A repeat from 2019.
I can live with “Mothering Day,” because there are women who act as mothers to children not their own, but once you go beyond that, sorry, nope.
I don’t care what he did, I love him anyway. Fair Use, from: https://www.wowamazing.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/gray-cat-mother-with-kitten.jpg
Slightly frazzled. The End of the Term is Nigh, with all the last minute things that come with it.
The next Merchant book is coming along slowly. I hope to have the draft done before LibertyCon.
I’ve started the next Familiar Generations book, and some stand alone stories. And one I’d not planned on, thanks to LawDog playing with an image generator. Darn Muse, quit that.
I keep saying that I will get back to the Scotland thing. And I keep ignoring reviewing the material to get back to the Scotland thing. I might just toss history and write it, then go back and fix the inconsistent places later.
The learning curve about the Baltic is starting to shift to less vertical. I’ve got most of the basics down, so now it is timeline and details about which specific thing/group/event was where. I’m glad I was familiar with the history of the Hanseatic League before now, because that’s already available for me to draw on. The detailed bits of exactly who was where doing what, beating up on whom, or trying to avoid whom, are not as easy.
I had another bit trimmed off my hide, just in case. I like being a red head. I’m not as fond of the secondary characteristics of being a person-of-great-pallor. Even one who eschewed sunlight since she was 12 or so.
Jase T. Cat has decided that 45 minutes of intense attention between 0520-0610 are not sufficient. This makes it a wee bit difficult to get things done in the afternoons and evenings. He can be excessively feline at times.
The roses are going strong, the iris have peaked, and almost everything has been “stuck in the ground,” at least until MomRed finds a hole that needs to be filled, or something crumps.
I would be standing in the outdoor commons or at a classroom window. A mecha, perhaps a fighter plane like Robotech, or one of the lions from Voltron would swoop down and land. I’d be the only one who could operate it, and all the other junior high brat—, er, students and faculty would stare as I headed off to do battle among the stars. And not return to junior high. Ever. No one would beat me up for being a nerd ever again.
Well, obviously, that fantasy didn’t come true. Probably just as well, given my difficulty with spatial visualization. I have enough trouble in atmosphere. Take away gravity and…the results would be entertaining for observers, or hair raising, or both at different times. I’d do better as a mechanic, or intel analyst (which is eventually what I planned on being after college.) I survived my teen years, more or less intact, at least physically. We shall not speak of my mental state, because it was unspeakable.
I was reminded of this from a discussion over at MGC where someone observed that he didn’t understand why Eustace Scrubb got so upset at being transformed into a dragon in the novel Voyage of the Dawn Treader. The commenter would have been delighted to wake up as a teen and find himself a dragon, one that could fly (and preferably breathe flame as well). I suspect a decent number of us voracious readers, nerds, baby bats (proto goths), and so on entertained visions of escaping in some way. Without clear rituals of passage from childhood to adulthood, aside from high school graduation*, there’s a period of floundering and sorting out, often relatively unsupervised by actual adults. As a result the pack turns on the Odds, unless we are 1) so ferocious that the group decides its safer to leave us alone or 2) we can contribute something of value, or 3) gain protectors, often because of Option 2.
And we read everything we could get our hands on, disappearing into different worlds. Now people game as well as read, immersing themselves in situations where they have more control (perhaps) and can actually do something about the problem.
What do you want to be? The answer changes over time as a child grows and sees more of the world. A giraffe, or a ballerina, Han Solo or Indiana Jones, a pilot, an elephant, a pony, a mad scientist [he got a PhD and does industrial chemistry, last I heard], a sports star, a rock star, a witch, all those things get tried on, perhaps adapted to this reality, perhaps discarded. After all, the job market for giraffes is somewhat limited at the moment. Those of us who still can’t decide, or who insist on being Odd often end up on the outside of the pecking order, fair game for other insecure or power-hungry people. Alas that pattern all too often extends past teen years into the Real World. Or predators take advantage of the Odds, as we see with dismal regularity today.
I just wanted to get away, to go be an adult doing adult things. I admit, a few days I dreamed of leveling the junior high building on my way out, with everyone safely outside of it. If the building was gone, then the problem would be gone, Or so I imagined. I know better, now.
And some days I want to be Professor Henry Jones Jr, opening the office window and climbing out and leaving the TA or secretary to deal with ungraded papers, unsigned forms, and dumb administrator requests. Turning into a dragon would be a nice bonus, but not required.
*And that’s no longer always true, given the over-emphasis on four-year-plus degrees and “you have to have a bachelor’s in something.”
Wade, Magatte. The Heart of a Cheetah. (Cheetah Press, 2023)
Short version: A fascinating autobiographical account of trying to do business in Africa while working around do-gooders, by a woman from Africa.
Long version: Magatte Wade grew up initially in Senegal, then France. Her father treated her as if she were as valuable as a son, something her step-mother resented, leading to friction in the reunited family. Wade had decided early on that she wanted to be a businesswoman, something that France didn’t encourage all that strongly. Because of the push and pull, she moved to the US. She studied, learned, made mistakes, got back up, and is now a successful business woman and advocate for Africans starting and running businesses in Africa. She is part of the “cheetah generation,” the younger men and women who battle red tape and outdated ideas, at home and abroad, to try and return Africa to a more free-market culture. She’s blunt about her problems and the steepness of her learning curve. Let’s just say that outside capital doesn’t always bring about the results a company’s founder desires.
The author observed early on, when she returned to Senegal with her husband, that people there saw foreign brands as prestige goods. Coca-cola and similar had begun driving out local products. She wanted to change that, leading to her first major business, and cultural collision. People bought “African” products as charity, or as novelties. And most of those were foreign things with a bit of Africa waved over them, so to speak. Wade wanted to change that, and to restore confidence and pride in being from Senegal, Kenya, or wherever in Africa. This book is about that uphill fight.
Along the way, Wade points out the problems of outside do-gooders trying to “save” Africa or “rescue people from poverty” through donations or education alone. Products without a market go to waste, or worse, crush local industry and agriculture. When the outside aid money goes away, it leaves things worse for everyone. Africa isn’t a place to send money and feel good about it, Wade argues. It is a place where people need to cut through bureaucratic chaos, learn how to run a business to Western standards, and regain self confidence. Marxism and other socialist policies are not the answer, Wade argues, and are outside impositions on what had been much freer markets. Nor is blaming everything on colonialism or slavery. That was then, this is now, and the Cheetahs need to forge ahead and deal with current things, not make excuses from the past.
The book is easy to read, and the latter chapters have great references for people interested in learning more about the economic nightmares of excess aid and national bureaucracies. Wade points to Botswana as the good example of how things could be run, and how one place blended traditional and Western ideas about law and government. I’m not sure how well her ideas would work in places that are less settled, or have more religious tensions than Senegal, Botswana, and a few others. She doesn’t talk about tribal rivalries, Chinese interference in local systems, and so on. That’s not her point, and her focus is on Senegal and other mostly-stable countries. She’s enthusiastic and pragmatic at the same time. She’s been there, and done that. It’s a refreshing change from the usual “For a dollar a day, you too can help a poor starving African” or educate an African child (unemployment among college graduates on the continent is 50%. Education might not be the answer, at least not college education.)
I’d recommend the book for people looking for a different take on international charity and aid, young women interested in business and how women can succeed, and anyone curious about the pitfalls of starting a new, international business. Not all help is helpful.
The intersection flycatchers (aka Western Kingbirds) and Mississippi kites have moved into town. I saw the first kite on Saturday. I suspect there was a hawk ball that evening, but I didn’t go out to see. The vultures that roost in one of the older neighborhoods arrived last month, but they tend to come earlier than some other birds. They are not as dependent on insects as are the kingbirds and kites.
Three times now I’ve stood in my yard, or been driving around town, and watched huge storms blow up to the east or south and march off to rain on, hail on, and generally scare the living daylights out of folks on the wet side of the dry line. We’ve had storms north and south of town, as usual, but nothing really exciting in town. That is, unless you count the simultaneous flash and roar that shook RedQuarters Sunday at 0230 and caused both Jase T. Cat and I to levitate. My patch of the Panhandle has had either instability or moisture, but not both at the same time. *Shrug* We’re used to it. When I worked in Flat State, the other Airport Bums and I would sit on the bench outside the office and watch storms form about 5-10 miles east of the field and drift east.
The warm-season grasses have greened up, and the areas that got rain are looking very good. The burned areas north and east of town are starting to show a few signs of life and regrowth. More rain will help, but it’s a slow process. In the long run, burning keeps down brush and pest species, and improves the health of the land, if rains follow the burn within a reasonable time, and the fuel load wasn’t so high as to glaze the soil (generally not as much of a problem here as farther west). In the short term, people are hurting. The next few years will be hard. Elsewhere, if people have grass and cattle and moisture, things are looking up. If you have not gotten too much moisture, like Houston and other parts of southeast Texas and Louisiana.
I appreciate spring, even though I’m not a fan. I prefer autumn, but I also know that you can’t have harvest and fall colors and such without spring rains and growth and warm weather.
Everything is ready inside the mill-to-be, and the stones move once more. As does something that’s not supposed to…
Harald stayed well clear as the men lowered the bedding stone onto the drive shaft. Wulfgar and the blacksmith had almost come to blows over the cross-shaped iron “key” that held the bedding stone onto the castana shaft. Harald had separated the two but it had not been easy. Now he stood beside the Scavenger’s voice as the men lowered the stone a finger-width at a time. Morning light streamed in through the open doors.
Wulfgar squatted lower and lower as the stone descended. He guided the men with hand signs instead of words. The pulley squeaked, men grunted, and the faintest scraping sound rose, perhaps, as the largest stone slid down the shaft.
“Stop.” Wulfgar’s voice cut through everything around them. “Good.” He untied the ropes and waved the men away. Everyone got clear and waited. Nothing happened. “Next one.”
The priest rested his hands on the stone and murmured. Wulfgar knelt and the others bowed, heads bare. When the priest finished, they lifted the stone and shuffled to where the ropes and pulley waited. Wulfgar tied everything, and the men lowered the cradle around the stone. The stone remained in the ropes. Wulfgar gestured, and the men got ready to pull on the rope.
“Has one ever fallen?” the priest murmured, low voiced, beside Harald.
Eyes still on the work, Harald murmured back, “Yes, sir. Dented the floor, broke the stone in three, and crushed a man’s feet so badly he died. The stone cutter salvaged the stone and paid blood money. The first four grinds in the mill went to the man’s family and his temple, then to the temples of Gember and m’Lord Scavenger.” That had been more than fair, all agreed, especially after the priests of all gods blessed the mill as appropriate.
“Ah.”
The second stone settled into place, and the third followed quickly. “How does, ah, it lifts, yes?” The priest asked.
“Yes, sir. Most milling here only calls for the main stones, but if someone brings heavier grain, the third stone can be used to refine the flour.” It wasn’t how most mills did it, but the contract had requested the arrangement, and so they’d done it this way. Once the town accepted the first grind, it was not his business.
The priest glided toward the mounted stones. The workmen moved out of his way, all save Wulfgar, who frowned as he measured the space between the first stone and the bedding stone. The priest stopped beside him and watched. The stone cutter measured once again, then straightened up. He bowed to the priest and gave the Scavenger’s voice room. The priest rested one hand on the stone, then lifted his hand and glided back. He turned and left the mill, nodding to Harald as he passed. The men bowed as the priest departed.
Harald went outside and leaned against the heavy doorpost, eyes closed, head tipped back. “Thank You, Lord of the Hidden. Thank You, Lord of the Wheel,” he whispered. The rays of Rella’s Lamp brought light but less heat than before. The Lamp rose farther south each day, warning that summer’s time waned. He smelled wood, and mown hay, and wet stone.
Wet stone? He opened his eyes and straightened as the sound of fast steps and panting reached him. “Master,” gasp. “Master Harald, sir, water coming down the channel!” Toglos rested his hands on his thighs and wheezed, then straightened. “Not much, but there’s a trickle.”
He nearly cursed, but caught himself. Had the temple of Donwah declared the need to open the head gate? Harald ducked into the mill and almost collided with Wulfgar. “Water in the channel,” he said. “Not my doing.”
“Not good,” the stone cutter growled. The two masters trotted around the building to where they could see the channel. A small stream flowed down the stones. It wouldn’t turn the wheel, all gods be thanked. At least, not yet. “Why?”
Harald shrugged, the cupped his hands around his mouth. “Dane,” he called to one of the journeymen carpenters. The man waved. “Get everyone out of the channel and downstream now! Water flows.”
Even from here, he could see the man’s eyes get big. Dane nodded, spun, and raced away from the mill. Workers in the downstream channel staked the last of the weepin’ salla mats, and Harald snarled to himself.
“Please, Donwah, not enough to wet the wheel yet, please, Lady of Waters, please,” Harald murmured as he strode up the channel. He climbed over the gate where the channel passed through a schaef hedge, then half-ran up to where the head gate stood. The water ran a hand-length deep over the stones. Two blue-clad figures and two big men stood at the gate. Harald skidded to a stop before he got too close. Had the Lady commanded the gate opened? He breathed hard, smelling water and mud and grass.
One of the priests turned and raised her hand. “Peace, Master Harald. We raise the gate no farther. We must test it that it still opens and closes.”
Oh, he was glad that he had not cursed. Instead he breathed and bowed. His side ached. He did not run—that’s what apprentices did. “Thank you, ma’am.” He breathed some more. “Your messenger had not reached us yet, and I feared damage to the gate.” Or worse, some fool trying to hurry the mill.
“The water reaches so far?” the second priest said. He too turned, frowning. “Should that be, that water reaches the mill already?”
Harald glanced at the stream. It ran high, not flood plain high but close. “Yes, sir. The walls below the water guide more into the channel. Men work in the channel below the mill, staking in the weepin’ salla mats, and I was afraid of a full flow.” If the millwheel had turned as they mounted the stones—!
The priestess gestured, and metal and wood scraped and groaned as the men at the head gate lowered the gate back into the gap. The flow of water faded to a trickle, then nothing. Well, now all knew that the gate worked, at least when lifted that far. “We will provide more notice, should we need to open the gate again,” Donwah’s priest said.
Harald inclined toward him. “Thank you. We hope to mill the first grain in two eight days. We will tell the temple before we open the gate, if you have not opened it.”
“Good.” The priest raised his hand and made Donwah’s Wave. “May the Lady of the Waters bless your work.”
Harald bowed. “All thanks and praise to the Lady of Waters.” He touched his forelock, then turned and walked with least speed and far more dignity back to the mill site. No big trash had gotten into the channel, and he didn’t see any signs of the water escaping the stones. Some would, Donwah and Gember claiming their toll, but everything seemed as it should be.
“Stones missin’?” Wulfgar demanded when Harald returned.
“None yet.” He made the Horns and spat through them, them made the Wheel. “An’ th’ head gate works, least so far as the priests had it opened.”
“Not so deep or it’ll crack,” Ceol warned the journeyman cutting channels in one of the new pulleys. He looked over at the other two masters and blinked. “Why’d they open the gate?”
Harald shrugged. “They said they needed to be sure it still worked. I don’t know if that’s in the contract with the Temple the city holds, or if someone’s claimin’ the gate’s locked in the frame.” It had happened, usually in the worst position possible—up in floods or down when the mill wheel needed wetting or the mill had caught fire.
(C) 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved.
In Hunter of Secrets, Jude muses with regret that he can’t take part of one of his Hunts home, but he can’t recall why. Hunters are vehemently discouraged from collecting bits of their prey as trophies, aside from the blood (and even that depends on what was being Hunted. Some things are too dangerous to take blood from.)
There are two reasons, one of which has to do with the nature of their prey, and one of which relates to human nature. Some time in the long distant past, the ancestors of the people who would become the Hunter clans did what normal people did. They collected what might be useful, or was attractive, or just cool to show off, and took it home. They learned most quickly indeed that some of the things they killed were not edible. Extremely not edible, as it turned out, to the point that they made poison mushrooms look nutritious and good for you. A few very public horrible warnings as people died writhing in pain, or driven mad by something in the flesh, taught everyone else that it was never, ever safe to eat any animal or creature that wasn’t obviously non-magical. So the first prohibition came down from the elders: don’t eat the flesh of what we Hunt. But hides, claws, feathers, and other things might be OK to keep around.
In some cases it was true. Skip forward several thousand years, and you have Jude Tainuit wondering if the soft, plush pelt of the herbivore that he had to put out of its misery would make a good blanket. It would, and the hide could be tanned. But the hide of a hellhound, or some of the other things? Absolutely not, even if they survived tanning, or the person doing the work survived prolonged contact with the skin. Claws too sometimes had a nasty surprise waiting if the venom sacks or other things had not been removed and the claws purged of the chemicals. Trophy heads or jaws? Same problem. Enough people had bad experiences that an unspoken rule developed – if it didn’t look and act like a normal beast, leave it alone. Once cleansing magic was discovered (or granted to the clans. Versions differ), that took care of a lot of temptation because if the creature vanished, no one could take a bit home.
Human nature was the second part. Think again about Jude and the pelt. What if he had collected it, and tanned it, and turned it into a wonderful bed cover? And his children loved it, and talked about it, and perhaps showed it to friends? Who might tell other people, including someone with a grudge who could find a way to turn the hide into evidence of something illegal or otherwise evil? The Hunter clans lived in a world of shifting alliances and nosy nobles and tax collectors. Looking too prosperous brought unwanted attention, and it would only take one glance of someone seeing a Hunter lady’s jacket showing a bit of fur. Why was she wearing something reserved for nobles? What if it wasn’t a fur on the official legal lists, but something “exotic,” as the modern Hunters and mages say? Nothing but trouble lay that direction. Better to destroy everything, teach the youngsters not to take trophies save for the blood, and hide in plain sight.
Yes, times have changed. But as Jude and others of his generation well recall, it wasn’t too long ago that someone tried to eat a bit of meat from a Hunted creature. He died a horrible, agonizing death. So obviously there is a very good reason not to take trophies, and no one questions the ban, even if they might regret lost opportunities.
So, I was looking at some older bits-n-pieces, and found this. It never worked into a story, but it reflects a slightly take on Rada Ni Drako (the Cat Among Dragons series). I might have posted it before, but I don’t recall.
He couldn’t sleep. The new matting on his sleeping platform felt hard, the bolster did not fit his flanks and the still air stifled him. Shii-lak put on a light robe and slipped out of his quarters. The young male should not have known the back way and he gloated a little as he stole silently through the old, forgotten passage. His passing stirred dust at first before he entered a slightly more trafficked section. He recalled his dam explaining that this would be where the servants came on their errands. The reptile paused at a turning, considered his options and took the weak-side corridor.
His dam had taught him the back ways. “This is female knowledge,” she’d warned him over and over. “Only in dire need should you tell what you learn of the back ways. The main ways are for males and nobles, the hidden for females, servants, and such.” Common born and chosen for the Imperial quarters because of her lithe form and soft hide, his dam had kept no secrets from her son. “You will inherit nothing. Therefore you must learn everything and hide it all. On that your survival may depend, blade in my forefoot.” She’d hoped that he might become a senior servant, either in the Palace or more likely in the retinue of a noble. And it was to one noble in particular that her long-ago words sent him this night, through the back ways.
“He is not a Great Lord. But he is the greatest of the court lords, the one who can be trusted. If you ever have need, go to him and tell him that I sent you in the name of Lady Zabet. If there is any way he can, he will help you, and if not then he will be honest with you.” Only one individual in all of the thousands living and working in the Court carried the name “The Trusted One.” Not that any of those who used it called him that in his hearing. No, it was a heart name, used by those who knew but never where other ears might overhear. Even the noble in question remained in ignorance of his own heart name. Instead he used a battle name, one that made his enemies tremble and his allies rejoice and those under his protection walk without fear. Or so the servants whispered among themselves.
After three more turnings and changes, Shii-lak thought he had found his target. He’d never come to this part of the Palace via the back ways before and he hesitated, forefoot raised. He heard a sound and his eyes widened: he’d reached his destination. The reptile carefully felt the old wood in the side of the passage until he found a latch. His talons closed on cool metal and he breathed a prayer to his sire’s Ancestors that it would work. He squeezed and the latch moved, releasing the pin and allowing him to ease the door open. It swung silently and the reptile eased down around the back of a sleeping platform, into the noble’s inner chamber.
He looked around, curious. Nothing seemed unusual, aside from a small table draped in white fabric with metal and wood artwork on it. He assumed it was artwork. It could not be a weapon and certainly bore no resemblance to the usual images and items on an altar. However, something much more interesting captured his attention and Shii-lak slipped forward until he could see into the noble’s public room. The reptile stole a cushion from the small pile by the open doorway and settled onto it, pillowing his head and upper chest off of the cold tile and wood floor.
#
Commander Rada Lord Ni Drako, called Lord Reh-dakh, wondered why a teen-aged male had snuck into her private quarters and now lay just out of sight (he thought) in the doorway. She glanced down and made certain that her hold-out weapons were within quick reach, then turned her attention back to the piece of music she was working on. It was very difficult and she repeated the pattern of notes again to make absolutely certain that she had it in her muscle memory and ear. Something still did not quite match her memory and the mammal frowned, trying a different combination of notes. Ah! There it was: a flat on the run back up the scale, modulating the theme into a minor that set the pattern for the second half of the lament. Now she had it and she played the entire song through, vocalizing along with it this time. The song was not exactly pretty but it certainly caught the ear and heart, which was why she’d decided to learn it.
When that was done, Rada stopped and stretched her hands and wrists, shaking them a little. She was in a slightly melancholy mood and decided to try that old Earth song “the Coventry Carol.” The odd major-minor piece, a lament for murdered juniors, came easily. For some reason the humans she worked with from time to time always wanted to hear it at Christmas and she obliged them so it stayed fresh in her memories. She noticed that the male in her doorway flinched at the song and she wondered why.
On a hunch, she followed it with “O’Carolan’s Farewell to Music.” If Zabet had been there Rada would not have played it, but her “concubine” was out that night and so Rada indulged. The male stared at her, his expression mirroring the sorrow and uncertainty in the old Terran song. With that, Rada knew why he’d come in the night to her quarters, although she had no idea who he was. Probably a servant, one of the young ones who’d been sold into service; a practice she utterly abhorred. The ‘boy’ uttered a fluty, hollow mourning wail of the sort she’d heard far, far too many times in her over seven centuries of life.
“Come in. I won’t bite you or report you,” she offered, putting some of her Gift behind the half-sung words. Azdhagi minds did not respond to her talents as did draconic or mammalian but he was young enough not to have developed the innate mental wall of an adult. He crept forward and she blinked at his size—not a servant-born then, not with that amount of mass on his frame. He wasn’t one of her cadets, either, or he’d never have dared to intrude. Neither would he have known how to enter her quarters by the back way. “What do you need?”
#
Shii-lak hesitated as worry warred with pride. Damn it, he was his sire’s son and should never have let his feelings show so plainly. But Reh-dakh had helped his dam, or rather Reh-dakh’s concubine had, and now he needed someone to ask advice of. Someone he could trust who would not try to use him. That he’d learned even before his second growth time: beware of adults who petted with their tail while hiding their forefoot. “What am I supposed to be?” he blurted.
The mammal set aside the musical instrument he had been playing and stood on his hind legs, then sat on a cushion on the floor. “What do you want to be?” He asked in reply.
“I,” and Shii-lak stopped, neck spines twitching in confusion. He’d never thought about it. No one had ever asked him. He stared towards the large window in the stone wall, noting that Shibo had dropped below the top of the palace’s roofs. “I don’t know.”
Reh-dakh studied her visitor carefully. His robe, though plain, seemed finer than it should be. It fit too well to be a noble’s cast off given to a servant. Well, it did not matter to her, really. “What are you meant to be?” she inquired.
“A servant,” he replied instantly. Then he caught himself again. “No. I’m supposed to be a warrior and a scholar.” The young male paced back and forth across the tiled floor before turning back to the patiently waiting mammal. “My dam said, that is, she said that if I needed help or advice to come to you, in Lady Zabet’s name, and that you would help me if you could.” The words rushed out of him like the Zhangki in spring flood and were almost as muddled to Reh-dakh’s ear.
“It is a high calling to be a warrior and a scholar. Almost as high as being a true servant,” the mammal said in a thoughtful tone.
Shii-lak flopped onto a cushion and stared at the noble. “Warriors outrank servants. How can it be a higher calling to serve than to fight? That makes no sense.”
The mammal waved one of his stubby talon-tipped forefoot appendages at the Azdhag. “I am a servant. The King-Emperor, if he is truly worthy of his titles, is a servant just as much as the unseen ones here in the palace or out in the fields. The Minister of War serves as well. Think of your learning,” and the mammal leaned forward, catching Shii-lak’s eyes with his single silvery one. “What are the vows of the Lord Defender?”
“To serve and protect the people of Drakon IV and to obey the King-Emperor only as the King-Emperor commands the armies of Drakon IV,” the youngster replied automatically.
“And what are the vows of the King-Emperor?”
His tail-tip flicking as he tried to remember, the blotchy male ventured, “To bring honor to the Ancestors, to rule and defend the people of the Azdhag Empire and DeShan’s World, and to live so as to bring honor to the Azdhagi?” Yes, that was it.
Reh-dakh let him think about the words he’d just recited. “Exactly. Which means what? How does the King-Emperor bring honor to the Azdhagi?”
“By expanding the Empire and defeating our enemies!” Except that was not the answer Reh-dakh wanted, if the mammal’s unhappy forefoot gesture meant anything. Shii-lak’s spines flattened again at the mammal’s displeasure.
“Anyone can do that. You could do that, given enough resources and time,” Reh-dakh snorted, making Shii-lak flinch. “Lan-zhe secured the border beyond DeShan’s world, or so it seemed. Would you call Lan-zhe a good emperor?”
Shii-lak’s forefoot and tail swung in a firm negation. “Not at all. He crippled Drakon IV and left ten year-turns of chaos after he abdicated.” The last word came as a sneer.
“I wouldn’t go that far, young male. The Great Lords and I kept things organized and running long enough for Lo-dan to learn and become a King-Emperor in truth as well as in title,” Reh-dakh corrected firmly, all but tapping his muzzle-tip with the mammal’s iron war fan. “You forget to whom you speak.”
Automatically, Shii-lak dropped his head in submission. “Your pardon, Lord Mammal.”
“Lan-zhe reigned. He did not rule, and that made all the difference in the world between him and his son Lo-dan.” Reh-dakh explained, grooming the tip of his thin tail with his claws, “Lo-dan served the Empire just as I do, just as Great Lord Kirlin does, just as the Vizier does, just as the peasant in the field does. Just as the Great Shi-dan did and still does.” Reh-dakh sat back, adding quietly, “Think on my words, young male, and see if they lead you out of the thicket you are in.”
Shii-lak’s training overrode his questions and he rose, bowing to the noble as he heard the dismissal. “Thank you, Lord Mammal.”
“Use the back way out,” Reh-dakh ordered, rising to his hindlegs and towering over the reptile. “And know that my prayers are with you on the loss of your dam. She brought grace to the Imperial Quarters and her beauty and wisdom are missed by many.” With that the scarred mammal turned, not allowing Shii-lak time to respond. The young male bowed again and hurried out of the noble’s chamber, the alien’s words chasing around and around in his skull.
After he left, Rada flopped out onto her sleeping platform. Eye closed, she reached for the timethreads winding through and around Drakon IV, trying to sense the pattern. Nothing had shifted, although she noted a minor thread that wandered off and faded away as she “watched” with her mind. It was an option that no longer played a role in the future of Drakon IV and she wondered briefly what it had been. Then she turned her attention to what would be, or might come to be, and withdrew into herself after finding no near-term threats or knots in the time-stream. The woman dozed off.
Back in the Imperial wing, Shii-lak composed himself on his new sleeping platform. The mammal’s words both confused and comforted him, and he decided that he needed to learn more about Shi-dan, Lo-dan and the others that the mammal had named.
Ten year-turns later, the Lord Defender knelt before a new King-Emperor and renewed her oaths to Drakon IV and to the Azdhag Empire. “You may rise, Commander Reh-dakh Lord Ni Drako,” a deep voice rumbled and the mammal did as ordered, the signet on her headpiece tapping her forehead gently. The reptile now dominating the Great Throne Room studied the commander of his throneworld’s military and was pleased with what he saw. For her part, Reh-dakh liked what she’d seen and heard of the former Prince Imperial. The blotchy reptile had grown and filled out over the past years but retained his dam’s grace and wits. His sire had chosen well in naming Shii-lak as heir, Reh-dakh thought to herself as she waited for the new King-Emperor’s command.
(C) 2015, 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved
I was reading an academic paper about something completely unrelated to Day Job, and stumbled over an idea. The author was discussing different cultural patterns over time within a region, and said that (paraphrasing because I don’t have the book in hand) cultures desire change and seek out novelty and new ways of producing and working as a form of growth and evolution. I sat back and blinked, because at least four counter-examples sprang to mind.
Except… When I started really thinking about it, those examples were all groups under stress, and the changes were being offered from outside the group. Three of the groups were either Islamist or other religious groups, and the fourth was Russian peasants between 1650-end of serfdom. In the case of Russia, the reluctance of subsistence farmers to rush toward new crops and/or new technologies was based on two elements, very broadly speaking. One was pure survival. As close to the bone as farming had always been in Russia, going back into prehistory as best we can tell, there was very little room for error. Trying something new that might bring greater yields or better returns didn’t balance out the risk. It was safer to stick with what had always worked, even if it wasn’t ideal, because people knew it. The second element was that the novelties came from outside and above, from the boyars and other nobles, or worse, from neuveau riche landowners. These were people who had a track record of trouble, at least in the collective mind of a lot of peasants. If the noble liked it, it probably meant trouble, or at least made more work for the farmers without bringing much if any reward. And again, if the new thing required land that could be used for familiar crops that went to feed the family and pay taxes, well… No wonder change came slowly and with reluctance. The survival instinct was conservative in the literal sense. The group succeeded or the group starved, and novelties brought greater risk than reward.
Several writers have pointed out that pushing cultural groups into close proximity does not always bring friendship, to put it mildly, especially when one group dominates over the others in some way. Moorish Spain was NOT a tranquil haven of happy coexistence. Over time, cultural lines hardened and in-group laws were passed to ensure that “we” stayed “us” and didn’t mix with “them.” Fast forward a few hundred years, and you have groups like the Wahabists and other Salafists vehemently rejecting certain cultural and technological (and moral) innovations. “This isn’t the way it was done by the Prophet.” “This isn’t in the holy book and approved commentaries.” Note that this can apply to non-Islamic groups as well, but the Islamists are the best-articulated example. The more certain thinkers and writers were exposed to the West, the firmer their stance of opposition to ideas like legal equality of the sexes became. Certain technologies and other things are rejected as too corrupting and too tainted by their association with the Other.
To return to the archaeological paper I referred to at the start of this post, both my observation and the author’s are true. Many cultures, on the macro scale, do accept and perhaps seek out novelties and new ideas and things, turning them into status symbols or adapting them to local needs and conditions. Tools, materials like metals, concepts like religion and systems of governance, all those change over time even within cultures. Especially, I would argue, if there is not pressure from outside to change, but the idea and drive comes from inside the group and is allowed to be gradual. When stresses are applied from outside (Russian collectivization and enserfment of peasants, cultural collisions, rapid population movements that coincide with weather pattern changes), then groups balk and reject innovations and novelties. The risk is too great and threatens group survival.
That rejection can backfire. If the old ways of survival can’t be maintained, and the population won’t or can’t leave, the group might die out, like the Viking settlers of Greenland, or perhaps the Late Stone Age populations of Finland and Lapland. One is well attested to, the second has to be inferred as signs of population in Finland and Lapland declined, settlements shrank, and people seem to have become more mobile as a result of weather shifts. Pottery disappears for a while, which fits a less sedentary culture. Did people relocate away from the area, leaving the “Remainers” to find ways to adapt to the new situation? Did some groups just die out in place*? Or did harder conditions mean higher mortality rates and thus the smaller apparent population?
It’s an interesting question, cultural change, and one with a lot of twists, turns, and “insufficient data at this time.”
*Thus far, no archaeological evidence from the Baltic suggests this, but it is also a time period that has only recently really gained much archaeological attention.
I apologize for the short post. Day Job got a little busy as we are starting the race to the end of the semester.
So, as so often happens, I was looking at one band’s music video and stumbled onto a different one. The first band … a leeeeetle too much teen-angst-goth* for me at the moment, although the sound’s not bad (Blackbriar). The second band is the Italian Celtic metal group Furor Gallico. The short version is that if you like Eluvite or Leaves Eyes, you’ll like this group.
They sing in several languages: English, Lombard (an Italian dialect), and a Germanic-sounding language that might be a different Italian dialect. Their first album was pretty heavy, with a lot of growls and heavy guitar with folk instruments. Their more recent albums seem to have mellowed, with more emphasis on the flute, Celtic harp, and a softer sound. There’s still a lot of metal growls and darker metal songs on the later albums, but all melodic. It’s “beauty and the beast” metal, with male growls and female vocals, although the men do straight vocals as well on many songs.
Yes, they are considered a pagan group. I skipped over one of their more obviously pagan albums for that reason. I don’t get the unpleasant vibe from Furor Gallico that I’ve picked up from a few other groups, and what I’ve heard thus far is not actively antiChristian. In this they are like Eluvite.
I’ve noticed that I’ve become a bit more selective in the past few years as far as metal goes. I’m leaning more and more toward the melodic end of the spectrum. I’m not sure if this is me and age, or if there’s a larger trend toward darker, heavier sounds in the broad spectrum of “metal.” Reading things like Metal Hammer magazine and similar blogs and web sites, I’m seeing more reviews for dark, thrash, and very rough metal, with increasingly dark themes and subject matter. It’s not my cup of tea.
*It’s the end of the school year, and I need a lower drama level in my fun music for now. I’ll probably come back to them later and see what I think.
Cat Rotator's Quarterly 