What is the Faej? Raol wonders—that young god of the sound of running fire. He wanders for millennia, reading and witnessing tales of war and magic. As gods meddle with mortals, and wand bearers challenge the gods. The faej leads immortals to their death, and prophets to enlightenment. Is it something deep in the forest? Where Seroon wolf-bats roam. Is it something inside the Red Mountain? Where the Ossiah once wielded the wind like a sword. Is it something in the crater? A star fell on disputed fields, and thousands march forth, for curiosity and power.
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I began drawing the family trees of the 200 saiahs gods when I was 14 and have continued to write mythology over the years. I am always having visions of the Ossiah and their worlds. I've made a written language and celebrated several holidays with new foods—friends have contributed drawings and ceramic monuments depicting the mythological tales.
I began drawing the family trees of the 200 saiahs gods when I was 14 and have continued to write mythology over the years. I am always having visions of the Ossiah and their worlds. I've made a written language and celebrated several holidays with new foods—friends have contributed drawings and ceramic monuments depicting the mythological tales.
An epic poem, entitled The Faej is currently in the works—now with a 100 thousand word outline. It is primarily influenced by the works of classicist poets Stanley Lombardo and Anne Carson, as well as fantasy authors George RR Martin and JRR Tolkien.
An epic poem, entitled The Faej is currently in the works—now with a 100 thousand word outline. It is primarily influenced by the works of classicist poets Stanley Lombardo and Anne Carson, as well as fantasy authors George RR Martin and JRR Tolkien.
Darfir Remembers A Dream
Lord send, in the whistle between this dry ear
of wheat, something I might say to my children who cower.
So they may dream easy, and feast as they sleep.
“The thaw will come tomorrow,” father’s words were billowing like Pyre Mountain.
He had smoked a pipe since he was twelve, and his throat crackled like the valve of a volcano, “When you awake, spring will come.”
Spring did not come in the morning.
Spring did not come at the turning of the moon.
Children were hungry like you. Even princesses were tossing and turning in their tightly wrapped wools; Darfir of The Alinyai—you can hear her chattering teeth at midnight. Downing vases of boiling tea at dawn. She looked at snow through thin white creases in the wooden window. And at night, she dreamed of snow too. Grey-blue-white snow next to pine-green-white snow. Stone-grey-white snow next to blood-red-white snow. Blossom-pink-white snow next to vast-sky-white snow. She dreamed.
Peasants were eating seeds and hiding in caves. Darfir loved seeds. Last winter she told her father I love rationing, he was furious, she did not dare say it again, this winter which was so long. He would curse her curses, make her eyes rainclouds again.
I love rationing, Darfir thought in the morning, seeds are like gems for me. A long white day, and a few gleaming seeds. In summer there are potatoes, tortillas, and dead things—the felled garden sits at dinner table with nameless cow and sheep. Big bearded men eat so fast and laugh; she likes the laughing, but the food goes without a thought. Winter is a time for thinking, for being a bird. Enjoying one's birdfeed, seed by seed.
But this winter was long; even for owls and magpies to weather. Even for black bears in the forest caverns, so full from many moon feasts. And seroons in the Boreal, who fed on the bears.
Darfir could not sleep. You know the feeling of half dreaming; time is like an accordion. Sing to me, Darfir whispers to her mother. She had wandered up the hall with her kynden wool wrapped around like bat wings pressed closely. Tiptoed on the icy ironwood to her mother’s bed—whispered so her father won’t wake, come to my room. I can’t sleep.
Mother rises, with fairy-like grace walks her daughter back down the hall. Tucks her under the thick quilt that came from across the sea. Shuffles her hands—invisible fire—and closes Darfir’s eyes with warmth. It is too late to sing my dove, the queen whispers. O this whisper is like a single white spiral in the black night, sailing downstream into Darfir’s ear, I will tell you about the place I was born:
North north where cartographers tear up their maps because the white wind is meddling with their instruments and fading even a Ser’s far-seeing eyes. There is a pale green grove. This one color survives under the slately storm. Trees dug four times as deep than their branches tall. Roots which crush ice for drink. There are more of these trees than wise men can count. Their arms look like tangled knotts. Their trunks like dancing clowns. Their leaves like thin swords. They are dense and silent. Even those, Darfir, who have learned the ancient language of green things, can seldom get a word out of these trees.
There were fairies of course, that lived in the wide caverns within the greatest of these pines. With pointed ears and silvery eyes. Sharp teeth and moth’s wings. Children of Death. From the deep they rose to live in far forests and sing triplet melodies to wild animals. With their wide eyes, and graceful hands, they crafted secret doors in the bark and the snows. Shades of white between white, and brown between browns; too subtle for humans to see.
In night they emerged from their hidden doors, their wings rising on the breeze. Settling on the tops of trees they sang, lullabies as subtle as the shades. Slumber descended upon these woods one fowl winter like this one. Creatures of the snow felt no hunger as fairies' song kept them in dreams.
And while every animal slept, the Fae began to whisper to the pines. “fierce, fiercely cold,” the pines whispered back. Even trees shivered in the white wind. So for a moon the fairies pondered and scrawled on stone—wondering what song could put even the trees to sleep. It was Eras, my mother says, who wrote down the hymn. Which lives inscribed on a river stone to this day. Eras, named for the name of dreams, sung her melody to the ancient trees. O how soothing was her voice, how her lyric came in soft waves. So lulling was her lullaby that the trees soon closed their invisible eyes, and all the other fairies too. And so everything in the north fell fast asleep, except for the singer who’d set them to rest.
Darfir, Darfir is two thirds in a dream. Visions crawl between her mother’s whispers and creations of her own. Dusk-green-white next to tangerine-orange-white. Deep-fern-green-white next to deep-ocean-blue-white. And then, mother continues her story, in that complete silence Eras could hear the voice of the snows itself. Like one vast whisper spiraling, from horizon to her ear, “what a soft song” it said. And the fairy bowed politely to the god,
“Thank you.”
“The animals, the fairies, the trees. Everything is waiting for winter to end,” spoke the snows, “Would you sing of spring so I too may sleep? And the rivers and mountains will melt green.”
“If spring came there would be many songs,” the fairy replied, “Singing and singing without a thought. I like the warmth, but the winter is a time for thinking. To make a precious melody.” The winds settled in a spot in front of Eras the fae. Snowflakes hung still in the outline of a human form; layers of white condensing into a long cloak. Crystal blue eyes glimmering from under a hood. This was an Ossiah, Yaiul, the name of the snows.
Eras bowed to him, and he to her. “Your voice is a gem,” Yaiul spoke with his humanly voice, “Not to be lost, among fields of wheat.”
“And in spring, or summer, or auburn fall,” the fairy replied, “You would not hear it sing. So stay awake for a day or two longer, we will survive. I will sing to you, if you tell me tales of the stars.”
So Yaiul and Eras sat beneath the trees, as winter raged on above everything which sleeps. Eras hummed like rose-quartz-water, her music made the Ossiah weep crystal tears. Yaiul whispered stories from far lands beyond the mantle of sky—plots of plight, and wild romances which made the fairy laugh.
After sun sank over, and moon rose many times, they were full of love for one another. But each of her kin, shivering in sleep, and even trees shaking slowly as they dreamt, made Eras ask if it was time. Yaiul bowed goodbye, and Eras sang her greatest lullaby. The god fell into the wind, eyes closed, a smile on his lips—and the thaw came, melting the north.
Darfir is fast asleep, breathing in and out the chilled air. But her mother continues anyways, because the tale keeps her head warm, as she leans it on the bed. Whispering, Eras and Yaiul met again each winter. And Erneeve Ossiah married them by her hidden hearth.
Their child was a princess like you, Darfir. Maras she was named, born in the forest of twisted pine. And when she grew up, she emerged from the pale green grove to rule the humans who lived on the coast. Lord Queen Maras, they called her. When the season was right, she spoke to the pines, and they sacrificed pieces of themselves for ships and homes. A great fleet she made, and a city too. Spearmen and weavers were her children, and her children's children. And her child’s child’s child’s child’s child was the first Oza of this land, so Maras’ blood is running in our veins.
It is a city called Maras, you know my dove, where I was born. In a keep made from these ancient pines. And when I was young, your age, the same. I was shivering one winter, like you are now, deep in blankets, restless without sleep. I heard a faint whispering from the wood. The dead trees were singing to me, the lullaby they had learned, some centuries ago. And I fell fast asleep, and dreamt of spring.
In the morning the thaw came. Little Darfir gave a big warm sigh that melted all of the fjords and turned the icicles on her window to dew. She watched out the window. Silver-turqoise-white turned into silver-turquoise in the distance, as the forest shed its snow. The princess ate her seeds like a chickaree for another fortnight until first harvests found their way onto her table.
Some years later, Darfir sits on a rock outside Maras, the city where her mother was born. Cold waves creak against the fjord’s edge. She inhales the wind, exhales a breeze. Pale green forest sits on the horizon. She is about to leave her homeland, west to Adelan, the city of scrolls. Study there for years, make her mind like a library—ready to rule.
Pale green forest sits on the horizon. There are fairies there, she thinks. And she can not remember if her mother’s tale is something she heard, or something she dreamed when she was young.
Pale green forest sits on the horizon. There are fairies there, she thinks. And she can not remember if her mother’s tale is something she heard, or something she dreamed when she was young.
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