A TABLE IN THE WILDERNESS: chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
I write because I want to be remembered. I think everyone does, regardless of what they say. Of course, I have reasons for wanting to be remembered now: I am 80 years old. My journey here is almost finished and soon my homesick body will go back to the ground that it came from. It is an odd thing to be 80 years old. Alone, I do not feel old. I feel alive, full of energy to myself. I feel beautiful. Then, by chance, I will pass a mirror or a dark glass and see a wrinkled old woman smiling back at me. When did I grow so old? I don’t know. I don’t even ask why the old woman looking at me is smiling. I just feel shock. I feel the shock and I stand there until the shock passes, then I keep walking.
I came to live in this ruined villa forty years ago. In those days, before the wars, it was not a ruin. The gardens then were full of flower trees, Hogarth trees, clovers, and many rare specimens from both the Schendi rainforests and the deserts. This part of the world is a very happy place for plants. All kinds of things grow together here that could not grow together elsewhere, so the liana vines and needle trees make peace together in this unusual climate. I have worked hard, since I came here, first to maintain, and then to restore, the gardens.
Seven hands ago, while visiting for the new year rituals, my youngest son came to me and insisted that I move my rooms from the second floor to the first. My son, although the soul of courtesy and consideration, is still a warrior, and he is accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. His concern for my welfare and comfort came in the form of a simple “Mother, your rooms will be moved to the south wing. Ute says these rooms are damp in the evening.” He speaks to me this way because of his training, and his position. I hear the heart behind the words, smile at him, and simply reply, “Yes darling, of course”.
Now who is Ute? She is one of the nine women who wait on my son’s every wish and desire. Ute is a slave. I have no idea where this manuscript will end up, so I want to say that the institution of slavery in this society is very ancient – at least as old as Glorious Ar, and to the best of my recollection, Glorious Ar is around thousand years old, as some measure time. When I first came here, of course, I did not understand slavery and found it a brutal and horrifying practice. I suppose I found it even more brutal and horrifying because I came to this land originally as a slave, captured, and sold off a chain.
TO BE CONTINUED
I write because I want to be remembered. I think everyone does, regardless of what they say. Of course, I have reasons for wanting to be remembered now: I am 80 years old. My journey here is almost finished and soon my homesick body will go back to the ground that it came from. It is an odd thing to be 80 years old. Alone, I do not feel old. I feel alive, full of energy to myself. I feel beautiful. Then, by chance, I will pass a mirror or a dark glass and see a wrinkled old woman smiling back at me. When did I grow so old? I don’t know. I don’t even ask why the old woman looking at me is smiling. I just feel shock. I feel the shock and I stand there until the shock passes, then I keep walking.
I came to live in this ruined villa forty years ago. In those days, before the wars, it was not a ruin. The gardens then were full of flower trees, Hogarth trees, clovers, and many rare specimens from both the Schendi rainforests and the deserts. This part of the world is a very happy place for plants. All kinds of things grow together here that could not grow together elsewhere, so the liana vines and needle trees make peace together in this unusual climate. I have worked hard, since I came here, first to maintain, and then to restore, the gardens.
Seven hands ago, while visiting for the new year rituals, my youngest son came to me and insisted that I move my rooms from the second floor to the first. My son, although the soul of courtesy and consideration, is still a warrior, and he is accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. His concern for my welfare and comfort came in the form of a simple “Mother, your rooms will be moved to the south wing. Ute says these rooms are damp in the evening.” He speaks to me this way because of his training, and his position. I hear the heart behind the words, smile at him, and simply reply, “Yes darling, of course”.
Now who is Ute? She is one of the nine women who wait on my son’s every wish and desire. Ute is a slave. I have no idea where this manuscript will end up, so I want to say that the institution of slavery in this society is very ancient – at least as old as Glorious Ar, and to the best of my recollection, Glorious Ar is around thousand years old, as some measure time. When I first came here, of course, I did not understand slavery and found it a brutal and horrifying practice. I suppose I found it even more brutal and horrifying because I came to this land originally as a slave, captured, and sold off a chain.
TO BE CONTINUED
posted by Unknown at 10:34 AM
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