The wisdom of Circe
By valiswaverider
- 631 reads
The wisdom of Circe
“and from the harbour I saw an ocean on fire”
fragment from the forgotten history
Part 1 the making of the blade
The iron must be beaten into form. The charcoal is hot, but the warmth is not yet enough to make a furnace. The chill has set into the Valley cold wind blowing down the hillsides extending through the village onto the forest beyond. This furnace must burn for three days and three nights I will keep my vigil and perform my work. This task is handed down to me by my forefathers, a skill that has never been written down and if I do not perform it then no one will. The dark material of iron ore now burns white hot. My assistances take hold of the hammer and tongs and beat together the iron and steel, folding it over in the white heat again and again. I am thirsty but I will not drink until the task is done. This will be a holy sword where spirit and form are not divorced and the mind becomes one with he who wields it.
Through the long dark nights I toil I do not sleep. I am restless but always in action folding the white hot metal over and over again the process has becomes automatic through years of tutelage. My apprenticeship was long I am not sure when it began sometime in early childhood soon after I stopped crawling and followed my father into the forge. The sword is ultimate object only high craft can bring it to perfection, Iron and steel in perfect unison to create the hard blade, structured to perform a perfect cut.
The warrior approaches. His steed breathes heavily after the exertions of its travels. He will make a camp here, and wait as I perform my sacred duties over the three months of winter. The trees are bare now and the first snow is starting to settle. After a month he approaches my forge eager to make our reacquaintance. “How's life in the village he asks”? “I have little time for the village, my work here consumes all my time, but I'm happy with this state of affairs, it is my life”. “I've brought you some rice wine to drink; will you drink with me at my campfire this evening”? “Yes I will drink my assistance to will join us it has been a hard three days at the heat of the forge”. The blade now is taking shape all that remains now is the polishing process.
The Polisher arrives the next day he will take tea with us. When the ceremony has been performed he starts his work, it is his job now to bring out the perfection in the blade. He brings stones and cloth to make the final temper to the blade and give it, its fine edge. Many hands made this blade it grew from the furnace in its raw form, now only its new master can decide its fate. “May his actions and the swords become one, to create one truth in form divine”, at the shrine I deliver this prayer.
The warrior departs the next day but I do not rest still haunted by strange dreams in the hinterland between waking and sleeping. In this strange landscape of the mind I run and crawl and climb a place of rocks and ruins and oil filled lakes which burst aflame. I feel a strange presence, I am spellbound though flame I see a moving statue. An old man as old as time speaks to me, he seems made of stone although he was once flesh and blood and strong emotions’ he has crossed the river Styx. His eyes have no expression and a face, which I recognize although I have not seen it in many years; I ask him what it is like to be dead. And he responds “that is not for the living to know”.
I wonder a while aimlessly away from that strange and now frozen figure and happen upon a cave and enter. As I walk deeper I feel the chill eat into my bones. In this coldness the dark seems endless and enclosing, I ponder the statues words and think, the world is what appears and disappears but this darkness which haunts me into my slumber is not death, it is fear and loss and all sorrowful things known to man when mourning the dead for I have known loss twice within a year.
I am aware that I am dreaming, and about to awake. I run at full sprint to escape the cave and the echoes of my despair .On reaching the surface the world shakes with the power of an earthquake the ground growls and speaks of its condition.” The earth is only scorched in memory and no treason holds the world to ransom, for men have short memories and though the earth will eat thee when your time has passed only the flesh is consumed but I am reborn though out the ages” The surface of the earth heals its self before my eyes. I fall back deeper into sleep.
Wind has grown powerful uprooting trees and buildings. Now the air speaks “No age or anon are eternal and all things pass, do not pity the dead but cherish the living”. I can hear the elements and I feel as Samuel did upon hearing a familiar voice. I ,am pushed toward the cliffs and over by the power of wind, falling headlong into the depths of the ocean ,the sea begins to rise as if possessed by fury and I tremble in cold and fear buried by the waves. As I feel life leaving me I go within and instinct instructs me “fear is the killer of the mind I must face my fear and let it burst through me as a wave I must surrender to it or drown”. I and the ocean are one as in truth there is no I only the illusion of ego and the sum of the ego is despair. My identity is lost within this dream but I feel the power of my awaking as I wash up on the shore.
From the beach I seem to float up towards the sky, above the clouds and on into the starry heavens. There is the light the same as in the eyes of the living which goes out at death, the same light which ignites the heavens. So all life proceeds from light re-enters the light and is absorbed by light and this is the process of the world. The light itself speaks, the tongue cannot touch it so much must remain unsaid and all else is mystery for now and ever more. My eyes flicker and the dream it is no more.
The old man waits at this place of crossing and we will meet again once more.
Part 2 The boy who ran with wolfs
Crouching on the bent metal running over charred concrete, hiding under cover in the alleyways and where the paving is cracked and jagged. Licking his wounds and having his wounds licked and cowering in the cold moonlight; only a brief howling to dispel the deep bone chill; howling with the pack at the moon. Running and scampering at the break of dawn alternating between two legs and four. Jumping over fallen masonry and stopping to examine strange objects, their usage lost to he who could not fashion even savage tools.
Camping on a hillside huddled for warmth.
Strange whimpers as the wind changed direction giving scent of prey, his tongue could form no words; it had never been schooled to do so. He sniffed the wind, and his heart rate jumped; this would be a good day for the hunt. His keen sense of smell and sharp eyesight combined with fleetness of limb made him a prime asset to the pack amongst its chief hunters and guardians. At the edge of the barren city there is a small lake. He looked down into the waters where he has come to lap. For a moment there in dim recognition, he's not like the rest of the pack -this is not the life he was meant for?
Smiles and sensations of such sweetness, half remembered words, the flash of a camera bulb and the words “First day of school, I'm so proud, James is only three, be his turn next!” only remembered in his first waking from dreams, waiting for the lights to change whilst holding mother's hand. Looking up into a vast sky inhabited by buildings and huge people. The chatter, the noise, and the clamber of the city all lost now, all forgotten. In the quiet of a suburban garden taking his first steps into a strange discontented Eden.
Picking up the dirt with his hands which he used more like claws sniffing at the air in the morning, was that prey nearby? In twisting and writhing in half remembered dreams, he remembers back several years. He was underground in a deep cellar though he did not know the word. He was clothed and there were others there. In dreams he remembers how they talked, gathered together in small groups staring up at the cracked ceiling praying in disbelief and remorse. He knew his mother was not there with them but where was she? What was a mother; he knew nothing of other human beings only of the dynamics of the pack the rough-and-tumble of their ways.
The blaring of horns, the running of many feet, the stumbling, a falling half gathered mass of people, trapped in the dimness of some subterranean would-be abattoir. The baroness of the walls and a lack of colour, wailing and crying in the gnashing of teeth, the cursing of the gods and the damnation of fate and the trembling of the ground reverberating with the impact up above.
The silence of a tomb engrained upon his early memory. For days with restlessness only broken by incoherent babbling and worn out frustrations. As the months go by and the food runs low men’s vigour runs to weakness, thoughts turned to cannibalism but horror and resignation soon banished such aberrations and all but one lie down to die. As weeks turn into months strange scratching is heard on the surface - something clawing to get in. Do they smell decaying flesh or sense another animal in peril? A small child the last survivor of this unhappy scene crawls his way into a changed world.
The leader of the pack would sniff at recent kills. Baring her razor teeth until her belly was filled. Often she would snarl over some discovered half desiccated corpse and walk away. This was a signal to the pack not of her ownership of the prize, but of its inedibility. She would gently gnaw at young pups ears that refused warning, her way of disciplining the tribe to keep its' civilised manner. Other packs may have eaten this meat and died slow deaths; weakened and unable to hunt through dysentery, as she had witnessed so long ago. There were many such events when the city was full of the bodies of the strange creatures that lived there. Half charred bodies encased in metal and stone impossible to get at, and for a time so pungent none dared venture into the city streets.
She was a wise old wolf who had felt her paws upon the earth many years. She knew the difference between life and decay by its very smell and through the ravaged hues of dead flesh and half ripped bone. She licked and nuzzled to all the members of the pack in turn, her extended family and legacy upon the earth. Her days now seemed to stretch in length and effort. The coldness and keen darting quality had gone out of her eyes and all restlessness for wondering had vanished. She spent more days tending to the sick of her brood as others scrambled to lead the hunt; she pays little regard. One day age took her into a strange melancholy state of mind and she wandered off from her brood to die in peace.
Part 3 The lotus eaters
Ulysses screamed with rapturous joy and then collapsed into unconsciousness. We cut him down from the mast which broke in the effort of our tired out and unwieldy labours. Manacled he was to enjoy ecstasy as his spirit soared even with arms tort and writhing in chains.We, the crew below desks ears filled with bees wax from long emptied jars of honey .Orders from the captain to save us from madness and preserve our senses, intact from rapture.
The mast fell like a broken cross, with its braking a spirit set free from a dying body, momentary. The ship is dying ,a captain driven mad by strange desire his spirit rinsing senselessly to hope ,then flung down like a crashing wave. Such was the nature of the sirens sweet song. An elemental force stronger than a mans mind or body. Lost are we on the high seas with no sight of land.I miss the simple comforts of hath and home ,the regularity of adriatic seasons. I ask you what is fortune and conquest of any worth to common men being able seamen and conscripted souls only seeking to return home.
The antediluvian monarch of the depths lyes at the bottom of the ocean. Decrepit yet eyes still focusing with vast age. Stomach still powering an unnatural appetite ,spanning the depth in with tentacles unfolded . Lying in waiting. Seeking to make a meal of drowning men's bones. We sense it's hunger in the depths of our empty stomachs the creatures unearth cries from the abyss echoing our own . Shall our thoughts be as sickening as this vile sea creatures before we reach our end.
Already with a week of near starvation we stubble the decks like sea sick drunks who have lost our sea legs with fatigue. As impossible as climbing Rope made of smoke is the task the set the crew. Remounting the mast while the captain lies delirious , half alive, half dead.
Hoisting the mast with aching limbs , a unison of grumbling and toil, without this effort lies our doom. Sure death lies within inaction and holding fast again the wind on legs returned from slumber, spirited vigour guides my ship to shore with new fortitude consuming delirium. I ve always been in command of the ship even with a blood felt fever coursing my veins, oh but the rapture was worth the peril. Strength is returning to my hands as I guide the wheel, regaining sharper senses.
From the top of the mast shore was at last sighted by a deck hand nibble and keen of eye. Anchor dropped a half mile from shore, the swim in would revive the crew. Sick limbs forced to swim with a judder on hitting the ocean. The shore fast approaches, feet searching for the bottom where momentary it is possible to stand.Wading into shore with high tidal brakes ,spitting out salt water with every breath ,alive I am alive.
Every man for him self now ,each of us an creature of alienation and misplaced trust , years of laying siege and months on the vaulting ocean waves turns men of valour into dogs . I carry the mark of Kane on the back of my right hand and a scar on my left foot. "Not my captains keeper" the crews bellies growl. Spreading out like ants across the shore line, the endless days at sea sinking into distant memory. As yet undiscovered bounty may lie in land. In form of fruit or small but fast moving rabbits ready for spearing and the pot. May be as close as the grass lands running along the beach. Eyes and muscles find new strength with quarry scented close at hand. The venomous basilisk is always to be found on such ventures onto unknown lands. We have not the skill or medicine of Galen to cure such ills, so pray gods be merciful to my rowdy crew of half staved braves. Out beyond the grass land lay a thicket and beyond that smoke was seen to rise. The smell of slaughtered boar and lamb roasting in the morning sun filled our nostrils , their must be a settlement not far in land on this isle ?
I thought back on a strange meeting I had years before leaving Ithaca. Pondering's on climbing a mountain to see a sage. Scrambling over rocks , frees the inter voice to question the rigour of ones education.
A Praxis taught to me by Aristotle, this theory put into practise , with care taken in the methods to reach the ends so all society may profit.A moral duty for a captain or statesman and even creative craftsman, all options currently open too me.
After mentorship one must question primary or even superficial concerns invoking the psyche to test the honour of ones thoughts and actions.How best to master ones passions ? Too attain virtue without faults modesty, whilst kindling the fires of the will to harbour great deeds. Emotions laced with memory are guide to hand in tests of fortitude and where memory and experience its self is of no aid.Always to question my internal motive, there is ultimately no help but my own all else is illusion.I must be true to my own self if as by the gods put to the test.
The oracle asked and what do you know of other lands?" I know them not as well as I know the scar on my left foot with which I was born .I am not unlike achilles to have been marked in youth, I wonder if like the land such scars do form us? I have a duty and means to travel to return Helen to her king ". My duty is my reason for all endeavour. For without duty to his country and fellows what is a man , but a lowly dog.
It spoke like a shadow "though blind can see the present, past and future all as one".Our ways and even the gods will be forgotten as new faiths shall rise from the eastern deserts where men seek certainty with care and measurement of the stars. Our age will pass as do all ages in the precession of the world, and your deeds forgotten.
The oracle told me of a prophet not yet born ,who with his last words" asked this father why have you abandoned me" he spoke in reference to a song, where in the introduction in implies the whole that being the tradition. An expression of faith in events no matter how bleak the circumstance as manifestation of divine will. This quote will be misunderstood by many as one of doubt and ultimate human fragility. Though it was never thus , and so the foundation of an age with greater fellowship than our own. This age is already in ascent. In time past on mount Moriah in Palestine a test of faith imparted where Abraham a pious man was commanded by his god to kill his only son. The God relented on seeing Abrahams willing piety, in the face of dearest loss. Since that day it has never been asked if man truly is the measure of all things , we assume our importance.This act of submission and sacrifice wills it to be true. We know our hearts the flesh is more faithfull than the will.
Spoke he again " yet are we not ever crying in the darkness. Our gods however constantly put us on trial.They live in the elements and care not for mortal peril , our adventures and fortunes are as nothing unto them".
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A good beginning. I like the
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A good beginning. I like the
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A good beginning. I like the
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