Ack, I'm in Hamamatsu now (my place of residence) and a lot of shit has happened, but it's all kinda boring/ I'm a little rushed, so instead of writing about anything that acutally has been going on with me, I will begin the serialization of The Epic. A brief point of explanation: I spent about four years writing this monster, it's about 100 pages, and it's a little fucked up. Nothing horrifying, nothing Hollywood hasn't already done, but if in fact anyone random that I don't know stumbles upon this and begins reading... well, let's just say it'd be awkward if we every met. For anyone who I do know who is reading this... this is some me. Just a little more violent. It's generally about the ideological transfer of religious power from the polytheistic pagan religions to the monotheistic ones (mostly Christianity) and it winks at the way in which so called "new" religions often just recyled and recast stories and figures from preexisting myth, but it's also (hopefully) more interesting than any of the those themes, which are potentially the most boring shits ever. So here it is, a couple pages from my Magnum Opus, completed before I was even 21. A second notice: I put the entire first book down there and it's real long, so don't be daunted, and feel free to read it slowly at in many sittings. Third notice: I wrote a lot of this just after graduating high school, so it's a little... retarded. But I promise it gets a lot better as it goes on.
This is a tale of the end of oppression
and through my devices shall it be written
down. The Muses are my sisters and have
no place to inspire me to tell any story
for my power is greater than theirs.
Instead of invoking their assistance,
I ask for thy attention, to heed
the last words of a changing god
and from his own mouth take the truth
of the fall of the glorious pantheon.
Legends tell of a youth, born in
obscurity and raised there in secret.
The best he was of those two fabled heroes,
a brilliant blend of the Adventurer’s
wiles and Achillean might. He is the thread
woven within every myth, the true pattern
of Life’s eternal quilt, but the subtle needle
which could alone perform his
special stitch has been lost within
a hay stack of night and time . Yet the
time has come for humanity to know
the truth, and mine is the only hand that could
handle the needle and thread such a tale,
so have it, and forget all the foibles
of legend.
There was a time, immemorial at the
most recent, when this land was rife with
spirits, and it seemed that one couldn’t
but frown without transpiring a god of
some power or less. In the flowers they
slumbered, spreading wing before the wind;
they were as the crust on the earth and the blue
in the sky, the green in the grass and the gold
in the sun, each separate entity a vivid
and bright spot leeching vivacity and
brightness from their allotment of creation.
Because, you see, being lords of peculiar
nature and blessed with mastery of their
specific element, they grew dominant,
and laced with gluttony they lost their way
from ennobling the land, to controlling it.
It is in these inversely dark days
that lived a youth who loved the elements
for what they were and not the gods
who lorded them.
He went one day down to the
sea, those mild waters of verdant
aquamarine that usually blush golden
before the gaze of the sun, pleasantly
intentioned to have himself a swim.
Only this day found the sea unburnished
by sparkling Phoebus’ rays, though he was
present on his aery throne, and the
mild waters seemed tousled, as if shaken by
some angry hand. Was swimming out
of the question, he worried, needing
a cleansing, a baptism in those turbid waves,
and in that case, by which gauntleted fist were
they beaten so miserably?
Swift feet ‘lighting upon the troubled banks, he called,
the youth, questioningly to the rumbling seas; “O
once pleasant waters, why turns your face so wroth
and dark? Wherefore do you flex your terrible
strength, and rend your own skin with heavy swells
and wicked frenzy? What is this unholy
shadow that descends upon your glassy face,
hard mask over gentle features; or worse, is this
your true form, hidden and suppressed for long,
now violently sprung forth and sundered
from imperfect bonds of conscience, so much
the worse for captivity. Is it now
with furious glee that you sport so destructively?
Please, allay my fears, though I fear these fears
already confirmed, and tell me that some
illness infects your waters, some mean bug,
and that this is not normal, and soon
normal you will be, again.”
Much to his surprise, for never was a
response he expecting, the waters shook,
and from those turbulent depths sounded
a resounding roar, sonorous and distinguishable
from the ambient tumult as speech from below the
waves; “ Pray, boy, would one whose might
is clear as mine deign to speak to one whose
forehead lacks the holy mark of high heaven?”
Slightly shocked by the issue from the sea, the
boy raised a hand to shade his face and spoke,
“Thought that I spoke only to rough water,
of itself given no power to discourse,
only to find now that some other
spirit rests within. Please, dissemble no longer,
and show yourself to me. Humbly I ask, nay, lowly
I beg, for I would see the obvious power that
animates the sea I have known since my birth.”
It seemed the plea had no effect
on the possessor for his reply could only
be guessed at in the scornful roll and break
of white-capped waves. So the youth essayed
to affect guile where open sincerity so lately failed:
“I see, Lord of the Ocean,
that I am unworthy of your mighty aspect,
and certainly I have not the capacity
to command anything of your greatness.
Never before have these waters moved so
powerfully, never before the breakers
so strong. Each crashing wave is like the end
of a world, a sudden crash of apocalypse,
and the sound alone compels my knees
to the ground and my soul-voice to sink orisons
to your great depths. What could you be, that even
Phoebus, whose visage always takes a piece
of these waters for his vanity cannot control you,
though it is his wont and whim?”
“My only regret, Lord, is that I shall never
see your truest form, for I shall henceforth
be unable to relate its splendor,
and when I tell of this experience
(for how can I not?) I will be able
to give only the vaguest natural
impressions of an event and a will
that is obviously to me supernatural.
The people will give then credit, due you,
to other forces, lowly Hesperus,
brutish Boreas, or worse yet, ubiquitous
Zeus, for the current agitation of these normally
gentle waters. This, I fear, will come to pass,
to my great lament and your great injustice.”
So spoke the son of man, and the spirit
of the sea was not unmoved. Mention of Zeus
undid him, and he decided then to reveal
himself to the youth of unknown birthright,
in turn opening a box more deadly than ever
was Pandora’s.
Slowly, the cacophony of green water
and foamy caps began to ritard,
and the din settled as though at the low’ring
of a heavenly baton, settling
into a placid sheet of fleetingly
inconstant emerald. Like a curtain
is drawn from center stage, disclosing performers
behind, and the lilt and voice of their song
becomes clearly audible where before
it was only background, and muffled by the screen,
so the waters of the ocean inlet
swung open in giant swathes, from which vacancy
a trembling geyser rose, bearing at mid-swell
a coral throne, shining in varied hues
of blue and green, softly burnished around
its edges with pearl, piping from its flues
the crystalline lull of the surf.
Whose throne, whose marine seat could this be,
other than the lord of the sea, Triton,
son of Poseidon himself? It was that deity,
seated upon yon throne, who staring down
at the youth, golden trident in hand,
terror wreathing his wide brows, spake thus:
“Child, thou grease my ear with silver words,
fair though no less fawning for their truth,
and so I appear to show thee how far I exceed
thy mortal aspirations. Pray, I charge thee pay tribute
through the lands to the great power that is mine;
the power that calls the sea to roll,
and the waves to crash. ‘Tis before my hand
that these waters are troubled, powerless
of themselves to shake. And think not thyself safe
though thy feet now grip solid earth, for these banks
are merely as the lip of a bowl over
which my waters could surge, tossed I them sharply
enough. Now go, and speak to the masses
of my glory, as I bid thee. Make haste
lest they needs bear witness firsthand.”
“Child, I am not a talking fish in the sense that
thou must think me. I am no talking fish but
neither am I a stray cough from out the mouth
of an ailing Zeus, for I am Triton, master of the
sea, and it is I who keeps this water smooth
as glass. But glass is boring too, unless it is blown,
and I have decided to breath life and energy
into this water, to show it what power can lie
beneath a placid surface. Now boy, you must
go, you must go and tell your friends, your mother,
your father, people you meet on the roads and
people you see in your dreams, tell them not
that today you met a fish that could talk, but that today
you met a god in full splendor, dropping waves
as if they were boulders, throwing the sea as
easily as yon Zeus throws his lightning.”
And with a flourish of his glittery sceptre
Triton made as if to exit ‘neath his waves,
but the youth espied a chance, and a fire
kindled in his breast. A divinity
awoke, and rushing forth to the very brink
of the ocean, he called again, eyes blazing,
to the seashell crowned (marquee) of the Sea;
“Halt, pitiable steward!
Disappointed I find myself, having thought
I spoke with your sire. Instead I stand face
to face with his mere offspring sitting on
filial fief. Your meager arms and half-powers
insult his lineage that you
should remain hither in control. If any
tale I tell to the masses, it will be
of your death at the sharp tip of my spear,
your sundering forever from this world.
Prepare yourself for my furious onslaught!”
And so speaking, he unslung hitherto
unapprehended spear and circular shield,
and in an unclouded blaze he sprang at the
irate god, his feet barely shifting the surface of the waters.
And with a flourish of his glittery sceptre,
Triton made as if to exit beneath the waves,
but something had begun that kept him from
getting there. While he had been speaking,
seemingly at random, a thin shaft of light
materialized from out of the clear sky, spilling
onto the ground in a little puddle just at the boy’s
feet. In a decisive moment he stepped into that
shallow pool of light and it was almost imperceptible
but the world seemed to be suddenly canted
at an angle pointing the boy up into the unknown
white and blue of the sky. It was like he was
thinking in a language he had forgotten he knew
or had learned in an instant, and taking a spear
and circular shield down off his back, he spoke
in a loud voice, all the way up from the diaphragm.
“ You will not run away, now. Not since I have
seen you and have seen that you have forgotten
what makes you important. I wish you were only
a fish, but you’re not, and though I don’t have a pole,
it turns out that that’s good because I have what
I need for you instead. There comes a time when
you can’t change your mind anymore, when one
step has become one step plus too many one steps
to go back, but I won’t let you take us there, because
there’s something in my heart that tells me I can stop
you. Here I come, lord Triton, I’d learned your
name but that doesn’t mean I can’t make the world
forget it,” He stood in the light a moment until it
winked out, and he sprang at the irate god, his
feet barely shifting the surface of the waters.
Wretchedly for Triton, the crimson veil fallen
before his ambrosial eyes shrouded also
his antagonist’s sudden celestial
effulgence (somethingelse), and where he might have fled,
instead he greeted his enemy
with haughty disdain; “Thy impudence
I cannot credit, baffling even my
highest order; And also it is unacceptable.
Forgiveness thou should not seek, for it thou shalt not
find. Thy life, now thrown away, wonderfully
could have been lived as my apostle
and oracle; how violently it
shall now end on the merciless barbs
of yon trident. With thy blood, make peace,
for soon it shall run in my sea.”
Swift feet sweeping over troubled water,
the disturbing youth, trailing behind like a cape
a glowing shimmer, the wake of his
mighty passage, caught a savage blow from the
trident on the perfect circle of his shield
and turned it like a prow does smooth lake water.
The deity’s face, a mask of terrible glee
and superconfidant certainty,
broke at the thwarting of his hand’s fatal
blow, and splintered piteously, transmogrified
from scornful godhead into something
childish, the terror it was accustomed
to imparting graven instead within
its every furrow. And lo, the other leapt
into the air, propelled by some unknown
force high above the shattered divinity’s crown,
hanging suspended as if the air were liquid,
and he a deadly leviathan.
Lofting his sparkling spear, the boy thrust it downward,
and he smote debased Triton a wound most grievous,
loosing the divine sinew from his proud shoulder.
Triton howled, the fabric of his reality rent
in twain by the most unlikely of hands,
and as he wept the sea rollicked with his pain.
‘Lighting softly on the unblemished earth,
the youth turned his back, and wiped glittering ichor
from the point of his destructive spear,
calling to the wailing giant for the last time;
“O Mighty Triton, see how you are routed!
How swiftly your angry boasts have lost their
bold timbre for these meek murmurings.
It would be short work indeed for my long arm
and pious spear to gore you and finish the start.
Yet grace retains you your life, so that my rumor
you might carry. Though a winged death I could
have borne you, I’ve chosen life and madness
instead, as gifts more effectual. Please, your Majesty,
rush to your father and other assorted lords,
bearing for a message only this; the Arbiter
has arrived, and his decision is doom.
Farewell, until the end.”
So speaking he walked away from that
momentous beach, leaving there
the first in his trail of broken gods.
No comments:
Post a Comment