From the Cottar: Tales of Light and Darkness

The following stories are both from the journal labeled "From the Cottar," but the subject matter - a myth of the Aldryami and a myth of the Uz - and its position later on in the journal suggests that, frustratingly, Mianmo reused one of her journals to jot down myths from farther-flung climes after filling most of its early pages with wisdom from a salt-of-the-Earth cottar. The alternative is that whoever this cottar was, he was familiar with elf-lore and troll-lore - not impossible, given the cosmopolitan nature of Kerofinela, but certainly a stretch.

"Tree Mother" is an interesting glimpse at a more humanized interpretation of Aldrya. Most Orlanthi stories about her agree that she is an uncaring mother who desires to see trees blanket the world without care for the creatures who live in them, or the peoples who live beside them, beyond the value they can provide for the forest. It is possible that this is not so much a story about Aldrya as a story about Yelmalio-of-the-Wood forming a bond with an unlikely ally, and just as likely that it is an oral history of how some Heortling clans survived the Great Darkness by pursuing the secrets of the Earth.

Tree Mother Finds the Lost

There was, there was not, Tree Mother walking alone in the forests. This was in the Greater Darkness, when all the lights had gone out, when all the stars had fallen, and when all the branches were bare.

She called out to her children, but there was no answer. The sap of the trees had frozen, and so had the beasts of the boughs, and so had the birds of the branches, and there was no echo to her voice, for there were no spirits to cast her voice back to her. Alone, she wrapped herself in vines and made herself a stead of dead wood, and there she waited there in the dark for all things to end.

Only, then the Bright Child found her shelter. His torch held no fire, his limbs held no strength. Tree Mother knew him. Before all things had fallen under the Darkness once more, they had been friends. For this reason, she wrapped him in moss and gave him nuts to eat, and after he regained his strength, the Bright Child told her of the world beyond her wood. Cold Wind slew even his own brothers and stole from the weak, and now all creatures were buried beneath the snow which was his cloak.

Tree Mother's heart ached as she listened, and she wept for the creatures who had once called her forest home: little Sparrow who sung from the branches, clever Fox (who has the sharpest wit and the loveliest humor of all creatures), strong Bear sleeping deep below the snow. All these creatures would freeze and starve and be lost to the world.

"Bright Child," she said, "we must go together out into the world. You have the Light which overcomes the Darkness - with it, we can find those who are not dead, but who still sleep."

"Tree Mother," he said, "this is the last light in all the world. When this goes out, there will be nothing left but Darkness. I cannot risk Cold Wind blowing it out. I have failed at everything else, and I cannot fail in this. Can I not stay here?"

She did not answer him, and under the weight of her eyes, he wept and admitted his fear and his selfishness. Then he stood and lifted his light high, and together they walked out into the storm. Tree Mother sheltered him from the winds, and the Bright Child showed her where she could find the lost, the shivering, and the hopeless. Tree Mother would dig deep, and would scoop them up in her great limbs, carrying them back to her shelter. Sometimes, they came too late and found only the dead waiting for them. But they refused to give up while there were some who might be saved.

When Tree Mother and Bright Boy admitted that they had no more strength, and that they had looked in every part of the world which was known to them, they returned to their shelter, which had become a mighty stead. No one has ever made one greater, for the trees were the pillars and the walls, the roots and the leaves were the rushes, and even a thought would take three days to run from one end to the other.

But here, they found that the survivors had begun to wage war against each other. The children of Great Bird had conquered the rafters, and the children of the Great Hunter chased the children of Herd Mother in an endless loop. The people demanded that Tree Mother throw their enemies out to die in the snow, but she had no more strength to act. In despair, she covered herself in her blanket of moss and closed her eyes, despairing at the folly of those she had tried to save.

It was the Bright Child who stepped forward then. His voice carried across the entire stead when he raised up his light, and all battles ceased. He demanded a ceasefire for ten days, and at the end of these ten days, Tree Mother lifted up her blanket and whispered to the Bright Child, who spoke for her once more.

She asked the many peoples of the stead to lay aside their strife, their hunger, and their yearning. She asked them to sleep in deep burrows, to keep one another warm, and to wait for the Bright Child's call, for he would keep vigil for the coming dawn. And those who did not agree were turned out of the stead, and we have forgotten their names and shapes, but those who did agree dug deep and slept beneath Tree Mother's blankets. That is how they survived. This thing could not have been done otherwise.

As for how they awoke - the Bright Child wore a cape of bright feathers as he sat on the stead's roof, and when the First Dawn came, his call was the greatest that has ever been heard.

 

ZORAK ZORAN HATES EVERYTHING

Some say there are gods who hate better than Zorak Zoran can. This is not true. The Vengeful Earth has a stronger hate, for Zorak Zoran is not wild enough to grind his teeth to powder and drink down whole valleys of blood. The Storm Bull Wind has a more fervent hate, for there is no one who hates Chaos more than Urox. But Zorak Zoran's hate is greater. The Vengeful Earth's hate is limited and the Storm Bull Wind's hate is single-minded, and both concentrate their hate to a razor's edge. But Zorak Zoran hates everything and everything hates Zorak Zoran. There is no greater, no vaster hate.

When the world was young and dark and beautiful and creatures were first finding their names, Zorak Zoran was there, too. He hated everything. He hated the wriggling things and the scuttling things and the buzzing things. When he saw the delicate moth with her scaled wings and fuzzy scarves, given to her by Bug Mother, he hated her and he hated her finery. So he ripped off their wings and he stripped off their scarves. He tried wearing both so that he might be as cozy and pretty as the moth, but the wings made him stumble and the scarf made his throat itch. So he threw them aside, but the moths still followed him in the dark, mocking him. Zorak Zoran hates moths. Zorak Zoran hates everything.

When Yelm died and trolls fled to the war-torn Hurting Place, Zorak Zoran was there, too. He hated everything. He hated the Earth, he hated the Sky, he hated the Waters, he hated the Air, he hated the Plants. When he saw the Plants sing and dance and lavish love upon Green Man, their father, with his emerald eyes and voluptuous body, Zorak Zoran hated him and hated his children's love. So Zorak Zoran stole the Green Man's eyes and ate his bones and devoured his children, and he found them delicious. But when he tried to look through the Green Man's eyes, all he saw was the decay of all things and the victory of deep roots. Zorak Zoran hates trees. Zorak Zoran hates everything.

When the Devil danced across the Hurting Place and cut it into eight pieces, Zorak Zoran was there, too. He hated that everything else was too weak to survive the cold, he hated that the Chaos creatures partying in the Devil's wake made such a racket, and he hated that the last bits of life all clung to hateful light. There on that big hill was one weak man hanging onto one stabbing light, with a bright spear and a red cloak and a red flame. Zorak Zoran hated him. He hated his spear so bright and his pride so tall and his flame so warm. So Zorak Zoran broke the Bright Child's spear, trampled his red cloak, and ate that wretched flame. Too bad the flame never sat right in his stomach. Zorak Zoran hates the fire within. Zorak Zoran hates everything.

When there was nothing left in the world, no leaf and no tree and no field, Zorak Zoran was there and he hated everything that no longer was. He hated shoveling gravel into his mouth, he hated the fire raging inside, and he hated the Earth Goddesses for being too weak to survive the cold. He dug so deep that he found where Earth Mother was hiding, sleeping out the end of the world. He smelled that she'd kept all her wonderful gifts with her, and he hated her for hiding them from him. But when he lowered himself into her bedroom, Vengeful Earth appeared. She howled and bit and punched and kicked and was worse than a hundred mosquitoes. Zorak Zoran hated her, too. He hated her screaming, he hated her love for her mother, and he hated that she was able to hurt him. He swung the club called Death down on her head, but she caught it and showed him that it wasn't a club at all, but instead it was an axe. She tanned his hide with it and sent him running. Forever he'll have the shakes and spasms from that fight. Zorak Zoran hates the Vengeful Earth. Zorak Zoran hates everything.