Makalani: October 2020

Canto 1

‘The darkness was suffocating,
Silent he stood, ruminating
On what he knew would soon begin,
On what he’d done and what he’d been
Which would repeat upon the bell:
A damning or redeeming knell.
Cries rose beyond the double gate
Some filled with love, but most with hate,
Cursing to death or cheering on
The warriors as they lost or won.
The stakes were high; once entertained
The crowd grew wild and unrestrained.
A thrilling hush swept through the air
And no one had a breath to spare
To stir the stillness which did wait
For the threatening sword of fate
To slay the foe or leave his life
Long enough to renew the strife.
Panting, straining, plunging – the bell
And shrieking sound of voices fell
Upon Emindor’s ears. He sighed
And knew another man had died.
But little time it took to change
The bloody sand upon the range,
After which trumpets rang a shout
Bidding the new contesters out.
The golden helmet fitted round
Emindor’s head, and with the sound
Of cheering crowds and groaning door
He stepped on the Arena floor.
Ten yards beyond the center line
Another warrior stood. The shine
Of silver plate and blue-gray eyes
Reflected the o’ershadowed skies
Foreboding rain. The Master’s rule:
Not even storms would stop the duel.

A slow, faint nod Emindor gave
To the man who might dig his grave
Or be dug for. Neither could know
‘Pon whom the Eastern wind would blow.
Their names were shouted to the crowd
And with a flourish each man bowed,
Knowing his place within the game,
Needing not hear his chanted name
Upon the tongues of the poor crew,
But cheering was all they could do.
Weapons were drawn; the sun glanced bright
Upon the gold and black-as-night
Twin blades in Emindor’s strong hands,
Linked to his wrists with leathern bands,
Stud by green gems and serpent’s gall,
Which dripped down blackened blades to fall
In little pools which dent the sand.
Upon his crest and helmet-band
Twisted the writhing forms of snakes
Encrust’ with gems and golden flakes.
The bell is rung – the fight begins;
The warriors strive like demon twins.
Blood falls and shouts of pain are heard;
Opponent’s face crushed in the dirt.
Wild screams, battle-cries, all the noise
That the blood-thirsty crowd enjoys.
Each man here knows the more he plays,
The better fights, the longer strays,
That much more chance that he or his
Opponent will be crowned with Bliss
And treated by the Master well.
Who cares to fight for Heav’n or Hell?
These men are brothers of the field,
The dripping weapons that they wield
Are slick with unshed, broken tears,
Are crusted by the many years
Of slavery wherein they’ve fought
The endless cycle they are caught
In until one or other dies
And lets his soul into the skies
Where freedom has not hunger’s burn,
Where nevermore need he return
To barracks, cells, where whips and cords
Are all the gain triumph affords.
The man is down! The silver-clad
Has tripped and fallen on his blade!
There in the bloody sand he lies
The rain falling in his blue eyes.
Over him now Emindor stands
Holding the sword in both his hands.
He meets his friend’s now peaceful eyes,
Whispers “Farewell the man who tries.”
His friend nods slow and looks away;
Emindor sends his soul away.
The cheering echoes through the storm,
Amusement of another’s harm.
Still as a stone the winner stays,
Meeting his friend’s now empty gaze,
Wishing he could turn back the clock,
Wanting to take the final knock,
Wondering if death is not free,
More free than all this fame could be.
The gladiator looks away;
Resolves to die some other day.’

Prologue

I, Emindor VII, son of Emindor VI from the line of Arathar Emindoran, climbed the slopes of Varradraen to find the answers I sought. The way was long and steep, encumbered by sharp, slick stones with only a few gnarled trees and bushes to stay the bitter wind and help my ascent. I began to climb in the early morning, but did not reach the dwelling of Thaelon until after nightfall. High up on the mountain this ancient man resides, far from the memory of common folk – buried in the snows of time. His aerie he has named Nolonquiess, Ever-blue, for it is so high above the world that clouds never veil his perpetual winter sky.

Little did I realize, as I stepped out onto the snow-clad plateau which is the doorstep to his dwelling, that the questions I had would merit such a long answer. There, one could say, I dwelt with naught but Thaelon, the eagles and the sky, for perhaps a week altogether. I remained to hear in full the tale he told as an answer to my inquiries.

It was the light of his cooking-fire that served as my beacon. Walking with slow and uncertain step into the ring of flickering yellow light, I saw an old, bent man with an iron-gray beard and midnight-dark eyes, keener than the stars above. He said nothing, and I said nothing, for a very long time. The silence was not unwelcoming, but somehow peaceful and, I think, had he greeted me, I would have felt the great gap between us, whereas his silent assent to my presence made me instead feel at home. Sitting beside the fire, I watched as he turned a haunch of sizzling meat on the spit.

“Venison,” he finally said, “Caught yestermorn by Oranlin. His eyes are yet keen.”

“The smell is very good,” I replied, somewhat surprised at the name Oranlin. From what I had heard, Thaelon lived alone, “And will Oranlin be joining us?”

“Nay,” he said with a faint smile, “He has eaten all he wished. The appetite of a Varthelan may easily double that of any man.”

And I understood. The Vartheniell were the great eagles that dwelt in and around Varradraen – the mountain named for them. Oranlin, as I later learned, is one of their greatest and oldest chieftains, a special friend of Thaelon.

Another chorus of silence stretched through the peaceful, wind-tuned night. When the venison had been roasted to a perfect deep-golden-brown, Thaelon cut slices for himself and I, adding to our platters piles of thick, dampened greens, and some kind of hard, nutty fruit. The like of that food, grown and harvested at the top of the world, I have never tasted, nor expect to again. And the mead, which he poured from a silver-gilt horn, was sparkling as the stars, sweet as honey, and keener than the bite of the Northern wind. It refreshed my mind and lulled my senses so that I perceived in the fire-light the forms of mountains flickering upwards as they spouted from their tops cinders like eagles in flight.

After we had eaten and sat sipping the mountain mead, Thaelon spoke:

“What brings you to the heights of Varradraen?”

I leaned forward, “A question that all else have failed to answer, and for which you are my last hope.”

He laughed softly, “Thaelon knows little but of mountain flowers, eagles, and such winds as cause the seasons to turn,” he nodded, “But I will try.”

“For seven generations my family has been the living memory of one whom people say you once held dear. Does the name Emindor still mean aught to you?”

He glanced up, his keen eyes piercing my heart with the gaze of some far-seeing predatory bird.

“Emindor,” he murmured, his accent different than mine in that he held the ‘E’ longer than the ‘i’, “He does mean aught to me, as he meant to all who knew him.”

“I wish to know who this man was,” I said, leaning forward even further in my excitement, “Why has my family borne his name? What does it mean?” I looked down, saying more softly, “Who am I when known by such a name?”

“Such a name?” he questioned.

I straightened, “I am Emindor VII, son of Emindor VI, from the line of Arathar Emindoran, the first son of your friend, Emindor Eagle-Borne.”

“The first son,” Thaelon murmured, “A strange tradition.”

And he was silent for a long time.

“Please,” I finally whispered, “Who was this great, forgotten man?”

“He was,” Thaelon began, “A hero,” and in this word I thought I heard a faint, almost bitter smile, “A hero, a friend, a great warrior. The greatest of his time, and of all time, the first among the Mirkem of Stol’rethas.”

“Mirkem? Stol’rethas? I know not these names,” I said.

Again a long pause as he considered and thought.

“I will tell you the tale of Emindor,” he said at last, “Though not gladly, for its memory is a painful thing to me.”

“Did he not end well?”

“If you were Emindor, you would think he ended best. If you were of the the saner remainder of the world, you would not think so.”

“So he was a madman?”

“Yes, and a dreamer, with a love of valor, honor and mercy. A noble heart . . .” Thaelon sighed, and through the crackling flames, I heard him begin to speak, soft and low. After a little listening, I realized that he was telling the story in verse. I have written down what he said, as well as I can remember it.

Wait for me! Please don’t go, it won’t be long now. I promise, you’ll see me more than just a little brown speck of dirt. No – my heart is much more than that. But wait and see! It’ll come, with the rain, and sunlight, and birdsong. Each in its own time. When the world is green, you will see it more than just green. But wait for me then! I am coming . . .

There, do you see it? That burst of yellow green? No? Well, let me try a little harder. Ah, there, now do you see it? Like a flash of green lightning in the deep, dark clouds of rolling earth. You see it? Wonderful! Now, wait – what was that? You wonder what it is? Wait a little longer, and you’ll see. No, it’s not really lightning, or light even. But the light makes it grow. Wait a little longer. They are coming . . .

At last! Oh, the wonderful rays of light – I feel alive! What a beautiful day. No, I can’t see it yet. Will I see it? Well, yes, when my head has risen from the other folds of green. You see these two waving hands that opened moments ago like the whisper of Amen? They are my leaves. Leaves, you wonder? Ah, leaves are the green, soft things which help the plants to grow. Yes, I am a plant. Not grass or a daisy or even a tree. No, but I hold a very special promise. Just wait. It is coming . . .

I am tall! Do you see me? Waving in the wind and whispering to the butterflies? You do! My long stems are green with hints of pink, and my leaves a deeper green than they, all veined by the fiery yellow-green. Ah, you have seen it, haven’t you? The bud. Well, yes, that is what it is called. Remember when I said my head would rise? That it is. This is my promise, and soon – very soon – you shall see it fulfilled. Only wait and it will come to you. You shall see me, and wonder that I am not a butterfly. I am coming . . .

The rain is gentle on my unfurling bud. Ah, it quenches my thirst. Now is evening, after many days and weeks of slow, steady growth. I think – I don’t know – but I think you shall see me tomorrow. When the sun rises over the trees and through the low grass. Then will my promise be complete. Watch for the sunrise. It will come . . .

And as you return to the place of the small green plant who has whispered many gentle, loving things for the past three months, you see atop her longest stem – in place of the bud from before – a swirling lace of pale, sun kissed pink.

She is a rose.

And your brain says, “Get up.”

To which your body replies, “No.”

At which your heart says, “You know you should.”

This causing your subconscious to interject, “But we’re at the best part in the dream!”

Which, in turn, finally prompts your brain to say, “If you don’t get up now, your Dad will come in and get you up.”

You groan, yawn like the Black Hole of Calcutta-

and get out of bed.

You know, it’s not really fair that you always have to get up first just because you’re the eldest. You grumble this and other sillier complaints under your breath as you head all the way downstairs to the only open bathroom. Mom has commandeered the other one for her customary make-up application session of 2 ½ hours. Five minutes later you shiver as you stumble out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, once more splitting a black hole as if you want to swallow everything in sight.

Your Dad is up, and seeing your yawn, tells you to get some coffee. But you already sat down! You groan – sure, you’re sitting on the floor, but you still don’t want to get up. With a million mental creaks that you just wish your bones would make to prove how old you feel, you get up and pour yourself some coffee.

And then you just stand there for fifteen minutes, staring into your swiftly-cooling mug. You know, the dark color of the coffee makes you think of your mouth when you yawn. You lean forward, stretching another cavern, and try to see if you can fit your mouth all the way around the rim of the mug.

You stop yourself two centimeters from success.

“O-K, I need to wake-up,” you mutter, blinking decisively. You turn on one heel and stump down the hall, “Need to write something. That’ll wake me up.”

As you walk away your Dad calls, “After all, if you write something stupid, there’s always the backspace key.”

You smirk wryly. True, true, but you have no intention of writing something that stupid.

Backspace is for misspells.

And now you wonder if you’ve hit it more than the spacebar key.

Probably.

You are so tired.

Glancing up at the word-riddled page before you, you try to make sense of the random blitherings while simultaneously pecking your thoughts into the line below. You glance back down.

And delete the whole garble of letters.

Where did that come from?

Right, what did they say in science? When a black hole swallows matter it also ejects excess.

Which makes your thought the matter

And whatever is on this page the excess.

Bravo, brilliant young writer.

You have woken yourself up

Proved the strength of your intellect

And

That you really need to go back to bed.

“Ha ha, wishful thinking,” the cruel brain chuckles.

You heave a sad sigh

And fall asleep on the keyboard.

Sitting down, you wonder what to write about.

The blanket of fresh, pearl-white snow outside?

The feeling of satisfaction you have when you read your old stories and see how far you’ve come?

The very thought that you really should be writing something?

How about those school assignments you still need to get done?

No, none of that. You’re tired of writing the real world. For the past three days, all you’ve wanted to do is escape. Yet the realms within your mind are not as clear as they used to be. You try to go on an adventure with Glorfindel, but he is distant and uninterested. You try to talk to Loki about a mischievous scheme, but he is like Glorfindel. Too far-off, vague and out-of-focus.

“All right,” you think, “What about my own characters?”

Well, you’ve been writing about Emindor for the past three days. How about giving him a shot?

He is a very broken character.

Yes, you know that. But aren’t you broken too? Not like him, of course. His life is much harder than yours. Perhaps he would like someone to talk to?

Let’s see.

“Emindor,” you whisper into your own mind, “Are you there?”

“I am.” His resonant voice replies, and in your thought there materializes his image. Fully clad in shining golden armor, accented by black and emerald green, he is your world’s version of Loki, but different. In your fantasy world, he only plays the part of a twisted, mischievous, chaos-minded god. In truth, he is nothing like that. The only similarities between him and his Mantle (for that is what the gladiators of Stol-rethas call their personas) is that they are both brooding, thoughtful persons.

“How are you today, Emindor?” You ask.

“Weary.”

“Why?”

He looks away, and with a short sigh, sits cross-legged on the ground. You come to sit before him, also cross-legged.

“Before you returned to telling my tale,” he begins, “I could remain in whatever time of it that I wished. So it was that I tarried almost always in either the company of my father, or those friends of mine who survived the rebellion. Now I am caged in the past which I regret and abhor.”

He meets your gaze, and you can see the pain in his eyes.

“This is not where I wish to be,” he says, “Yet until you finish telling, here I must remain. It is hard.”

You nod slowly, “I know, I know it’s hard. It hurts me too, because all I want is to see you borne aloft on the wings of eagles. I want to see you at home, happy with Tiffor and Nixa, Dogo and Lintes. But you cannot have dawn before the midnight,” you lean forward and cover his scarred hand with yours, “You’re not alone. We will finish this story – together.”

A glad, but weary smile, softens his drawn features, “You are different. You purpose not for great tales or appealing stories, but focus on the good of those who’s lives rest in your hand. We depend on you, and yet are glad to do so, for we know we are safe and that our voices will be heard. You care,” and he lays his other hand over yours, “Do not change that.”

“I won’t,” you reply, “You are real to me. I hope, someday, everyone else may see you as real too.”

He nods. Then, as if on agreement, you both stand, looking deep into each others’ eyes.

“Until you write again,” he says with a faint salute, and fades into the misty shadows around you.

“Until we write again,” you reply.

Turning, you walk through the swirling fogs of thought and return to the realm of real-life.

You smile as you write: Not every story need be about you. You are here to recount others’ lives.

What a privilege it is to be counted their friend.

You know how the quote goes: “If you think you are mentally ill, you are not; if you think everyone else is, you are.”

Does it work the same way with being right and wrong? How about when your mom jumps down your throat for preparing supper not her way? How about when you dad lectures you for not being the perfect example of an older sister? It’s like you have to be perfect for them. No moods. No frustration. No temper. They have temper tantrums. In fact, they have them WAY more than you do. So what’s the catch?

Don’t you hate being the ‘good girl’? The one everyone looks at and thinks “She’s always happy. She’s always clever. She’s always together.”

“She’s always good.”

What if you want to be bad sometimes? OK, maybe you don’t. But what if you get tired of being good? What if you have been frustrated about one little thing for a really long time, and then that one little thing makes it all snap? One moment you’re dancing and singing through life like a star-struck ballerina pop-star. Next minute you’re steaming through life like a train about to explode. Don’t they realize that even the perfect little springs can get wound up too tight? When they prick a balloon, do they expect it to laugh?

No. Balloons pop. You just popped, and they’re all blaming you. Not just your parents this time either! Your siblings. Your little siblings that used to idolize you. Your family has become your enemy.

What do you do?

Bundle it all up inside again and remind yourself that, one day, this will all end. You’ll be in control of the little things too. You will FINALLY have peace, far away from the here where everyone thinks you are the problem.

So if everyone thinks you are the problem, does this make you the solution? If you think you are the solution, does this make you the ultimate problem? Isn’t everyone the problem? Listening to the sounds of voices around you, you realize something.

You have power. With a few minutes of letting loose the inner beast, you have turned your whole family against itself. People are snapping at each other as you pound your keyboard at a mile a minute. They can feel the anger radiating from you like ultraviolet light.

You smile. Of course, you could always make them all happy again. Go out and apologize. Get people laughing, smiling, saying nice things again. You forgot that you really are in control. Their emotions are all in your grasp.

So maybe you’re the problem and the solution. Who cares about their collective opinion? Keep acting the ‘good girl’ part and, maybe someday . . .

Maybe someday? No, you don’t actually want to become the good girl. She has no imagination. No interest.

No life.

Just act the part. You’ll escape soon enough. Until then, use the power you have to keep peace.

Why keep peace, you wonder, when chaos is so much easier and more satisfying?

Simple. Frustrating. True. Essential:

It’s the right thing to do.

Paint on that smile.

Apply the eye-gloss.

Beneath it all twists the tortured form of one condemned.

Condemned to be in a cage.

The cage of collective opinion.

Breathe.

At least they can’t break the bars either.

At least they can’t get inside.

Write your stories

Your poetry

Your pain.

Sure, they’ll read it, but they won’t understand.

They don’t want to.

Why?

They

Fear

You.

You told yourself that you were going to write something happy for once. Guess it wasn’t meant to turn out that way. Somehow, as you made the resolve to talk about something beautiful, life decided for you. It decided that no, you would not talk about beauty, wonder, or the majesty of fantastic belief.

You would talk about pain. The kind of pain that you know you’re feeling, but can’t quite put your finger on. The invisible heart-ache. The numbing sting of loss.

No, you didn’t lose anything important. Just an opportunity, and you’ve lost dozens of those before. It’s nothing new. These angels, and the demons they turn into, are regular occurrences in the life of an idealist. A poet running through a darkened tunnel, looking for the way out. You realize that you are depressed, and it bothers you. You just attended a Bible Study about depression: why are you so down? Shouldn’t you be encouraged? Maybe you were depressed before you listened to the talk, and you only realized it as the people around you gave examples as if from your own life. Overthinking? That leads to depression? Oh . . . you realize that you overthink a lot. Telling yourself that you’ll never be good enough? That leads to depression? Oh . . . you realize you tell yourself this all the time. Loneliness? Well, yeah, you’re lonely.

Of course you’re lonely. Everyone is lonely. What you need is someone to lean on. Someone who you can trust completely, and at the same time not feel weak around when you need to be weak. When you need to cry so hard your heart feels like it will burst. What was that line you read today in that girl’s poem? “Like my heart is pouring out of my mouth.” You want to pour it all out, but as you think of your friends, you realize that some of them, if you tell them, will only make you feel more depressed. Others will make you feel weak. Others have leaned on you so heavily, you feel that to lean on them would be too much, even if they think they can handle it. Others will make your problems feel trivial – make you feel trivial. Where is that one friend? The one who will listen, and listening, make you feel like you matter. Like you’re actually important, and not someone to chuck empty phrases at. You’re so tired of “I’ll listen” and “Please tell me what’s wrong!” It doesn’t help. It makes you more lonely, like you’re some sort of little beast that needs to translate its heart-ache into their language. Can’t they tell already? If they can’t . . . are they really your friends? When you tell them, you feel like you just poured black bile into your own chest. No, that did not help.

No, you don’t need friends. You need time alone. You need to learn to enjoy the loneliness of this fading existence, because you will never find someone to lean on and whisper all your heartache to.

There, see, you’re being depressed. Words like ‘never’ and ‘loneliness’ riddling your writing. You need to stop being depressed.

“Just one more thing” the heartache whispers.

You see, you are hurting because friendships are so hard. It goes like this: you liked a guy in your Youth Group, but then his friends pushed you away, and he proved his pettiness by blaming you. A long while later you began to like another guy, but you realized that you were too far beneath him. He never looked your way and he never would. He left, and you haven’t seen him since. You still think about him – pray for him – but you know he never thinks about you.

Don’t flatter yourself.

Then, recently, you liked a different guy. He was interesting, funny – though quiet – and he had a real smile. At first, you thought he liked you too. He came and sat by you and you two talked about art as you scribbled sketches on random pieces of paper. He drew something very strange – even he didn’t know what it was – and you told him a story inspired by that picture. He laughed sheepishly, and after that he drifted away. Tonight you saw him getting another girls’ number and talking to her . . . sitting by her.

With a scowl you shake your head as your fingers pound the keys like pistons. This should NOT be making you as sad and hurt as it is. But somehow it is. Somehow it hurts to keep trying to make friends with people who aren’t the same all the time. Your family and friends continually tell you to make friends with people in real life. You try, and when you try, you do not succeed. These people, they . . . they don’t want a real friend. They shy away from you as if you were some form of detested monster. As if you would kill them with a mere glance. Why are they afraid? Why do they talk to that new girl and your little sister like old friends, when they wouldn’t – and still won’t – come within two yards of you?

What have you done?

What are you?

. . .

What are you?

Monster.

Enough, no more, this has gone too far. You will not wallow in self-pity.

You have a friend.

You have someone who will listen.

Who will understand.

Who will never interrupt.

Who won’t come up with STUPID suggestions and solutions.

Who’ll just be there.

This person’s name?

Page.

Thank you, Page, for listening to me.

I feel better already.

It was pleasant, in a twisted sort of way. It made the muscles thrill as neurons sent flickering darts up to the brain swifter than an automatic machine-gun. Also a pleasant feeling, not that Lang could feel his brain – that is scientifically impossible – but that his consciousness inferred a palpable idea from the needle-like bolts as they struck home, igniting his mind with a heat that flooded through every twitching sinew. This delicious sensation was itself sparked by a singularly poignant smell floating down the darkened hallway.

Blood. Whether human or animal, Lang couldn’t be sure, but then that didn’t really matter. It was the smell of something dying; a life being sacrificed to the ever-hungry gods of the High Rise complex. In order that chaos remain unchecked and violent promiscuity be allowed to flourish in the moldering darkness, such offerings must be made. Lang was reminded of the Aztecs and their insane obsession for human blood. From the threading of noble tongues with thorny ropes, to the shredding human breasts and wrenching of still-throbbing hearts from their screeching hosts, these savages had understood the structure of the human form well enough to rend its most valuable parts. How similar the occupants of the High Rise had become to their ancestors, Lang could not say, but the almost surgical methodology of the Aztecs intrigued him. He saw the similarities between himself and these religious fanatics of the past, and it comforted him, strangely, to feel as if he himself were one of them. Not that the other inhabitants of the High Rise did not also share some form of common bond with their forefathers, simply that the Aztecs, with their insane forms of understanding and procedure, appealed to Lang’s surgical intellect as perfectly reasonable. He, and the others in his tribe, must conquer, and conquering, they must sacrifice that which they had risked their lives to take and keep. Once they had sacrificed – whether through physical blows or back-stabbing verbal intrigue – they would retreat, regroup and prepare to conquer again.

It was an endless cycle, and nearly the same every time. The same plans of attack formed in the same waning afternoon light; the same weapons and inciting words wielded with equal ferocity down permanently benighted halls; the same halls and doors, apartments and balconies, through which the maddened warriors must fight their way to an end and for a purpose no one could ever agree on. They were not united by interest, friendship, or even any basic commonality, like the desire for food, or the anger at having their apartments ransacked in the middle of the night. Their bond came simply from two having struck the same man on the head, and then that man, with them, striking another. The badge of this horde was a wilting red flower worn wherever the bearer pleased. Its battle-cry, whichever kind of scream suited each individual voice best.

They had become savages, searching for blood under the pretense of warring for peace.

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