The Silence Must be Countered

Almost anything will do.

Out here, near the very edges of the settled areas, the wind makes all the sound. The voices have been stilled. Whether willingly, or because of response to some outside force, no one knows. And they can not know, because there are no voices to break the silence.

If no one speaks, how are we to know the truth? And when they do speak, how will we know it is they who say the words? And how will we judge the truth of those words?

Only by the witness of our lives.

And our lives are a dream, a dream of a memory of a story, told long ago, by peoples who spoke different languages than ours today, in these latter days. And thus, at best, what we know of ourselves is but a translation, a reconstruction of our own pasts taken from fragmentary evidence, dubious at best.

Once, I found a poor traveler, who in his wanderings, found a small cache of pots, old, old vessels, each containing a scroll, written I strange glyphs, in an unknown tongue. He showed these scrolls to me, telling me that they were the tongues of daemons and djin. I studied them for the afternoon, and tried to tell the old man that, no, these were in the language of men, but of ancient times. I asked him if he would perhaps barter with me, to trade one or two of his pots full of scrolls.

Of course, he refused, as I would have done in his place.

“How can I let you have them?” He asked me, “When they are the story of my life? If I don’t take them with me, how shall I know how to live?”

“Tell me, Father,” I asked him, “And can you read this, the story of your life?”

“No, but then, neither can any other man,” He replied. “For who can read the story of his own life?”

Who indeed?

The First Scroll

“This, then is the Curse of the Historian: never to be able to truly remember, and never to be able to completely forget.”

THIS IS the Place: the where is here;
THIS IS the Time: the when is now;
THIS IS the Person: the who is I;
THIS IS the Act: the what is do;
THIS IS the Way: the how is thus;
THIS IS the Reason: the why is….

The why is….

Ah. But to see the WHY, we must go back. Back to the Beginning, and before the beginning of the Beginning.

Because just as every Life is a story, and all lives interweave, to make the Great Story, so every story has a life of its own. And just as with a child, who at conception has a Mother and a Father and the Third, the Other, who is neither Mother nor Father, but who is the catalyst, and acts from afar, so the Story must have its three antecedents, and each of these in turn have three parent stories. And so, although we speak of the beginning of a story, what we really speak of is the story of its beginning.

Here, at the edges of the Settled Area, far from the Conurbation, we live “Twixt the Wild and the Sewn” and we have our own ways and our own tellings. Here, when we think of the story of the Beginning, we, of course, turn to the Histories, the Scrolls of the Pot. But it is as well to remember, that in other paces, they have other Ways. And other Tellings.

The First Scroll

There are those who say that first came the land, and that then the Peoples came and settled the land. And there are those who say that the land was unimportant before the coming of the Peoples, and that there is no story before the Peoples. These two groups dispute, and rather pointlessly, I think, for there can little doubt that it was not the Coming that created the land. Others argue that this was in fact the case; that in truth the land did not exist before the Peoples arrived, but I ask you, what sense is there in that? And as neither of these views answers the question of where the Land came from, they leave something to be desired.

The third thread begins with the Journey. But even this tale must lead us to ask: the journey to the Land, we know, but from whence? And thus, the thread of the Peoples is the Father of History, and the thread of the land is the Mother of History and the thread of the journey is the Other of History, because it acts from afar, and begins those things which will give birth to the story, in the fullness of time.

Whether or not the Peoples left the place where they were from fear, or famine, or fighting; whether they left for hope, or heartsickness or from hazard; whether they sought battle or beauty or bounty, none is now prepared to say. But there are references in the second chapter of the Scroll of Recipes of the songs that were sung on the journey, songs of lost lovers and wandering riders, and high-flying deeds of daring, by men and women of great fame. And yet none of these songs mention places in the land; none speak of names now known to us, and not one tells of the Sky Pirates and their ships. Which, by my way of thinking, indicates a culture so foreign to our own as to be either a myth, or from so long ago as to amount to the same thing. For who could conceive of a time when we had no ships? You might as well say that the Burbah had no legs then.

The Lay of the Wanderer Part 3

The first story the young Acolyte Historian must prepare and enter into the histories is, of course, his own. It is unthinkable that any Historian might himself have a life that is not in the closest possible agreement with Canon. You can not imagine how difficult it was for me to even gain admission to the School of Acolytes, then, having arrived at the Historium in the hands of Father Celestine as a foundling. In Historical circles, foundlings are as so many human palimpsests: the original text has been expunged and another written over it. Although often very intriguing and curious, palimpsests are almost always given a nil rating or placed the theoretical “nine deviations from true” away from acceptable norms. There simply can be no place for documents which say one thing at one period, and then are changed in another, if it is not through the agreed actions of the Historians that these changes be made. In any case, all such historical anomalies are recorded, before they are quite rightly destroyed.

Quite what the Holy Father was thinking of when he brought me here I cannot say, but this much is certain, in researching the beginnings of my own beginnings, I found so many untraced threads and so many unexpected anomalies, that I can only believe that Father Celestine had already written the outcome of my initiation, and thus foreshadowed what my own life story would reveal to the greater glory of the Brotherhood of Historians.

Back then, however I had nothing to go on, and no inkling of what I was to later discover. In the ordinary way, an Acolyte Initiate would begin with his family records if any and then the records of the local township, or Hetman, if the community was too small or impermanent to have reached Township status. I am told that in some of the herding communities, there is usually one old woman, whose task it is to memorize all the family relationships within the tribe. Surprisingly, such pedigree keepers are in the main extremely accurate. In the case of a foundling such as I, however, there is no family to go to, and so I had to begin with Father Celestine himself, to find the most basic information: where had he found me?

I waited until mid-morning, when I had finished my chores, and I knew that the Holy Father would have finished his offices for the day, before I asked the Acolyte Master’s permission to absent myself and seek out Father Celestine. I found him, sitting in the dark in his cell, surrounded by his papers, apparently in meditation, but he spoke to me before I even had time to turn away, calling me into sit across from him. Barely had I settled myself onto the zabutan, when he began.

“Ah. Xandra,” he said, pronouncing my name with the soft guttural of the Northerners, rather than the silly click fashionable among those who would copy all the styles of the Imperials. “Let me see; yes it must be fifteen years now that you have been with us. Yes…. High time and more that you came to fond out about yourself. You show great patience, boy, that is good. But frankly I would have expected more curiosity from a child of mine. Had I been your father, perhaps you would have not waited so long to come and see me, eh? But then, had I been your father, you would not have had to ask, would you? There would be no mystery, no questioning, no wonder…. But I can tell I have piqued your curiosity now, haven’t I? Yes… of course. Mmmm.” He had a curious way of asking questions that was less than rhetorical and somehow more than a verbal cue to the direction your thoughts should go. And then he always seemed to be on the edge of humming quietly to himself.

“Mmmm. Hmmmm. Yes. Hmm. Curious enough now, eh? Good, An Historian must possess enough curiosity to doubt everything, my son, or else we should so easily stray into Error. And as it is we who define Error, that would be unfortunate to say the least, Eh? Mmmm? Do you think? Yes, of course you do. Now then,” he reached behind where he sat and drew out a slender piece of wood, and handed it to me. It was about three-quarters of a cubit long, and as thick around as my middle finger. It was covered with small notches down its length, divided into sections by bands of leather which had been somehow affixed to it with some form of glue.

“There you are, my son, what do you make of that? That was the middle section of the back-brace you were strapped to when I found you.”

“I see, Reverend Father,” although, of course, I could see nothing.

“Liar,” he said without malice. “Please do not waste either of our time with such meaningless pleasantries, boy. You have no idea what it is, or what it means, or what you are going to do with it. Don’t pretend, Xandra. It will do you no good, ever to pretend. Pretending is precisely what you should never do. You are an Acolyte Initiate Historian, young fellow, and Historians do not pretend!”

The Lay of the Wanderer Part 4

The rod the reverend Father had given me I was to learn later, was what is called a nammastok, or tallastok which might best be rendered as story, history or naming rod. It is a means of recording information, not so much in the form of writing as through a collection of linked mnemonics, which serve those who understand them to record and recover information which is imbedded in the songs and stories of their oral traditions. The closest thing I can liken it to would be a series of footnotes without the text of the book, and indeed referring to notations in a number of books whose titles you are not given, but are expected to know already. All I could see at the time, sitting at the feet of my teacher, mentor and father was a piece of wood with small grooves, notches and patterns cut delicately into it.

“Well, then, Reverend Father, if I am not to begin with pleasantries, let us proceed to what we can at this point know. You have given me a stick, a carefully crafted rod which you tell me was part of my baby accoutrements. Not now having access to the other parts of the back-brace from which this had been presumably removed, I can not at this time state categorically that there was a back-brace, nor that this came from it. I do have sufficient reason to believe the truth of your story, or at least to believe your conviction that you are now telling me honestly what you know of this thing. Furthermore, you have, through the Historium’s carefully cross referencing of information received from you previously with information from other verifiable sources been granted the status of a ‘prima-facie source,’ and therefore a person whose statements I may safely be allowed to take at face value. That is to say, I am allowed to believe that you are trying to tell the truth as you know it, and that you are correct in your understanding within one-comma-five standard deviations. I could of course come back tomorrow, and you could then inform me that this thing the badge of office of a Marshal of the Army from some time before the Imperial act of Unification (NT. 1435.10.17:12:00; HT. 2006.Dec.15:13:00) and I would have to take this information under consideration, bearing in mind that you are still a heretofore reliable provider of information, even though the information you now provide seems to be at odds with the information you gave me the day before. After all, the wood could be both things at once.”

My master’s only response was to hum the first five bars of ‘The Lad From the Ups-and-Downs.’

“Now, given all of the above, and taking into account that you are, as my Father in History, as well as my guardian from an early age, as attested to by the records of the Historium Local Records Department, I will as a working hypothesis the information that this rod is in some way connected to me, if only by early association. But I will also venture to surmise that you have presented me with this artifact at this time because you believe it to be in some way a clue or key which I can use to discover something of my past and my genesis.”

The Reverend Father nodded his head and said nothing.

“Therefore…” I began. The reverend Father leaned quickly forward and peered up at me from under his left eyebrow. “Therefore..?” he prompted.

“Therefore I should think that the time has come for me to ready myself for my first Field Assignment, and that the theme of this Field Assignment is to be to investigate the meaning of and possible Historical Impact of this artifact.”

I sat back on my heels feeling proud of myself.

“Something like that, yes,” he said, nodding, “When will you start?”

“I shall have to petition for permission of Reverend Father Alain to leave the House of the Acolytes, of course..”

“Permission has been granted.”

“And then I should gather together provisions and equipment from the Historium Commissary..”

As I spoke, my father leaned across to the small cupboard standing against the wall, and, without rising, open a door, pulled out a pack and threw it down in front of me.

“Done.”

And then there are my personal belongings to collect form the Dormatory..”

He clapped his hands and one of the servants padded in behind me and lay a small bundle, done up in my Service Shawl beside me.

“Anything else?” he asked, smiling.

“Nothing that I can think of. I can leave at any time, if the Reverend Father wishes it.”

“Close, Xandra, but not quite accurate. The Reverend Father does not wish you to go, but he understands that it is time, and so he will regretfully allow you to go. And also, your education is as of yet deficient in one very important feature. Something that I have asked you to come here to learn today, and now. You can not leave at any time, Xandra, my son. You can only leave now.”

He reached across and took my hand, the first time I had had physical contact from the old man since I was a child.

“Xandra, remember this: There is no time but the present. Go.”

And so it was that I set forth on my first Field Assignment, to find out who I was, at seventeen minutes after three on ninth day of the eighth month in the one thousandth, five hundredth and eighteenth year of the New Time reckoning, or, 4:17 pm on October 7th, 2089, Historical Time.

Lay of the Wanderer Part 5

I have walked so many paces since that day have seen so many sunrises, tasted of so many streams, said so many farewells, how am I to pick out the most notable days amongst them all, the path most significant? For if there is one thing I have truly discovered on my wanderings it is this: every step leads somewhere, every turning taken marks a break from that path not taken, every conversation along the way leads to another story, every scrap of truth discovered forms a new understanding, and that understanding leads us on to new paths, new encounters, new stories. Truly, though we mark the passing of time in eons, centuries, decades, years, months, weeks, days, hours minutes seconds… yet time, the very matter of whose understanding my life is dedicated, it is no more divided, no more differentiated than is water. Though we speak of oceans, rivers, tributaries , streams, springs, wells, buckets and glasses full of water, yet the rain that falls on the desert is mingles with the ocean, and the vapors of the Empyrean and the dregs of last night’s tea are all the same. Take this canteen, and poor it on the ground, and then find those drops again for me. Thus are the hours of our lives: though we number them, yet they are all, all part of the same stream, the same river, flowing into who knows what ocean?

There are few who have traveled further into the mysteries of the past, or who have looked deeper into the future than I and still I tell you this: I am but a cartographer; a map-maker who plots the course of the river. It is truly said: you cannot step into the same stream twice; the water has changed even as you step into it. But if you have walked the streambeds of time, as I have done, you will find this: as a man is wetted by entering the waters of the word, so he is changed by bathing in the streams of time. And what is more, the time changes around him, as surely it must, each ripple having his echo, each wavelet breaking on some distant shore of possibility, each cataract of time thundering into the chasms of reality, they bear his stamp, even as they make their mark upon him; each drip, drip, drip of time wearing away at his soul even as the drops of water will wear down the mountain…. over time.

No doubt I set off briskly that afternoon. After all, it was incumbent on me, a traveling Journeyman Acolyte, to be out of sight of the House of Acolytes by sundown. And of course when I say out of sight, I mean it must be impossible for me to see it or be seen from it at sunset. And given that it was situated in the middle of a vast plain, some several dozen versts across, with the nearest hills fifteen miles away, I had to step out lively. I suppose that was the deciding factor for me: I had to crest those hills before nightfall, so I headed for the nearest. In the end, I realized that where ever I had headed then I would have ended up here or some where near here. Or somewhere like here, or even (and this is very important) somewhere other than here, but here just the same. So I walked swiftly as I could, and I had strong young legs, and I covered the miles. I slept that night, as I did so often in the coming months.. or years, if you will.. beside the road. There was not what you would call traffic after all. Who would be going toward the Acolyte House of the Historium, for goodness sake?

I arrived at the first village worthy of the name at 5:15 am on October 13th 2089, Historical Time, and was amazed to find that I was welcomed with some enthusiasm. There was an issue under debate, it seemed, concerning the legality of a contract. The head man of the village, an interesting old gentleman, I must say, or so I thought at the time, was unable to adjudicate, as the essence (as they say) of the contract was time: a certain property was due to be returned to the control of one family to another, at a given date. Unfortunately (and now you will see the difficulty) the contract was over a hundred years old. No one in the village understood any of the dates recorded in the contract, because they were all written in the local time notation, and the people had since changed to Imperial temporal notations. (Or New Time Reckoning, as we know it.) In reality the problem was easy enough, but I was young, and I didn’t want to make any mistakes, of course, so I went through the whole process of cross-referencing and did all of the calculations three times just to make sure, and managed to get two meals out of it as well. (Maybe I wasn’t so naïve back then as I now think…) In any case it was a straight forward affair. I realize now I could have just given them some answer off the top of my head, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. But I told them with great accuracy that the contract had one year, five months, and thirteen days, three hours to run. The holder of the contract was somewhat disappointed, but I pointed out to him that it gave him adequate time to negotiate another contract and he quite cheered up at that.

However, that was the first task I had ever been asked to perform as an Historian, and you may be sure I felt as proud as any young peacock may. The Headman was very interested in my calculations and questioned me carefully. Of course, I was careful not to tell him anything that might have been of any use to him. It would hardly do if every village Headman in the Wilds knew what year it was.

Well stocked with provisions and with the blessings of the village Mothers in my ears (I had thrown in a few horoscopes for them, gratis) I set off, provided (or so I thought) with directions for the nearest town. Those countrymen seed to be as jealous of their geography as we Historians are of temporal directions. Fortunately, when the path petered out in a swamp, I knew enough to back track and find a hill, from which I could see the Headman’s youngest son heading hell-for-leather down what was most likely the road I wanted. I was a little piqued, I must confess, but the poor lad really didn’t deserve to spend twelve hours on a three hour ride, and then find me waiting for him on the outskirts of town. As he sat there on his thoroughly lathered horse, I slowly and deliberately drew a line across the road in the dirt.

“I will rest in this town for thirty six hours,” I told him. “This line will remain here for forty seven. Do not attempt to cross it. Tell your father this from me, Boy: never cross an Historian. It may be the last thing he ever does.”

All utter poppycock, of course, but it sounded imposing to my ears, and it did the trick. I traveled slowly after that, and was greeted with respect at each place I came to. There is nothing like having a little reputation proceed you.