(February 13, 2008)
Krigala. First of three. Krigala. First level of the Beastlands. Of the Happy Hunting Grounds.
Krigala, where all petitioners take on aspects of the animal world after a time. Given enough time all physical traces of their humanity slip away under fur and fang, feather and talon.
Krigala, layer of eternal noon with only a daily shower of rain to mark the passage of time. Here are found the creatures that live and hunt under the glare of the sun. In some places it burns hotly, creating savannahs, while in others it barely penetrates the thick canopy of jungle. Running almost straight through the center of this layer is the River Oceanus, headed between Elysium and Arborea. The jungles and forests are thickest along it. Moving away from the river, the land becomes plains, then dry veldt, then desert, only to rise into coniferous wooded mountains and arctic tundra.
It was to the plains she went, pushing through the strange world of shadows she'd been granted permission to use. There on the verge between primordial forest and plains Thorn thought to find her ancestors. And did.
The woman dressed in butter soft doe skin she'd tanned and stretched herself held little resemblance to the elder her grand-daughter had known.
Thirty if she was a day, raven black hair hung down her back in glossy braids studded with feathers and stones, shells and beads. Artis' face was unlined, smooth skinned untroubled by the years she'd lived. And changed in subtle ways.
Where she'd always had a slight hawkish cast to her eyes and features, that aquiline molding had deepened. Gold rimmed eyes now where near black had flashed. The copper skin she'd been so proud to have been born into had the faint sheen of red-tail feathers in the sun. The Bestlands changed its petitioners over time, a few more centuries and her grandmother would be the hawk she was coming to resemble. Her ten times great-grandmother looked more puma than human. The other woman, three times great-grandmother, already had the features of a fox taking over her face and golden red fur slicking her skin, her ears had gone pointed and expressive.
They walked and talked after meeting or reuniting, sharing tales and experiences, though the eldest no longer had the ability to speak common, or anything really that wasn't some form of feline. Neither of the three imparted sage words of advice to aid the resolution of this child of their blood's current situations, Artis however did cuff Thorn with a hand that was taking on the aspects of a talon. Muttering "anyone who expects perfection anywhere without working for it needs to start shitting in the other hand, it'll fill up faster."
As they conversed, they followed the path that the other three set, their pale-skinned redneck descendant more than willing to let them take the lead. She listened, fell into the patterns of their voices as easily and readily as a child hearing their favorite story from a beloved relative. The redneck's eyes were half lidded, her attention wandering as it was wont to do when she was comfortable, or enjoying herself on more than one level.
The ever-noon light changed to shadow when they passed under the branches of a tree, distant piercing whistles caught Thorn's ear as the muted throb of deep voiced drums sent her blood pumping in time. Sage and tradition the scents carried on the wind that stirred leaf and bough above and flattened the grasses beneath and around the quartet's feet.
She didn't notice that their path took on a purpose, that the three women had a destination in mind. One that they'd agreed upon silently without letting this child of their Blood have a say. Too long she'd put off the Tree, too long she'd feared what she did not know well enough to fear.
More distinct became the shrilling of the bone whistles, more demanding the call of the drum. Chanted songs separated themselves from the background noises of life on Krigala.
Once again they passed into shadow, and the redneck's eyes widened in instinctive fear, her spine stiffening in response to that fear as she drew back. All forward progress halted.
The Sun Dance.
Atonement and sacrifice. Symbol of rebirth and resurrection, of the connection between all things, all people and their makers, and each other. Rife with symbolism and deeper meaning. Rife with blood and pain.
The Sun Dance was a tradition nearly all Plains Tribes followed to one degree or another. And nearly all the tribes that followed it, had the same elements; the pole to represent the Tree of Life, tethers made of buffalo hide, bone skewers made of buffalo bone. All symbolic of the interconnection of all life. All symbolic of a Peoples' guilt for depending on the thing they revered as one step below the Creator for their very lives, for sustenance. All symbolic of their atonement for those sins.
With fear rolling her eyes to their whites that first instinctive step back and away from a fear she wasn't any where near ready to face turned to another. The back-pedaling only stopped when her back met the chest of the eldest of the three women with her, and when changing eyes, so warm and loving earlier, met hers with cold challenge. Telling looks, speaking stares from gold spangled eyes into frosted amethyst that did more than words ever could to prick the redneck's pride and stiffen her spine.
Those unspoken words and challenges were more than enough to have her stepping forward once again, her eyes seeking the highest point of the sacred Tree. And they remained locked there even when a shaman, one whose heart and mind had rejoiced upon finding the physical form of his after-life to be changeable and was taking on strong aspects of the coyote already, slid an eagle bone whistle between her lips. Those amethyst eyes widened and narrowed convulsively when the bone skewers were shoved, one at a time, through the skin of her chest.
Perhaps the shaman had come to be a little too in-tune with his spirit guide, as through intent or accident, and a little bit more pressure, the sharpened shards of bone pierced muscle as well as skin. His throat throbbed in the near giggle that rose and fell un ululation he had been known for in life while mischievous approval moved behind golden eyes at the shrilling rise of a scream funneled through the wing-bone whistle. And he stepped back, with a nod to the three elder females and their attendants to go about performing the same duties for another dancer.
Here in the after-life, here on Krigala's verdant plains there was no One Way to govern the spirituality of the tribes-members who remembered and honored the Old Ways. Each dancer, no matter how deep into the
Change they were, approached the pole and tethers in their own way. The rigid, ritualized preparations that often lasted for days in Life were options now that many still adhered to. Some did not, and that was perfectly all right as well. After all, what need did spirits in heaven need for purification?
Some were pierced through the skin of their chest, some through the skin stretched across their shoulder blades. Some were tethered to the tree, some drug skulls, some were suspended from their newly pierced flesh. One and all they Danced in time with the drums, shrilling out both their prayers and discomfort through the whistles. One and all they would Dance until they found the fortitude within themselves to free themselves. In the same way.
The needle-skewers had to be torn free by force. Yanked through the skin, and in the case of at least one pale skinned relation, a bit of muscle too.
In a place where time had no real meaning, in a place where the passing of a day was marked by the fall of rain rather than the changing angle of light and dark, the tethered redneck Danced. Circled the tree a number of times marking five by four to represent the directions and their element.
At the conclusion of each mark of four she walked forward, slackening the tethers, to slap the skin of the tree, then ran backwards. Back to her place in the orbiting dancers to throw herself backward against the tethers. Fresh blood, flowed, freshening pain spiraled, and she danced on. From East to South to West to North to East.
And in the East she tore free, a new scream tearing free of her throat even as the skewers ripped free of her flesh. Under her own power, on her own feet, Thorn left the Lodge, a tiny woman who was more hedgehog than human now, trundling along in her wake, to sprawl inelegantly at the base of a tree.
Shoulders resting heavily against the uneven bark the redneck's breath hissed between her teeth, when she wasn't gulping water to cool her parched throat, and let the woman tend her wounds. Wounds that wouldn't heal completely even with the rings Thorn wore to aid in that. Wounds that would scar, at least temporarily, where no scars had formed in over a year.
She dozed then, unconsciously watching the changing people around her throat slitted eyes and purple lashes. And knew.
Knew that within a six month span she had willingly faced more than enough to find her Way once again.
What came before; the site of her death. What might be; the Tree and the Dance.
And it was good.
Krigala. First of three. Krigala. First level of the Beastlands. Of the Happy Hunting Grounds.
Krigala, where all petitioners take on aspects of the animal world after a time. Given enough time all physical traces of their humanity slip away under fur and fang, feather and talon.
Krigala, layer of eternal noon with only a daily shower of rain to mark the passage of time. Here are found the creatures that live and hunt under the glare of the sun. In some places it burns hotly, creating savannahs, while in others it barely penetrates the thick canopy of jungle. Running almost straight through the center of this layer is the River Oceanus, headed between Elysium and Arborea. The jungles and forests are thickest along it. Moving away from the river, the land becomes plains, then dry veldt, then desert, only to rise into coniferous wooded mountains and arctic tundra.
It was to the plains she went, pushing through the strange world of shadows she'd been granted permission to use. There on the verge between primordial forest and plains Thorn thought to find her ancestors. And did.
The woman dressed in butter soft doe skin she'd tanned and stretched herself held little resemblance to the elder her grand-daughter had known.
Thirty if she was a day, raven black hair hung down her back in glossy braids studded with feathers and stones, shells and beads. Artis' face was unlined, smooth skinned untroubled by the years she'd lived. And changed in subtle ways.
Where she'd always had a slight hawkish cast to her eyes and features, that aquiline molding had deepened. Gold rimmed eyes now where near black had flashed. The copper skin she'd been so proud to have been born into had the faint sheen of red-tail feathers in the sun. The Bestlands changed its petitioners over time, a few more centuries and her grandmother would be the hawk she was coming to resemble. Her ten times great-grandmother looked more puma than human. The other woman, three times great-grandmother, already had the features of a fox taking over her face and golden red fur slicking her skin, her ears had gone pointed and expressive.
They walked and talked after meeting or reuniting, sharing tales and experiences, though the eldest no longer had the ability to speak common, or anything really that wasn't some form of feline. Neither of the three imparted sage words of advice to aid the resolution of this child of their blood's current situations, Artis however did cuff Thorn with a hand that was taking on the aspects of a talon. Muttering "anyone who expects perfection anywhere without working for it needs to start shitting in the other hand, it'll fill up faster."
As they conversed, they followed the path that the other three set, their pale-skinned redneck descendant more than willing to let them take the lead. She listened, fell into the patterns of their voices as easily and readily as a child hearing their favorite story from a beloved relative. The redneck's eyes were half lidded, her attention wandering as it was wont to do when she was comfortable, or enjoying herself on more than one level.
The ever-noon light changed to shadow when they passed under the branches of a tree, distant piercing whistles caught Thorn's ear as the muted throb of deep voiced drums sent her blood pumping in time. Sage and tradition the scents carried on the wind that stirred leaf and bough above and flattened the grasses beneath and around the quartet's feet.
She didn't notice that their path took on a purpose, that the three women had a destination in mind. One that they'd agreed upon silently without letting this child of their Blood have a say. Too long she'd put off the Tree, too long she'd feared what she did not know well enough to fear.
More distinct became the shrilling of the bone whistles, more demanding the call of the drum. Chanted songs separated themselves from the background noises of life on Krigala.
Once again they passed into shadow, and the redneck's eyes widened in instinctive fear, her spine stiffening in response to that fear as she drew back. All forward progress halted.
The Sun Dance.
Atonement and sacrifice. Symbol of rebirth and resurrection, of the connection between all things, all people and their makers, and each other. Rife with symbolism and deeper meaning. Rife with blood and pain.
The Sun Dance was a tradition nearly all Plains Tribes followed to one degree or another. And nearly all the tribes that followed it, had the same elements; the pole to represent the Tree of Life, tethers made of buffalo hide, bone skewers made of buffalo bone. All symbolic of the interconnection of all life. All symbolic of a Peoples' guilt for depending on the thing they revered as one step below the Creator for their very lives, for sustenance. All symbolic of their atonement for those sins.
With fear rolling her eyes to their whites that first instinctive step back and away from a fear she wasn't any where near ready to face turned to another. The back-pedaling only stopped when her back met the chest of the eldest of the three women with her, and when changing eyes, so warm and loving earlier, met hers with cold challenge. Telling looks, speaking stares from gold spangled eyes into frosted amethyst that did more than words ever could to prick the redneck's pride and stiffen her spine.
Those unspoken words and challenges were more than enough to have her stepping forward once again, her eyes seeking the highest point of the sacred Tree. And they remained locked there even when a shaman, one whose heart and mind had rejoiced upon finding the physical form of his after-life to be changeable and was taking on strong aspects of the coyote already, slid an eagle bone whistle between her lips. Those amethyst eyes widened and narrowed convulsively when the bone skewers were shoved, one at a time, through the skin of her chest.
Perhaps the shaman had come to be a little too in-tune with his spirit guide, as through intent or accident, and a little bit more pressure, the sharpened shards of bone pierced muscle as well as skin. His throat throbbed in the near giggle that rose and fell un ululation he had been known for in life while mischievous approval moved behind golden eyes at the shrilling rise of a scream funneled through the wing-bone whistle. And he stepped back, with a nod to the three elder females and their attendants to go about performing the same duties for another dancer.
Here in the after-life, here on Krigala's verdant plains there was no One Way to govern the spirituality of the tribes-members who remembered and honored the Old Ways. Each dancer, no matter how deep into the
Change they were, approached the pole and tethers in their own way. The rigid, ritualized preparations that often lasted for days in Life were options now that many still adhered to. Some did not, and that was perfectly all right as well. After all, what need did spirits in heaven need for purification?
Some were pierced through the skin of their chest, some through the skin stretched across their shoulder blades. Some were tethered to the tree, some drug skulls, some were suspended from their newly pierced flesh. One and all they Danced in time with the drums, shrilling out both their prayers and discomfort through the whistles. One and all they would Dance until they found the fortitude within themselves to free themselves. In the same way.
The needle-skewers had to be torn free by force. Yanked through the skin, and in the case of at least one pale skinned relation, a bit of muscle too.
In a place where time had no real meaning, in a place where the passing of a day was marked by the fall of rain rather than the changing angle of light and dark, the tethered redneck Danced. Circled the tree a number of times marking five by four to represent the directions and their element.
At the conclusion of each mark of four she walked forward, slackening the tethers, to slap the skin of the tree, then ran backwards. Back to her place in the orbiting dancers to throw herself backward against the tethers. Fresh blood, flowed, freshening pain spiraled, and she danced on. From East to South to West to North to East.
And in the East she tore free, a new scream tearing free of her throat even as the skewers ripped free of her flesh. Under her own power, on her own feet, Thorn left the Lodge, a tiny woman who was more hedgehog than human now, trundling along in her wake, to sprawl inelegantly at the base of a tree.
Shoulders resting heavily against the uneven bark the redneck's breath hissed between her teeth, when she wasn't gulping water to cool her parched throat, and let the woman tend her wounds. Wounds that wouldn't heal completely even with the rings Thorn wore to aid in that. Wounds that would scar, at least temporarily, where no scars had formed in over a year.
She dozed then, unconsciously watching the changing people around her throat slitted eyes and purple lashes. And knew.
Knew that within a six month span she had willingly faced more than enough to find her Way once again.
What came before; the site of her death. What might be; the Tree and the Dance.
And it was good.