Celtis Grove

Herein is a tale.

I came across this song, a setting of Galadriel's lament for Eldamar, sometime after the Bardess Sarah and I sparked off each other in this post. The song and the setting took form as a scene in my second book, The Retribution of Thengon. I like to have this song playing in the background while reading the description of the Sanctuary in the eighth paragraph, they fit together so well.

The high road for Tol Voldimar was busy, and they had to go slow for all the traffic, most of it on foot. Sometime that afternoon, they rounded a corner in the open bush and saw it. The youngest of the Seven Cities, the only one never occupied by the Foul Folk in the Fourth Foul War, was now a large, sprawling city of many peoples and tongues. The human houses were a mixture of square, timber-framed Southlander houses, Bafedi rondavels with bright geometric patterns painted on the wattle-and-daub, and a few with some of both; they filled in the spaces between the eladon houses – wide-eaved Celadon ones and tall Moreladon ones with pitched roofs, all surrounded by the leafy trees eladi loved. Oreladon hawkers wandered the streets with carts, selling everything from food to tools to prayer cards and statuettes of the lesser gods.

Since the whole party was pretty flush with cash, they booked in to a comfortable Hospitaller in the afternoon. There was a decent bath-house right next door, a domed structure with a cavernous hot bath and a wide, low-lit cold one. The attendants seemed to all be human, which Thengon found odd. By the time all were finished, the sun was well past its height. Tulan, Tor and Tomas got everyone to find some decent civilian clothes and herded them towards the Sanctuary. Tomas felt undressed without any weaponry on him, and he could tell he wasn’t the only one. Rodi had no civilian clothes, he walked out in the loose shirt and knee-length trousers that usually went under his armour. All had upgraded their kit in the towns between Aracondor and Lits’recuna, so he didn’t look or smell too bad.

The sun was low as they walked the crooked street to the Sanctuary. It had a single pointed spire, garlanded with stone furls of fern over the entrance, and a wide dome in the middle. The crowds had come out in the cool of the evening. There were small shops selling religious tat on both sides, and the usual hawkers, of all races and colours, making sure no-one was hungry. The smells of food, the sounds of street musicians singing in at least four different languages, the smiling faces, beautiful, sad, tired, happy, content, joyful, whirled around them. Aratanie rode on her father’s shoulders, pointing and talking about everything.

The Sanctuary was easily the biggest building Thengon had ever seen. The doorway was bordered by thin stone pillars bunched together like growing herbaceous stems. There were monsters there, outside, where they belonged – reptiles graced gutter heads, horned or tusked semi-human faces leered between arches. Thengon noticed that there were open spaces at the tops of the windows, and birds were passing into the building through them. Only the most important Sanctuaries had animal magi to tend live birds.

He gawked at the doorway and the carvings for so long, the others went in without him. Only Rodi was standing with him, as if hesitant to enter. His face was starting to get that slit-eyed look he got when he was looking for trouble, so Thengon kept quiet.

Inside, the antechamber was wide and cool. It was lit from above by light caught in the coloured glass of the tower, the top of which was still in the sun, even as the ground level was in the shade. Thengon was astonished. The ceiling of the tower was vaulted impossibly high above. Below the tower in the antechamber was a great fountain: three vast, scalloped basins of solemn black diorite, cut and polished smooth by artisans with the Ability. Rose petals floated on the surface of the water. The whole party washed their hands and sprinkled themselves with the fragrant water, as one does in such places. Little Aratanie had to be told she couldn’t paddle in it, it was for sprinkling only. They passed further in.

The Sanctuary was Iyavalaradon, devoted to all seven gods and the One. There were seven smaller Sanctuaries around the main space, each one decorated with a statue of one of the lesser gods in its centre and pictures on the walls of associated lore. Some had mosaics, with ceramic tiles of turquoise, azure, green and gold. Others had frescoes, painted like living colour on plaster when still wet. Some had both. Live birds and small, semi-tame animals wandered at will. There were plants associated with the various lesser gods growing in large pots near the windows. There were some open-sided cages for the birds, with perches for them to roost. Light was everywhere, even now as the sun was setting. It was a delight to be here! As Thengon looked on, he saw hooded acolytes lighting the glass-sided lamps all around. It was time for the Evening Song.

All at once, he heard the woody sound of a xylophone, bubbling in long, low notes, and an alto voice began to sing. Then a choir of male voices joined in as background, singing low harmonies in a slow, reverent counterpoint; and a large harp and a bass stringed instrument joined in. Thengon could not see where the song came from, it was somewhere higher up. The language was Ancient Eladon, the song perhaps unchanged in several thousand years.

Celestial peace washed over Thengon’s heart and mind. He swayed where he stood, and saw others sitting on the floor or on low stools that allowed you to fold your legs underneath. As the song became familiar to some, they joined in, singing along with the male voices while the woman or elada led with her melody. He had no idea what was being sung, but no longer cared about anything. He wanted to be nowhere else right now but here. The woman sang with an Art of Imaging, and visions of peace and superhuman beauty floated through the cavernous space of the main Sanctuary.

Eventually the Song ended, and Thengon came down to the waking world. It seemed flat, mundane, but flavoured by the Song which had been. He had missed Touvaret… but did they do this here every day – sunrise, noon and sunset and midnight? How could people bear such beauty, four times a day?

Restless again, he wandered along the polished, veined-stone of the walls of the main Sanctuary. Here were relief images from the Lore of the Sunlands, the long tales of the journeys of the Oreladi. Some of the scenes he didn’t recognise at all, he would have to ask his father, or one of the wise. Speaking of whom, where were they? The swift twilight was already giving way to darkness, and they might be closing the doors soon. Then he heard a shout, and his heart sank.

It was Rodi. Following the sound, Thengon found him in the sanctuary of Marta the Mourner. Her image was a lady in purple, white hair curving out from under her veil, dignified and solemn. The skill of the carver was such that she seemed implacable and sympathetic at the same time. Her hands were extended, as if in welcome or entreaty. Carved leaves of ivy graced her slippered feet, so real he thought they lived. In the flickering lamplight at dusk, it almost looked like the statue was moving. Facing the statue stood Rodi, with his close-cropped hair and scars, one ear missing its tip. He shouted, ‘Why did you take them from me? They didn’t deserve to die, rot it all!’ At first, Thengon was worried that the elado would break something… but then he saw, he was not roaring but weeping. Rodi fell to his knees, forlorn in the flickering candle-light of the chapel. No-one seemed to notice – or maybe they were used to events such as these. The Sanctuary was now quiet. No-one disturbed his grief.

For a long, long time, Thengon knelt behind Rodi on one of those low stools, trying to be present while giving him space. It looked like this fell to him. The rest of the Sanctuary was now dark, but for the seven-wicked lamp and the Secret Fire in the middle of it. Only the Sanctuary of the Mourner was still open, with people coming and going through a small, low door that you had to bow to enter, some of them weeping bitterly. He saw the others, and all seemed to understand. Thengon’s father bent low over his shoulder and murmured, ‘Aratanie has been seen by the Soultenders. We’ll be back at the Hospitaller. Stay with him as long as you can,’ and left.

So Thengon kept vigil with his brother in arms through the night. Tanno sat with them for a while, and the others looked in briefly. Thengon’s thoughts wandered back over the past months. He had been a friend, and more – they had bled together, watched out for each other in deadly danger, horror and falling walls and walking dead. When you trust a guy with your life, they mean something to you. He loved this cracked idiot, dammit, and wished he could let go of his killing rage.

Maybe they were friends because Thengon, too, knew killing rage. He remembered the transport of wrath he had flown into when Neslos came in his power; the devilish glee of causing pain and terror to another speaking being. But he deserved it! Yes, Neslos deserved it, and he got it; there were times when Thengon wished he hadn’t killed him, so he could hurt him more… but his screams and his tears haunted Thengon betimes. Would he have been sorry, if he had been able to speak? Would Thengon have stopped hurting him, if Neslos had been able to beg for mercy? What would he, Thengon Tomasorion, do then? Would he continue cutting and beating him? If not…

Thengon dropped his head before the Lady of Mercy. Mercy was shown only to the merciful, it was said. He had not shown mercy. It was wrong. He should simply have killed him, and be done… but…

But what? No-one is without evil. Great wrong was done to him, but he did wrong to others. What would happen to him, if, coming to judgement before the One, it was seen that he had condemned someone and treated them cruelly?

Aratanie – Aratanie had been brutally treated by that Neslos, and probably by Amandil. She would have cried for her mother, would have begged to go home. She would want it! She would want them to suffer!

Would she really? She was an innocent child – tears pricked Thengon’s eyes – she didn’t even know how to hurt people! She was pure and innocent. The statue of Nienil the Mourner seemed to gaze straight at him in the flickering light of guttering candles, and all unbidden came the image: Aratanie watching him cutting and beating Neslos, and begging him to stop!

‘O gods!’ Thengon broke. He curled up on the floor of the Sanctuary in a little heap of remorse. He had sinned.

Sometime soon after that, he heard the Song of Night being sung by the same voice as had performed the Evening Song, six hours before. This song was sombre, the harmonies dark, shifting suddenly to sweeter ones to show light in the darkness, then down again. An acolyte came and gave a blanket to him, and he saw Rodi already curled up on the stone nearby, a cushion under his head. He looked at the acolyte, and smiling, she gave him a cushion, too. They were the only ones left in the sanctuary. Another acolyte came by, knelt next to him with a small wooden cup and a glass carafe, and poured a drink for Thengon. It was strong, sweet wine of some kind. He admired the ruby red of the stuff, then drank. He was filled with warmth and consolation, down to his toes. He returned the cup with weary thanks, and she left.

Thengon saw Rodi, curled up and snoring on the flagstones in his blanket, and thought, I can still keep him company from the floor. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and he lay down. If Rodi woke up and wanted to smash something, he would get up and handle it.

He woke, stiff as a board. Rodi snored quietly in front of him. The little candles around the statue were all burnt out, the light from the main Sanctuary was the only light inside, but there was a dim kind of cold, blue light in the windows.

‘You must be a bit stiff, down there,’ said a deep voice, quietly. Thengon looked around and saw Tulan on one of those low stools. Tor was kneeling next to him.

‘Good morning fathers,’ rasped Thengon in a harsh whisper. ‘If indeed it is.’

‘It is,’ Tor answered, ‘and Good Morning to yourself.’ Tulan rumbled the same greeting. ‘If you want to go to the Hospitaller, you may, but they won’t be open until sunup, which is a while yet.’

‘I must go and see a man about a dog,’ Thengon croaked, euphemistically. ‘I’ll be back.’

When he came back, he asked in a whisper, ‘When did you come in?’

Tor passed him a kneeler. ‘We have kept vigil since we came in for the Song of Night. As clerics, we were entitled to do so.’ He spoke in a low voice, not a whisper.

‘I am sorry if I kept you from your rest,’ Thengon said, wrapping himself back in the blanket and knelt down. How did this place get so cold at night?

‘This was rest – you were just over-wrought from your travels.’ Tor winked at him. Pure-bred eladi slept little, if at all.

‘We wanted to be present when Rodi awoke,’ Tulan said in an even lower voice than usual, ‘and perhaps you too, wish to Unburden?’

Thengon sighed. ‘Yes, that would be good.’

Thengon and Torodil went down to the Secret Fire, where under Tor’s guidance he spoke the names of his wrongdoings, thereby exposing them to the Flame for burning. They then returned to the small sanctuary, where they waited as the acolytes trooped in, climbed the stairs for the upper level, and set up for the Morning Song. As the sun’s rosy blush blessed the cavernous Sanctuary, they sang a song of brightness and hope, every bit as delightful as the restful one of Night, only in bright, light harmonies that spoke of things to do and explore. The song woke Rodi, who blearily blinked at them and actually smiled. ‘You stayed with me all night? You’re such a good friend, Theng.’ Rodi got back on his kneeler for the Song, and afterwards Theng left them to go to the Hospitaller.

Later that day, when the whole town was settling down for lunch and a rest, Tulan and Rodi came in, laughing and joking like old friends. Thengon had never seen Rodi looking so normal. The habitual gloom was gone, and Theng couldn’t even imagine him getting slitty-eyed. He shook hands with everyone, but embraced Theng, thumping him on the back. ‘You heard Her speaking to you, too, I know you did!’ he said quietly. Theng didn’t know what to say.

The media doesn't only reflect pop culture, it also helps create it. At some times the mainstream media, with its monolithic culture, tries to influence the culture deliberately, by means of The Narrative: a broad picture of the world most people carry around in their heads, assuming it's 'What everyone knows'.

The problem is when The Narrative is wrong, or used to create bogeyment, scapegoats and enemies. A prime example is the Kamloops story. Linking with the Magdalen Laundries narrative in Ireland, this takes stories of grim conditions in early-mid twentieth century institutions and embellished them for the sake of prurient interest or as an excercise in Catholic-bashing. Kamloops is a town in Canada where what looked like graves were discovered, in the grounds of an admittedly brutal orphanage (like pretty much all of them at the time). The mainstream media took to it like flies to dung, of course, and as a result, there were demands for charges to be laid, churches were literally burnt to the ground, and the Narrative had yet another stick in its edifice of Evil Catholicism.

The only problem was - there were no graves. Once again, the Narrative has been proved false, but you won't see a retraction, you won't hear the record being corrected. The Lie has been set free, the Truth never released.