Impressed on the 19th day, in this 4th Dark Month
Attuned for Dasam Desca, houseman of Menceta
My Das,
This is the third letter I have written this month, but the only one written privately. The first was the report required by the House of Months—a solemn screed of numbers, logistics, and all requisite data for the proper execution of our corvée. The fastidious Averers will likely find patterns in the information I cannot; by the smell of my ink and paper alone, they will foretell the deviancies that arise from pride, and confidently discern which silent practices hold true piety. Perhaps their decisions have already been made, and even now they write our almanacs and consecrate the othmerite for our new houses. I kept nothing from them, dutifully reporting our failures as well as our successes, for I know there are none closer to the wisdom and judgement of the Pilots. My second letter was copied many times and sent to all parishes of the nome, impressed with the unsmiling authority of the nomarch. It included winged words to inspire hope: catalogues of augmented hymns for the curates to use in their congregations, and ideograms of sanctioned theurgy with which to repel the worsening quakes. Above all, it invites our rural folk to seek shelter behind the walls of Broken Knife. You know I have found no joy in ruling, no warmth in this suspension above our people. Yet, in these troubled times, there is a fire in my duty. Not a bureaucrat or an executioner, but a guardian I can be. The migrant children and parents that successfully pass unto our refuge remind me how much I can sacrifice; the monsters that assail them enkindle my capacity to be monstrous. In this lightlessness, the crown sits straight upon my head, and I am newly alive with a longing to suffer, so those beneath me do not. Though the deepest satisfactions of duty will never soothe the yearning of the heart. And so I write this private letter to you, not as nomarch, and not in hieratic script.
First, I will recall for you the sights of the nome. The Averers and their formal reports are not interested in such descriptions, but I know you enjoy them. I only regret I cannot recite them to your ear, as I draw illustrations upon your back. We began this day with First Prayers, the temple holding as many as would fit, with the rest gathered in the main avenue. Refugees from the parishes have grown our population twofold, and so the audience filled the length of the street, reaching the steps of our dakhma at one end, and the steps of the incubation sanatoria at the other. It was such a beautiful sight, the whole city singing—from the dakhma custodians making soul-lamps for the families of the departed, to the women who labor to bring life anew. The service climaxed in a lighting ceremony, where I led our theurges in the weaving and hoisting of new lights; the luminescence of Yaesu barely reaches the nome now, and we reject endless night. Each theurge guided a shining orb through the separate gates of the city and positioned them above the maize fields, so as to enable the days’ harvest, even as their attendant dancers rattled their sistra and redoubled their singing for the event. Afterward, I walked the walls of the city, looking both ways. Beyond, the farmers took to the fields, dutious in their reaping and threshing, singing songs of their own all the while. Further, the theurge shepherds corralled their flying herds with lariats of color, making sure they grazed only on native clouds. And, beyond them, upon the open plain, I saw with such gladness the approaching columns of more refugees, and sent retainers to greet them. Within the city, I watched our masons building shelters in the prescribed daub-and-batten style, while the wealthy opened the doors of every spare room to the new arrivals. Men and women sat outside, mixing pith and sedge into all manner of dishes, while water-givers made their rounds up and down the streets. Such tokens of simple life will always beg of me joyful tears, for we can never forget what unspeakable things this land once stood for, in those Days-behind-the-Sun, when Broken Knife was Metal Knife.
Though, my Das, these are not good times. Dwelling in this darkness is pain enough, but the darkness is growing, and the storms are getting worse. The soot-sky that has reigned since the leave of the Pilots undulates above us, increasingly wracked with the convulsions of a tortured thing. From its restless mouth are spat quakes of progressive frequency and magnitude—tempests which drive the dust across the plain with blinding force, and wreak havoc upon our benighted fields, ripping root and stem into the sky. Whereas we deterred the initial storms with our songs, now we must scream to repel them, and my throat still burns from the battle two days past. Worse still, these quakes are not only usurpers of our home, but rude doorways—portals to foreign planes, through which alien beasts tumble and molest us with their incompatibility. It is true, some of these foreigners arrive with naught beyond the displaced confusion of instinct, eating dirt or flopping in thirst of water, before quickly expiring on the open plain. Others, however, arrive with a hunger for our flesh, victimizing parish refugees as they travel to the shelter of the city. We do our best to send forth escorts to defend these poor souls, but there is too much ground to cover and we sometimes arrive too late, finding only flesh and heirlooms strewn in equal measure. What is more, those poor souls that survive the trek arrive at the city walls, their skins riddled with foreign pests, their lungs obstructed with coughs and unknown effluvia. Some of these pests take to our maize fields as well, rendering the crops unfit to eat. Many theurges must expend much of their energy in elaborate fumigation rituals to ward against such infestations. Atop these curses, another thing brought by the quakes truly defies sufficient description. At the month’s beginning raged a storm of such force, it shook the very foundations of the world. Behind the spasmodic shivering of the opaque sky seemed to stab spears of cosmic color, evoking thoughts and fears of the gods of legend. This torturous display intensified until, as if the storm was some terrible birthing, a spear of light pierced the soot-sky and fell long and hard to the dust, like a stillbirth of cosmos. What it was that fell upon the plain was a massive crystalline slab, impossibly-shaped and seething with a thousand indecipherable voices. The Averer Mendicant stationed with us called this exotic object a “cataract”, and insisted he be the only one to venture near, for the safety of all. Going out to the thing, which dwarfed him in size, the good Averer did all he could to destruct it, dedicating days and every possible sound to the effort. But, with no avail, he has since covered it with the dust of the world and strictly forbade us from audience.
Worst of all, however, is the dreadful reality that our world yet dwells in Godly Waters. Our sphere may hurtle onwards, and so escape the predations of the gods themselves, but their essence—that mana—is still all around us, and neither darkness nor quakes halt its endless rain from the stars. And, without Pilots, without Firmament, it lands upon our naked hearts, staining them with such feeling. In all my scholarship of the Polycanon, I have heard of no past tribulation such as this, this power without directive, this flow without channel. We are not subjects of empire as our ancestors were, but increasingly powder kegs and revolutions unto ourselves; too little dogma for all this faith. In this way, the city is longer only a city, but a jungle masque, where the mundanities of this world now extract from us terrified yelps or the sighs of lovers. At times, the theurges worry me. Their power lets them leverage this growth with greater appetites. They armor themselves in shells instead of robes, and recite legends where history would suffice. But it is the commonfolk who suffer the most. They are believers, believers in gods and saints, who render their mana transient. Robbed of these things, how are they to find this endless dilation of emotion different from madness? Some of them now practice their prayers with an unhealthy enthusiasm, using their blood for ink and flesh for parchment. I walk between them with a smile and temper them with kindness, for I do not think the Sun would have us do these things. Others commit suicide, finding death the only salvation from this state of unbordered and indefinite soul. I discourage them from this morbid path, but I do not force them to live. A small few, possessed with the unhealthy creativity of fear, even suggested seeking shelter in the Netherworld, but were sternly rebuked for this. When the quakes assault us in this wild state, it is often all we can do to seek shelter inside our homes and pray; but we underestimate our own power and, in the morning, step outside to find the buildings taller than they were. I am not exempt from this state. I am on the frontline of this trial, for desperate people beg me to be not only a leader, but an icon of worship, whereby they may transfer their burdens. I do not want a cult, but neither can I see them suffer, so I accept. There are moments when such awe overcomes me, it is as if lightning has replaced my blood, and my fingers and toes extend to vent such feeling. When I contend with these novel fears, my mask is the thought of your face, but such is the terror—the nightmares of childhood, the dread of our history’s beholding!
We cannot stay here, my Das. It is not a matter of strength, I fear. It is a matter of changing environment. We face new skies and falling stars, and there is only so much we can do. Nonetheless, never mistake my honest descriptions for weakness. We remain faithful. If the path across the plain was promisingly safe, I would have already commanded the exodus, but I doubt our chances of making the crossing without protection. And so, we wait for the end of the sixth Dark Month, that appointed date when the Averers shall march to shepherd us to Menceta. No matter what tribulation the meantime brings, what a happy day that shall be! Though our homes will be left behind—tombs unrespected, gardens untended—our people shall survive. How I long for that day, so near! How I long to see the cult center, and ascend the switchbacks of its mesa, to pass the gate of the Dust Canton, and climb the spiral steps of House Desca! How I yearn to disrobe myself from the formality of my post, to take off my shining eyes and press my naked face to your neck—not because it holds shelter, but love! How I long to love you in this darkness. For, if I am alone when the end comes, then I would die as a wild animal, and my fear would be simple. Our love is a textured thing, and such a fearsome defense can be mounted in its crags. We will come into each other’s arms and know, in that moment, this life can never make us cruel. We will kiss each other, taunting the end of days. And, when the darkness breaks and the storms are swept away, our lips will part only so we may look upon the return of our Pilots from the cosmos. And together we will say, Great is he who stares down stars! Great is she who loves everyone! Great is he who embraces the world!
In Dark Months, your loyal friend
Ioet of the Broken Knife