Good Stew by 180 Proof
"Why, grandfather?"
The old man walked beside the pack animal which she guided. A sudden breeze through the trees hushed her. When the old man finally spoke, after nearly two days walk from her lover's village port, he said only in a rasp
"Here."
The young woman never doubted him on the road, even though after dusk he was blind, since he seemed to know the countryside like he knew his own village. They turned aside and went back in through the bush a ways to a clearing fresh with signs of a recent camp. The creek nearby welcomed them and before long the pack animal and fire were tended to and the pair ate without speaking again.
*
The next afternoon, about a day from where they were going (where he was taking her), the old man and the young woman were caught in a sudden downpour and neither minded much for its relief from the summer heat. Ozi snorted and shrugged off the rain, as if it woke him from a stupor, but without spilling their luggage into the mud. It was just after midday and thunder seemed to rumble from every direction.
"There. That track to the right." Already they were soaked down to the soul, as the saying goes.
"Nothing there, Papa."
Two heartbeats and then she heard heavy patter on a rooftop off to her right.
"Shelter", he said after a thunderclap faded. She nodded and lead them to what seemed in the heavy grey rain an abandoned barn or cottage. The old man held Ozi by the bridle as the young woman drew a long knife and warily made her way inside to find a large empty room with debris scattered by rodents or foxes, unshuttered windows and a few running leaks down an old charred hearth with a chimney that still stood. Musty, damp, old wood rot smell but solid. Satisfied, she lead Ozi and the old man inside, unburdened the horse and tied him to a stud at the far end of the room in case the thunder spooked him, then she built a fire as best she could with some of the wooden debris and dry kindling she had gathered on the road before the rains came. Grandfather smelled the storm coming on the morning wind he had said. As she struggled to get a spark to catch from the leak in the chimney, the old man rasped a chanty in the Old Tongue and the fire crackled to life in the hearth soon steaming from the wet stonework.
"You must teach me that," she said.
"Stay home and take the vows."
"I cannot, papa ..."
Ozi snorted loudly. "Aye," the old man muttered and turned away to find a dry spot and wait for midday supper.
Later at dusk after they had eaten and dried as much of their garments and things as could be dried the young woman doused the fire and fastened the shutters and the barely hinged heavy door as best she could before she left to gather more hay and grasses for Ozi with an old wheel barrel she had found behind the cottage. Shelter for the night, no smoke or light to give them away to unwanted guests. The rain stopped before long but the wind still swayed boughs and shook the shutters. She welcomed the rising light of the clear half-moon showing through the slats and holes in the roof.
"Why, little one?"
"Which why is that, grandfather? I'm not so little any more that only I answer. You must play the why game too" she said.
"Hmmm. A why for a why. You first."
She smiled. "I love him. I have no choice."
"No. You choose to have no choice." The old man's rasp became gravel and he opened his milky eyes wider in the gloom. "A soul only has no choice but to choose, and you have a soul."
"And you know this for sure, grandfather?"
"Nothing is for sure."
Wistfully she added, "I could have sold it to haints or maybe my man is truly a demon who stole my soul in the heat of making love –"
The old man turned and seemed to stare into her.
"Don't trifle with mysteries, little one." Sternly, "Talk of the wild spirits is no joking matter."
"Do you think the wild spirits created love, papa, just to steal our souls?"
"No. The gods created love."
"But you told me once the gods created war."
Ozi snorted and from outside not far from the cottage came a hoot of an owl.
"Yes," he said but let the night sounds speak the rest for him.
"Your turn, papa." The woman moved closer and spoke more quietly. "Why did you keep me from marrying Jaquan? Why did you come all that way, blind as you are and alone, risking yourself, just to break my heart?"
The old man reached out and touched her face recalling the tiny child orphaned and hungry he had found after the great flood, but he kept that smile to himself behind a hard mask.
"I came all that way," he rasped, "to force the choice upon you. You left and never asked my leave or for my blessing which proves to me that this Jaquan somehow made the choice for you. That is wrong and I intend to see it right."
"By playing witness against me at my own wedding and dragging me off like a runaway mare?" she said with icy laughter.
"By making sure, little one, you know what you need to know so you can properly make the choice for yourself whether to join this boy's fate or not."
"Nothing is for sure," she repeated and the old man coughed, saying as she gave him a waterskin, "and I'm not a 'little one' any more."
Ozi snorted again in his sleep.
*
Usually awoken by first light, the old man drank hot water and listened to the bustle of mid-morning bird calls by the hearth alone. When the young woman returned with Ozi, water jugs filled and skinned hares ready for the pot, she found the old man lost in thought as if he slept with eyes open oblivious to all else but his waking dreams. She put beside him more hot water with tea leaves and then set to preparing a stew with wild onions and herbs she found for midday supper. The day was cooler than yesterday as it showered on and off through the morning. Cooking kept her mind off of the strange things she saw that morning as she scouted the surrounding countryside.
"Grandfather," she began as they finished the stew. "There's an old village down in the valley towards sunrise where it seems all the people have died or run off many years ago."
The old man felt warmth on his bronzed, wind-cracked face from the sun through the open shutter. "Many villages in these lands were lost in the great flood more than twelve summers ago. Like your village, little one."
"This village is not drowned, papa. It is burned."
She doused the fire and stood up to scan the road.
"After I caught the hares and foraged a little, I was curious about the people as the land here is clearly settled with old bridges, sheds, stoneworks ... and then Ozi & I followed them till we found the village." She paused. Go on, he said, feeling her unease. "It was burned, not drowned. I've seen drowned places but these buildings are all blackened, even the ground and foot paths. And here and there cracked bones of horses, dogs, children ... I couldn't tell. All mixed together and scattered about and charred by fire. And the silence, papa, was so thick and sudden, I could not hear myself breathe."
She turned from the window and met his milky stare. He knew ...
"But there is more."
"More", he muttered.
She moved closer to the old man and sat almost touching him.
"Papa, there were statues, ugly rough stones shaped like ... like angry or terrified men without faces just mouths open to scream. I saw three, maybe four, about the village. Blackened by fire too but ... not burnt somehow. I did not look inside any houses or sheds, I didn't want to find others. It's all so still like nothing there ever moved."
The young woman tried to read between the deep lines of that dark face. The old man shut his eyes.
"I touched one of them," she said, "and ..."
Opening his eyes "And what?"
"And the statue trembled, like when you touch someone who lightly sleeps."
They sat silently for what felt like a half day.
"This land men once named Nemsis. The village too, I reckon, one of several further on down the valley and thereabouts. Very prosperous, rich farms and fine crafts, settled by free peoples without a sovereign. It was said that local princes in those days let them be for tribute in the form of taxes and their sons in times of war. But that was long ago, before my grandfathers' grandfathers were born. And there has been no wars here in these or any lands this side of the great sea since my mother's father was a boy."
"Was Nemsis attacked in battle by their enemies?"
"No." He signed. "And yes."
They suddenly heard horses and wagons, donkeys and the weary banter of women and men from the road seemingly on the move south towards the coast. A merchant caravan. Maybe pilgrims, though holy festivals were no longer as common as they were in the old days.
"What does it mean no and yes?" She stood and looked out to the road barely visible through the overgrowth.
"It means the sons of Nemsis attacked Nemsis and slaughtered their own kin and friends."
"What?"
The caravan of pilgrims passed slowly like one of the Three Rivers they will have to cross to get home.
"No wars in generarions, girl. Why do you think?"
"Because the gods forbid it –"
"No!" The old man dryly laughed. "No, they demand it, but now men refuse. Not from cowardice, mind you, as your young brave Jaquan shows, all ready to run off across the sea to join foreign wars for coin and booty. Brave fool."
"Stop it, grandfather."
"Men refuse to make the blood sacrifices of ritual mass slaughter which the gods demand because the Daughters of Men a long while ago wisely cursed this land so that 'those who gather in great numbers and butcher each other will return to their own homes mad with bloodlust to blindly butcher wives, children, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, friends, everyone they love."
Her eyes met the old man's hard milky gaze.
"Love, my child," he rasped. "Is the first gift of the gods. But now it's a curse, a warning, a fate."
"Who, who are these –"
"Daughters of Men? Crones, grandmothers still grieving their grands orphaned by carnage, themselves once mothers gutted and wives widowed by butchered brave sons and husbands."
She shuddered and thought of lighting a fire though the day was still warm.
"Witches."
"More than that, I fear," he said with a nod.
"And that's why my Jaquan – men like Jaquan sail across the great sea to war rather than fight here?"
"To seek glory and please their gods and escape the curse because many believe those distant lands are not so cursed."
"But foreigners go to war still, merchants say in the markets, so the witches' curse cannot be on those lands –"
"Or the curse may fall on all men born of this land, here, this side of the great sea." Eyes closed, the old man fell into whispering that she could not make out as if he prayed though she never knew him to address any god. "Those rough statues are no statues. They were men once, sons, husbands, fathers, maybe fallen in battle or minds broken by rage and butchery when the battle was won."
"You mean to say ..."
Raspy cough. "I mean to say those men marched back home to Nemsis and killed everyone before the villagers knew to fight back or flee." Bones creaked as the old man stretched his arms. "Oh I'm guessing, little one, but I believe I don't miss the mark by much for in my youth the Daughters' Curse was often discussed in the open to warn us boys. These soldiers were striken, I believe, when the curse was fulfilled, and maybe at dawn, maybe dusk, it turned them to stone even as they woke to the nightmare of the evil they had done."
"I don't believe –" she started shaking her head.
"Words may lie but your eyes saw true."
"But why would the gods allow it? Witches or no, just old women, the gods must have stronger magic to protect –"
"The gods?" The milky eyes seemed to laugh but his tone was grave. "Remember this, always, mortals are but insects to the god. They do not hate our kind so much as they envy us our souls because a soul can choose to give itself or take what she can, but the gods, they cannot choose, the gods only take and twist what they can take until it breaks. The gods are not evil simply because, for all they possess, they lack choice. And for all we mortals lack, we only possess choice."
Bird songs trilled in the distance and she no longer heard the caravan passing by down the road towards Jaquan's fishing village.
"This too, young one, is most important."
Jaquan ...
"The gods took mortal hope and fear and twisted them like a braid into love," he said to Ozi's side of the room who replied with a snort. "To confound our choosings and trouble our souls. And this is why the Daughter's Curse is so powerful. It comes from the gods themselves, but out of love lost, that deepest love of she who bore you and me and all those men who murder each other in the name of their gods, every womb violated by a lost taken stolen love."
She wiped tears from the old man's craggy face and he welcomed her touch.
"'Wise as a woman's tears' the old song goes." He then took her hands. "Do not think me an old fool just telling tales of things mortals are not meant to know just to frighten or confuse."
"No, Papa. No. I-I believe you ..." The old horse loudly broke wind and papa shooed him for being noisy and nosy. She went on. "But people still make offerings and pray to the gods. Well, not you, just everyone else it seems. They mean us no good, it sounds like, so why do we pray if, as you say, all they want men to do is kill other men who others must love. Is that not evil?"
He mumbled to himself that he had to make water soon. Mud too if he could manage it. How many days had it been?
"The gods. Hmmm. Thwarted by the Daughter's Curse, the land is free of wars over three generations. No great blood sacrifices of men and beasts. Princes and merchants settle their disputes with games of chance or duels, and some go in for rumors of assassins and other intrigues. Bah. For the common folk we live as we may for a good harvest or daily catch and the hunt. Peace. Life is hard for us but not so hard as it once was with seasons of constant slaughter. Without the blood orgy of war to drink from, the gods now sleep like the dead the oracles say. The Daughters of Men have gifted our peoples with the choice: either peace or kinslaying."
"And what if the gods awaken again?"
Just then he abruptly stood and excused himself with "Pray the bastards stay asleep, confess all your wicked thoughts and secrets with your prayers." The old man felt his way to the door, brushing off her help, and then outside went on talking as if she followed. He had to make water or mud and so she had time to light the fire and heat water for tea. Ozi needed looking after as well. A space of quiet for her to wonder whether the old man was just spinning tales or were his grim words true. And Jaquan? Is this what Papa meant by my "choice to join his fate"? She shook her head and the horse snorted and she fed him apples and onions through tears that would not fall.
*
Dusk came early with darkened clouds that brought the smell rain on the wind. The young woman went out to find the old man sitting on a lichen covered boulder still warm from the summer sun. He heard her approach and reached out his hand for her to steady him as he stepped down. She looked in the direction of the blackened village which could not be seen from where she stood and for the failing light. Far away thunder came from the north which reminded her of home. And the mighty Three Rivers she would not see again. The old man's strong calloused hand took hers and she guided him back to the shelter to settle him down on the floor in the corner with the baggage and bring him the hare stew with chunks of old hard bread to soften in the broth. They ate quitely as the thunder rolled closer. Ozi whinnied and his master sang an old wordless tune that gentled the horse despite the thunder. After supper the young woman fastened the shutters and door as the winds gusted. They kept the fire a while longer as the rain came.
"Ah, good stew," he belched and scratched and drank hot water. "So, little one, in the morning I take the road home, what do you choose? Your fate or Jaquan's?"
She took a few breaths.
"I choose neither." The hearth fire crackled and hissed as the rain fell. The old man sucked his broken teeth and waited. "My choice agrees with Jaquan's, but it is still mine."
He nodded and felt his unshaven cheeks warm from the fire.
"I believe your strange tale, Papa. I do. The village and the stone men tell me there is much truth in it, dark and evil too, haunted ..."
"And ..."
"Jaquan sells his service to a mercanery company like his father before him who has not come home from the wars across the great sea since Jaquan was a boy. His mother still waits like the other fishwives in the port do. Like I would have too, probably with a baby in my belly, had you not spoke against us marrying. Jaquan is a scout and not a fighter so he will go with the company over the sea to look for his father or where he fell. He must go there out of love. I feel that."
The old man closed his eyes and after a time opened them abruptly. "I will sleep when you're done. Go on."
She went on. "Jaquan goes away soon to bring his father home or find the place he fell. I chose to go too so that I may bring Jaquan home. I love him, grandfather. If the worst is true, and if he must go to battle, then I choose to go with him."
"And if the Daughters' Curse is not just on this land but on her sons ..."
"Sons. Yes, but you did not say 'daughters' of this land are cursed."
She moved closer to the old man and took his hand which now seemed cold and frail as if the hearth was too far away to warm him, and said:
"I will keep him away from these shores and from kinslaughter so as not to become a scream silenced forever inside a statue without a face. And failing that, I will free him from this curse with my knife. Because I love him, papa. I love Jaquan. Many things you told me today I do not understand but this feels true in my heart. So give me your leave to go now, grandfather, and your blessings."
Ozi hoofed the dirt floor and snorted. The downpour on the roof grew louder suddenly and leaks ran rivulets down the walls and hearth which doused the fire. Somewhere an owl hooted and the shadows rustled.
"Nothing is for sure, little one."
The old man walked beside the pack animal which she guided. A sudden breeze through the trees hushed her. When the old man finally spoke, after nearly two days walk from her lover's village port, he said only in a rasp
"Here."
The young woman never doubted him on the road, even though after dusk he was blind, since he seemed to know the countryside like he knew his own village. They turned aside and went back in through the bush a ways to a clearing fresh with signs of a recent camp. The creek nearby welcomed them and before long the pack animal and fire were tended to and the pair ate without speaking again.
*
The next afternoon, about a day from where they were going (where he was taking her), the old man and the young woman were caught in a sudden downpour and neither minded much for its relief from the summer heat. Ozi snorted and shrugged off the rain, as if it woke him from a stupor, but without spilling their luggage into the mud. It was just after midday and thunder seemed to rumble from every direction.
"There. That track to the right." Already they were soaked down to the soul, as the saying goes.
"Nothing there, Papa."
Two heartbeats and then she heard heavy patter on a rooftop off to her right.
"Shelter", he said after a thunderclap faded. She nodded and lead them to what seemed in the heavy grey rain an abandoned barn or cottage. The old man held Ozi by the bridle as the young woman drew a long knife and warily made her way inside to find a large empty room with debris scattered by rodents or foxes, unshuttered windows and a few running leaks down an old charred hearth with a chimney that still stood. Musty, damp, old wood rot smell but solid. Satisfied, she lead Ozi and the old man inside, unburdened the horse and tied him to a stud at the far end of the room in case the thunder spooked him, then she built a fire as best she could with some of the wooden debris and dry kindling she had gathered on the road before the rains came. Grandfather smelled the storm coming on the morning wind he had said. As she struggled to get a spark to catch from the leak in the chimney, the old man rasped a chanty in the Old Tongue and the fire crackled to life in the hearth soon steaming from the wet stonework.
"You must teach me that," she said.
"Stay home and take the vows."
"I cannot, papa ..."
Ozi snorted loudly. "Aye," the old man muttered and turned away to find a dry spot and wait for midday supper.
Later at dusk after they had eaten and dried as much of their garments and things as could be dried the young woman doused the fire and fastened the shutters and the barely hinged heavy door as best she could before she left to gather more hay and grasses for Ozi with an old wheel barrel she had found behind the cottage. Shelter for the night, no smoke or light to give them away to unwanted guests. The rain stopped before long but the wind still swayed boughs and shook the shutters. She welcomed the rising light of the clear half-moon showing through the slats and holes in the roof.
"Why, little one?"
"Which why is that, grandfather? I'm not so little any more that only I answer. You must play the why game too" she said.
"Hmmm. A why for a why. You first."
She smiled. "I love him. I have no choice."
"No. You choose to have no choice." The old man's rasp became gravel and he opened his milky eyes wider in the gloom. "A soul only has no choice but to choose, and you have a soul."
"And you know this for sure, grandfather?"
"Nothing is for sure."
Wistfully she added, "I could have sold it to haints or maybe my man is truly a demon who stole my soul in the heat of making love –"
The old man turned and seemed to stare into her.
"Don't trifle with mysteries, little one." Sternly, "Talk of the wild spirits is no joking matter."
"Do you think the wild spirits created love, papa, just to steal our souls?"
"No. The gods created love."
"But you told me once the gods created war."
Ozi snorted and from outside not far from the cottage came a hoot of an owl.
"Yes," he said but let the night sounds speak the rest for him.
"Your turn, papa." The woman moved closer and spoke more quietly. "Why did you keep me from marrying Jaquan? Why did you come all that way, blind as you are and alone, risking yourself, just to break my heart?"
The old man reached out and touched her face recalling the tiny child orphaned and hungry he had found after the great flood, but he kept that smile to himself behind a hard mask.
"I came all that way," he rasped, "to force the choice upon you. You left and never asked my leave or for my blessing which proves to me that this Jaquan somehow made the choice for you. That is wrong and I intend to see it right."
"By playing witness against me at my own wedding and dragging me off like a runaway mare?" she said with icy laughter.
"By making sure, little one, you know what you need to know so you can properly make the choice for yourself whether to join this boy's fate or not."
"Nothing is for sure," she repeated and the old man coughed, saying as she gave him a waterskin, "and I'm not a 'little one' any more."
Ozi snorted again in his sleep.
*
Usually awoken by first light, the old man drank hot water and listened to the bustle of mid-morning bird calls by the hearth alone. When the young woman returned with Ozi, water jugs filled and skinned hares ready for the pot, she found the old man lost in thought as if he slept with eyes open oblivious to all else but his waking dreams. She put beside him more hot water with tea leaves and then set to preparing a stew with wild onions and herbs she found for midday supper. The day was cooler than yesterday as it showered on and off through the morning. Cooking kept her mind off of the strange things she saw that morning as she scouted the surrounding countryside.
"Grandfather," she began as they finished the stew. "There's an old village down in the valley towards sunrise where it seems all the people have died or run off many years ago."
The old man felt warmth on his bronzed, wind-cracked face from the sun through the open shutter. "Many villages in these lands were lost in the great flood more than twelve summers ago. Like your village, little one."
"This village is not drowned, papa. It is burned."
She doused the fire and stood up to scan the road.
"After I caught the hares and foraged a little, I was curious about the people as the land here is clearly settled with old bridges, sheds, stoneworks ... and then Ozi & I followed them till we found the village." She paused. Go on, he said, feeling her unease. "It was burned, not drowned. I've seen drowned places but these buildings are all blackened, even the ground and foot paths. And here and there cracked bones of horses, dogs, children ... I couldn't tell. All mixed together and scattered about and charred by fire. And the silence, papa, was so thick and sudden, I could not hear myself breathe."
She turned from the window and met his milky stare. He knew ...
"But there is more."
"More", he muttered.
She moved closer to the old man and sat almost touching him.
"Papa, there were statues, ugly rough stones shaped like ... like angry or terrified men without faces just mouths open to scream. I saw three, maybe four, about the village. Blackened by fire too but ... not burnt somehow. I did not look inside any houses or sheds, I didn't want to find others. It's all so still like nothing there ever moved."
The young woman tried to read between the deep lines of that dark face. The old man shut his eyes.
"I touched one of them," she said, "and ..."
Opening his eyes "And what?"
"And the statue trembled, like when you touch someone who lightly sleeps."
They sat silently for what felt like a half day.
"This land men once named Nemsis. The village too, I reckon, one of several further on down the valley and thereabouts. Very prosperous, rich farms and fine crafts, settled by free peoples without a sovereign. It was said that local princes in those days let them be for tribute in the form of taxes and their sons in times of war. But that was long ago, before my grandfathers' grandfathers were born. And there has been no wars here in these or any lands this side of the great sea since my mother's father was a boy."
"Was Nemsis attacked in battle by their enemies?"
"No." He signed. "And yes."
They suddenly heard horses and wagons, donkeys and the weary banter of women and men from the road seemingly on the move south towards the coast. A merchant caravan. Maybe pilgrims, though holy festivals were no longer as common as they were in the old days.
"What does it mean no and yes?" She stood and looked out to the road barely visible through the overgrowth.
"It means the sons of Nemsis attacked Nemsis and slaughtered their own kin and friends."
"What?"
The caravan of pilgrims passed slowly like one of the Three Rivers they will have to cross to get home.
"No wars in generarions, girl. Why do you think?"
"Because the gods forbid it –"
"No!" The old man dryly laughed. "No, they demand it, but now men refuse. Not from cowardice, mind you, as your young brave Jaquan shows, all ready to run off across the sea to join foreign wars for coin and booty. Brave fool."
"Stop it, grandfather."
"Men refuse to make the blood sacrifices of ritual mass slaughter which the gods demand because the Daughters of Men a long while ago wisely cursed this land so that 'those who gather in great numbers and butcher each other will return to their own homes mad with bloodlust to blindly butcher wives, children, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, friends, everyone they love."
Her eyes met the old man's hard milky gaze.
"Love, my child," he rasped. "Is the first gift of the gods. But now it's a curse, a warning, a fate."
"Who, who are these –"
"Daughters of Men? Crones, grandmothers still grieving their grands orphaned by carnage, themselves once mothers gutted and wives widowed by butchered brave sons and husbands."
She shuddered and thought of lighting a fire though the day was still warm.
"Witches."
"More than that, I fear," he said with a nod.
"And that's why my Jaquan – men like Jaquan sail across the great sea to war rather than fight here?"
"To seek glory and please their gods and escape the curse because many believe those distant lands are not so cursed."
"But foreigners go to war still, merchants say in the markets, so the witches' curse cannot be on those lands –"
"Or the curse may fall on all men born of this land, here, this side of the great sea." Eyes closed, the old man fell into whispering that she could not make out as if he prayed though she never knew him to address any god. "Those rough statues are no statues. They were men once, sons, husbands, fathers, maybe fallen in battle or minds broken by rage and butchery when the battle was won."
"You mean to say ..."
Raspy cough. "I mean to say those men marched back home to Nemsis and killed everyone before the villagers knew to fight back or flee." Bones creaked as the old man stretched his arms. "Oh I'm guessing, little one, but I believe I don't miss the mark by much for in my youth the Daughters' Curse was often discussed in the open to warn us boys. These soldiers were striken, I believe, when the curse was fulfilled, and maybe at dawn, maybe dusk, it turned them to stone even as they woke to the nightmare of the evil they had done."
"I don't believe –" she started shaking her head.
"Words may lie but your eyes saw true."
"But why would the gods allow it? Witches or no, just old women, the gods must have stronger magic to protect –"
"The gods?" The milky eyes seemed to laugh but his tone was grave. "Remember this, always, mortals are but insects to the god. They do not hate our kind so much as they envy us our souls because a soul can choose to give itself or take what she can, but the gods, they cannot choose, the gods only take and twist what they can take until it breaks. The gods are not evil simply because, for all they possess, they lack choice. And for all we mortals lack, we only possess choice."
Bird songs trilled in the distance and she no longer heard the caravan passing by down the road towards Jaquan's fishing village.
"This too, young one, is most important."
Jaquan ...
"The gods took mortal hope and fear and twisted them like a braid into love," he said to Ozi's side of the room who replied with a snort. "To confound our choosings and trouble our souls. And this is why the Daughter's Curse is so powerful. It comes from the gods themselves, but out of love lost, that deepest love of she who bore you and me and all those men who murder each other in the name of their gods, every womb violated by a lost taken stolen love."
She wiped tears from the old man's craggy face and he welcomed her touch.
"'Wise as a woman's tears' the old song goes." He then took her hands. "Do not think me an old fool just telling tales of things mortals are not meant to know just to frighten or confuse."
"No, Papa. No. I-I believe you ..." The old horse loudly broke wind and papa shooed him for being noisy and nosy. She went on. "But people still make offerings and pray to the gods. Well, not you, just everyone else it seems. They mean us no good, it sounds like, so why do we pray if, as you say, all they want men to do is kill other men who others must love. Is that not evil?"
He mumbled to himself that he had to make water soon. Mud too if he could manage it. How many days had it been?
"The gods. Hmmm. Thwarted by the Daughter's Curse, the land is free of wars over three generations. No great blood sacrifices of men and beasts. Princes and merchants settle their disputes with games of chance or duels, and some go in for rumors of assassins and other intrigues. Bah. For the common folk we live as we may for a good harvest or daily catch and the hunt. Peace. Life is hard for us but not so hard as it once was with seasons of constant slaughter. Without the blood orgy of war to drink from, the gods now sleep like the dead the oracles say. The Daughters of Men have gifted our peoples with the choice: either peace or kinslaying."
"And what if the gods awaken again?"
Just then he abruptly stood and excused himself with "Pray the bastards stay asleep, confess all your wicked thoughts and secrets with your prayers." The old man felt his way to the door, brushing off her help, and then outside went on talking as if she followed. He had to make water or mud and so she had time to light the fire and heat water for tea. Ozi needed looking after as well. A space of quiet for her to wonder whether the old man was just spinning tales or were his grim words true. And Jaquan? Is this what Papa meant by my "choice to join his fate"? She shook her head and the horse snorted and she fed him apples and onions through tears that would not fall.
*
Dusk came early with darkened clouds that brought the smell rain on the wind. The young woman went out to find the old man sitting on a lichen covered boulder still warm from the summer sun. He heard her approach and reached out his hand for her to steady him as he stepped down. She looked in the direction of the blackened village which could not be seen from where she stood and for the failing light. Far away thunder came from the north which reminded her of home. And the mighty Three Rivers she would not see again. The old man's strong calloused hand took hers and she guided him back to the shelter to settle him down on the floor in the corner with the baggage and bring him the hare stew with chunks of old hard bread to soften in the broth. They ate quitely as the thunder rolled closer. Ozi whinnied and his master sang an old wordless tune that gentled the horse despite the thunder. After supper the young woman fastened the shutters and door as the winds gusted. They kept the fire a while longer as the rain came.
"Ah, good stew," he belched and scratched and drank hot water. "So, little one, in the morning I take the road home, what do you choose? Your fate or Jaquan's?"
She took a few breaths.
"I choose neither." The hearth fire crackled and hissed as the rain fell. The old man sucked his broken teeth and waited. "My choice agrees with Jaquan's, but it is still mine."
He nodded and felt his unshaven cheeks warm from the fire.
"I believe your strange tale, Papa. I do. The village and the stone men tell me there is much truth in it, dark and evil too, haunted ..."
"And ..."
"Jaquan sells his service to a mercanery company like his father before him who has not come home from the wars across the great sea since Jaquan was a boy. His mother still waits like the other fishwives in the port do. Like I would have too, probably with a baby in my belly, had you not spoke against us marrying. Jaquan is a scout and not a fighter so he will go with the company over the sea to look for his father or where he fell. He must go there out of love. I feel that."
The old man closed his eyes and after a time opened them abruptly. "I will sleep when you're done. Go on."
She went on. "Jaquan goes away soon to bring his father home or find the place he fell. I chose to go too so that I may bring Jaquan home. I love him, grandfather. If the worst is true, and if he must go to battle, then I choose to go with him."
"And if the Daughters' Curse is not just on this land but on her sons ..."
"Sons. Yes, but you did not say 'daughters' of this land are cursed."
She moved closer to the old man and took his hand which now seemed cold and frail as if the hearth was too far away to warm him, and said:
"I will keep him away from these shores and from kinslaughter so as not to become a scream silenced forever inside a statue without a face. And failing that, I will free him from this curse with my knife. Because I love him, papa. I love Jaquan. Many things you told me today I do not understand but this feels true in my heart. So give me your leave to go now, grandfather, and your blessings."
Ozi hoofed the dirt floor and snorted. The downpour on the roof grew louder suddenly and leaks ran rivulets down the walls and hearth which doused the fire. Somewhere an owl hooted and the shadows rustled.
"Nothing is for sure, little one."
Comments (26)
My constructive criticism: To my eyes there was a lot of telling. Some of it could have been easily been showing i.e. the girl going to the cursed village.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=upqpS9TTc2c :smirk:
Anyway.
This one is more folklorish than naturalistic, and needed to be longer so the worldbuilding wouldn't be so compressed and talky. The title's double entendre is weak too (unless it's for a chapter in a novella, etc).
I'll have to come back to this one ...
At last, a short story containing a recipe for a yummy meal.
No worries, just follow the instructions step-by-step you can't go wrong. Unless you're me.
A Domestically-challenged Goddess who leaves the kitchen like a war zone.
So, what kind of a 'good stew' can I burn to cinders ?
Quoting Baden
Good question. Why, what, how...and why would grandad have the answers ?
Oh, he's playing hard to get. ''Here" is the raspy response.
He and the young woman turn off the road to camp for the night. Even though he is blind, he knows this countryside well. She trusts him. Even in silence.
Next day, a downpour; again grandad leads the way
Quoting Baden
Hmm. Today, we usually say 'soaked to the skin or bone' - what kind of a place is this ?
Mystical ? Spiritual ?
And in what time relative to us...ancient or future ? Where are we ?
The girl, let's call her Anna, anticipating danger, draws a long knife and searches the run-down shelter. Safe and so they settle.
Quoting Baden
Here, the old man (hereafter OM) chants and casts a spell in an ancient language. Mysterious ways.
Impressing Anna who asks to be taught. No way. Unless, perhaps she agrees to what he wants.
Quoting Baden
What vows and to whom, why and why not. The reader has more questions.
Later on, after supper OM has his own.
Quoting Baden
The answer reveals Anna (A.) has a love and she had no choice.
OM sets her straight - she chooses to have no choice.
Quoting Baden
Anna questions the truth or certainty of that knowledge or knowing.
The reader might too - it's an eternal preoccupation in philosophy and religion.
The OM replies sagely
Quoting Baden
Quoting Baden
For this A. gets a stern rebuke and told not to mess with wild spirits.
Discussion re what Gods make: Love or War.
OM's turn to answer.
Quoting Baden
Quoting Baden
OM seems to think this is his due, after all he had rescued her as a hungry orphan and brought her up.
Talking about hunger, still no mention of this 'Good Stew'...unless, unless...
It's a 'God Puzzle'...or an anxiety over what is the right thing to do.
A different kind of a recipe to follow, for a good life.
What would form the basis...why knowledge, of course.
OM wants to make sure she knows what she needs to know before she can 'properly' choose to join in
Jaquan's fate or not.
A. is a quick learner. Regurgitating his words ' Nothing is for sure' and rejects his calling her 'little one'.
Next day, she is up and about early - foraging and killing a hare which she skins.
Quoting Baden
At last, we have the 'Good Stew' and we can wonder about the symbolism of it being a Hare in the pot.
The herbs no doubt including sage. We are in the midst of a Sagacious Sage, after all.
A. tells OM about her morning and her curiosity about an old village.
A great description follows of the silence, the charring, the 'statue' of a terrified young man who trembled at her touch.
OM relates the story of Nemesis; the Gods ( Bad ) and the Daughter's Curse ( Good) or so I think.
Quoting Baden
Again, the issue of Souls and Choice. An either/or choice.
Quoting Baden
Mystery moves on...
To OM.
Quoting Baden
The author dishes up a 'Good Stew' - questioning what is the right thing to do.
Anna has become wise.
Quoting Baden
But grandfather has the last word:
Quoting Baden
And so we rest easy in uncertainty.
No perfect recipe to follow...but perhaps a few guiding principles. To fare well, along the way.
Thanks. For a glimpse into a never-ending tale :pray:
Quoting Baden
I like her solution/resolve. We don't need to follow the old recipes though I'm still unsure of why the title was Good Stew. If you don't like the sympathetic affect of carrots on your soul, you can leave them out... Unless the ingredient you're craving is evoked by Jaquan, those ecstatic and terrible manifestations of nature that are synonymous with the gods (and their toxic desire for fried potatoes), driving us to and fro in our becoming... What tragic fate lies in wait.
Yes. That is a stirring quote made by someone now armed with the knowledge of the past.
The images of the village made a deep impact, as did the explanation by the old man.
Even so, she has not fully understood all that the grandfather has said * and makes her choice following what she feels is true in her heart.
She is resolved to do that, but 'nothing is for sure' .
We can only do our best under changing circumstances. The heart and mind are not always true.
* I don't understand all of this story either. It takes more than one read, and even then.
Quoting 180 Proof
Yes. I hope you do.
I did and I still don't get it ... except the grub. :yum:
Glad it's not just me :up:
You like hare stew ? :gasp:
Maybe the story ends prematurely?
Reminds me of this…
The threat of guaranteed mutual destruction and the annihilation of all that we love has lead to a lasting peace, but the fate of the world may still be decided by a thousand cuts, or a thousand kisses. Choose wisely.
by Ben Ward
(draft 1Aug21)
Why, grandfather?"
The old man walked beside the pack animal which she guided. A sudden breeze through the trees hushed her. When the old man finally spoke, after nearly two days walk from her lover's village port, he said only in a rasp
"Here."
The young woman never doubted him on the road, even though after dusk he was blind, since he seemed to know the countryside like he knew his own village. They turned aside and went back in through the bush a ways to a clearing fresh with signs of a recent camp. The creek nearby welcomed them and before long the pack animal and fire were tended to and the pair ate without speaking again.
*
The next afternoon, about a day from where they were going (where he was taking her), the old man and the young woman were caught in a sudden downpour and neither minded much for its relief from the summer heat. Ozi snorted and shrugged off the rain, as if it woke him from a stupor, but without spilling their luggage into the mud. It was just after midday and thunder seemed to rumble from every direction.
"There. That track to the right." Already they were soaked down to the soul, as the saying goes.
"Nothing there, Papa."
Two heartbeats and then she heard heavy patter on a rooftop off to her right.
"Shelter", he said after a thunderclap faded. She nodded and lead them to what seemed in the heavy grey rain an abandoned barn or cottage. The old man held Ozi by the bridle as the young woman drew a long knife and warily made her way inside to find a large empty room with debris scattered by rodents or foxes, unshuttered windows and a few running leaks down an old charred hearth with a chimney that still stood. Musty, damp, old wood rot smell but solid. Satisfied, she lead Ozi and the old man inside, unburdened the horse and tied him to a stud at the far end of the room in case the thunder spooked him, then she built a fire as best she could with some of the wooden debris and dry kindling she had gathered on the road before the rains came. Grandfather smelled the storm coming on the morning wind he had said. As she struggled to get a spark to catch from the leak in the chimney, the old man rasped a chanty in the Old Tongue and the fire crackled to life in the hearth soon steaming from the wet stonework.
"You must teach me that," she said.
"Stay home and take the vows."
"I cannot, papa ..."
Ozi snorted loudly. "Aye," the old man muttered and turned away to find a dry spot and wait for midday supper.
Later at dusk after they had eaten and dried as much of their garments and things as could be dried the young woman doused the fire and fastened the shutters and the barely hinged heavy door as best she could before she left to gather more hay and grasses for Ozi with an old wheel barrel she had found behind the cottage. Shelter for the night, no smoke or light to give them away to unwanted guests. The rain stopped before long but the wind still swayed boughs and shook the shutters. She welcomed the rising light of the clear half-moon showing through the slats and holes in the roof.
"Why, little one?"
"Which why is that, grandfather? I'm not so little any more that only I answer. You must play the why game too" she said.
"Hmmm. A why for a why. You first."
She smiled. "I love him. I have no choice."
"No. You choose to have no choice." The old man's rasp became gravel and he opened his milky eyes wider in the gloom. "A soul only has no choice but to choose, and you have a soul."
"And you know this for sure, grandfather?"
"Nothing is for sure."
Wistfully she added, "I could have sold it to haints or maybe my man is truly a demon who stole my soul in the heat of making love –"
The old man turned and seemed to stare into her.
"Don't trifle with mysteries, little one." Sternly, "Talk of the wild spirits is no joking matter."
"Do you think the wild spirits created love, papa, just to steal our souls?"
"No. The gods created love."
"But you told me once the gods created war."
Ozi snorted and from outside not far from the cottage came a hoot of an owl.
"Yes," he said but let the night sounds speak the rest for him.
"Your turn, papa." The woman moved closer and spoke more quietly. "Why did you keep me from marrying Jaquan? Why did you come all that way, blind as you are and alone, risking yourself, just to break my heart?"
The old man reached out and touched her face recalling the tiny child orphaned and hungry he had found after the great flood, but he kept that smile to himself behind a hard mask.
"I came all that way," he rasped, "to force the choice upon you. You left and never asked my leave or for my blessing which proves to me that this Jaquan somehow made the choice for you. That is wrong and I intend to see it right."
"By playing witness against me at my own wedding and dragging me off like a runaway mare?" she said with icy laughter.
"By making sure, little one, you know what you need to know so you can properly make the choice for yourself whether to join this boy's fate or not."
"Nothing is for sure," she repeated and the old man coughed, saying as she gave him a waterskin, "and I'm not a 'little one' any more."
Ozi snorted again in his sleep.
*
Usually awoken by first light, the old man drank hot water and listened to the bustle of mid-morning bird calls by the hearth alone. When the young woman returned with Ozi, water jugs filled and skinned hares ready for the pot, she found the old man lost in thought as if he slept with eyes open oblivious to all else but his waking dreams. She put beside him more hot water with tea leaves and then set to preparing a stew with wild onions and herbs she found for midday supper. The day was cooler than yesterday as it showered on and off through the morning. Cooking kept her mind off of the strange things she saw that morning as she scouted the surrounding countryside.
"Grandfather," she began as they finished the stew. "There's an old village down in the valley towards sunrise where it seems all the people have died or run off many years ago."
The old man felt warmth on his bronzed, wind-cracked face from the sun through the open shutter. "Many villages in these lands were lost in the great flood more than twelve summers ago. Like your village, little one."
"This village is not drowned, papa. It is burned."
She doused the fire and stood up to scan the road.
"After I caught the hares and foraged a little, I was curious about the people as the land here is clearly settled with old bridges, sheds, stoneworks ... and then Ozi & I followed them till we found the village." She paused. Go on, he said, feeling her unease. "It was burned, not drowned. I've seen drowned places but these buildings are all blackened, even the ground and foot paths. And here and there cracked bones of horses, dogs, children ... I couldn't tell. All mixed together and scattered about and charred by fire. And the silence, papa, was so thick and sudden, I could not hear myself breathe."
She turned from the window and met his milky stare. He knew ...
"But there is more."
"More", he muttered.
She moved closer to the old man and sat almost touching him.
"Papa, there were statues, ugly rough stones shaped like ... like angry or terrified men without faces just mouths open to scream. I saw three, maybe four, about the village. Blackened by fire too but ... not burnt somehow. I did not look inside any houses or sheds, I didn't want to find others. It's all so still like nothing there ever moved."
The young woman tried to read between the deep lines of that dark face. The old man shut his eyes.
"I touched one of them," she said, "and ..."
Opening his eyes "And what?"
"And the statue trembled, like when you touch someone who lightly sleeps."
They sat silently for what felt like a half day.
"This land men once named Nemsis. The village too, I reckon, one of several further on down the valley and thereabouts. Very prosperous, rich farms and fine crafts, settled by free peoples without a sovereign. It was said that local princes in those days let them be for tribute in the form of taxes and their sons in times of war. But that was long ago, before my grandfathers' grandfathers were born. And there has been no wars here in these or any lands this side of the great sea since my mother's father was a boy."
"Was Nemsis attacked in battle by their enemies?"
"No." He signed. "And yes."
They suddenly heard horses and wagons, donkeys and the weary banter of women and men from the road seemingly on the move south towards the coast. A merchant caravan. Maybe pilgrims, though holy festivals were no longer as common as they were in the old days.
"What does it mean no and yes?" She stood and looked out to the road barely visible through the overgrowth.
"It means the sons of Nemsis attacked Nemsis and slaughtered their own kin and friends."
"What?"
The caravan of pilgrims passed slowly like one of the Three Rivers they will have to cross to get home.
"No wars in generarions, girl. Why do you think?"
"Because the gods forbid it –"
"No!" The old man dryly laughed. "No, they demand it, but now men refuse. Not from cowardice, mind you, as your young brave Jaquan shows, all ready to run off across the sea to join foreign wars for coin and booty. Brave fool."
"Stop it, grandfather."
"Men refuse to make the blood sacrifices of ritual mass slaughter which the gods demand because the Daughters of Men a long while ago wisely cursed this land so that 'those who gather in great numbers and butcher each other will return to their own homes mad with bloodlust to blindly butcher wives, children, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, friends, everyone they love."
Her eyes met the old man's hard milky gaze.
"Love, my child," he rasped. "Is the first gift of the gods. But now it's a curse, a warning, a fate."
"Who, who are these –"
"Daughters of Men? Crones, grandmothers still grieving their grands orphaned by carnage, themselves once mothers gutted and wives widowed by butchered brave sons and husbands."
She shuddered and thought of lighting a fire though the day was still warm.
"Witches."
"More than that, I fear," he said with a nod.
"And that's why my Jaquan – men like Jaquan sail across the great sea to war rather than fight here?"
"To seek glory and please their gods and escape the curse because many believe those distant lands are not so cursed."
"But foreigners go to war still, merchants say in the markets, so the witches' curse cannot be on those lands –"
"Or the curse may fall on all men born of this land, here, this side of the great sea." Eyes closed, the old man fell into whispering that she could not make out as if he prayed though she never knew him to address any god. "Those rough statues are no statues. They were men once, sons, husbands, fathers, maybe fallen in battle or minds broken by rage and butchery when the battle was won."
"You mean to say ..."
Raspy cough. "I mean to say those men marched back home to Nemsis and killed everyone before the villagers knew to fight back or flee." Bones creaked as the old man stretched his arms. "Oh I'm guessing, little one, but I believe I don't miss the mark by much for in my youth the Daughters' Curse was often discussed in the open to warn us boys. These soldiers were striken, I believe, when the curse was fulfilled, and maybe at dawn, maybe dusk, it turned them to stone even as they woke to the nightmare of the evil they had done."
"I don't believe –" she started shaking her head.
"Words may lie but your eyes saw true."
"But why would the gods allow it? Witches or no, just old women, the gods must have stronger magic to protect –"
"The gods?" The milky eyes seemed to laugh but his tone was grave. "Remember this, always, mortals are but insects to the god. They do not hate our kind so much as they envy us our souls because a soul can choose to give itself or take what she can, but the gods, they cannot choose, the gods only take and twist what they can take until it breaks. The gods are not evil simply because, for all they possess, they lack choice. And for all we mortals lack, we only possess choice."
Bird songs trilled in the distance and she no longer heard the caravan passing by down the road towards Jaquan's fishing village.
"This too, young one, is most important."
Jaquan ...
"The gods took mortal hope and fear and twisted them like a braid into love," he said to Ozi's side of the room who replied with a snort. "To confound our choosings and trouble our souls. And this is why the Daughter's Curse is so powerful. It comes from the gods themselves, but out of love lost, that deepest love of she who bore you and me and all those men who murder each other in the name of their gods, every womb violated by a lost taken stolen love."
She wiped tears from the old man's craggy face and he welcomed her touch.
"'Wise as a woman's tears' the old song goes." He then took her hands. "Do not think me an old fool just telling tales of things mortals are not meant to know just to frighten or confuse."
"No, Papa. No. I-I believe you ..." The old horse loudly broke wind and papa shooed him for being noisy and nosy. She went on. "But people still make offerings and pray to the gods. Well, not you, just everyone else it seems. They mean us no good, it sounds like, so why do we pray if, as you say, all they want men to do is kill other men who others must love. Is that not evil?"
He mumbled to himself that he had to make water soon. Mud too if he could manage it. How many days had it been?
"The gods. Hmmm. Thwarted by the Daughter's Curse, the land is free of wars over three generations. No great blood sacrifices of men and beasts. Princes and merchants settle their disputes with games of chance or duels, and some go in for rumors of assassins and other intrigues. Bah. For the common folk we live as we may for a good harvest or daily catch and the hunt. Peace. Life is hard for us but not so hard as it once was with seasons of constant slaughter. Without the blood orgy of war to drink from, the gods now sleep like the dead the oracles say. The Daughters of Men have gifted our peoples with the choice: either peace or kinslaying."
"And what if the gods awaken again?"
Just then he abruptly stood and excused himself with "Pray the bastards stay asleep, confess all your wicked thoughts and secrets with your prayers." The old man felt his way to the door, brushing off her help, and then outside went on talking as if she followed. He had to make water or mud and so she had time to light the fire and heat water for tea. Ozi needed looking after as well. A space of quiet for her to wonder whether the old man was just spinning tales or were his grim words true. And Jaquan? Is this what Papa meant by my "choice to join his fate"? She shook her head and the horse snorted and she fed him apples and onions through tears that would not fall.
*
Dusk came early with darkened clouds that brought the smell rain on the wind. The young woman went out to find the old man sitting on a lichen covered boulder still warm from the summer sun. He heard her approach and reached out his hand for her to steady him as he stepped down. She looked in the direction of the blackened village which could not be seen from where she stood and for the failing light. Far away thunder came from the north which reminded her of home. And the mighty Three Rivers she would not see again. The old man's strong calloused hand took hers and she guided him back to the shelter to settle him down on the floor in the corner with the baggage and bring him the hare stew with chunks of old hard bread to soften in the broth. They ate quitely as the thunder rolled closer. Ozi whinnied and his master sang an old wordless tune that gentled the horse despite the thunder. After supper the young woman fastened the shutters and door as the winds gusted. They kept the fire a while longer as the rain came.
"Ah, good stew," he belched and scratched and drank hot water. "So, little one, in the morning I take the road home, what do you choose? Your fate or Jaquan's?"
She took a few breaths.
"I choose neither." The hearth fire crackled and hissed as the rain fell. The old man sucked his broken teeth and waited. "My choice agrees with Jaquan's, but it is still mine."
He nodded and felt his unshaven cheeks warm from the fire.
"I believe your strange tale, Papa. I do. The village and the stone men tell me there is much truth in it, dark and evil too, haunted ..."
"And ..."
"Jaquan sells his service to a mercanery company like his father before him who has not come home from the wars across the great sea since Jaquan was a boy. His mother still waits like the other fishwives in the port do. Like I would have too, probably with a baby in my belly, had you not spoke against us marrying. Jaquan is a scout and not a fighter so he will go with the company over the sea to look for his father or where he fell. He must go there out of love. I feel that."
The old man closed his eyes and after a time opened them abruptly. "I will sleep when you're done. Go on."
She went on. "Jaquan goes away soon to bring his father home or find the place he fell. I chose to go too so that I may bring Jaquan home. I love him, grandfather. If the worst is true, and if he must go to battle, then I choose to go with him."
"And if the Daughters' Curse is not just on this land but on her sons ..."
"Sons. Yes, but you did not say 'daughters' of this land are cursed."
She moved closer to the old man and took his hand which now seemed cold and frail as if the hearth was too far away to warm him, and said:
"I will keep him away from these shores and from kinslaughter so as not to become a scream silenced forever inside a statue without a face. And failing that, I will free him from this curse with my knife. Because I love him, papa. I love Jaquan. Many things you told me today I do not understand but this feels true in my heart. So give me your leave to go now, grandfather, and your blessings."
Ozi hoofed the dirt floor and snorted. The downpour on the roof grew louder suddenly and leaks ran rivulets down the walls and hearth which doused the fire. Somewhere an owl hooted and the shadows rustled.
"Nothing is for sure, little one."
Thank you. Yeah, 'post war' specifically, an era of 'peace' marked by gradual rebuilding and return to more quiet, pastoral, rhythms of ordinary life after centuries or more of incessant strife and warlordism. That's what I was going for.
Yes. I cut much out to bring the story under the 5k word limit (3,429 words) and I was up against the 2nd deadline which left no time to refashion 'scenes' with more show than tell.
Thanks, and you both are right. Another 'more show, less tell' draft will have to be much longer (maybe even as long as a novella with all the implicit world-building, etc implies).
Mythical.
Somewhen.
The author has more questions too! Good reason to extend the tale and flesh out the background.
The Socratic question, no?
As Socrates says (paraphrasing) 'There is one good and that is knowledge, and one evil, ignorance.'
This never occurred to me consciously! I'm seeing things through 'your eyes' now that which was too close to me as I wrote.
:sweat: My cleverness ran out naming the massacred village. Again, up from my subconscious, then I dropped the second "e" to not-so-cleverly not oversell the old 'hubris-nemesis' theme (e.g. "Gott mit uns", "Nobiscum Deus" ... even "In sha'Allah") of war.
Stew (noun), a state of excitement, worry, or confusion. The questioning – "A why for a why" as the Old Man puts it. I had no title until a few hours before the deadline. Or rather I only had corny clichés as prospects to choose from. It struck me on a reread to quote the belching Old Man, maybe because I felt the story's highfalutin' speculating & lore-telling needed to remain as grounded as I could make it. Like Witty suggests, (fantastical) stories too ought to illuminate (heighten, but not replace or obfuscate) the ordinary and sensuous and insignificant. So I went for the prosaic rather than poetic in order to enhance whatever poetry I'd managed. A "good stew" is a genuine dialogue (i.e. dialectic) ... why we're here on this site, right? Like Plato's Symposium – "a feast of friends" – 'symphilosophieren' in order to learn from each other how to interrogate ourselves.
If we can ...
:fire: Phronesis. "There must be some way out of here / Said the joker to the thief ..." Eudaimonia.
Thank you, Amity, for inspiring me (to write something new just days before the deadline!) with your thoughts on war.
Btw, for your research about your WW I veteran grandfather, watch this amazing documentary if you haven't already.
(re: interview)
I suspect both. :sweat:
Strange as it may sound, she surprised me and I approved despite the Old Man's stubborn misgivings.
See my reply to Amity (above).
:fire:
She must be my Odysseus, though age may yet transform her into Lady Macbeth.
Thanks, Nils, for the insights. :up:
See my reply to Amity (above).
Quoting praxis
:100: :clap: An age-old cautionary folktale. Thanks for reading!
Ah well, that raises other questions and at least one eyebrow :brow:
Why some 'dogmatic types' come to TPF is not so much about learning 'how to interrogate ourselves'.
However, what can be interesting is how others respond even in the midst of personal attacks and misrepresentations. For example, I followed the Plato/Socrates discussions ( started by @Fooloso4) up to the point where acrimony took over.
The most recent defence scenario I read was from @Valentinus who has been dealing with @Apollodorus. Regarding 'dialectic':
https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/comment/582860
https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/11460/what-is-the-examined-life/p12
Quoting 180 Proof
And you will get people arguing about that...endlessly...we can ask how 'friendly' or 'genuine' the nature of some participants.
Quoting 180 Proof
Glad you didn't leave it 'Untitled' - a title gives us something to stew or chew over.
Quoting 180 Proof
Illumination of the the ordinary and sensuous and insignificant. As well as the extraordinary, the myths and the significant aspects of life. What a happy balance - Goldilocks would approve :sparkle:
Quoting 180 Proof
I find this curious - I suppose that certain writers don't always have a plot to follow, religiously.
Words come to your mind which you feel compelled to write down and then work out where they will lead. Or a character comes to life and grows in ways unexpected. The tale could extend forever...
Quoting 180 Proof
You wrote this in a few days ?! Words fail me. But they seem to come to you easily. What a talent.
Quoting 180 Proof
Thanks for that. Also the interview which surprised me.
Not so much the explanation of the computer technology but the comments about how the men viewed trench warfare. I can't get my head around this...all so jolly and kind to each other ?
Described as being like a campfire with spice ? 'A Good Stew' ?
Apparently no negativity - they were proud and would do it all again ?
The 'kindness' they experienced which they hadn't received before in their families and which they wouldn't receive after...
It seems so romanticised - a bit like that of TPF as a 'feast of friends' - a 'symphilosophieren'.
I didn't know that it was my war thoughts which inspired you.
I had previously suggested that your real life would make for a good story. I thought that was it.
Now I know :sparkle:
I guess my themes, etc bubbled-up from my unconscious as I wrote beginning with a vague image of 'an old man walking stoically through a light rain with his flatulent donkey on a back country road accompanied by an unhappy young woman/girl' and then the questions that followed from this image which were raised and mostly quarter/half-answered by writing and rewriting. No doubt I pandered a bit more to my likely readers' speculative, even religious, interests than I might have for a broader audience. Don't we all though?
Yes, I recall your suggestion. Seventeen months or so of quarantine alone has me thoroughly uninterested in myself as a subject to write about. I've never had much of an autobiographical itch to scratch, except indirectly (unconsciously) in my fictions. I'd stopped keeping a diary in my early twenties, which I'd begun keeping in my teens, (except for travel journals in which I still scribble and draw – in lieu of taking photos – whenever I go out of the country). On occasion, though, moved by music or certain topics I reminisce like anyone else recounting moments of experience, even insight, as vividly as I can. My "real life" is made more interesting by the telling of fragments and glimpses than I'm sure it would be in a cohesive narrative. From the inside 'my life story' feels like darthbarracuda's "Untitled" which the blues, booze, wit & life-long friends have kept me going in spite of that. Samuel Beckett & Albert Murray have written "my real life" so well, it seems, living sometimes feels redundant. Anyway, I appreciate your interest, Amity; I'm sure with time more paragraphs from "real life" will drop into my posts, especially on the music threads.
I disagree.
The stakes are high for some TPF participants whose beliefs are questioned.
You just have to look at all the theist v atheist discussions. How the divisiveness in worldview interjects and can take over every discussion.
It matters in eg the practical politics, the knowledge and management of Covid.
At global and personal levels, the stakes are high. I am glad that some persevere in sharing their views, knowledge and understanding in a civilised discourse. Some might think that whatever is said makes little or no difference. Some might be tempted to give up. Please don't.
It can seem pointless but it is not.
With patience and clarity, focus on the important. Even if it means backtracking and restating; repeating in the midst/mist of 'war'.
Trouble is when people like myself get tired of it and resent the personal attacks.
Prolonged argument ( e.g. about Plato/Socrates, the Dialogues), that moves further and further away from what is at issue, spoils what could be a tasty feast, or a 'Good Stew'.
Discussing this with a friend, he was reminded of: Sayre's law. It states, in a formulation quoted by Charles Philip Issawi: "In any dispute the intensity of feeling is inversely proportional to the value of the issues at stake." By way of corollary, it adds: "That is why academic politics are so bitter."
To return to your tale and the 'potentially high stakes between individuals who love each other à la Plato's eros discussed (displayed) in the Symposium. The dialectical aspiration for, or attraction to (eros of), truth / understanding of – an Old Man & his granddaughter – the (perennial) dance of love & war.'
Are stakes higher between loving individuals than between the warring ? We can dance to different tunes if music is allowed...and we acknowledge there are other songs out there...
So, any TPF 'wars' could be said to be about the meaning and love of philosophy, of Plato's Dialogues.
There are no such problems when commenting on short stories...there's not so much at stake.
I doubt whether you would wish to start a main discussion, I can understand why.
For all the reasons stated above, I wouldn't either. What a pity, when grander stories can't be discussed without bitterness.
How about this for a title:
What is at stake in the Symposium ?
I've downloaded the Jowett version from Librivox: https://librivox.org/the-symposium-by-plato/
Quoting Librivox - Plato's Symposium - Jowett
It turns out I've had the Jowett translation on my kindle since 2014.
Talking about 'aspirations' :smirk:
All? :groan:
I had intended to let this be.
However, you seem to have inspired me, or something :smirk:
Quoting 180 Proof
Quoting Amity
So, in your short story - the high risks are related to truth and knowledge as the OM and granddaughter dance with each other ? A Why for a Why. Who holds the truth ? And what would it mean for the individual's sense of wellbeing if their beliefs are overturned ? A lot at stake, personally, psychologically, politically.
What risks they decide to take, or are worth it, in pursuit of love. Of wisdom.
Just as in TPF. Certain issues can be relatively or 'potentially' high stakes for some who want to explore, question or share thoughts/beliefs related to life, love, truth, The Universe, Consciousness. Health.
There are vulnerabilities involved.
My eyes were opened when reading @Fooloso4's discussion - Plato's Phaedo
https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/10914/platos-phaedo
I had no idea until then how much work is still being done on Plato and how many different and often conflicting interpretations there are.
How clever was he ? Got everyone arguing forever...some fiercely dogmatic...in their understanding.
Here, in TPF, any risks are not just about ego-deflation but a bit more than that.
I agree that much can be negative and dispiriting. To say the least.
That alone can be damaging to one's wellbeing. Depending.
Never mind the fact that genuine listening and responding in a 'strenuous dialogue' often fails to materialise. Not easy when confronted with hostile interjections and misrepresentations.
It is easy to jump in to a discussion and criticise. Much more difficult to make yourself a target by starting and maintaining a thread of substance.
Philosophy can be dangerous.
Quoting reason and meaning
https://reasonandmeaning.com/2020/02/25/is-philosophy-dangerous/
But it shouldn't be soul destroying or destructive.
It's why I asked 'What is at stake in the Symposium ?' since you raised both.
You and others will have read Plato but when and how closely ? How much of an impact, if any, did the Symposium have ?
The Symposium seems to be about a convivial meeting with each participant giving a speech.
Taking turns.
Perhaps a desire for a sense of unity, even as they differ.
--------
I think that would be an interesting way forward in TPF's very own 'Symposium'.
Speeches about e.g. Eros or eros of.
A bit different from low stake short stories...or 'Shoutboxing'...
@Baden - worth considering ?