In the town of Kingsburg, beyond the thornway road, behind the Church of Amun, just before the rose bushes, there is a grave. It is an unkempt, unnamed and unmarked grave. Weeds have made a home there, ant colonies war there, squirrels hide their acorns there. The tomb is more moss than mausoleum. So flat is the mound and so even, you might step over or on the grave without ever knowing it. And even if you did see it, noted it, marked it, measured it out, still, you could not know who was buried in the grave. Very few did, and most of them were dead.
There were, in fact, two occupants in this particular grave. A curious circumstance, even for the Theastans (who are known to put salt on their jam), and probably a lie, but of the sort that is often better than the truth, and that is usually followed by a story of some kind, involving talking wild animals and thinly veiled life lessons. There is a story behind this grave, as there are with all those who are buried. But it is a good one, and therefore is bereft of bombastic wild life and pretentious allegory. In fact, I am quite confident the reader will learn nothing at all from this story, and may even come out with less wisdom then when he began. You're welcome.
The story begins, as all stories do, with a pregnant sow giving birth to a human child. The sow belonged to the local lord, Lord Thampthon, whose misfortune it was to be named after, and by, his father (who had a terrible lisp), Lord Sampson. It is important to note here, that the sow was not at the lords keep, but was at the time, being rented by a poor farmer (it is a generally accepted fact that all farmers are poor) and his wife (...and miserable). Usually, a pregnant sow giving birth was a celebratory occasion, because, according to Theastan law, the piglets would go to whomever delivered them, regardless of who owned the sow. This was a great boon to livestock renters, most of which paid for their livestock with milk and wool (and in the case of some of the braver folk, dung) which defeated the purpose. Piglets were valuable; they could be grown and sold for their meat, milked, skinned or even bred. They also didn't require much upkeep. You needed a sow to nurse them for the first few months, but afterwards, it was slop four times a day. All in all, a good deal.
In comparison, a child was a festering pus-filled boil: they were painful to bear, lasted a long time, often ugly and sensitive, and you couldn't pop them because that only made things worse. So the farmer couple were understandably disappointed, when a healthy pink-cheeked newborn burst forth from the sow's uterus and began wailing. The sow, to its credit, turned toward the crying baby and promptly died (from what the town midwife later claimed "complications during birth", but what I believe was merely surprise). The farmer couple, whose misfortune has at least earned them the right to a name (they were Mr. and Mrs. Porter), began with great dignity and logical rigor, to poke the child and sow with sticks. Confirming that the sow was, alas, dead, and that the child, alas, alive, Mr. Porter went into his house, got out his knife and tried to make the best of a bad situation. He could not kill the child, for, despite all his misgivings (which, according to his wife, were many) he was a kind man who followed the teachings of Amun, followed his script and never violated plot consistency. He did however, slaughter the sow, which technically was illegal, for Theastan law dictates: "Livestock shall be returned to its livestock-lord in the event of death or serious injury (but not disease), unharmed and untouched, for consumption by the aforesaid livestock-lord, on penalty of death". But Mr. Porter was something of a rebel.
Mrs. Porter ran and grabbed the child, swaddling it in the folds of her apron. She looked at the cooing baby with a deep sadness. All the taste of the bitter fruit, without the pleasures of gardening, she thought. Then she went inside and brought out a spit for the sow. Mr. Porter made a long slit through the belly of the pig harvested all the organs, drained the blood, and gave the whatever was left to Mrs. Porter to cook. He then donned his coat, grunted to his wife (who yelled out "Milk!") cursed, prayed, then set off for the road.
The sun went down, the sky reddened, the smell of roast pork filled the air, and still Mr. Porter had not returned. Mrs. Porter grew worried. It was not unusual for husbands to leave their families when they got too big. She began to torture herself with memories of her past injustices toward Mr. Porter. There was a lot of yelling and spitting.
The sun shrunk beneath horizon, the child started to wail from hunger. Mrs. Porter could feel her throat lumping, her face grew hot, she looked down at the crying child. I should've been better to him, she thought and stifled a sob. Then Mr. Porter arrived and yelled out "Is the pork ready?" and Mrs. Porter took off her shoe and with an astonishing level of grace and fluidity, threw it at Mr. Porter's head. The settling darkness provided Mr. Porter's head the necessary cover and the shoe flew harmlessly over his shoulder, only grazing his ear. "Did you just throw something at me?" yelled Mr. Porter. An argument ensued. There was a lot yelling and spitting.
Then they ate their pork in the cool, comfortable silence that only summer could provide. And Mr. Porter brought out a small bucket full of milk and Mrs. Porter fed the baby. The child fell asleep and Mr. and Mrs. Porter retired to their bed.
Mr. Porter lit a small candle and carefully placed it on a sconce, while Mrs. Porter built a makeshift crib out blankets and throw-pillows. "So?" said Mrs. Porter.
"What?" said Mr. Porter
"What do you mean, what?"
"I mean I don't know what the hell you're going on about you crazy, old bi-" muttered Mr. Porter
"What are you saying?"
"Nothing, my love, my rose blossom, my darling dove-" Mr. Porter lunged in to kiss, Mrs. Porter bent down and touched the baby's little feet. Mr. Porter missed.
"What are we going to do about this?" said Mrs. Porter. Mr. Porter sat on the edge of the bed and turned toward the round little face.
"I don't know" he said. "But, we can't keep him. We have so little as it is, not to mention we'll have to pay for the sow and the crops have black-blight again and we still owe money to-"
"Well we can't just, leave him. What if he's, you know, a gift?" It is worth noting here, that among their stranger tenets, the Theastans believed that their god, Amun, had a documented hatred of re-gifters. Any Theastan can recite the story of little Torpin, who found gold inside a goat's bladder, sold it for a significant amount of land, retired at the age of 7, and then died at the age of 8 from "molecular collapse" (which the people of Kingsburg quaintly call "that thing where you turn into the wind"), as an example of Amun's wrath toward re-gifters.
"Well, we can't keep him here. No way around that." said Mr. Porter, then he yawned and lay down. "We'll think of something in the morning; blow out the candle would you?" then he turned over and went to sleep. Mrs. Porter brought her lips to the flame and blew it out. Then she joined her husband on the other side of the bed, the little pillow crib holding the baby between them.
The three went into an easy sleep, despite their misfortunes.
In the morning they awoke and ate. Toast with spooned jam (liberally sprinkled with salt) and strips of fresh-cut bacon. Mrs. Porter fed the child the remainder of the milk and Mr. Porter ate his breakfast with the gravity of a god. Few indeed were the farmers that had flesh between their teeth other than their tongues. Such rare moments as these were to be savored, and Mr. Porter knew it well; he chewed with the all the glory of a cow.
But leaving these quaint people aside, it is time we said something about the principle instrument of our story. As there is nothing worse than allegory, we must be blunt. The child whom Mrs. Porter carried, is currently carried beneath the earth, by the unmarked grave. The child was quiet and grim. He did not cry, except for food and then, it was a kind of stifled wail or whine, not unlike the sputter of a dying car. He was also very small and light, barely bigger than a palm out-stretched, and not much heavier. His features were fair, even for a child, all things in their correct place and proportion.
"So how's the little piglet doing?" said Mr. Porter. He leaned back on his chair and picked his teeth, his belt-buckle was naturally unclasped; he burped occasionally.
"He is not a piglet, he's a boy" said Mrs. Porter
"He came out of a sow's va-"
"His name is Hansel!"
"Don't go naming things you can't keep."
"And why can't we keep him?" said Mrs. Porter. Mr. Porter glared at Mrs. Porter then sighed.
"You know why. I'll take him to the Templar's tonight, they'll take care of him. Besides, he's not our son, the only family he has is dead...and delicious."
"He could help in the fields, he won't be trouble"
"No. And no more discussion. In fact, I'm going to the Templar's right now, give me the child."
"His name is Hansel."
"Parent's and gods alone, give names, and we are neither. Now give me the child" Mrs. Porter released the baby from the folds of her dress and handed him, kicking, to Mr. Porter. Mr. Porter brought the child to his chest and it smote his heart. Even as lightning smites a blaspheming tree.
"Good. I'll be back before noon."
"I want to come too-"
"Absolutely not, I'll not have your woman's wails and weepings before the Templar's." Mrs. Porter's mouth assumed a position which was usually followed by a swift punch to Mr. Porter's nose. Mr. Porter cleared his throat and walked quietly out the door with dignity and manly finality. It was quite obvious to any passerby that he was simply running for his life.
The aforementioned Templar's were, on paper, a religious organization devoted to the protection and peace of the people; in practice, they were closer to an organized crime syndicate, spread far and deep (as crime -- and fungus -- often do). Their primary revenue stream (and it should be noted that the Templar's are a non-profit organization) were from "premiums". A tax paid by the local authority to prevent "acts of God", usually in the form of broken windows, broken teeth, banditry, kidnapping or just general arson. When questioned why the acts of God did not include a good harvest, or a miraculous recovery from sickness, the Templar's would reply with verses from their holy scriptures. Unfortunately, as these scriptures have been lost for good part of a century, they now spit in the face of the enquirer and burn down their house. They find this works equally well.
The Templar's have been called many things: thugs, bandits, peacekeepers (by the Templar's themselves), fluffy bunnies (by a group of drunk, now dead, farmers) extortionists, but ultimately we must call them as they are: the first insurance company.
By tradition, the Templar's recruited those who had no family, no home, no ear to tell grievances or to complain. They raised children from birth, fed them, clothed them, beat them (quite severely, in some cases), trained them in the ways of swordsmanship or scholarship or oratory, depending on the individual's aptitudes, and then set them off in the world. Sometimes in groups, sometimes alone; always with some singular purpose. Either to preach or pry or prey upon.
The true origins and purpose of the Templar's has been lost. This is a lie, of course. Mostly to justify the Templar's current criminal activity; a little, to justify the author's own ignorance. But they did have some traditions. Celibacy was one (considered to be the highest virtue, and mandatory for all Templar's, it was, naturally, maintained by lies and subterfuge rather than abstinence), honesty was another.
There were those who read the scriptures and took them to heart. And the words were pure and the children who believed, pure. The scriptures ordained a life of calm reception, accepting the inevitable (which was everything) without emotion or grip. They consisted of parables and sermons and general good advice. The author actually has an autographed copy of it, from which he'd like to dictate a favorite passage:
"When the sun rises, the corpse-fly lands upon the water-flower to drink. And the water-flower bobs with weight and the ripples alert the sleeping toad. The toad awakes, the corpse-fly takes flight, the long toad tongue snaps and the corpse-fly wings fail. A wandering tu-btu bird watches from a tree. When the corpse-fly is sated, she waits; when the toad is sated, she dives. The toad-legs fail, and the talons' grip without mercy.
If the talon's did not grip, if the toad tongue did not snap, if the corpse-fly did not drink, the sun would not rise. "
Most of the scriptures are rightly considered to be nonsense. And, while it is argued that the scriptures suggest an atheistic worldview, Amun has not bothered to punish the author. Some believe this is out of respect or reverence for the author. More likely, it is because Amun does not know how to read, or if he does, is as confused as the rest of us. It does not help that the current version of the scriptures are considered to be a summary of the "original" (which has either been lost for the last 100 years, or has yet to be written). John Smith (the author of scriptures) has refused to comment.
Hansel was raised by the Templar's. He believed in the scriptures and followed its teachings. He was beaten often. He also had an aptitude for martial arts. By the age of 7 he beat the strongest student in his class, by 9 he could best his instructor
When he came of age (the Theastans do not measure age by number, but by "parts". You were an infant until you could walk, you were a child until the first hairs of your beard (or in the case of women, hairs in other places), and you were adult until you could no longer walk. After that you were dead) he was sent to the royal capital, Bourtin, for further training in swordsmanship.
Due a mix up over paperwork, Hansel spent the next 20 years of his life in a maximum security prison. He spent his time working in labor camps and cleaning the prison toilets. Occasionally he preached the word of the scriptures to his inmates. He was beaten often. But there were some who listened, and some who believed.
His once prodigal martial abilities deteriorated from disuse. He became sickly and pale from the food and the work. But his face remained fair and even-featured. When he was finally released, he had nothing. He wandered the country begging for food and lodgings. Usually preaching the word along the way. This went on for many years and Hansel suffered many hardships.
It is said that Amun, himself, appeared before Hansel and offered him aid. "Sufferer of the world" said he "let me ease your burdens."
"God's don't exist" replied Hansel. And carried on his way. Amun spared his life that day, perhaps out of astonishment or amusement or even curiosity; either way it was a mistake (or, seeing that such beings are omniscient, perhaps it wasn't) Hansel spent the rest of his life wandering and begging and preaching the scriptures. Slowly, he began to teach his own flavor of the philosophy, rejecting divinity, denouncing miracles, even going so far as to question the point of putting salt on jam.
The latter did not catch on, but the people started to listen. He had a small following, then a large one. He toured Theasta with a train of a 1000 men following behind. He urged non-belief and divine-denial. The religion spread throughout the kingdom and Hansel became a household word. Nobles began to convert, the king followed soon after. Amun grew distraught, flooded rivers, caused droughts, spit plague into the winds. But the people would not believe. He raised men from death as seeds shoot out from the earth, he rained wine, he blessed the fields with good harvest, year after year. Still, the people would not believe. Then he did what I imagine all gods do when nothing seems to work, he waited until the problem solved itself.
Meanwhile, the Templar's came under heavy fire for their less-than-legal practices, brought to light by Hansel. The Templar's decided to get rid of the gadfly; and, at the age of 74, Hansel was assassinated. His body was thrown into a river that carried him down to the Waifaria Kingdom. A fisherman found him and buried him beneath an oak tree. Many years later, after the "War for Peace", this particular river and the land's surrounding it, were taken by the Theastan's. The oak which shaded Hansel's grave was cut down and turned into a church. Rose bushes were planted.
But Hansel's religion did not die with him. Instead, the people of Theasta began to worship their fallen Savior as a god. And such was their devotion, that Hansel was given a seat in the Holy Pantheon (right next to Amun) by the Old One. He took it reluctantly, and is worshiped to this day.
As for the other occupant of the grave, her name was Astai, and she was the most powerful prostitute to have ever lived.
But that is a story for another time...
Author
Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 312797 times)