Thursday, 17 October 2013

The short life of Ganda

In the land of Terema, the people walk the paths of old.
Fifteen years ago, Ganda was born on one of these ancient paths.

His crown is gold, his soul is pure.
He’s given the gifts of seeing and cure.

Wise in her ways, and gifted as well,
She told him all that there was to tell.

Of people and places, the holy and hollow.
Some he should fear, some he can follow.

Of berries and bees, which birds in what trees.
And now he can see all that she sees.

He can snare a hare.
He can sing the bear.
He can kill a deer on the run.

He can lure and trick,
He can heal the sick.
He praises his father, the sun.

At fourteen, you must fly,
She said, with a sigh.
Go west to the King in the Sky.

Then build a house
And lay out the bait.

And lay out the bait.
And lay out the bait.

And lay out the bait.
And lay out the bait.

Out-fox the King in the Sky.

Then pluck him
And eat him.
And I did.
And I cried.

Then do it again.
And I did
And I cried.

Bring home the feathers
And all of the claws.

I’ll make you a bracelet.

And I did
And she did.

At last she said go.
Meet friend and find foe.
Walk true and walk tall.
Stand up when you fall.

It’s not written in bone.
Your path is your own.

Summer went fast.
And I had to go.
Nine moons on the move
All alone.

Hunting for food.
Keeping the pelts.

Past midwinter
I saw the Bull.


To a fire. In a clearing.
A man. Speaking.
A life.
For a life.

A white, hot anger shot
Through me. And I
Through him. His hip.
And he fell. And I shot him

And blood rained
On fire and faun
As I opened his throat with his knife.

My knife.

My shadow.

Feeling dark.
Feeling holy.
But dark
And dark.

She was younger than I.
I walked her home
To Båteng.

I told her all about
The birds.

And came home
To find my mother

And left home
To find some other

Spring now.
The birds are back.

I walked out
To Lulliriddu.
No rush
To sell my pelts.

I didn’t have to sell
Right away.
Waiting for a Lullin,
A southener,
Who will pay.

Engelbert, his name, he said,
Eager to trade.

His greedy, green eyes
On the knife of the dead.

Storyteller's note: This was written as a back-story for Ganda, the young mage from the North, by Eirik, his player. He has previously written The Captain's Prayer.

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