Sunday, September 16, 2007

Quick Note

I have two IDS lectures coming up this week, and played ultimate frisbee this afternoon at the park. On Friday I went to Chicago on a field trip to the Oriental Institute, and got to swing by Powell's. It sounds boring, but I always love a trip to Chicago and the chance to see things from Egypt, the Assyrians, Hittites, Sumerians, and more.

I'm reading a series by Susan Cooper. She's an incredible writer.

I'm struck by how lonely of a place Lincoln can be. When I was here as a student, it was a constant struggle. Now, as a professor, it seems to be a constant companion as well, but I see other people around me struggling with it too. It's in the air, maybe in the cornfields and soybean fields. I haven't seen it many other places where I've been, but it's all pervasive sometimes.

Loneliness we can learn to live with. It's what we often do to medicate loneliness that can be death. Could there be such a thing as a spirit of loneliness, a force that hovers over certain places, derailing community and peace and feelings of belonging? Regardless, a lot of students have talked about the struggle, and wrestling with suicide, pornography, alcohol and drug abuse, an almost unhealthy fascination with sex and relationships, and it makes me realize it's not just an individual feeling. What is it about this place that breeds loneliness? Is it the size of the town (it IS small)? Is it being away at college? Is it a distraction that takes place on a larger than life, spiritual level? Or is it the sense that here people are supposed to have it all together, there shouldn't be any mistakes or flaws, and so we feel isolated in our brokenness, in our struggles, in our desire to be more than who we are today, or in our apathy and hopelessness that things will ever be other than they are right now.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

The Calling

From the four winds they came. Many of them had been outcasts in their own clans and families. There was a thief, a number of orphans, vagabonds, pirates, slaves, fishermen, and a few murderers. But they had come, this motley crew, to the gathering. No one could quite explain it, they'd felt compelled, a voice like a whisper on the wind, and then a sudden longing to head to the center of the Four Lands. Some had traveled days, weeks, even months, but they all arrived on Midsummer's Day. Like a flock of ravens, they had come together as a band of warriors.

Elwin Ravenblack was among them. She had stolen away from onboard the ship, killed the guard with a knife she'd tucked in her boot for weeks, slit his throat from behind as he'd entered her cell to rape her. She stuffed his body in an empty feedbag, lowered it down in the water by a rope, then cut it free. May the waters take it where they would, she would soon be free. She slipped undetected from shadow to shadow onboard the ship, catlike, then lowered herself overboard, hand under hand down the anchor until she slipped quietly into the water, and swam across the bay to mainland. Her arms and legs ached from their lack of use, and her lungs burned from the exertion and salt water, but she continued on. It was a death quest, but a death she preferred to the living, waking death she had experienced the last six years.

She made it. Gasping and sobbing freely for the first time in years, Elwin Ravenblack kneeled on the shore as the tide washed over her shaking arms and legs. She would have to keep moving soon, but for now she gave herself over to the rising swell of emotions that had been captivated for years. Anger, joy, relief, and sadness and loss flooded through her body, gripping and shaking her until she felt like she would explode. She wept for her family, her childhood, the abuse the shipmates had taken out on her body, and she wept for her freedom. She could begin again, and in this place where sand and sea, air and water met, she could be whole.

The following weeks she had made her way further inland, an unspoken sense leading her to the next town, and then beyond. She'd stowed away in barns, raided pantries, and kept to the shadows, daring herself to travel only at night. The pursuit had lasted for two weeks, as she knew it would, and then had been called off. The men would return to the ships to fish, trade, or pirate other vessels. She no longer cared.

On Midsummer's morning she came to the valley, surrounded by mountains and tall pine trees, and in the center of the valley, a lake. She had traveled through the night, compelled to move faster, to not let her body rest, and as the sun rose and cast beams across the water, she found a shelter underneath the pines, and slept.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Strange

This morning I left the chapel to go teach my 8am class (yes, my office is in a chapel), and as I was heading to the door I saw something on top of it; I thought it was a wreath. As I got closer I saw a dead bird hanging, its feet against the glass, its neck hanging down, broken, its eyes a dull blue and lifeless. I wondered if someone had put it there, but then figured the bird had probably flown into the glass door, broken its neck, and died. No portents, I hope, only a murder most fowl.





Tuesday, September 04, 2007

The Word and the Wind

There were words in the wind.

For those who could hear them, they spoke compellingly, softly, insistently; sometimes clear, sometimes just beyond reach, they were always there. They rustled through the leaves in autumn, blew across prairie grasses, howled over desert sands. They rattled and sighed as they left the bodies and bones of the old ones, or sparked life into the wails of newborn babies. The words were active, creative, breathing life still into the world, guided by the thought and will of the Word speaker.

The darkness was also present. It cast its clawing, fearful shadow across the lands. In it was the utter silence of the crypt, the hollow, empty places buried far below the ground in caverns where the air is stale and cold, and mountains of granite press down from above. It was the lonely, suffocating silence in the middle of the night when all one's fears come to life.

Words. Breath. Life. Silence and darkness. Death.

Few had the power to hear the words on the wind; even fewer had the power to breathe it in, focus it, comprehend it, and breathe it out again as the language of power, of growth, of life. But the words were calling Will. They had a purpose for him, and others from different places and times, but he didn't know it yet.

Monday, September 03, 2007

Will Oakman (A Ravenblack story)

Will Oakman had always dreamed of adventure.

As an orphan, he imagined what his parents must be like, maybe a king and queen of a distant country, or perhaps his father had been a proud warrior. It made the hours mucking the stable go faster, as his sweat mixed in with the straw and dung below him. After the barn there would be feeding the chickens, pigeons and sheep, the washing inside, of laundry and dishes, and sweeping the front porch. The days seemed endless, and the nights too short. A family had taken him in when he was four, so he had not spent much time in the orphanage, but there at least he had been surrounded by others like him, boys and girls whose parentage lay shrouded in as much mystery as his own.

Late at night, as his muscles ached heavily and he found his head buzzing between this world and the world of sleep, he saw images, heard voices, and wondered again where he'd come from. The bigger question: Why had he been left behind? If his parents had been nobility, had he been kidnapped, stolen away from his crib in the dead of night and held for ransom, or had his parents died of grief when they'd found he was gone? Or if his father had been a warrior, perhaps he had been cut down in battle, intending to come back one day for his son, but never getting the chance.

Then there was his education. The family he stayed with saw it as their duty that he be educated, though often with the harsh rigor that felt little better than cleaning the barn. On these days his body didn't ache, but his mind felt sodden with memorization drills and grammar. On warm days the schoolmasters would let the students have a break to stretch their legs, to play outside, to practice sports. While the break from his studies was a welcome relief, Will soon found that the other kids saw him differently, kept him apart, and so his breaks were spent wandering the fields behind the schoolhouse until the bell clamored that it was time for more drills to begin. He dreamed of one day being free.

And then strange things began happening. He had grown used to the solitude of his thoughts and long stretches wandering across fields and through woods. The company of these lonely haunts were preferable to the sounds of jeering schoolmates or the crying, squabbling children at the farmhouse. The quiet in the lanes and woods was welcome. He began to move with as much stealth as a blowing leaf, and found he could mask his footsteps to a soft pad, quiet enough to not even disturb the old and brittle branches that lay strewn across the paths. In the distance he saw a deer, a young buck no older than a couple summers, its antlers not yet to their full maturity. It stopped, lifted its head, and stared at Will. Will stood still, then sat down, folding his legs close to him, and waited.

High overhead birds flew in a V-formation, then broke in two, one group branching from south to east. The second group changed course, fell in line, and soon they were in V-formation again. The wind blew gently through branches around him, whispering, words bubbling to the surface of Will's consciousness, then bursting before he could catch them. And still he waited. Will began to hear his breathing, and slowed it to match the sound of the wind in the branches. Behind him, out of sight, Will could hear the deer's hooves, moving hesitantly, pausing, edging closer. Will closed his eyes. He sensed a presence, peace, as if a giant were standing close to him, about to speak, yet there was no one there. He stayed still a moment longer, before opening his eyes again, and heard the quiet, its subtlety and nuances as tangibly as if it were speech. And this was only the beginning.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

Tolkien, Lewis, and more


When I was in second grade I began reading the Chronicles of Narnia. The way it happened, I had helped my stepmom clean the house and when I came home from school the next Monday, Mom had bought me a book as "payment." It was a pretty nifty strategy on her part, associating books with rewards, otherwise it might have been chocolate, and I'd be diabetic, or money and I'd be a penny pinching stockbroker on Wall Street. Instead, I'm poorer and a little thinner, but have an office lined with books . . . and fell in love with Lewis's work and fantasy literature in general.
Through second grade I worked my way through the Chronicles of Narnia, getting bogged down in the Dawn Treader (Voyage of the Dawn Plodder?), but then finding that Silver Chair was my favorite book of the series (though some critics say this one has the most disjointed plot and moves the slowest.) While I was going through the Chronicles, a professor came to our house to visit and found out I'd been reading the Chronicles of Narnia. "Really?" he said. "Well, you should read the Hobbit." Soon after I'd finished the Last Battle, and Narnia and the wardrobe were behind me (though not without a sadness and a longing for more), a copy of The Hobbit showed up in my room one Monday after my parents had gone shopping.

I remember staying up late to read The Hobbit after it was long past time to go to bed. My folks was leave the door to my room cracked, with a light on in the hallway, and light would spill across my pillow. The steps to the bedrooms in our house creaked, so I usually had ample warning when my dad was coming to see if I had fallen asleep yet. One night I had gotten so engrossed reading about Bilbo taking on the spiders in Mirkwood forest that I looked up to see my dad looking at me through the crack in the door, clearing his throat. I tried to shove the book under my pillow like I had done other times, but it was too late--I was caught.

Dad came in and sat by the bed, and tried to cough so he could suppress a laugh. "We encouraged you to read," Dad said, "and we're glad that you do, but you also need to get some sleep. Reading in the dark like this will hurt your eyes." Dad was angry, but not too angry, and I think he was also a little pleased that I was breaking the rules by reading and not doing drugs like other third graders.

Seeing how much I was getting into fantasy literature, my stepmom took another tack. "We like that you're reading," she said, "but you need to read more than just fantasy." The next week she bought me a book on Paracelsus (I think), and then later one on Erasmus, and encouraged me to read histories, biographies, whatever I could get my hands on. My dad had also encouraged me in first grade to start reading the Bible. I also got hooked reading about ancient cultures, especially the Egyptians and "lost cultures."

At the public school we had a librarian named Mrs. West who would read to us once a week when we'd come to the library to check out books. Usually it was just a time when the boys would kick each other in the groin to see if we'd flinch. Mrs. West had short, white hair, was tall and fairly thin, but had sharp eyes and an even sharper wit, and could read stories better than most people I knew. She was attractive in a lean, sharp way, like a tree or a bird.

She seemed to take a liking to me. I told her I'd read Lewis and Tolkien, and asked conspiratorially if she had any other books like that, and she said, "I have just the thing." She introduced me to Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles (a fantasy set in a Welsh-like world) and Madeleine L'Engle's Time trilogy (now a quintet), and I also read about black-and-white horror movies and became fascinated with monsters. When I asked to borrow a copy of Shakespeare's plays when I was in seventh grade, I think she beamed and teared up at the same time. I looked into it because I'd met another professor, John, who thought I should beging reading Shakespeare. (honestly I started the Merchant of Venice, and couldn't understand the play script, so put it down after a few pages. It wouldn't be until my sophomore year that I'd be reintroduced to Shakespeare when we'd go to Purdue to see Romeo and Juliet, and I'd be talking with the girl I had a crush on all through high school, Tracy.)

John had recommended other fantasy books to me, and I'd read Piers Anthony's Xanth novels, then went to the town library to read David Eddings' Mallorean and Belgariad, and began reading Celtic, Greek and Norse mythology, Arthurian legends, Robin Hood, and Nathaniel Hawthorne (The House of the Seven Gables, though since I hadn't read The Scarlet Letter yet, I was lost.) I also discovered Isaac Asimov's Foundation series and Frank Herbert's Dune.

My hunger for books and stories was insatiable. We lived in a town of 800, and my parents let very few friends from school come over to the house, or vice versa. One time my friend Jay was going to come stay at my house when my stepmom said, "He can't. I'm doing laundry today." She'd put me off the whole week on the decision, then backed out at the last minute. We also traveled a lot during the summer, and on the long roadtrips I would read a book, since I didn't have any brothers yet to share the backseat with. Fantasy literature was a way to escape the town, escape my parents, and escape my lack of close friendships with other kids my age. I longed for an adventure, a quest, to go rescue some beautiful girl so she could see how brave, and not how shy, I was.

The original Chronicles and Lord of the Rings still sit on my shelves, now in my office next to hundreds, if not 1000+ other books. They're worn, discolored, and well used (I've read them over 7-8 times each, of those copies alone) but I still have them with me. I've read a lot in general, have written papers and will soon teach a class on these books, but still come back to them, reminders of an early love and a desire to experience the world, and they sit on my shelf, carrying hints of rainy fall nights, or winters with a blanket and a book and something hot to drink, or lazy summer days either outside or in my room, dreaming of being a hero, of adventure, of danger, and of a quest big enough to drop everything else just to pursue it.