Thursday, May 7, 2009
About this story
This story is indebted to Ursula K. Le Guin, for reasons that I'm sure are obvious to her readers, especially those who have enjoyed her Earthsea stories.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Large-Hearted Boy, Part Three
Selden, of course, did as the Archmage asked. He made the journey to Cald Mere in just four days, not having to stop at each village along the way to inquire if he was needed. As a master, he was rarely called on to hear confessions or, for that matter, perform any of the sacraments.
It was just as well. There seemed always an element of jealousy toward masters among the village clerics, though three days out, as Selden and his companion made their way north into the desolate countryside, they were greeted by everyone with good cheer and were encouraged to stay overnight.
"What can your hurry be, Pater? Come grace our table, bless the first bread," they all cajoled. "Tell us what you know of the lively world to our south." Were they humoring him? Did they really care what went on in the cities?
"I wish I could, good people," Selden told them. "But we have some distance ahead of us and too little time. Let me bless you here." And he held one hand out over them; the other placed flat against his chest, over the heart, and he appealed to the incarnation of God they might best understand. God the Father, God the Mother, God the Hunter, God the Farmer... There were so many, all personalities of the One God, who had no name, except perhaps to the dead. But the master tried not to fathom what the dead might know.
Selden knew death, but none of its secrets. He was with his father when the old man died. And side-by-side with the doubts he had about his religious beliefs–him, a master!–Selden prayed that his father was headed for somewhere meaningful. The old man had been forgiven his sins months earlier and took to his deathbed as though it were a cradle of peace and the Mother’s comfort. He was past all his regrets, Selden saw, and past all ambition and worldly longing.
What his father really thought, Selden couldn’t say. He was unable to use the Gift, of course. It was impossible to read and hear the minds of immediate family, but his father’s manner was untroubled and patient. He murmured quite a lot in his sleep, but Selden heard no alarm in the whispering. It was a good death, Selden thought. Something we all pray for, isn’t it? A happy death.
It was just as well. There seemed always an element of jealousy toward masters among the village clerics, though three days out, as Selden and his companion made their way north into the desolate countryside, they were greeted by everyone with good cheer and were encouraged to stay overnight.
"What can your hurry be, Pater? Come grace our table, bless the first bread," they all cajoled. "Tell us what you know of the lively world to our south." Were they humoring him? Did they really care what went on in the cities?
"I wish I could, good people," Selden told them. "But we have some distance ahead of us and too little time. Let me bless you here." And he held one hand out over them; the other placed flat against his chest, over the heart, and he appealed to the incarnation of God they might best understand. God the Father, God the Mother, God the Hunter, God the Farmer... There were so many, all personalities of the One God, who had no name, except perhaps to the dead. But the master tried not to fathom what the dead might know.
Selden knew death, but none of its secrets. He was with his father when the old man died. And side-by-side with the doubts he had about his religious beliefs–him, a master!–Selden prayed that his father was headed for somewhere meaningful. The old man had been forgiven his sins months earlier and took to his deathbed as though it were a cradle of peace and the Mother’s comfort. He was past all his regrets, Selden saw, and past all ambition and worldly longing.
What his father really thought, Selden couldn’t say. He was unable to use the Gift, of course. It was impossible to read and hear the minds of immediate family, but his father’s manner was untroubled and patient. He murmured quite a lot in his sleep, but Selden heard no alarm in the whispering. It was a good death, Selden thought. Something we all pray for, isn’t it? A happy death.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Ch. One (Large-Hearted Boy), Part Two
It didn’t take long for the boys to take their seats. Rian sat first and then the others. Most followed Rian in their actions, if not their interests. It was another kind of mimicry, more subtle than Rian’s humor and done with the same gentle intentions. They gravitated to the boy, and encircled him like the seven planets. There were some–only a few of the boys at the school–who were jealous of Rian and they made fun of the lapping servitude the other boys showed him.
One boy in particular filled with anger when he saw Rian earn yet another honor or favor, or even a smile. His name was Brodrick, changed to Brodank in the boy’s first days at school after he wet his bed the second time. And he grimaced under his classmates’ further taunting: Even in the village below the school the boys called him Dank, an insult even in Common Speech. All could hear it and understand.
Brodrick seethed, like the shattering of an ice dam. And Rian could feel the distemper. It was wondrously cold, like what a fenny monster might breathe in its hate and grieving. Rian grieved, too, and Brodrick despised the pity even more.
Once the boys found their places, each pulled out from underneath the desktop a few sheets of paper on which they were expected to write in the smallest of hands. Paper was a prized commodity at the school and, outside of it, a rarity. Papermaking was a task that took two brothers nearly all their time of work–and when the Archmage had writing to do–nearly all their time of leisure. Only prayer came first. When the need was especially great, the brothers would even take meals in their workroom. The Archmage himself would deliver the tray, with his apologies for this burden on them, their having to work ‘round the clock to make and remake the paper that challenged the boys’ minds and played a role in their cramping fingers. (It was the boys’ burden to fill the scraps with translations from the High Tongue and, of course, every day they would transcribe remarkably long lists of True Names.)
The master cleared his throat. The boys fell silent.
"Today, I should like for you to consider Alhazen’s Problem. First formulated by Ptolemy in the second century of our age, we are asked, "Given a light source and a spherical mirror, find the point on the mirror where the light will reflect into the eye of a specific observer."
"Have you got that?" the master asked. The boys nodded yes, when in fact the words were already flowing past them as harmlessly as rain off a duck. This would be a long lecture, involving equations of the fourth degree and conic sections, and geometry, and no telling what else.
"There is no algebraic solution," the master told them. "At least not yet. It is, in fact, the subject of my own work when I have free moments."
Incredible, the boys thought, to a man. But what else would interest a mathematics master?
"What, indeed?" Rian asked himself. It was a question he asked frequently of himself, one that troubled him like a stone in his shoe. A calculus is a stone, Rian remembered. And stones were used for counting...
Rian tried harder to focus his attention.
"Of course, one uses this solution each time one visits the public house."
The master waited for smiles, but the boys only stared. It was the master’s rather sad attempt at humor and Rian felt sorry for the man. Of course he referred to the game of carom. Rian knew, but the others were still trying to fish it out, or were too far off in their own dreaming to care.
"Do you mean, hlaford, aiming the ale to one’s lips?" one boy asked; he thought it might be on a quiz!
"No, boy! Carom! Carom, of course! Can’t you see it?"
"Oh, yes, I do. I do now."
And all the boys nodded their agreement.
"Enlightenment comes to you all so uniformly," the master mused, his understated irony made Rian grin.
He’s not a bad sort, Rian thought. He always understood that somehow the mathematics master was his protector. Or his champion? Or the eyes of the Archmage? Rian didn’t know.
He couldn’t have known, because the mathematics master knew so little himself about the Archmage’s intentions.
He was asked by the Archmage to go to Cald Mere and test the boy, just a few days after Rian turned sixteen and received his True Name.
"Please see what are his intellectual aptitudes," Primus asked. And he added, "He has the gift. You’ll see that when you meet him. It’s remarkably developed him in, and he’s had no training to speak of. But just concentrate on the surface, will you? If the boy is bright enough, we’ll invite him to the school. His parents are already hopeful, but I made no promises. The boy himself seems happy enough in his village. He hunts and paints, and plays the recorder, I believe. He’s cheerful and made up well enough. The girls are already mooning over him. Beyond that, I know very little." Primus paused. "Except for this empathy he promises. One can feel it just by meeting his eye, Selden. You’ll see."
One boy in particular filled with anger when he saw Rian earn yet another honor or favor, or even a smile. His name was Brodrick, changed to Brodank in the boy’s first days at school after he wet his bed the second time. And he grimaced under his classmates’ further taunting: Even in the village below the school the boys called him Dank, an insult even in Common Speech. All could hear it and understand.
Brodrick seethed, like the shattering of an ice dam. And Rian could feel the distemper. It was wondrously cold, like what a fenny monster might breathe in its hate and grieving. Rian grieved, too, and Brodrick despised the pity even more.
Once the boys found their places, each pulled out from underneath the desktop a few sheets of paper on which they were expected to write in the smallest of hands. Paper was a prized commodity at the school and, outside of it, a rarity. Papermaking was a task that took two brothers nearly all their time of work–and when the Archmage had writing to do–nearly all their time of leisure. Only prayer came first. When the need was especially great, the brothers would even take meals in their workroom. The Archmage himself would deliver the tray, with his apologies for this burden on them, their having to work ‘round the clock to make and remake the paper that challenged the boys’ minds and played a role in their cramping fingers. (It was the boys’ burden to fill the scraps with translations from the High Tongue and, of course, every day they would transcribe remarkably long lists of True Names.)
The master cleared his throat. The boys fell silent.
"Today, I should like for you to consider Alhazen’s Problem. First formulated by Ptolemy in the second century of our age, we are asked, "Given a light source and a spherical mirror, find the point on the mirror where the light will reflect into the eye of a specific observer."
"Have you got that?" the master asked. The boys nodded yes, when in fact the words were already flowing past them as harmlessly as rain off a duck. This would be a long lecture, involving equations of the fourth degree and conic sections, and geometry, and no telling what else.
"There is no algebraic solution," the master told them. "At least not yet. It is, in fact, the subject of my own work when I have free moments."
Incredible, the boys thought, to a man. But what else would interest a mathematics master?
"What, indeed?" Rian asked himself. It was a question he asked frequently of himself, one that troubled him like a stone in his shoe. A calculus is a stone, Rian remembered. And stones were used for counting...
Rian tried harder to focus his attention.
"Of course, one uses this solution each time one visits the public house."
The master waited for smiles, but the boys only stared. It was the master’s rather sad attempt at humor and Rian felt sorry for the man. Of course he referred to the game of carom. Rian knew, but the others were still trying to fish it out, or were too far off in their own dreaming to care.
"Do you mean, hlaford, aiming the ale to one’s lips?" one boy asked; he thought it might be on a quiz!
"No, boy! Carom! Carom, of course! Can’t you see it?"
"Oh, yes, I do. I do now."
And all the boys nodded their agreement.
"Enlightenment comes to you all so uniformly," the master mused, his understated irony made Rian grin.
He’s not a bad sort, Rian thought. He always understood that somehow the mathematics master was his protector. Or his champion? Or the eyes of the Archmage? Rian didn’t know.
He couldn’t have known, because the mathematics master knew so little himself about the Archmage’s intentions.
He was asked by the Archmage to go to Cald Mere and test the boy, just a few days after Rian turned sixteen and received his True Name.
"Please see what are his intellectual aptitudes," Primus asked. And he added, "He has the gift. You’ll see that when you meet him. It’s remarkably developed him in, and he’s had no training to speak of. But just concentrate on the surface, will you? If the boy is bright enough, we’ll invite him to the school. His parents are already hopeful, but I made no promises. The boy himself seems happy enough in his village. He hunts and paints, and plays the recorder, I believe. He’s cheerful and made up well enough. The girls are already mooning over him. Beyond that, I know very little." Primus paused. "Except for this empathy he promises. One can feel it just by meeting his eye, Selden. You’ll see."
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Let's begin. The start of Chapter One.
"You there!" the master called, though entirely without words. "Boy!" he called. He was brusque, because that was his nature.
Only one of the young men lifted his head to match his teacher’s stare.
"Yes, you!" he scolded Rian. "Who else can hear me this way?"
Rian smiled. The master realized anew that the boy was always smiling. And fidgeting. When it came time for even simple spells, the boy's gestures would wreck havoc.
"There are other boys present with some hearing, hlaford," Rian told him, sending his thoughts to the old man in the same wordless fashion. It was a talent that came easily to him. The masters all called it the Giefu, the Gift. It’s sometimes a curse, the boy thought, keeping this opinion to himself, though perhaps this master--for mathematics, a subject the boy liked... Perhaps this master could hear him even when he shielded his thoughts.
But the master had no sense of the boy’s doubts. In fact, the boy was a mystery to him. To most of the other masters, too. When Rian closed his mind to them, there was no reading him. Only the one hlaford who knew the boy’s real nature and who just last year gave him his true name could see and hear through the silence and clouds.
"May I help you, hlaford?" Rian asked, even while he entertained the other students.
The boy was a perfect mimic and just now he was imitating the way in which Doren’s tongue hung out whenever the nurse was called. He could imitate her, too, holding his cupped hands out away from his chest as though he were as well-formed as she. In Doren’s voice he told the boys, "God was generous with Nurse, friends. And she is generous with me!" At least that was Doren’s claim. No one believed him, of course; Nurse was after Brother Cobbler. Wasn’t that well known?
All the boys who gathered ‘round Rian laughed.
The master told him, "Bring them to their studies now, Rian. Fat load of good it will do. Shiftless beggers. We’ve calculus to do and too little daylight."
"Too few days in the month, hlaford, isn’t that right?"
"You’ve read my mind."
And, of course, he had.
Only one of the young men lifted his head to match his teacher’s stare.
"Yes, you!" he scolded Rian. "Who else can hear me this way?"
Rian smiled. The master realized anew that the boy was always smiling. And fidgeting. When it came time for even simple spells, the boy's gestures would wreck havoc.
"There are other boys present with some hearing, hlaford," Rian told him, sending his thoughts to the old man in the same wordless fashion. It was a talent that came easily to him. The masters all called it the Giefu, the Gift. It’s sometimes a curse, the boy thought, keeping this opinion to himself, though perhaps this master--for mathematics, a subject the boy liked... Perhaps this master could hear him even when he shielded his thoughts.
But the master had no sense of the boy’s doubts. In fact, the boy was a mystery to him. To most of the other masters, too. When Rian closed his mind to them, there was no reading him. Only the one hlaford who knew the boy’s real nature and who just last year gave him his true name could see and hear through the silence and clouds.
"May I help you, hlaford?" Rian asked, even while he entertained the other students.
The boy was a perfect mimic and just now he was imitating the way in which Doren’s tongue hung out whenever the nurse was called. He could imitate her, too, holding his cupped hands out away from his chest as though he were as well-formed as she. In Doren’s voice he told the boys, "God was generous with Nurse, friends. And she is generous with me!" At least that was Doren’s claim. No one believed him, of course; Nurse was after Brother Cobbler. Wasn’t that well known?
All the boys who gathered ‘round Rian laughed.
The master told him, "Bring them to their studies now, Rian. Fat load of good it will do. Shiftless beggers. We’ve calculus to do and too little daylight."
"Too few days in the month, hlaford, isn’t that right?"
"You’ve read my mind."
And, of course, he had.
Welcome.
I still marvel at the popularity Charles Dickens enjoyed in America. I've read that people would wait at the New York docks for the ship that would deliver his next serialization from England.
Not that I would ever be as popular as Dickens, but I've always wanted to serialize one of my stories. So I'll give it a try, trying to post a new chapter--or at least a selection--each Wednesday. (Does Wednesday work for you? Shall we give that a try?) While I've already drafted the barest bones of a plot, each week's work will be original and newly drafted.
Not that I would ever be as popular as Dickens, but I've always wanted to serialize one of my stories. So I'll give it a try, trying to post a new chapter--or at least a selection--each Wednesday. (Does Wednesday work for you? Shall we give that a try?) While I've already drafted the barest bones of a plot, each week's work will be original and newly drafted.
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