cliff. Then the stream was at peace once
|
|
more. Where horses had stood only moments before, there now stood a
|
|
pile of rubble.
|
|
Eli Barel awoke. His bed still shook slightly. A tremor? Eli
|
|
pondered the thought. They were not common, but he had experienced
|
|
them before. Nothing more followed, so he relaxed. Slept in today,
|
|
he thought. The sun is almost up.
|
|
He arose, leaving his wife to groan to herself. He dressed, and
|
|
walked out of the house and down the path as he had for over sixty
|
|
years. He followed the path as it lead toward the stream. Then,
|
|
noticing something different, he left it as it turned down into the
|
|
woods, and rather walked up the slope toward the cliff.
|
|
He walked up to the edge, and looked over at the pile of rock.
|
|
A rockslide, he thought. Levy might like to see this.
|
|
He was about to turn to walk back down when the early morning
|
|
light caught a reflection. Getting down on his knees, he examined a
|
|
dark vein of rock as it ran almost from the cliff edge halfway down
|
|
the cliff. As he knelt there his eyes widened. He reached forth his
|
|
hand, and with a small effort, wrenched a chunk of rock loose. He
|
|
held it up to the light. Even in the morning's dimness, he could see
|
|
the metal running through the granite.
|
|
"Gold. Gold! GOLD! Everybody! We've got gold on our land!"
|
|
Getting to his feet, Eli ran back to the house.
|
|
For the last time that day, peace once more fell on the stream.
|
|
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
|
|
|
|
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
|
|
|