Ithriis,
of the first glyph. The ancient, feathered tongue. When music first formed the
flesh of Man. Eth'iriis, of the first dreaming. Look, poets; tellers of the
tallest tales. Look at the land. Hear it. Y'iththriil, of root, trunk, and
howling branch. Forest wraith, wandering barefoot and mad. Hooded wolf in
hollow tree. Star, angel, dragon. Seer and prophet? Bard or conjurer?
Shapeshifter, in a word. Edgewalker. Before the Saxons or the Romans. Lake, forge, water, and fire. I should know. As an artisan I do not bend the arc for
glory alone. Man is only wild if his wildness is explicable, else he is nature
itself. Y'ithriin, ahba ahba. Protect the heart, old one. Dramatis personae.
Here in these circles of salt, silver, and blood. Brighter than skyfire, the
inward eye. Kasi, they call us in the Vedic tongues of river and sea. An
epithet used by countless anonymous poets. Eth'rai, Eth'rai, of glyph and king.
Father, father, haunt the tree and scare away the saddest songs with your
lament. Because the act of dreaming yearns in distinction from waking. The anguished
gulf between what is and what might be. So, men carry wolves with their echoes. Rest, and resurrection. Stars, angels, and dragons. Are we not anonymous? Nameless? Unassuming? Blood of blade,
in lineage of light. Salt of sacred, for remembrance of all nameless innocent. Song
of silver, for those who pray for hopes of a better way. Brothers, birthrights,
sisters, and sons. Drawn from the circle of stone. Look, wanderers; keepers of
the eldest truth. Look at the flesh, the rising belly of the land. Hear her. When
music first sang the soul of Man.
For many of us, this time of year
is when we celebrate life's triumph over death. Rebirth, renewal, resurrection.
The passing of the last traces of winter, the fullest bloom of spring. For some
of us these stories have more specific, embodied meanings beyond the ebb and
flow of the natural world. Themes of protection, guardianship, and sacrifice.
He is Risen. “Hristos a Înviat. Adevărat a Înviat.” The Earth is no
longer a sepulchre. No longer a tomb. The axis of reality itself has shifted.
Through grace – divine love, essentially – mankind is no longer bound to time
and space in quite the same way. Many become One. The place of the skull,
called Golgotha in a certain tongue, is no longer the site of mere ruination.
Instead, our minds become something more. A place of crossing and
transformation. A holy light linking earth and heaven, a flame carried through
faith into each homestead. Men might argue over the details of these beautiful
stories, endlessly warring over the so-called truth of this or that version of
their favoured legend. But I would hope we can all at least agree on the fact
that, regardless of our own private beliefs, denominations or
rituals, for many of us this is a time of new life, new light, and new
opportunities. I can only speak for myself. But I've seen what can happen to
human beings who are denied the sustenance of stories, the comfort of
communities and the joy of shared celebrations. Given enough time, a dark,
fallen psyche is always the eventual result. Warring with our fellow humans
over the minutia of each faith is a fool's errand, believe me. Beauty, truth
and good character are often lost in such pointless wars. But believing in
nothing at all is even worse. I'm not asking men to become theists if they truly
believe that doing so is to choose fable over truth, fiction over fact. But I
am encouraging them to at least be open-minded. Sensitive to the wonders of
Creation at work all around them. I would suggest our knowledge of physics is
neither complete nor infallible, that the binary of religion versus science is
a false one based on incorrect axioms and incomplete data. Men need both, don't
they? Soul and sobriety? Imagination and reason? Perhaps a certain playwright
was correct when he suggested there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy. I have always believed in the human heart's
capacity for love, imagination and connection. I hope you do too, my friend. As
someone I love dearly recently explained to me, “Inimile noastre se înalță
prin dragoste. Și iubirea e magia cea mai înaltă dintre toate.”
Poets, musicians,
and artists often dream about the literacy of light. The unfathomable breadth
of knowledge that might be found within genuine spiritual comprehension. Everything
is connected, after all. Rhythm, scale and attenuation of force. All drawn down
from higher realms into the multidimensional lexicons of human experience. Our
various registers of discourse. One would hope that any spiritual or religious
practice would embody the highest light and literacy. The depth, nuance, and subtleties
of what it means to be an incarnate creature of imagination. A chivalrous being
seeking love and purpose. But we artists and troubadours also recognise that
our relationships with the ineffable are not always so sublime. Sometimes the
musicality is harder to discern. Here in these extremes of polarity we cannot
discount the darker, broader brushstrokes. The unfortunate politics of power. In
this sense all religions begin as heresies. Rebellious offshoots and cults.
Quiet, hidden practices led by monks, knights, and iconoclasts. Many of these
rebels were vicious though, caring little about the sanctity of the inner
realms; only interested in using
their practice or dogma to acquire status and power.Some were later reimagined as heroes with
the passage of time and the safety of political distance. Made a poet's conceit
and bestowed with virtues they never actually possessed. Forged into palatable avatars
for the storytelling of a later Age. This is what legend and literature always
does. As a species we prefer fiction over fact because what use is true history
to the Fallen? What use is our imagined freedom if it is gained from the
suffering and oppression of others? After all, the entire infrastructure of
what we call civilisation was built upon the broken backs of countless slaves. That
is the darkest way to claim dominion or divinity. And it is the part of
ourselves we like the least. So, we massage the truth and occlude the facts. We
would rather imagine our gallant knights and heroic kings as beyond reproach.
Beyond the vicious barbarism that our mass graves imply. We would rather dream
of the highest chivalry. Enchanted swords and maidens fair. The brutal horrors
of history are both exhausting and dispiriting. Instead, we want to believe in
some form of real magic. True enchantment. Well, dear one, let me tell you an
incredible secret. A carefully hidden truth. Those benevolent wizards and good witches
from your fairytales did exist. Those true Magi, gallant knights, and the Fay.
They are not merely a child's idle fancy. Or a substitute for the hideous
realities of military expansionism. No, both things were true, and both were
happening at once. The darkness and the light. Those kind and courageous ones
who lived with genuine honour and integrity, those whose magic was truly
special – they still exist. Many of them are nameless now. Living humble,
ordinary lives.But they are the reason
the Earth is not a smoking ruin. Don't you think the darkness would have laid waste
to the entire world if it could? Don't you think we would all be slaves, shuffling
through a desolate hellscape? We would. Listen to me. I have held Excalibur in my
hands, and I am not the only one. I speak of genuine literacy, and light. All who
are worthy can wield the blade of silvered song. And it is through the efforts of
those kind, courageous ones that we are here now. Because beyond the arcane spell-craft
and demonism of these various secret societies, there is still poetry, art and music.
Rivers, flowers, and children still at play. The shadows have garnered quite a
foothold in this realm, it's true. I won't lie to you about that. But neither
will I lie to you about the light, or those true servants of the light. The
real angels of the flesh. Protectors of wisdom and sweetness. As I've said many
times, this is the real war. The War of Imagination, and it has been raging
since the beginning. Or the false beginning handed to fallen humanity by the
very wraiths who stripped us of our birthrights. Since men first stumbled from
the deepest caves like amnesiacs, unable to grasp how they had survived the cataclysm. The destruction of the shining realm. Ishkara, Kashmira,
Eth’iri. The world behind the world. It has many names. Today men talk of
science instead of magic. They forget the silvered song and the world of miraculous
light. However, this so-called science is a very recent human pursuit. Far
younger than religion or myth. Nowhere as robust as it imagines itself to be.
It has given us tools of great power, of course, but we have always had powerful
tools. Especially in the hidden chambers beneath the earth and below the sea. But
there is a far older gnosis. A true science. An ancient knowledge of multidimensionality
only hinted at in the hermeticism of your so-called past, or the quantum physics
of your imagined present. We are beings of infinite light and literacy, made in
the image of our Creator. Spirit is not simply something we learn, it is something
we are. A creative, combining faculty constellated around a divine spark – a fragment
of eternity. This is the calibre of the crossing, the sword of the threshold. Pulled
from carbon, silica and stone. I have lived these things, dear ones. I do not
speak blithely. I have slept and dreamt as only poets and kings can. I pray
that one day we will all wake at last, to build a better, fairer world. Until
then, I dream songs of reflected light to keep the darkness at bay. I dream songs
of silver.
