Completed [Ayatah] A Certain Slant of Light

[Philomena]

Minnie starts, just perceptibly, as the other woman begins to speak, brought back to her present. Her brow furrows at the woman's word, and she frowns, a thinker's frown, furrowing her eyes behind her spectacles. She turns and begins to walk again before she answers. When she does speak, her voice is guarded, the voice of one on unfamiliar, if passionate ground.

"I think... I think that we, we as Mizaharians, we place too much stock into this... idea. Of race, I mean. Culture, yes, that is very real. And I won't... argue that there are differences. That, yes, of course, say, an Eypharian has more arms than me. That is simply a fact, not an observation. Or that the healer-folk from the sea have their own peculiar gifts and connections. And yet... I think we conflate this. I think we make too much of it, sometimes."

She arrives now at a brass-grated door, like a cage, with a staircase inside. Here she reaches into her dress, and draws out a brass key and turns it in the lock. It opens with a well-oiled hissing of lubricated metal. She gestures her student inside, then shuts the door, and locks it behind.

Her voice remains hushed, temperate, a touch dreamy, "But I think, in the end, we use this as an excuse, sometimes. I... well, I cannot speak to Myria, I have not been there, so I won't. But am I bookish because I am Zeltivan? Are you, because you are Eypharian? I mean... perhaps it has to do because you were raised KNOWING you were Eypharian. Perhaps, the mind knowing a thing, tries to find ways to integrate that things into themselves, seeks... totems of its own identity."

The stairs clank softly beneath her boots as she climbs them, into the quiet, uncluttered shelves of the restricted section.

"I think if it goes this far? It is healthy perhaps. IT is good to feel a part of a place. IT has been good for me to know that... whoever I am, for whatever reason I am that soul, that I have this one thing, this love of knowledge, that makes me connected to my home. But then... well, I apologize, if I over-generalize. But the problem is that we use these sigils and apply them to others as well, and the less we know about them, about their home, the more we apply them. It is a crippling part of our character - of all mortal characters in Mizahar, perhaps. As a Myrian in Zeltiva, I cannot imagine you do not see this. I can imagine the things people say of you. I... can confess the moment of primal terror I had, hearing your accent. The moment of assumption, where I see you not as a person, but as a Myrian. Who is to say, if one of your babes was born here, and none knew its origin, that a Myrian living in Zeltiva would be any different than a Zeltivan living here? Or vice versa. Forgive me if I offend."

[Ayatah]

Ayatah listened in silence, her expression mirroring her thoughts - agreement, confusion, and reflection. She had not even realised that Philomena had lead her to a staircase, and it was only when her tutor had stopped speaking that Ayatah paid attention to her surroundings.

”You do not offend, not to worry.” These words were said lightly, almost friendly in manner. Then the Myrian frowned, and her words tumbled out slower, more pensive, ”I… agree with you. I think. Had I grown up thinking my father was some Myrian male who simply had… died before I was born, I would perhaps not be here now. I’d probably still be in Taloba, hunting and fighting, with maybe my own children to train.” The prospect of children almost made Ayatah shudder. There was a small part of her, deep down, that was maternal and caring.

There was a much larger part, however, that was not.

She licked her lips and considered her next words carefully, ”and again -- you are right… Since moving to Zeltiva, I have been seen as nothing more than a Myrian. In Taloba, I am seen as nothing more than a half-breed. And should I visit my father’s people, no doubt they would see me as the same; a horrible abomination that doesn’t truly belong anywhere.”

The words hung in the air for a moment or so. Ayatah had, since she was a girl, feared that she would simply not belong. At times, she believed that Taloba was the perfect place for her to live in, and that she was truly Myrian. Other times… She felt awkward and out of place. She had lacked that ferociousness that her people were renowned for, but neither would she truly fit with the Eypharian people. They were cruel and cold, and believed that Myrians were worth less than themselves.

”It is a funny thing, race.” She said slowly, carefully.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Philomena]

Minnie turned at this, last, and smiled, a sad little smile, "Funny, yes. And sad, to be a strange thing, without a proper place - but powerful as well. It lets you see things that those within the walls, perhaps, do not see so well. Perhaps," she hesitates thoughtfully, "Perhaps, child, the street and the jungle truly do share some similarities."

Her mouth works over a further response, then does not offer one. She turns, instead, leading toward one of the corners of the library, near the stairwell she had given. The restricted section, tucked high up under the windows, had a different quality, at once more luminescent and more shadowy, the faint pulsing heart of the awakening city straining through the deep stone window-wells, and the spaces between them drawing the raining darkness in like the folds of a skirt. The books themselves are different here as well. Some aren't, or aren't apparently, there is many simple bindings. Some are gilt. One book even has jewels inlaid on the spine that they pass.

"The books, though… there are so many, and as you said, sometimes they are of most value to those who come to seek who they are, still. It were just so with me at any rate," her voice, slowly, almost imperceptibly, begins to change its quality. Her vowels gain a curling quality, and her r's, a rhythmic burr. It is subtle, but real, "I did not know what I were to do with a book. Only that I loved them. I thought of it like the statue - like loving a thing one cannot have, if you take my meaning. One has to…" she stops at a shelf, now, and runs her finger along it, slowly, peering int he dim light through her glasses. The shelf has a locked glass pane across it, and from the same chain on her dress she draws a small and delicate key, "One has to… sometimes, have someone show them. Here we are!"

The lock unbolts with a rickety clank, it is on a high shelf - well, not high, just probably at the level of the Myrian woman's shoulder. But for Minnie it is high. She draws from under a nearby table, a stool, and stands atop it carefully. Then, from her satchel, she draws a pair of thin, white cotton gloves, and dusts her hands off carefully, before very meticulously pulling them onto her hands, finger by finger. Maddeningly slowly, to the excited. With a sincere sense of careful ceremony, to the patient.

The books on the shelf have titles in Eypharian, but it is an Eypharian that is unfamiliar to a modern speaker. Many words might be recognizable, but others will not. The bindings vary. Some are new - so new as to likely be repaired bindings. Others are patched with age, some look truly decrepit. There is one, very small book, perhaps the size of a hand, that Minnie now gently begins to draw out with the white gloves, standing on her tip-toes to do so, though she could reach without the extra inches. There is no title on its side, only, in the center of its blue binding, a red embossing of a hand, deeply and beautifully pressed into the leather, workmanship much better than most leather-workers can produce today. When she draws the book out entirely out, the same symbol, but larger, of the red hand, is visible on the front.

[Ayatah]

It surprised Ayatah just how much the older woman’s words reflected her own. She had always enjoyed learning, and used to push her Myrian teachers for more information. When they could not answer her questions, she would get frustrated.

Very un-Myrian, really.

When Philomena stopped to unlock a door, the half-Eypharian could hardly contain her excitement, and was the tiniest bit… embarrassed for being so enthralled. You are Myrian. You should only get excited over hunting or making a decent kill.

But another part of Ayatah, perhaps a more of a desperate one, argued: You are half-Eypharian; bred to crave knowledge and perfection.

And so she followed her tutor, having an inner-battle with herself and her two psyches. She very almost begged her tutor to hurry up (especially when the woman was putting on white gloves incredibly carefully), but she managed to contain her excitement and desperation. This is it… a child-like voice cried out in her mind, you’re going to learn something truly new about your father’s people!

When they finally stopped, Ayatah’s dark eyes darted up to the books around them. They all varied hugely - old, new, archaic. But none of them - at least none of the ones that Ayatah was looking at - had titles in the common language. It was something entirely different - swirls and symbols that meant absolutely nothing to her.

”Are these all about Eypharians?” She asked, her voice full of wonder, almost timid with it. Then she looked downwards, to the book in her tutor’s hands. It was beautiful, and seemed to sum up exactly how Ayatah envisioned the Eypharians: an old race, but a gorgeous one.

OocI am SO sorry about this delay! For some reason I thought I had already replied… Blonde moment!

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Philomena]

Minnie pulled the book carefully out, and held it gingerly in her good hand, cradling it tenderly with the arm behind the bandaged hand. She turned. On the stool, she was nearly the same height as the Myrian student. She looked at the girl's eyes, her own face glowing with a childlike excitement as well.

"These are not about the Eypharians, these ARE the Eypharians. All these books, all were written by the Eypharians. There is books of law in there, poetry, philosophy… some of it hasn't even been translated. And there is this book, this is what I wanted to show you."

She climbed down from the chair, and moved to a nearby table with all the reverence of a priest carrying a holy instrument. She set the book down gently, wiped the spine with the finger of her cotton glove, probed at it gently for a moment, looking for weak spots, or damage. Then, with an almost ceremonial slowness, she opened it to the first page.

On one side was a woodcut, printed with lines so intricate and fine that it almost rose from the page. It was an image of Myri, on the one side - her face is immediately recognizable, in its stylized form, dressed in a leather tunic with one bared breast, her hand holding a bared bloodied spear. The other hand reaches out and holds the hand of another woman, this one also familiar to a Myrian eye: Makutsi, bringer of rain, her other hand wrapped around a cup, which overflows. The drops of water and the drops of blood from Myri's sword, both land on the earth, and intermix, where three dark-colored cats drink from the blended pool. On the facing page is a body of the same strange alphabet - but then, above each line, there is also an entirely separate alphabet, a complex set of crosses, bends, curves, whorls. Even one not versed in the Eypharian tongue can see that this is not the same writing.

"This is one of the most famous - infamous I suppose - plays of the Eypharian theater - have you heard of it? Semhu? The Eypharian theatre?"

Her eyes practically dance, a sort of barely contained glee. Her bandaged hand holds the book open, as the good hand strokes the pages, slowly, sensuously, like a woman stroking the neck of a lover.

[Ayatah]

The older woman cradled the book as if she held a newborn, and Ayatah could not but smile. The book was so ancient and delicate-looking that the Myrian guessed even the slightest breeze could make the pages crumble and dissolve. I daren’t breathe directly at it, she thought.

She listened to her tutor’s voice, looking around them as she did so. The were so many books, and all about the Eypharians? The idea thrilled her, but caused some frustration at the same time. These books were out of bounds to her usually, and even so, she could not touch them. It was tantalizingly tempting to simply grab a handful of books and run - and it took huge amounts of self-control for Ayatah to not do that.

”Myri…” She said softly after Philomena turned the first page. Whether or not the word was a quiet exclamation, or simply her recognising her Goddess-Queen’s portrait, was unclear. But either way, Ayatah was incredibly… shocked. Myri had been the last person she expected to see in a book so concentrated on the multi-armed race.

But it gave Ayatah a huge sense of relief; Myri was there, on the page, spear in hand and a fierce look on her face. Her Goddess-Queen, the most beloved of her deities, was there on a book that - to quote Philomena - personified her paternal race.

Maybe the Myrian and Eypharian people are not so separate after all…

"This is one of the most famous - infamous I suppose - plays of the Eypharian theater - have you heard of it? Semhu? The Eypharian theatre?"

She nodded, then frowned. ”A little, not much I’m afraid.” Being so keen on Myrian fire dancing, the Eypharian art of theatre had been one of the first topics that Ayatah had divulged in reading. But from what she could recall, it was a completely different style to what she learnt in Taloba, which centred around heavy drums and, well, fire. ”It… mimics dual wielding, is that right?” She remembered how the idea of a dance based on martial skills had intrigued her. ”Is this… semhu…” it felt so strange for her to use an Eypharian word, having had no experience in speaking the language -- yet knowing full well that it ran within her veins. She licked her lips before rewording her sentence. ”Why is this Myri in this -- Semhu?”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Philomena]

Minnie nodded softly, and with a single gloved hand, turned the pages. Most were text, in two rows, one Eyhparian, the other in the strange scratch-hand, "The other you know I think? Makutsi Rain-Bringer, the goddess of the waters - they respect her in the Myrian lands? I don't... know, of course, I only presume, because they are considered allies in many cultures. But this..."

She turned the page, again, and a second woodcut was displayed. Myri stood over a fast field of dead, multi-armed Eypharians, and in the center was a great, still pond, where Makutsi sat. She looked sullen in the picture.

"This is the crux of the plot... it is... well, do not be offended, I hope, but it is a comedy, or at least most scholars think so. The tale is relatively straightforward - it tells of a great battle with many Eypharian dead, and Myri looks over the battle and wants it all cleaned up, so she begins to put the bodies in a lake. This wakes Makutsi, who is incensed to have her lake sullied. There's big comic battle, with," she smiles wryly, blushing a bit, "Well, with tigers... fighting these great little rain spirits, dressed like small children, who... its kind of a famous scene, they get the tigers to a standoff by tying meat-steaks to their tales so that they begin chasing each other about in circles. Nevermind. Its irrelevant. The point is, perhaps you learned, it is as much an art of gesture and dance as spoken word, non?"

[Ayatah]

"The other you know I think? Makutsi Rain-Bringer, the goddess of the waters - they respect her in the Myrian lands? I don't... know, of course, I only presume, because they are considered allies in many cultures. But this..."

”No, you are right.” Ayatah nodded, ”I… cannot believe the two Goddesses that my people worship are here…”

Of course, the marvel of having two known deities was not quite so prominent when Philomena explained the plot of the play. Ayatah frowned as she listened, jaw clenched with the annoyance of the storyline. Her people, her Goddess and their tigers were not a thing to be laughed at. Who did these multi-armed freaks think they were?!

Oh…..

The half-breed sighed heavily. She would have to stomach such jibes if she was to learn about her father’s people. She had always known that, but Ayatah had never realised just how cruel the Eypharian humour could be. ”I see…” She said slowly, deciding how to verbalise her reaction. ”Well.. I suppose it is slightly… amusing.”

Gods, that had been painful to say.

”They Eypharian’s… they do not… like my people, do they?”

Merely the manner by which she named the two races were enough to show where Ayatah’s loyalties truly lied.

”The point is, perhaps you learned, it is as much an art of gesture and dance as spoken word, non?"

It was true. The number of pictures alone told Ayatah that actions were just as important as whatever words and songs. The four- and six-armed men and women were displayed in a variety of positions, limbs reaching out in graceful arcs forever frozen on the page. ”Yes. It is as much dance as it is song.”

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Philomena]

She nodded softly, and answered the girl's concerns first, "I... it is difficult."

She chuckled gently, "I would say, perhaps, from my perspective, the Eypharians do not 'like' anyone, almost. They are a very old, and a very proud people, and of course, they claim lineage from a God, so they... seem to see the rest of mortality, perhaps, just a rung below them." She smiled, "If one is looking for a balanced view of an outsider, an Eypharian farce is not the place to look, perhaps. I do not show it to you for this reason."

She clears her throat, and points to the strange markings, now, "But this! This is why this play is so fascinating to me - why it is so infamous. The Semhu is very complex, and has a long school teaching how each work is to be performed - I will teach you the texts of some of their plays, this semestre, but to truly understand them, someday, you will perhaps have to see them performed, for in Eypharian, a word, alone can mean a thousand different things, all dependent on the vaguaries of gesture, of expression, of movement. Even in everyday speech this is true. The formalism of the theatre makes it even more so. Changing the choreography of a Semhu work can - and to my understanding, has been - viewed as a truly revolutionary act, for it can make a play that, for instance, praises the heroes of one of their great houses, immediately and without changing a word of dialogue, instead be a satire on that house's weakness. But this play! This was never performed while the author lived. Scholars believe that these marks.... these marks that are not the Eypharian alphabet... that they are meant to be a notation system, a minute description of just how the actors and actresses are to move and block. IF that's true, if one could read it, it would be revolutionary it would be... like somehow enclosing a picture in a book, and then making the picture... move. I know that is difficult to imagine. Imagine, instead of reading words, imagine reading movement. Do you see?"

[Ayatah]

The Eypharian opinion of outsiders seemed to mirror the Myrians’ own hostilities.

But for different reasons, and it was this differentiation that Ayatah noticed. The Myrian’s disliked their foes in order to defend their jungle home, as their Goddess-Queen ordered them to do. The Eypharian’s though…

They just believe that they are better than anyone else.

And to Ayatah, the people of her paternal heritage were wrong.

”I know they like to believe they come from a God.” She wrinkled her nose as she spoke, make her feelings of the Eypharian belief quite blatant.

She listened carefully to what her tutor said, and as she did, Ayatah felt that fierce hostility melt away like ice on a hot day. This Eypharian art - Semhu - was fascinating. And the language! If what the older woman had said was right, then the meaning of a word could change depending on whether the speaker was frowning, smiling or pursing their lips. It was a strange thought, but an intriguing one.

”So this… this piece of theatre,” she said, a hand waving over the pages of the ancient book between them, ”this has never been portrayed before, because the writer died before anyone could.. Translate his commands?” Her head tilted to one side, eyes wide with interest.

Perhaps my people are not so bad after all…

And that thought alone made Ayatah sit up bolt right, shocked at her own mind. She had never called the Eypharians ‘her people’ before, because in her view, they were not.

But this meeting, and the lessons that Philomena was sharing with her, seemed to be changing that.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||