For a green and living Atys
Posted: Mon Jul 04, 2005 5:08 pm
Thosam dragged his heavy pack through the dirt towards his apartment. If only the Karawan had built that teleportatin- floatin- steamin- hummin thingee closer to Lorias Rise Pier, my arms would be far less tired, passing people could her him mutter. But it was more the days hard work of digging the seed and amber beds in The Founts Deathfly Plains that exhausted him. He knew that place quite well now and really should be moving on to better grounds like The Lagoons or even start exploring the Prime Roots more. But he was happy in the Fount and his jewel craft would still be just perfect with the materials he dug.
He took his time maneuvering the piers and quays of Fairhaven, breathing the cool night air, enjoying the starlight and the rising moons. But something was not there. He stopped near the bar, puzzling. The city looked the same, long wooden piers around Tryker-made tower islands, high arches marking walkways and holding amber lanterns full of glowbugs, the half-shells over the shops lit all night through, high windmills spinning lazily in the winds. The smells were the same, the smell of lake-water, that whiff of rotting lake-life from the shore that the other races called sea-breeze, the late-night cooking smells from the food stalls. Then it struck him: the sounds were different.
Instead of the raucous laughter he was so used to, the loud shouts from the market stalls, the heated arguments at the bar; there were whispers, hushed voices, near-silence. Thosam pulled his bag up to the closest bar, put down a dapper for a pint of cold Tryker lager and listened. Something was amiss. People were talking yes, but not as usual. Not the loud banter, insults, jests and jibes he so knew, with the entire bar being one loud mix of bright voices from everyone talking to everybody else. Instead small groups, often only three or four huddled close together around the blue glowing lights of the bar tables, whispering, hushing each other when someone else walked by.
Sipping casually from the shell tankard, resting his feel on his bulging bag, he listened. War Jena Matis Karawan Guards Conquest Kami Spirits War Fyros Ambush War Outposts those words came again and again. He looked over the tankards rim, the shell polished to a deep coral by many thirsty lips at the faces around him. Animated and bright yes, like Trykers look, but there was a tremor of frenzy and fear in that animation and those bright eyes were wide with anxiety and uncertainty. He finished his beer, put the shell back onto the counter wand walked home. The night air now seemed cold to him and the wind from the lake wet and depressing.
Inside his apartment he quickly tapped awake the glowbugs in all the lanterns he had. Their living light filled the large room with a dim light. If his mood had not been so dark, he would have called it cozy, now it seemed more like an ominous gloom. Even the night glow through the large fish eye window into the lake seemed oppressing instead of relaxing. A small school of fish came close, feeding on the plankton that was attracted even by this meager light.
Thosam sat down on the window sill and looked around in his apartment. Jena, what a load of junk and how could it get so dusty here in an underwater tower? Bits of amber and seeds everywhere around his workbench; stacks of fibres, wood bundles and vials filled with oil and resins (not all as tight as they should be, the floor could attest to that); bags and sacks filled with all sorts of raw materials, just in case; a few Kitin trophies from his hunts; the screaming red caster pants he gotten when hed joined the Redcaps; the bowrifle Crythos had made him along with the ammo boxes; the bright blue armour he had paid Neun to craft him when his jewels had sold exceptionally well one week (long since outgrown, but it was a Neun, not to be discarded lightly); the box of gifts and letters he had packed for his family in Barkdell (he really should look up Kostika or some other Samsara to get it carried to Barkdell soon.) and lots and lots of other stuff.
Thosams eyes fixed on the poem hed written down at one of Drakfots recital:
Deep in his thoughts he was suddenly struck by an ice-cold sensation down his neck. With a surprised yelp he jumped from the sill, only to stumble over the handle of his mace and to land on those shields hed never sold. Spinning around he checked all corners to find that mischief whod hit him with an Ice spell. He was alone. What the ? He checked his neck, it was wet, lake water from the smell of it. He looked up around the window frame. Near the top there was a small thin crack in the caulk with another bead of water forming. With a sigh he struck flint and steel to light a small oil lamp. Using the flame to cautiously heat the tar, he pushed in the caulk so the window seal was tight again. No need to ask the Apartment Caretaker to do it, any true Tryker knows how to waterproof this.
Hopping down from the sill after blowing out the oil lamp, Thosam noticed something pale-green in the dust on it. (I really ought to get a house-keeper or a girl-friend ) It was a Sarina Seed. Its thick, black, glossy shell had ruptured and a pale root was digging into the wet dust where the water had collected, while a pair of pale-green leaves stretched towards the window. He picked it up carefully, laying it down on the palm of his hand. Life wants to live, even down here in the gloom (and dirt) of my apartment, he thought. Looking around Thosam picked up a long-dead house-plant, pulled out the dried remains of a Matisian Fire Cherry (wasnt that Amrathas gift when I bought this place? And how can I forget to water it underwater?), dug a finger into the dry soil to form a hole and carefully planted the Sarina Seed in it. After giving it some water, Thosam sat on the window sill again, looking at the minute plant and wondering over its tenacious will to live.
Atys wants us to live. She wants us to grow and to prosper. She gives Her children, even the tiniest seeds, that will, that urge, that desire to grow, to develop, to become more than they are to begin with. And now we are to throw all that life away in some stupid war ordered by some stupid king ruling over some stupid homins?
Thosam thought long and hard that night what he could do. Then near morning, with the light slowly filtering through the water into his room, his tired eyes fell upon his guild badge and the symbol upon it and like that seed an idea sprouted and took root.
He grabbed his bag, still full of seeds from the day before, tipped out the most of them and stormed out to the stables. OCautty Eoppie, the stable boy, was of course already there, waiting for customers.
Thomas smiled at him and said: I need mektoub manure. How much is the bag?
OCautty smiled back Mektoub fooder. Of course. A standard bag is
Not fodder! Manure! You know, the stuff from the other end, which comes out, not goes in!
OCautty was silent for a moment, then looked at him very carefully. Im sorry, but unless some new Rite has been discovered, I dont think we have any of that, at least not for sale. he replied cautiously, but Thosam had already gone round the corner to the stables.
What was it that old Matis gardener had told him once? Not the fresh manure it would burn the plants, but the old, well-seasoned, that would give the plants nurture. He stepped gingerly through the stalls, the mektoubs braying at him, until he came to an empty place. It looked as if it hadnt been swept in a long time and indeed there in the back corner a heap of manure sat, half-hidden by some old bedding. Thosam looked at it skeptically, then reached in (I dig all day and now Im afraid to get my hands dirty? This too is a gift from Atys, some of her raw materials we so crave.) and filled his bag to the brim (I will need a new bag though). He grabbed a simple staff from his mektoubs saddle bags and walked out the stables again.
He walked along the shore till he found a sunny spot, dug a small hole with his staff, dropped in some of the old manure, put a single seed on top of it and stamped the ground over it with his boot. A few steps further again and again, and again. Soon Thosam found a rhythm and could place a seed without breaking his stride.
All day he walked, often coming back to Fairhaven for more plant food and seeds, often with people scrunching up their noses at his earthy smell, pointing fingers at him, laughing at him, a forager, a digger, putting seeds into the ground, instead of pulling them out. But he didnt care. Atys gives Her children the will to live. He was one of Her children helping Her other children to live. For a green and living Atys.
He took his time maneuvering the piers and quays of Fairhaven, breathing the cool night air, enjoying the starlight and the rising moons. But something was not there. He stopped near the bar, puzzling. The city looked the same, long wooden piers around Tryker-made tower islands, high arches marking walkways and holding amber lanterns full of glowbugs, the half-shells over the shops lit all night through, high windmills spinning lazily in the winds. The smells were the same, the smell of lake-water, that whiff of rotting lake-life from the shore that the other races called sea-breeze, the late-night cooking smells from the food stalls. Then it struck him: the sounds were different.
Instead of the raucous laughter he was so used to, the loud shouts from the market stalls, the heated arguments at the bar; there were whispers, hushed voices, near-silence. Thosam pulled his bag up to the closest bar, put down a dapper for a pint of cold Tryker lager and listened. Something was amiss. People were talking yes, but not as usual. Not the loud banter, insults, jests and jibes he so knew, with the entire bar being one loud mix of bright voices from everyone talking to everybody else. Instead small groups, often only three or four huddled close together around the blue glowing lights of the bar tables, whispering, hushing each other when someone else walked by.
Sipping casually from the shell tankard, resting his feel on his bulging bag, he listened. War Jena Matis Karawan Guards Conquest Kami Spirits War Fyros Ambush War Outposts those words came again and again. He looked over the tankards rim, the shell polished to a deep coral by many thirsty lips at the faces around him. Animated and bright yes, like Trykers look, but there was a tremor of frenzy and fear in that animation and those bright eyes were wide with anxiety and uncertainty. He finished his beer, put the shell back onto the counter wand walked home. The night air now seemed cold to him and the wind from the lake wet and depressing.
Inside his apartment he quickly tapped awake the glowbugs in all the lanterns he had. Their living light filled the large room with a dim light. If his mood had not been so dark, he would have called it cozy, now it seemed more like an ominous gloom. Even the night glow through the large fish eye window into the lake seemed oppressing instead of relaxing. A small school of fish came close, feeding on the plankton that was attracted even by this meager light.
Thosam sat down on the window sill and looked around in his apartment. Jena, what a load of junk and how could it get so dusty here in an underwater tower? Bits of amber and seeds everywhere around his workbench; stacks of fibres, wood bundles and vials filled with oil and resins (not all as tight as they should be, the floor could attest to that); bags and sacks filled with all sorts of raw materials, just in case; a few Kitin trophies from his hunts; the screaming red caster pants he gotten when hed joined the Redcaps; the bowrifle Crythos had made him along with the ammo boxes; the bright blue armour he had paid Neun to craft him when his jewels had sold exceptionally well one week (long since outgrown, but it was a Neun, not to be discarded lightly); the box of gifts and letters he had packed for his family in Barkdell (he really should look up Kostika or some other Samsara to get it carried to Barkdell soon.) and lots and lots of other stuff.
Thosams eyes fixed on the poem hed written down at one of Drakfots recital:
If there really came another war, with Matis or Zoraï or Fyros or just the Kitin, what would he do? He was just a digger, a harvester, not a particularly glorious or famous one, just one of those many hardworking homins who got down on their knees every day and sifted through the dirt to find materials for themselves and others to craft with. Atys provided so Her children would live. While She also gave shells and nodes and other materials to craft weapons, Thosam doubted that She meant those to be used for Her children to kill each other with.In this place Homins seek.
Looking forward and around they peek.
For the glow in their hand,
they search through the land.
For harvesters and more,
for this neverending lore.
They seek through the natures force,
for yet another source.
Deep in his thoughts he was suddenly struck by an ice-cold sensation down his neck. With a surprised yelp he jumped from the sill, only to stumble over the handle of his mace and to land on those shields hed never sold. Spinning around he checked all corners to find that mischief whod hit him with an Ice spell. He was alone. What the ? He checked his neck, it was wet, lake water from the smell of it. He looked up around the window frame. Near the top there was a small thin crack in the caulk with another bead of water forming. With a sigh he struck flint and steel to light a small oil lamp. Using the flame to cautiously heat the tar, he pushed in the caulk so the window seal was tight again. No need to ask the Apartment Caretaker to do it, any true Tryker knows how to waterproof this.
Hopping down from the sill after blowing out the oil lamp, Thosam noticed something pale-green in the dust on it. (I really ought to get a house-keeper or a girl-friend ) It was a Sarina Seed. Its thick, black, glossy shell had ruptured and a pale root was digging into the wet dust where the water had collected, while a pair of pale-green leaves stretched towards the window. He picked it up carefully, laying it down on the palm of his hand. Life wants to live, even down here in the gloom (and dirt) of my apartment, he thought. Looking around Thosam picked up a long-dead house-plant, pulled out the dried remains of a Matisian Fire Cherry (wasnt that Amrathas gift when I bought this place? And how can I forget to water it underwater?), dug a finger into the dry soil to form a hole and carefully planted the Sarina Seed in it. After giving it some water, Thosam sat on the window sill again, looking at the minute plant and wondering over its tenacious will to live.
Atys wants us to live. She wants us to grow and to prosper. She gives Her children, even the tiniest seeds, that will, that urge, that desire to grow, to develop, to become more than they are to begin with. And now we are to throw all that life away in some stupid war ordered by some stupid king ruling over some stupid homins?
Thosam thought long and hard that night what he could do. Then near morning, with the light slowly filtering through the water into his room, his tired eyes fell upon his guild badge and the symbol upon it and like that seed an idea sprouted and took root.
He grabbed his bag, still full of seeds from the day before, tipped out the most of them and stormed out to the stables. OCautty Eoppie, the stable boy, was of course already there, waiting for customers.
Thomas smiled at him and said: I need mektoub manure. How much is the bag?
OCautty smiled back Mektoub fooder. Of course. A standard bag is
Not fodder! Manure! You know, the stuff from the other end, which comes out, not goes in!
OCautty was silent for a moment, then looked at him very carefully. Im sorry, but unless some new Rite has been discovered, I dont think we have any of that, at least not for sale. he replied cautiously, but Thosam had already gone round the corner to the stables.
What was it that old Matis gardener had told him once? Not the fresh manure it would burn the plants, but the old, well-seasoned, that would give the plants nurture. He stepped gingerly through the stalls, the mektoubs braying at him, until he came to an empty place. It looked as if it hadnt been swept in a long time and indeed there in the back corner a heap of manure sat, half-hidden by some old bedding. Thosam looked at it skeptically, then reached in (I dig all day and now Im afraid to get my hands dirty? This too is a gift from Atys, some of her raw materials we so crave.) and filled his bag to the brim (I will need a new bag though). He grabbed a simple staff from his mektoubs saddle bags and walked out the stables again.
He walked along the shore till he found a sunny spot, dug a small hole with his staff, dropped in some of the old manure, put a single seed on top of it and stamped the ground over it with his boot. A few steps further again and again, and again. Soon Thosam found a rhythm and could place a seed without breaking his stride.
All day he walked, often coming back to Fairhaven for more plant food and seeds, often with people scrunching up their noses at his earthy smell, pointing fingers at him, laughing at him, a forager, a digger, putting seeds into the ground, instead of pulling them out. But he didnt care. Atys gives Her children the will to live. He was one of Her children helping Her other children to live. For a green and living Atys.