The King of the North

There was once a King of the North and he was very mighty. His palace was made of marble, metal and wood, but most of all wood, of which he was very fond. He had many royal carpenters and woodworkers whom he kept close at hand. The King of the North lived with his wife and Queen. They had many servants between them, and a vast fleet of ships at the King’s command (made only of the finest timbers of the Northern Wood), and a huge hoard of treasure, which the King guarded jealously. He had wealth, power and fame throughout the world, more than anybody could imagine. And now he was soon to be expecting a child.

It was only weeks until Christmas, and the Queen’s belly had grown large as a sail in the wind. The baby would come at any moment. “I do hope he comes out right on Christmas morning!” the King would say, drawing circles around his wife’s belly with his mighty hand. He was very proud to have a Christmas baby, and not just any Christmas baby, but an heir-to-his-entire-Northern-Kingdom Christmas baby. They invited the other rich Kings and dignitaries of the world to visit them for a baby shower. The biggest, mightiest ships would sail in carrying exotic spices and treasure, all for the infant. The King seldom let anybody else visit, and when they did it was only if the visitors had mighty gifts to give, which would be thrown on top of his already humungous pile of goods. When the lowly, poor and sick would knock at his door, a servant would open up and say “Go away! Can’t you see it’s Christmas? The King is trying to spend time with his family!”

The King commanded his carpenters to build a Nursery, a mighty Nursery fit only for the offspring of the King of the North. He wanted the best trees in the world to be hewn down for this Nursery, which meant the trees in the Valley of the North Wind, the very seat of the North Pole. His carpenters warned him against it. That was the one forest no one on Earth, not even the King of the North may cut down. They implored, they begged him not to do it. Some even outright refused, and the ones who did he sent straight to the stocks, stark naked in the snow. They begged and they begged until he rose from his throne and said “Enough! Is there a tree on earth that is too noble for my Child?” To which one carpenter said “It is not the trees that we fear, but the Northern Wind.” The King’s face turned cold and hard like a grim monument. “Shall man bow to the winds? Or does he make them his subject as well? Does he not yoke the wind to move these mighty timbers across the sea? Thus are both the forest and the wind made the humble servants of Man.” So spake the King, and nobody dared dispute this point. “And furthermore” he added, “This must be completed by Christmas Eve, for my child shall be born on Christmas morning.” The carpenters exchanged glances and bowed before their sovereign.

So his carpenters and woodsmen went into the Forest in the Valley and began cutting down the trees to build the mighty Nursery for the King’s child. It took two weeks to complete it, running on the schedule that the King set for them, and by Christmas Eve, there was a great wooden hall erected on the ridge overlooking the Valley. Down below there was a wide-open clearing where the trees had been, now nothing but dwarfish stumps. Right on cue, the Queen felt the baby coming, so the King rushed her to the Nursery on a mighty horse-drawn sleigh. On the entire ride to the Nursery, which was a league from the palace, the baby was trying to get out, but the King commanded that she keep him in until morning. The Queen nearly hurled him off the sleigh at this remark, had the midwife not been there to pacify her. When they reached the Nursery, the midwife suggested it was best that King go back to the palace and return in the morning, which he agreed to without a second’s hesitation.

That night, Christmas Eve, he slept not a wink, but celebrated with his guests in the hall. They feasted on meats, wine and nog, singing gay songs and dancing on the table. At length the King left his guests and stepped outside to see the Nursery. Truth be told he was very anxious about the whole business, and wanted to see his wife with a child in her arms. The light of a fire, a mere dot of light, flickered through the windows of the mighty Nursery a league a way. He smiled—an oafish, drunken smile, but genuine no less—before going back in and joining the throng.

And then midnight struck.

At once, all the fires burning in the hall went out, plunging them in darkness. A great shrieking noise rattled the windows throughout the palace like a howling banshee. The other kings yelped and hid under the tables. “The Second Coming! The Second Coming!” They shouted. The front door burst open and a fierce, icy gale blasted through turning their wine and nog to frost in their hands. The King, all warm from his drink and not fearing the cold, staggered out through the open door, which had come off its hinges. He looked to the Valley and saw no light coming from the mighty Nursery any longer. He hitched his mightiest horses to his mightiest sleigh and sped thither with all his might. Driving a sleigh while drunk is no easy or advisable task, but the King managed. It swerved and zigzagged often but he did his best to navigate through the snow and the pinesm and finally before dawn he reached the Nursery up atop the ridge. His feet were blue from wearing only slippers, and a small icicle had grown on the tip of his nose.

When he came to the front entrance, he saw the same thing as had happened in his palace. The door was wrenched open, barely hanging to its hinges, and inside was darkness, but for the arctic moon spying through the windows. In the middle sat an empty crib, and beside it, the midwife lay unconscious on the ground. The Queen sat in the rocking chair, weeping. She clutched her now flat belly, empty, drooping like a sail with all the wind sucked out. The King’s eyes grew wide, to take in what the dark and the drink had hidden from him. He approached her cautiously, and touched her belly. “Where is my child?” He asked, his voice trembling. The Queen continued to weep. “WHERE IS MY CHILD?!” He bellowed. This cry was answered with an even louder one: “YOU THINK YOU CAN SHOUT ME DOWN, DO YOU?” It was a deep, deep, deep voice, like something submerged at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean, with no warmth or light in it. Within it the King could hear high tones whistling like a storm. It chilled the King’s bones until he felt like they would shatter like glass. He turned around to see the source of this voice, and it was the very doorway itself. “I am the Northern Wind, and you have sinned against me.” The King dashed to the door and tried to pull it closed, but the Wind knocked him on his back. “I AM THE NORTHERN WIND AND YOU WILL NOT SHUT ME UP AND KEEP ME OUT.” The Wind had fashioned a mouth for itself out of this Nursery-door. The whistles blew in through the windows, till the entire house was but the very jaws of the Wind. “I have taken your child,” said the Wind. “I have taken it and hidden it among the children of the world, so you may never find it.”
“And what is my crime, you devil of the North?” the King shouted.
“Your arrogance. You turned away the lowly, the sick, and the weary, and you have hewn down the trees in my Valley when you knew it was forbidden. You have taken my children, so I have robbed you of yours. Now you and your wife must suffer for your arrogance.” With that, the wind sucked itself out from every crack and slammed the door behind it, leaving the king on his back, and the Queen sobbing by the crib. The dawn had come, and it was Christmas Day.

The King and Queen rode back all day. The Queen was barely alive now, but the King burned deep down inside, and every breath further steeled his will. He would not rest until he retrieved his child, even if it meant knocking on every door, going into every house, turning it upside down and shaking it if he had to. He sent envoys to every country, and threatened open war to anybody who refused to give up his baby. The mighty King of the North would not be denied his property.

A year passed, and every envoy returned with nothing. Most of them did not even set sail, because the North wind refused to move them. He also told the other winds to refuse them as well. The ones who traveled on foot either lost their bearing in fierce storms, or were eaten up by bears. The ones that did make it through found nothing. No other ruler of any other country said they had a share of the King’s child. Some welcomed an inspection, but most of them just laughed and shut the door on them. The King’s wrath would not be so easily sated however. He gathered his mighty fleet together to war against the other nations, North Wind or no North Wind. He hewed down another quarter of the Valley forest for new oars, oars that could thrust the ships through any windless sea. But the North Wind rose up in anger and stirred the Sea to such a fury that almost the entire fleet was dashed to pieces and swallowed up in a mighty maelstrom. Meanwhile the Queen said not a word, and would only eat when the servants forced her to. She would not bake, nor tell her cooks what her recipes were, so the meals were never as exquisite as when she made them.

Near the end of the year, the King decided to end this war in one fell swoop. He ordered all of the trees in the Valley to be cut down and burned in a large pyre for his child, so the smoke could rise high into the sky and choke the Northern Wind. On Christmas Eve his men went down into the Valley and one by one the treetops plummeted to the ground, and they dragged each one through the snow into a mighty infernal heap in the middle. The flames rose higher and higher and the smoke grew thicker. The King stood on a ridge and looked down, and then looked over to the Nursery to see if his wife was watching. The pyre raged for hours.

And then midnight struck.

The giant inferno vanished right before the men’s eyes, like a candle snuffed out in a careless breath. Another blast of wind came through the Valley and blew his men away, clean off the face of the Earth. The dumbstruck King heard a scream coming from the Nursery. He sped down into the Valley on his sleigh, and up again, urging the horses along a steep road. He reached the Nursery and saw the same sight as he did one year ago. Only this time, the house was empty. Completely, empty. This, he did not expect. “Where is my wife? I thought I heard her scream. Or was it just the Wind again, playing nasty tricks on me?”
“It was I,” came that same fell voice. “I took your wife from you.”
“So this was for burning your trees down?”
“This was for your neglect. You were so bent on revenge, that you neglected the dearest person in the world to you, and so you are not worthy of her any longer.”
The King dropped to his knees, his anger vanished in an instant. “Please, take my palace, my horses, my kingdom. I love none of them as much as I love her!”
“If this were so,” said the Wind, “You would have comforted her for the loss of your child, and not let her waste away here in the Nursery while you made war. But you could not let go of your pride.”
The King began to sob and whimper. “Very well. You are the true King of the North. You have won and I am nothing. Is this what you wanted? Please let me see my wife…”
“I have lost as much as you. The Valley is empty now, a graveyard of my children, and I will blow a dirge for them day and night here. It is too late for you. I have scattered your wife among the stars. She is in a far better place, though away from you.” The Wind ceased and moved down into the Valley to mourn the trees. The King wept until dawn. When the sun came up he went down into the Valley and walked to the pyre, now a mighty pile of black, charred trees. He felt very weak at the sight of this. His eyes were now open to what he had done to this place. He reached down into the rubble and pulled out a stick, one that the flames had not licked but rather lay buried in the snow. He used this as a walking stick, and made his way back to his palace on foot.

The palace was empty. All of the servants had either been blown away or fled, or left for new jobs with better pay. The King sat on his bed and took off the charred bark to reveal its bright, smooth insides. He got an idea to take a knife to it. He whittled away at the stick until it would resemble something. This helped to take his mind off of his despair, at least for a little while, and it was his favourite pastime, though he had not made anything since he was a child. The hours passed, until finally at the top of the stick emerged a figurine, a wooden Queen for him. This pleased him greatly. He continued to carve away at this stick; he carved elaborate patterns down its length, pictures of trees, of snow and horses until it was no longer a stick, but a staff. The designs were crude and clumsy, but the King didn’t mind. It was his world, with the Queen at the top. His heart was broken, but this gave him some tiny consolation.

That night, he took the staff to the Valley, and repented before the Nursery.
“Here is a humble gift for my wife, O Northern Wind,” he said. The Wind said nothing. The King laid it down on the steps before the door, and returned to his palace. The next day, he went into the Valley and picked up a larger branch, and pulled it back with his sleigh. He broke it into pieces, and carved little figurines out of it. He made horses, birds, and flutes, each one more and more refined as he went on. He took these to the Nursery and offered them again. “These are gifts for my child. Please take them and give them to him, wherever he is. Again, he laid them down on the steps before the door, and returned to his palace. The next day the King went down into the Valley again, and took an even larger branch, and made larger things out of it: ships, dragons, and trees. He took these once again to the Nursery, and when he got there, he was shocked to see that the gifts from the previous nights were gone. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but it looked as though the Wind had taken them. The King got to his knees, and prayed: “Please, Northern Wind, let me see my wife again, and my child for the first time.” The Wind said nothing. The King’s hopes sunk, as other possibilities crept into his mind. A raccoon or a bear might have picked them up, and given them to their Queens and children for Christmas. Or the Wind may have just blown them away and buried them in the snow. The King returned to the palace.

His hope had not died completely though. Just because the Wind did not answer his prayer, it did not mean that the Wind didn’t take the gifts to the King’s beloved. The King gathered all of the pieces of wood from the Valley that were not completely burned in the fire, and took them to his palace. He made most of the same things as he had done before, but he was perfecting his technique as he went on. He became more and more meticulous and less and less satisfied with each offering, knowing he could do better, knowing his wife and child deserved better. When he ran out of wood, he took apart the remaining ships in his fleet and dragged the timbers to his palace. Soon the wood would turn into hobby-horses, soldiers, tortoises, and then made cabinets, chairs, a doll’s house and a puppet theatre. This gave him the idea to take the fabrics from the wife’s clothes, from the linen closets and even his own, to make little puppets, dolls, hats, masks. When he ran out, he made a crude spinning wheel and learned to weave his own fabrics. He imagined all of the different things a child could want, and then proceeded to make them. Whether his child was a boy or a girl, short, tall, fat, scrawny, adventurous or timid, he had something for it.

Years went by, and his gifts became finer and finer, and on each Christmas Eve he traveled to the Nursery with his stock of gifts, and when he returned in the morning, they would be gone, and every year he would pray to see his wife and child again, and every year the Wind would say nothing. The King grew old. Every year his face would grow another wrinkle, like the rings in a tree. With every year his beard thickened and turned grey. But he was strong still, hauling the timbers, traveling greater and greater lengths to fashion his toys. Soon his supply was greater than his ability to carry it on Christmas Eve, so he would take only portions each year. He could not let it grow too high though, for he could not stand to see them for long, gathering dust, reminding him of his loneliness. He would not stop either. Soon he ran out of ships, so he started taking apart his palace. The metals he reforged: all of the mighty apparel for war that stood idle in his armory he took and melted down into tin soldiers with little muskets, trumpets and horns. The marble he made, naturally, into marbles. The wood of course he continued to use with great reverence. He took apart his palace plank by plank, and moved right into the Nursery, converting it into a workshop. He went on this way each year, working day after day until Christmas, and offering up whatever he had, until he had nothing left but his shop, and his creations. This could have been a lovely souvenir shop for anybody visiting the Kingdom, only nobody did. All the other Kings and Queens and dignitaries of the world never heard from the King again, and some even said “good riddance to bad royalty!” The people of world heard about the King burning down the Forest of the Valley of the North, so every Christmas they erected a pine tree in their homes to commemorate these mighty trees now gone from this world.

In time, the North Wind eventually stopped taking the King’s gifts. The King was down to his crown because there was nothing left to use. On Christmas Eve he removed it from his head and officially renounced his Kingship. “North Wind, You are the true King of the North, I am a humble man; I just never knew it until now.” He stood on top of the Shop and offered it up to the Wind. He stood up there, waiting, for one whole hour.

Then the Wind blew by and knocked it out of his hands. The crown went tumbling off the roof and down a slope leading out of the Valley and into the Wide World. The crownless Old Man yelped. He climbed down as fast as his bones could move him and pursued the crown, which was still rolling along. He followed the crown into a forest—nothing as great as the goodly Valley Pines, but a forest nonetheless. The crown stopped every now and then, getting caught in a bush or a hollow or a under a fallen tree. But every time the Old Man saw its glint in the dim light and reached for it, something kept it from him: first, the Man upset the snow sitting above on the tree branches and it fell on him. By the time he could climb out of it the crown was in the clutches of a white fox. He tracked it to a frozen waterfall, at the bottom of which a frozen brook ran. The crown slipped from the fox’s teeth rolled onto the stream and went its way, slipping and tumbling down the slope, and the Man went slipping and tumbling after it, with much pain and discomfort, (his limbs not as couched with fat as they once were). The man crashed into a snow-bank, face first. When he came to, he saw the stream had led to a clearing overlooking the wood. Here the Man could look out and spy the land before him to the South. The Sun had fallen by now, and little lights shone here and there along the hills lining the countryside, miles away. Smoke rose from them, like chimney tops. He had never seen these before, not in his entire life and career as the King: the only world he had ever really known lay within the walls of his own Kingdom. He longed to see these lights on the hillsides up close—perhaps meet the ones who kept them. They must be villages, he thought. The only fire of his was that of his lonely forge, his only company the wooden figurines and dolls he had crafted. He imagined the people gathered around these lights, singing, telling stories from days past, conjuring visions for the future, holding each other close. He watched the little columns of smoke spiral up into the sky, which by now was decked with stars. They were clear and bright in the crisp, cold air. He had never seen them so clearly before: thousands of them, everywhere he looked there they were, glittering in an ocean on high and he had never felt as unmighty as he did that moment. They shone especially bright over the lights below, as if mimicking their terrestrial counterparts. The fox returned and carried away the crown while the Man looked on, struck dumb. The forest was very, very, very still.

And then midnight struck.

A tiny, slight breeze danced through and whispered in the man’s ear in the tiniest, slightest voice. He gasped and nearly fell off the edge. “There is one way.” Before the Man knew it he was swept off his feet and rolled through the air, back to his workshop. “Gather your things,” said the Wind, as the Man struggled to gather his wits. But before there was any chance of that happening, from the other side of the Valley came a ship, speeding through the air toward him. Where it came from he did not know, for it was not one of his own. It had a hull of white timbers and silver sails that surged with the North Wind’s breath. It was a magnificent sight not of this world, and it docked right in front of the Nursery. A causeway lowered itself from the deck, while the Man brought all of the gifts onboard at the Wind’s urging. Once he was on with all of the gifts he had crafted over all the years, the vessel rose and rolled through the cloudless sky.
“Northern Wind, where is this ship taking me?”
“To find your child, you must follow the map your wife has laid out for you.”
“What map? My wife never laid out a— ” Before he could finish, something caught his eye. Among the multitude of stars there was one that burned a little brighter on the nearer end of heaven. Perhaps this was it, he thought. Directions—it had to be! At this point the Old Man was willing to believe anything. He set sail for the village that lay beneath the star.

Within minutes they were hanging over the village. The Old Man lowered a ladder with a sack over his shoulder, ready to adorn his one and only child. When he landed, he peered inside the nearest window of the nearest house, and on the first try the Old Man saw a child sleeping, a boy. But before he could act, there were things the Man had to consider: how would he know that it was his child when he saw it? He had no idea how many children there were in the world, but he assumed a lot. How could he possibly find his among them? The Wind said nothing of how, so the Man chose to trust the map in the sky and perhaps he reach his destination on his own.

This boy lay in bed, shivering without a blanket. So naturally, the Man took out the most beautiful, and more importantly the warmest quilt he had. This one he didn’t make, only his wife could have made one this beautiful. It was thick and soft, but light as a feather, and it was made for this child. How could it not be? The window was open (in fact, it had no latch at all to keep it closed), so he snuck the blanket in, draped it over the boy and tucked him in. As soon as he finished this, a star above him burned a little brighter for a moment. Was this boy in fact his child? He examined the child’s features, searching for something familiar. Somehow it didn’t matter. In a way he could not explain at that moment, it was his boy. And then the star dimmed, and one beside it lit up. The Wind came down from the ship, and nudged the Man to move on. The next star hung over the house of a girl, nine or ten perhaps, who could have very well been his child in the peace of that night. He gave her the first doll he laboured over for hours to perfection, laying it beside her in bed. He was extremely pleased at the thought of her discovering it tomorrow. He slipped away as quietly as he could, and made for the next house. Again, the star above burned brighter before taking its place among the rest, making way for the next one. For every child in that village there was a star, and when the village was taken care of, a star would burn somewhere else in the firmament. The Man climbed back into the ship, his sack empty, and ready for the next port.

He went on for what seemed like years, yet nighttime remained, as far as the man could tell. The moon itself stood still, while the stars waited patiently above each household, whether it housed rich or poor. This was incomprehensible to the Man, but he simply took advantage of it rather than question it. The ship swept across the sky, borne of the North Wind. Every time a star lit up, it reminded him more and more of the light in the Nursery, the one he saw when he looked out so many years ago on the eve of his child’s birth. Every gift he offered, every child’s face he saw got him closer and closer to his own.

He did not return to his workshop until every child on earth was accounted for—and every child was accounted for—and only then did the moon pass along and make was for the morning. He sat down in his wife’s rocking chair and put his head in his hands and wept. He did not find what he was looking for. In fact, he found something quite different.

There were some things even the North Wind could not change, but at the very least that night he took mercy on the Man, and did what he could. He entreated the help of the other Winds and allowed the Man to be with his wife and child every Christmas Eve. But only on Christmas Eve could he do this; any other time was forbidden. That was all the Wind could do. The only other thing that could explain what happened to the Old Man was Grace. Rather than complain, the Old Man accepted the Wind’s offer, whatever chance he had to have his wish fulfilled. Every child he saw was a gift in itself. Only Christmas Eve was no punishment to him. On the contrary: it was his night, when the Winds held the sky still, and the lone Old Man sailed from star to star to rain gifts on the children of the world. It no longer mattered which one was his.

The next year he would do the same thing. The year leading up to it would be spent in seemingly endless toil. The perpetual labour would be eternal torment to anybody else. But no Sisyphus was he; everything he made of his own hands was born of love, and so he would continue to find joy in his work, a joy he had never known in is idleness as King. The North Wind would never howl in the Valley again. Instead, the Valley would heal and trees would grow again, because of the kindness these two Kings showed to each other. The Wind would even rear up a grove of magic firs that grew to full height just so they might lay low their necks in sacrifice to the Man’s axe. But the Man would not take any more than he needed. The Wind would labour with him in the Valley, and every year he would be guided by his Queen; who some say is the Northern Lights, dancing in the sky at night. And every year he would greet his child in each child he visited, offering his humble gifts. The Man would grew rich again, but it was that special kind of richness, the one that comes from the inside, starting in the heart and reaching all the way to the highest hairs on your head and down to the soles of your feet.

The Old Man started his work over again the next day. There was much work to be done until the next Christmas, and he would only stop when his heart was absolutely empty. The funny thing was it just kept filling up again.

THE END

Merry Christmas, everyone!

-Liam

Myth-crafting

In an attempt to further develop my ideas for my fantasy story, I need to bounce them off of somebody else. Language is a form of loving others, as Alberto Manguel said. I cannot find the story I’m looking for until I share it with others, so here goes.

WARNING: If you have no interest in or detest anything to do with the genre of epic fantasy then I suggest you read no further. It’s a genre fraught with awful clichés unfortunately. I will do everything in my power to do away with them, or renew them, but right here and now is not the time and place that this will happen.

This is the blueprint for the background story of Gondoth and Lalíth, the two Gods who are the cause of the entire story: for siring the Fays, and for their opposing views on the fate of Mortals.


First off, at the very beginning of Time, there is an order of beings born (their origins I haven’t decided quite yet) who are destined to govern the universe, and make sure its laws are upheld. They are the Gods, naturally. The eldest of them is known in the tongues of Man as Albourak. He is the wisest, and is charged with the task of foreseeing the future and advising his brethren accordingly. He receives his visions by consulting a basin filled with a cosmic water, giving him messages only he can interpret. Albourak is recognized as their leader, although no formal hierarchy is (yet) established. The youngest of them is known as Gondoth, the brightest, the most inquisitive, the most cunning and the most ambitious of them all.
Eventually Albourak prophesies that these Gods will be superseded by a younger generation of Gods (These Younger Gods are to the Older ones what the Olympians are to the Titans, and the Aesir to the Giants in Norse myth). The Older Gods must eventually either renounce their power and become servants of the new Gods, or recede back to the cosmic primordial Waters from whence they came. Gondoth objects to this, however. He does not understand why he must bow down to a new generation, especially when the World and their place in it is still so new. And to his credit, Albourak can never quite explain why this is the way things must be, only that they are. The Gods are controlled by a fate, which even they cannot influence. It is one which seems arbitrary when viewed from up close.
When the Younger Gods arrive, the Older ones are permitted for a time to dwell with them. Gondoth rallies many of the Older Gods against this decree, and those allied with Albourak are few. Gondoth meets Lalíth, the youngest and most beautiful of the Young Gods. He woos her and they marry, and in that matrimony is Gondoth preserved, his Godhood intact. The others are not so lucky. The ones whom Gondoth convinced to oppose the decree are stripped of their beautiful bodies and their spirits are mangled and transformed into foul, chthonic monsters. Gondoth detests them, but he vows to protect them and one day return them to their original forms. Of the ones who did not rebel, but accepted their fate, Albourak was preserved, because the Young Gods begged for him to stay and guide them. He consults the water, and it tells him that he must stay. But he renounces his lordship, and may only act as an advisor, having no executive power. He becomes known as the Grandfather God. Because He was preserved, Gondoth comes to resent Albourak, but only harbours these feelings in secret.
Meanwhile, Albourak prophesies the coming of the Mortals. When they are born (I haven’t decided how this happens, whether they are in any way created by the Gods, or separately), of all the races, Gondoth is most intrigued by Man. They are most like him. There is a debate over whether the Gods should dwell among them, or remain hidden from the Mortals. Albourak receives no prophesy about it, so they must decide for themselves. Albourak has misgivings and advises against it, but Gondoth wants to go forward. The Gods would not agree to this, except Lalíth backs Gondoth. She is regarded among her peers for her compassion and wisdom, and because of this, they believe that the Mortals are in good company. That, and there is no explicit rule that they cannot mingle with these new beings. So Gondoth, Lalíth and the Young Gods walk among them, living side by side with them and teaching them. In this time, Lalíth and Gondoth sire a new race called the Fays.

So that’s the beginning of their history, these two. Obviously it’s just a sketch, an extremely brief narrative summary. I’m not completely satisfied with it right now—I haven’t developed Lalíth’s character in any detail for one, but that will come. For now I need to show it to some new eyeballs.

What I need in regards to input are these questions answered:
Is this premise clear? Otherwise, what needs clarification?
What do you think of the names?
Are there any visible loopholes or flimsy bits?

If you, reader, do care to offer your commentary, I appreciate your complete honesty. If there isn't enough material yet to merit any effective critiquing, I understand that as well. If it’s rubbish, please tell me, because at this point it’s hard for me to tell what’s working and what isn’t.

Sing, Heavenly Muse...

So, I recently finished reading Paradise Lost. No big deal. I managed to do it over a hectic semester by reading mostly on my bus ride to and from school, and a little bit before bed. Some times I just had to force myself to read it, because 17th century verse isn't always my first choice in reading material, especially when we're doing it 7 days a week in school. But after being up to my eyeballs in Shakespeare, it became less of a challenge to wade through John Milton's meandering syntax than it was when I first bought it a couple of years ago. Actually the language itself is a little easier to understand than Shakespeare, as it was written nearly half a century after Shakespeare stopped. Either way, it' done, and not only did I finish it and understand it, but I really enjoyed it, too!

Some of the imagery was quite powerful, and some moments were downright cinematic in scope. The War in Heaven, for example, is narrated in dramatic detail, from Lucifer squaring off with Archangel Michael on the battlefield, to God blasting open a huge hole in Heaven to run the rebellious angels into, banishing them to Hell. They fall for days on end through Chaos, which such an amazing and myth-sized image, falling for so long, through a dimension we can't quite comprehend. The descriptions of the angels in their war array, and Raphael when he visits Adam in Eden, and Eden itself--all of these are quite a feast for the imagination.

I found it curious that Milton used Biblical and Classical myth as metaphors and references to what was going on in the story. Obviously he was just tailoring it to the audience, which was fluent in those stories, and using them the same way any other writer of that time did (and still do); I still found it funny that they should be used to explain what in this context were the very first events to happen in Time.

Now I'm no expert on Milton, but I couldn't help but notice a few interesting aspects to this poem, which its Introduction provided by Stephen Orgel and Jonathan Goldber can back me up on.

An aspect that changes the story quite radically is the presence of the Son of God, who in the Christian context, has existed since the beginning, in an immaterial form. He is the one who does all of the Father's bidding in the story, including pursuing the angels out of heaven, and discovering Adam and Eve after they've eaten the Forbidden Fruit. And he is the reason that Lucifer rebels in the first place. It is God's appointment of the Son as heir to His entire Kingdom that makes Lucifer jealous and wonder why they must be ruled at all. This serves as an interesting plot point and inciting incident for Lucifer, and something we see in stories throughout time--I can think of a couple of political dramas that deal with this exact scenario.

One of the most interesting parts of the whole story was its objective which Milton states at the beginning, to 'justify the ways of God to men'. This very statement, as the Introduction observes, suggests that the good in God's works aren't necessarily self-evident, and that they need to be justified. This suggests as well that this was something that Milton struggled with in his own faith. It also makes sense considering Milton's political alignment--to my understanding he supported Cromwell's Commonwealth and the upheaval of the monarchy. This is probably most clearly shown in the character of Lucifer/Satan. I found myself sympathizing with him, in his discontent with the way things are run in Heaven. He questions God, and sees him as an autocratic ruler who must be challenged. Perhaps he's misguided in this, but it's a sentiment I can definitely understand. He's painted more as a tragic hero than an outright monster: deeply flawed because of his pride, but, to us, deeply human. I don't think Milton means for us to root for Satan necessarily, because as the story goes along he becomes less and less heroic. But all the same, it's familiar, and I don't doubt that Milton would've given him the same complexity of character if he didn't have the same questions in his heart. While reading these early chapters, I was even wondering how I might adapt it into a piece for the stage. I'm sure it's been done before, but I'd like to try myself.

Milton was also very good at equivocating between the Ptolemaic and Copernican systems of the universe. Milton was apparently friends with Galileo, so he was familiar with the concept, and it was a hot topic at the time. He would use both models when describing heavenly bodies and their functions in the course of the narrative, which means that while he wasn't necessarily saying that Copernicus and Galileo are right because that might get him in trouble, he acknowledges them, which means he isn't saying the model is wrong. It's little things like this that can make this work more incendiary and subversive if they were less subtle.

I also sympathized with Adam and Eve of course. Like any good tragedy where you know the ending, it is only tragic because you feel for the character. Especially because after they're punished for their crime, you can't help but wonder if it was such a bad thing, really. God says they're born with free will, and yet you can only be free to choose if you have at least one other alternative to choose from, i.e. good, and evil. They are warned that if they eat from the Tree of Knowledge, they will die. Only they don't completely understand the gravity of such a thing until they eat the fruit, so they are kind of set up in this. Obviously this is a concept that people still struggle with, because the answer is never wholly satisfying, and even after the poem ends, the ripple of that feeling still remains. Milton does an admirable job in trying to justify the ways of God to men, but it's something I'm sure even he knew he couldn't do with complete success. I also get the feeling that he didn't want that either. If he gave a straight answer, that God is good, Satan is evil and Adam and Eve did wrong, then there would be no complexity, thus no drama. But that's not what the story sets out to do. Like a good piece of writing it doesn't prescribe a solution, but invites us to search these waters for ourselves. The Introduction goes into all of this in greater (and more eloquent detail), but they are things that I came upon myself in the reading of it.

It's 4:03 AM, and I'm wide awake.

My mind is absolutely reeling. This is the second time this week that I haven't been able to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. This isn't necessarily a bad thing though. Two nights ago I was awake until morning, only after my family left for work and school, and in that time I came up with what I believe to be a really good Christmas story. I'd always wanted to write a story for this time of year--something in the same vein as Stuart McLean's Christmas stories--only I never had any idea. Now I do, and the idea is NOTHING like Stuart McLean's but that doesn't matter. It's still a Christmas story, and that's what matters. This was the result of a sleepless night. It's hard to say whether it's a good thing or a bad thing. Inspiration struck me so fast that I would be foolish not to do something about it, but I just wish it could happen in the daytime. But, c'est la vie. And here I am again.

It started with me watching an episode of Battlestar Galactica before going to bed. This probably was a bad choice, because as soon as I was done, my imagination was fired up. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I started thinking of different, wacky ways to perform the To Be or Not To Be speech which we already worked on in Voice class. Still riding on the emotional residue I had from watching the Galactica episode I managed to bring myself to hysterical extremes--at some points maniacal laughter and others the verge of tears--all in well picked moments of the monologue, of course. Needless to say I was very much in the moment. In my room. By myself. Lying in bed. Anyway, my mind moved on to my still unwritten magnum opus of epic fantasy which I started thinking about writing ten years ago and never really got beyond jumbled notes in a journal. As usual, I puzzled over the perfect names for particular people and places, and the details of plot. It seems like an ass-backwards process, having a rough plot for the story when you don't even quite know what the characters' names are. I had names for everybody, but I've changed them many times, and now I have no idea. If a character's name is supposed to suit them, which should come first, the name or the character, since both are so interdependent? I managed to decide on the name for the capital city of the Great Kingdom, but not the name of the Great Kingdom itself. I feel like I will be able to write with much greater ease once I have solved this complex question. Good thinking, Juliet: what the hell IS in a name? Thus far my characters are only instruments of plot, not actual characters, so I need to give them names. But ones that suit them, and are fitting with their respective culture and language. Ganny is the most developed character (which isn't saying much), because he is the closest to myself in these circumstances. His name means nothing etymologically speaking, but that doesn't bother me. I had this name for him since I was ten years old, and I don't intend on changing it.

I realized thinking about this was keeping my mind awake, so I tried reading more of William Shatner's autobiography--which is extremely entertaining so far, I must say. So far (and I'm not very far) he has lead a very interesting life, some parts of which seem too crazy to be true--this only exacerbated things.

Eventually my mind moved to what I think is my good idea of the night. I've decided that this upcoming year will be a Year of Extraordinary Thinking. Let me explain.

I've often wondered what it is that seperates an extraordinary human being from, well, an ordinary human being. This is rather subjective and muddy territory I realize, but let's assume for all intents and purposes that there is a difference.Now, I have a very wide definition of extraordinary. Something I find extraordinary might be perfectly mundane to somebody else. Let's just establish that right off the bat. Basically anybody I see doing their damnedest to live a meaningful life, to live exactly the kind of life they intended, to be true to their hearts; this I find extraordinary. And to be one of these people, I've come to the conclusion that, of the factors that a human being can control, it is their imagination and will to act that can get them there. An extraordinary person will do what ordinary people might just talk about, if they believe it is important enough to sacrifice their time and effort. They put their money where their mouth is, and they follow through. Beyond that, it really depends on the scope of that person's imagination. I do believe that, within reason, a person can achieve just about anything. But they have to want it bad enough, most likely to the point of obsession, and this will fuel their will to follow through. This is nothing new. And you might say "that's all well and good in theory, but..." yes yes I know. But. It's this kind of foolhardy thinking that seeks to defy that argument, to debunk that little three-letter word. It's extremely optimistic in tone I realise, and quite cliche, but I would not believe this if I hadn't seen it proven true on countless occasions, throughout history, and in my own life. It is an empirical argument which others have observed as well, to make it become a platitude. I think it takes an extraordinary amount of time and energy to be an extraordinary person, but it can be done. And I also said a person can do anything within reason. I'll be first to acknowledge that outside factors play a huge part, i.e. economics, social status in that particular society, personal physical and mental health, luck, timing etc. Obviously if anything was possible then we wouldn't have wars and poverty, embroiling honest people who never have justice no matter how hard they work. I know there are people who have a vast inner brilliance that will never be known because they are barred from the opportunity to show it. But if these things are not an obstacle, or are not an obstacle that cannot be overcome, then this is when this theory can operate in reality. A person has more power than they may think, and the key is coming to understand this. If there is a way, then the will will find it. It is a spiritual power, at heart. It is the 'inner space' which the Dalai Lama speaks of. It's what I believe is what allowed survivors of the Holocaust, of imprisonment and torture without trial to be survivors. To hold on to their humanity. The true story which Someone Who'll Watch Over Me is a testament to this. Not only did those men survive, which was mostly good fortune, but they survived with their souls intact, which was entirely because of their inner strength. But now I'm rambling...

In this Year of Extraordinary Thinking, I want to devote my time to expanding my mind. It's something I never stop doing, really, but I want to do it in a higher concentration. It originated with reading Into the Wild this past summer. Christopher McCandless was on an ongoing quest to become one with Nature. I don't necessarily condone what he did nor would ever want to follow his footsteps, but I couldn't help but admire his passion, and his will to follow through, risking a lot to stay true to his values, to the very core. I asked myself, what is keeping me from acting so purely and truthfully? Well, a lot of things. But it would hardly be worth it if it wasn't hard. Half the joy is in the trying. Trying, failing, and trying again. It's a cyclical process that can't be avoided.
In the summer while I was doing Rent I decided I could coast through it until I got back to Victoria and have a fun, but meaningless summer, OR I could invest as much of myself as I could, and becoming exhausted in the process. I wanted a restful summer, but I felt that it might be more fulfilling to go for the latter. I tried, and I am so happy that I did. I know a large part of me still resisted and dragged my heels. There was always more I could give, but it was definitely not half-assed.

I also got the idea that I wanted to try tree-planting next summer. This also came out of my hatred for the customer service industry; I really wanted a job that didn't require dealing directly with people. Tree-planting seems like the perfect fit for me: it's out doors, it doesn't require dealing with customers, if you can get good at it you can make good money, and it's physically (and so I hear, emotionally) taxing. Jackpot. It's something I've never done before and usually would never have considered, and that's precisely why I want to do it. A small act, yes. It's not going to garner praise, it's just a job. But this to me would be an extraordinary act, to expand my realm of experience. So this was my first act of extraordinary thinking.

Later on, in Victoria, I got an idea to have a Storytelling party. This is basically where everyone involved gets together and shares their favourite stories, be it poetry, drama, fiction, or non-fiction, original or someone else's, anecdotes from the day before, etc. Anything, as long as you get up, and tell it to your captive audience. It's to revive the art of oral storytelling, an art which intrigues me greatly, and to share it with each other and enrich each other. And I'd like it to be semi-classy, with wine and cheese. This, I'd like to do some time in January. Again, another small thing, but I feel like it will yield something very lovely indeed.

In September I also contemplated doing the 3-Day novel writing contest. I said I would've done it if I wasn't doing the Fringe at the time. So, next year, if I'm not doing the Fringe, I'm going to do the 3-Day Novel writing contest. What have I to lose?

I also decided I would like to submit something to SATCo at least once before I graduate, so over the summer I'm going to work on adapting one of my short stories from my Fiction workshop last year into a play. With my current plan, it hopefully involves character mask-work.

Finally, I think one of the biggest hindrances to my development as an artist is distraction. So I'd like to organize a brief, one or two week-long retreat somewhere in the summer, to use this time to develop my craft in a removed, concentrated environment. Most importantly, I welcome anybody else who would like the same experience. I thought about Stanislavski and Chekhov and Meyerhold and those theatre artists at the turn of the century who went away to a summer home and did just this, experimenting and developing their ideas. It helps to be rich enough to have a summer home, but I'm sure there's something we can find. Yes, school is a concentrated environment for the development of my craft, but in some ways, it's still not enough. A student's schedule can get so ridiculous that often it's impossible to go as in depth as you'd like. And I specifically want this retreat so I can work on my other passions: writing, music and visual art. I'm also toying with the idea of doing a collective creation project (a la Theatre Passe Muraille and the other Toronto Alternative Theatres of the '70's) in this time--we shall see.

So, I think these ideas aren't necessarily extraordinary on their own. The extraordinary thing would be to do them all in one year, or at least set the ball in motion for the future. It's certainly ambitious thinking. But again, these are things I genuinely want to do. I have no doubt that they will fulfill me. If it is at all possible, these are projects I would like to devote my time and energy towards. On that note, this is a challenge for you all as much as it is for me. It would be even more extraordinary if some of you out there were up for this challenge as well--perhaps can even better it. So, it's 5:33 in the morning, and I'm pretty sleepy now, I think, and I end with this question: anybody interested?

Hi folks! Back from the dead I am, and barely living it seems. I've survived the first semester, and like clockwork I get a cold as soon as I'm finished. But it's been a good semester overall. I worked hard, and I feel like I've earned a little rest. I'm back in Calgary right now, which is great. It's covered in snow and I'm gaining Christmas cheer with every day. Some say it's a superficial holiday, and I wouldn't argue that point. But I think it's all the more reason to reclaim it for ourselves. It takes more imagination the older you get, but I believe it's worth it.

I don't have much to say right now, but I'll be on here more often during the break. I promise. Hopefully an obligatory reflection on the decade, you know, that sort of thing. Regardless, you shall be hearing from me anon (that's right, anon)!