Open Chronicles Through the golden ages to a bright present and future

[Liberty TS Hope]

Liberty looked at the assistant. Ahh.... Book covers can be such art pieces. Wait, wait wait. Back to book justice. Libby stood up, and tried to get the attention of the assistant walking by.

"A! Excuse me, This book here has been scribbled in by someone. The original text becoming completely unreadable," she said pointing at one of the books she was holding.

 

[White Swallow]

The White Swallow eyed the two books held by the four-eyed woman. It wasn't uncommon for some literate people to scribble secret notes or hide things within the books themselves.
»The book looks undamadged? « he wondered.

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

He looked up warmly upon seeing the building ahead and the destination of the journey he began some days ago. A place he had heard of some time ago, and now he had finally arrived to witness it for himself. There might even be work available, and while he was in no great need of money at the time it seemed worthwhile enough to check. Opportunities for the wandering scribe to ply his trade were rare enough that that he wasn’t about to overlook one.

Though work and pay were hardly the reasons that caused him to venture there. His main reasons for the trip were much the same as they had recently been: to explore and learn. It had been the cause of his travels since he had departed Maraan a year ago, flush with money to travel and fueled by a sense of discovery to motivate it. Even his present pangs of hunger could hardly compete; he could always grab food later. One could say that visiting the library could wait too; but whomever would say such a thing was certainly not Harun.

As he entered the building he pulled down his hood, thinning hair with tufts of grey spilling free while he gazed as his surroundings with contentment to be there. Before he wandered in further he looked around; as eager as he was to have a look, this was a library in the land of another. They had allowed him in as a guest, and it was prudent for him to return the respect. A quick survey told him that all was not open for travellers to peruse; and such precious items were kept well away in the antiquitarium. Hardly a disappointment with so much other material already available, and that was merely what he had seen on display upon entrance.

In short order, Harun had gravitated towards the northern wing with slow steps to marvel at the scene before him. Slowly he strode along one of the bookshelves, eyes scanning the covers and titles one by one. He continued onward with the dilemma of where to even begin sparked by the sheer selection of what was before him. Yet he would have to eat sooner or later; likely the former if his stomach had anything to say about it. Which it very much did, given the rumbling that Harun chose to ignore.

He’d need to start somewhere though, or else he might waste what time he had before dinner with indecisive browsing. Forcing himself to choose one, he reached without looking and tapped a book on one of the bookshelves gently with a finger. Only then did he look at what he had chosen, pulling it from the shelf with careful hands to see what material would be the first he would read here.

 

[Liberty TS Hope]

Libby glanced at the book "Well, you see," she quickly opened it up and turned the pages to the one with the scribbling in, "the outside is fine but look." She pointed at the scribbled on text, and then the scratched out original text of the page.
"You can't even read the original poem. Surely this shouldn't be allowed. Is there even any other copies of this book in the library?" her face was quite serious. Perhaps a bit too serious for such a matter except Libby thought it just serious enough.

 

[White Swallow]

Harun Ahidjar
"Glory to the kingdom of the stars, 100 short stories."
The cover had an image of a foolish-looking hunter in a conversation with a tiger, who one paw behind his back, bore sharp claws.

Liberty TS Hope
The White Swallow looked over the page as it was presented to him, first setting aside his beautifully ornate booklet to the side.
» It's shunned, however, there are many more copies of this book that continue to be made. «
He offered the Secret love poem book back to her.
» This one can be regarded as its own creative contribution to the work. Can it not? I think my master would not mind if it stays this way in the collection. «

»But I believe you want the original poem? «

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

With the book in hand, he gazed at the cover. It was a delight for one so stuck by indecision; a collection of many stories from which to choose! Harun happily opened the book and carefully flipped the pages to select a story at random from within. And of all the stories, he had chosen one with 'The Hunter and the Tiger', or so the story's title foretold:

Atal the hunter was in comfortable times; the plains had yielded plenty of its game to him. He was capable enough to always have food, yet none around would think of him as great. Not disparagement nor praise, none really gave the young hunter notice. He made claims of bravery, but they were refuted and ignored. No, the truly brave would hunt dangerous creatures the townsfolk maintained; to kill hares and gazelles was useful, but no display of courage. They didn’t care for his tales of dangerous predators he had to share the hunting grounds with; it was regarded as boasting without proof. But Atal knew he was brave, and he wanted them to know too. On his next hunt, he set off not in search of prey, but to hunt a predator instead. It took little time for him to find the first; a large tiger peering down from a short rocky outcrop. Atal prepared to nock an arrow, but the tiger offered a peaceful trade. He didn’t arrive to stalk the hunter down; the tiger said he knew of the hunter’s desires and offered an alliance, what luck for Atal! The tiger would lead him to the land’s most dangerous creatures, and Atal would strike them dead with his bow. The plan was pleasing, and no doubt the multiple trophies he’d take back home would impress the townsfolk. The tiger lead him to the first, a tree and advised the hunter to nock an arrow. Atal did, and the tiger leapt onto the tree to release a startled cheetah hidden from within the leaves of the bough. He loosed an arrow and it struck true; he now had a glorious pelt with which to impress the townsfolk. “But why stop there?”, the tiger beckoned. He could lead Atal to yet another beast, far more fearsome than the last. Atal quite eagerly agreed, and they set foot into the valley. Once again he told the hunter to nock an arrow before jumping up onto steep cliff walls to flush out a large wolf who came tumbling down with him. Atal loosed the arrow and pierced the throat of the wolf. He now had its head to claim; a fearsome display of fanged teeth that would no doubt be even more impressive than the pelt. But once again, the tiger beckoned the hunter on further. There was of course another beast, and the tiger promised it was more fearsome than the wolf. Atal grinned and agreed in an instant, and so the tiger led him on again. This time, Atal was lead to the watering hole, and once again was told to have an arrow nocked and at the ready. He did so and the tiger leaned towards the pond with a taunting growl, leaping back as a crocodile lunged forth with maws opened wide. Atal loosed his arrow, sending it into the crocodile’s heart, stopping it dead in the midst of it's aggression. He then ook it's severed foot, a fine trophy that the townsfolk would no doubt marvel at! But once again the tiger spoke of an even better quarry, and once again Atal eagerly accepted. He was directed through the plains, and made his way there with speed. The grass grew thicker, and the hunter had to slog through it. The tiger had little problems crossing the thick field of grass but noted the hunter's trouble and offered to help. Once again grateful for the assistance, Atal accepted and the tiger made his way back to the struggling hunter. The tiger approached until he had made his way over to his position int he grass. Sweeping a paw through it, his claws sunk into the hunter’s back as the tiger effortlessly pinned him to the ground. Confused, Atal pleaded to know what the tiger was doing, and he was given a prompt reply. “All the competition is dead; the cheetah will steal no more from me, the wolf shall not interfere with my hunting, and the watering hole is mine alone. There is only one more to compete with me, but I can’t ask for you to help me with that.” replied the tiger, speaking not with malice, but utter indifference before sinking his teeth into the mislead hunter’s neck. ​ Be wary of accepting offers Where the other has naught to gain​

A rather grim story, not unlike many other fables he had read; telling of a cautionary tale to the reader. Harun took a moment before turning the page, to see what story laid upon the next.

 

[Liberty TS Hope]

Liberty sighed.
"Yes, I did want the original poem. This one, while a nice contribution, is very distracting," Liberty perked up a bit, now finding the whole situation very silly, "I read it and thought that since the thematic of the book it is written as such. I thought that they wanted to. meet up with the reader. So," She pointed to the mosaics, "So I followed the hunter's pointing to here. ITS VERY SILLY ACTUALLY, the poem doesn't even indicate a time, and I've been here quite a while," no it doesn't seem like Liberty is going to stop talking yet, "But it wasn't a waste of time! I got to read this very interesting book, by a-" she checks the authorship again, "By Issam the Wolf. I even noticed a fun detail in its construction," she opened it up and listed through the titles, "He left a little message for a person named Mustafa."

Liberty gave the assistant a big smile. Oh god, she definitely talked too much, "Ahem, sorry about that ramble."

 

[White Swallow]

Liberty TS Hope
The White Swallow eyed the path Liberty outlined across the Library. Quite a journey for a mere poem indeed and even eyed the titles in a row. Well, it's not every day one comes into the library for such a surprise.

»This book is popular, I can find you a copy which is not tarnished if you still desire to read the original poem.«


Harun Ahidjar
The next story was preceded by an illustration of a very tired ox and a disgruntled ass.

A farmer and his wife owned an ass and an ox. The oxen ploughed the field all day long, while the donkey carrying hay was led from field to house. Both beasts were worked each day from dawn till dusk until they retired at their stalls each night. The work indeed was hard, but food and water were plentiful for both. »Listen, my friend, « said the ass to the oxen across. »Don't you think we're overworked? « »I don't mind it, it gives me a purpose, « the oxen replied, not minding his station life. Though the ass thought him to be too complacent. »But life could be better, « he insisted. »Life could be worse, « the ox dismissed him again. The ass only shrugged and figured out a plan for himself: I'll play myself lame and then I'll be pampered with oats all week long. And so the ass the next day collapsed sick on the ground, working not for the rest of the day. At night when the oxen returned to the stall, more worn and weary from the extra work that had to be done. »This work is hard « the ox admitted that night. The ass, laying down and eating good oats told him a tip, »why don't you pretend to be ill? « »That would be improper, « the ox spoke in an angered tone, taking pride in his work. »If you were smart like me you would be now living like a king, « The ass remained lame for many more days with no sign of getting better, for he was too tempted by the spoils granted to him and desired to step no foot outside ever again. At the end of the week, the farmer and his wife called for a butcher and bought themselves a hardy mule.

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

A story telling a tale of two farm animals this time, with contrasting attitudes towards how to live. One who complained, and one who was complacent; and it was simple to predict the direction the story would take. In keeping with the theme there would be surely a lesson to be imparted, and little doubt it would be unto the lazy ass of the story.

As he read on, his expectations were met; and in true keeping, the theme appeared to be a warning against laziness, with death serving as the same grim conclusion and consequence. But perhaps wise for the lands they dwelled in; despite a sheltered upbringing, he was well aware that in Amol-Kalit one was either useful, mighty, or dead. Harun had reached old age because his wisdom and skills as a scribe had placed him squarely among the first. Something that he had taken for granted before his travels began.

The stories were nice, though fables always seemed such a sanitized form of literature. Selected and approved stories aimed to provide guidance in their themes. Harun now craved to see literature that existed as expression, perhaps odes or poems, and the endless rows of scenery of books was an ever inviting sight.

Carefully, he placed the book back where he had found it and began to browse the shelves, selecting a thinner book to peruse. This one had an ornate decoration running along it’s spine; a mesmerizing a series of shapes and woven patterns bearing an uncanny amount of detail. He plucked it from the shelves with as much care as he had the former book, happily and carefully opening the work to the first page with curiosity.

 

[White Swallow]

(Harun Ahidjar Liberty is on short hiatus)
The White Swallow led liberty to the origin of the marred book, where he left her with a copy in pristine condition before leaving elsewhere to explore for his little secondary task.
No doubt, the beautiful codex within his arms had something to do with it.


The second page of Harun's book was a picture embezzled in many ornamental designs of flowers, yet at its centre lie text of Sahiyi mystic worship.

» A man has died a thousand times.
Born of dust and died as stone.
Born as water and died as air.
Born as plant and died as soil.
Born as beast and died as bone.

A man has truly died a thousand times.
Thus a thousand lives more he shall live.
And a thousand times more he shall die.
Turn purer each new life with his deeds.
Thus I cleanse my heart of all its woes.
And cleanse the heart of all my kin.

Thus I cleanse my heart of greed.
Thus I cleanse my heart of pride.
Thus I cleanse my heart of ego.
Thus I cleanse my heart of anger.
And to love I open my heart.
Each day, closer I am to Kalik.
And when a thousand lives have turned to one, I shall return to him. «




»A beautiful choice, « The White swallow spoke in a hushed tone as he walked by Harun. The soldier knew the book well.

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

Harun paused after reading the poem in a moment of reflection. In seeking literature of expression, here in the ornate book held in hand he found exactly that in its most solemn form. Abstracted through metaphor, the poem seemed testament to the writer’s conviction; as well as the untold others who had put the book together. Through mere presentation on the page, he could tell the matter would be one of high importance; exquisite enough to be homage to the gods. Reading the page however, gave him doubt that the subject matter was religious. It was most unlike most any divine text he had ever browsed.

Despite it’s solemn tone, it did not speak of a god’s greatness, nor of any divine achievement. The subject had been that of lives lived and repeated, speaking more closely towards worldly existence than the Astral Valley. And yet, the exquisite detail bordering each page implied that was he held was sacred text; the book itself by design and form had encouraged him to handle it with utmost care before he had even known what lay written on the pages.

After the moment of reflection he gave the poem a second reading, growing a touch more confused as he did. Perhaps it was religious? But then why were these words of guidance written with mortal as audience? Strangest of all was the description of growing closer to this figure. To be close among the Six could be considered a privilege reserved for the most esteemed, as far as he knew.

If this was a religious book, it violated many of the rules that he had come to know; doing so through compassionate rebellion. Rather than offering lecture and expecting his unquestioning interest, this poem sought to earn it; as if the writer had something wonderful to share.

The unexpected words caused him to make a brief startled shift in posture, unaware that anyone else was present. He still had the book opened to the same second page when he looked up at the speaker, his pondering paused at awareness of the other.

“Truly; words of beauty and conviction both. Much unlike any I’ve read; quite the statement to make as a retired scribe.” He replied in tone as hushed and polite. Curiosity in the work he had read ushered him to respond, and opportunity to discuss couldn't be overlooked. Were it a thing to be shared, he would be eager to know more.

 

[White Swallow]

»Some of the most remarkable Sahiyi sayings and poems lie in that book. As a soldier, I'm expected to study such literature in-depth. « The White Swallow spoke but kept holding onto his manuscript.

Sahiyi poems... The religious split to independence between the tolerated cult of hushur and the later henremdists was based around art, was it not? While within the hundred lesser deities lie the god maker and god of water, they, they saw the god artists who created the living as a work of beauty, all other deities were irrelevant, they did not exist or were false charlatans.
Still, better known... Many a scholar likely knew of the anti-heneri henremdists, who fanatically destroyed pictorial art, for only their deity, now named Kalik could create.
But for many others to prosecute them, they only needed the difference in faith.


The White Swallow glanced over at the open page. With the almost perfect, three-rectangle silhouette, identification of the poem was not hard.
» This is a common prayer, « he soon after noted.

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

“As a soldier?” He remarked. While delighted to learn of literature’s great importance to them, he couldn’t quite understand why. It would make sense were the book a manual of warfare; but such was not the case, not for the first poem at least. Harun needed no convincing to believe in the great good literature and philosophy would hold for a warrior; anyone, for that matter. He also knew that his notions were hardly as popular among soldiers, at least those he knew of from where he lived.

But then, this man identified the poem as a prayer, and confirmed his prior musing that the topic was religious. Thus, Kalik was divine; and in a moment of recollection, he recalled where he had heard he name before. It was a god of the henremdi; a group he had heard of many times, yet truly knew little about. He had held a curiosity towards the group; morbidly perhaps, given that he knew them to be vandals of art and literature. But the building was defiant to that notion, housing a plentiful trove of both. But then, did the Sahiyi share the same god? To inquire as to whether this building was henremdi seemed almost absurd; but perhaps he did not know as much as he believed he did. As old as he was, learning was an ever ongoing process. His confusion might imply that there would be more to be learned this day.

“Pray forgive me; for while I have heard the name, my eyes betray the description. Henremdi, correct?” He inquired; as politely as he could while still scratching the itch for more knowledge.

 

[White Swallow]

Harun Ahidjar
There were indeed many misconceptions running around on Henremdisms, and perhaps the Shtakmat state was especially idiosyncratic for this matter, for why a faction of soldiers and killers within the branch of religion promoting a life of enlightened peace?

»Correct, we are the Sahiyi Henremdi, those of the pure faith.«
The White Swallow erred for a moment. It wasn't a faith purer in the sense of the truth of divinity, for all Henremdi, all Hushurites in fact believed in the same deity, there was merely a conflict in the way of faith, tenants or worship and which important figures are acknowledged or not.
He then corrected. » 'Pure' ... We do not distract ourselves with the ideological conflict between us and Kalik, while others focus on the godhood of the world and whether imitating it is forbidden to us or not. In comparison, the Sahiyi are more monastic in nature.«
Sahiyism. It was a religion attractive to many scholars, poets and polymaths, but their religious affiliations were often omitted to not spur public religious outrage. This library might hold many a familiar name in a truer light.

»You are a worshiper of the many? «

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

Harun, while listening with great interest couldn’t take the descriptions literally. There was always bias in writing, and especially so in cultural or religious texts. Nuance and context were vital to understanding after all; and that they considered their faith pure was natural. The prayer he had just read seemed testament to that, supporting evidence that his newfound company would expand upon.

“Of faith to the same, but of differing philosophy?” He inquired further. He himself placed his faith in Naspar; fitting for a scribe, and he truly knew of few peers who held views to the contrary. Certainly, he knew none who would outright state it.

The Six was all he knew, but his own level of devotion was was another matter entirely, and the very fact that he would hesitate to declare his own faith was a sign of it. If he truly believed in their immutable superiority, he should make proud declaration, should he not? Yet such a forced display of devoutness did not sit well with him; and Harun concluded that it was preferable to do so in a tone more befitting of his own level of conviction.

“A follower of the Six, yes; more accurately of Naspar. It is my culture and upbringing, It is what I know.” He concluded tactfully. His very presence here could be considered an act of worship; in a way, his travels were a holy pilgrimage in the pursuit of wisdom. The six all held their own desires, and Naspar’s sat best with him. The Six asked for what was theirs, which was worship. Which Harun gave for no other reason than mere requirement; and certainly without the same zeal that these Sahiyi did their god. Annuk desired victory, and Munnun desired money; but Naspar desired wisdom. Though whether this pilgrimage was truly for the god, or for himself, was a hazy distinction.

“Though truly I am but god-fearing, not pious.” He concluded. His curiosity had been sparked and was burning brightly enough that he did not want religious conflict to get in its way. Neither did he want to declare himself as apostate, for the gods laid claim to the world and deniers were rarely held in high regard. While Harun understood this, he further understood the obstacle that a closed mind would have to true understanding. This, more than anything had been barrier to further devoutness.

 

[White Swallow]

He kept his gaze upon him, growing a bit more curious in the budding conversation. But there are better places to be than standing before a shelf. How about the carpets for sitting nearby? The white swallow motioned for Harun to come with him with the book.
»Ideologically we, the henremdi differ greatly, but between ourselves, not as much as from you the many-worshippers. But even I am not quite so certain on how the other branches conduct themselves. One of the Dai who could preach of all minute differences would be better suited to learn from than I.«
In truth, The White Swallow was never quite fond of the many deities,(how could he? It was they of this faith who persecute him for his belief!) neither was he reserved to plainly state his conviction on other deities.
»Your gods are not real deities. No deity is truly transcendent, immanent and omnipresent if they show themselves in forms quite corporeal, have favourites and interact with us. What is then the difference between a king and a god? Or any other powerful being for that matter? A true deity, maker of this world is absolutely transcendental and unknowable by us, they need not our worship, they need not our cattle or blood when they were the makers of it all. They are the source of all notions of personhood yet we cannot attribute any quality of ours to Kalik!«
Kalik, as Hushur within the pantheon, was always known as the 'silent' one, never interacting with any worshipper, nor demanding anything from them.

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

The gesture was returned with a polite nod, and the ever-curious scholar followed with the book securely but gently held in his hands. Tactful politeness had motivated him to treat it with care; a showing of respectful gratitude that something of such ornateness had been among the freely available material. Now that he knew the works to be sacred, these efforts were doubled.

“I should hear one speak, for I am in growing awareness of my former ignorance. I prefer to dispose of tales and legend arriving secondhand; true knowledge must come from the well firsthand, should it not?” He replied. Much as he followed Naspar, he was ever curious about the deities of the others. Again, perhaps a morbid interest given the conflict and war the followers of different divines often engrossed themselves in. But he was a man of wisdom, not piousness; and like many other scholars followed Him out of pursuit of the former. Had he known Him to be demanding of viewpoints, Harun might not consider himself a follower, but the path Naspar laid out was as amicable to him as it was many scholars. What the deity was Himself remained a mystery, He made little clear. There were a great many works attributed to his inspiration, and many with Him as the divine topic; but the closest such works were abstractions at best. None seemed to know Naspar’s nature truly, and Harun had concluded that this was so because understanding of the world was of greater purpose than understanding of Him.

“Sacrilege, and you speak it freely.” The observation was off putting, another weight on his mind beyond that of being called a many-worshipper. That he had not encountered the Sahiyi before now seemed a touch more sensible; these were words one would dare not speak near the temples of the six. Such would invite doubtless death.

“It is because they speak not, that they are worthy of worship? An interesting concept, but is it not illogical? I am a humble man, with no need for a kingdom. Having expended no effort in carving one, am I then better than kings themselves?” He questioned. His tone remained polite, but this was a challenge to intellect that he could not shake. The connotation seemed clear enough, but causation was entirely lost on Harun. For him and many the very fact that the divine provided direct guidance was the reason for worship. They existed, and thus, worship is what they received. After all he was Kaliti; chosen people of the Annunaki.

“If nothing is needed from us then, why were we created?” he posited the existential question. Honestly, one he had pondered before, but now he had one with a much differing viewpoint to provide reflection upon it. What answers he had received this far sparked an ever increasing number of further questions.

 

[White Swallow]

Finally, a merit in thought.
The white Swallow gently placed his book on his lap, no longer holding it.

“Sacrilege, and you speak it freely.”

»How can I not! When every day another martyr is 'born'.«

»Can you truly judge a man's worth by wealth or might? Is a stone atop a mountain worth more than the one at its base?«
The White swallow then spoke more calmly. He knew salvation in the afterlife only came with devout worship, and only if the deity claimed you. This sounded not right to him, Kalik took any who did good in life, a worshiper or not, they just had to have conviction or goodness to them.
But even the White Swallow knew that the goodness of his station was limited and riddled with horrible strife.
»It is not because of speech that Kalik is praised above all. We are as much part of the godhood as we are not, roughly put, as much as a reflection is you, but not...quite you yourself, or a dream is distinct from you, yet so strongly intertwined with one's existence! Everything that exists within, he is neither the god of weather nor love, neither is he the god of grain or beast, he 'is' nothing and 'not-nothing', there is nothing but Kalik. Yet I know why the truly transcendent would be hard to understand, how can a mortal describe the undescribable?«

The White swallow paused at the last question. He saw himself not brave enough to answer, yet. In fact, could hardly any person truly know the answer to existence?
Was everything created as a consequence? Or as how he heard from the other-faithed; to have higher powers have worshipers or outright out of boredom?
While he knew not the answer, those were immature, childish answers to him.
»I could ask you the same, but I already know that there exists no answer that can satisfy anyone but this one. «

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

“You regard me with the crimes committed in name of my gods, yet also disdain judgment of crimes committed in the name of your own?” Such execution was unjustifiable; to Harun resolving difference through execution was clear admission of argument lost. Ideas exist to be countered and expanded upon, not silenced. Perhaps it was for this reason he thought little of it before; but that was in a time before the present when all he knew of henremdi was their campaign of destruction against conflicting ideas.

Yet, as indignant as Harun had become, he could not help but note the irony in the situation. For so much as he viewed the henremdi as quashers of culture and faith, so did too this Sahiyi man regard his ilk as destroyers of his own. By his statement, the Annunakites had been so fervent in their reaction that this sect had been caught in the crossfire.

This was his answer, they detested his kin, for his kin detested an estranged sect; who in turn detested all others. What was to be gained in such a circle of hatred?

“Then by what means ought one’s value be weighed? For there to be judgment, some such quality must exist. Is it not up to the appraiser?” He followed up the question, though he had stilled his irritated reaction. He did not want to pose the inquiry as confrontational or condescending; his company was clearly on guard for that. The statement was one of seriousness, beckoning for further answers on the topic he was just now discovering.

He never really had cause to wonder about it before. His lot in life had practically guaranteed him one of privilege and salvation through Naspar; a life so secure that one would have to be a complete fool to lose it. The gods smiled upon him, this he believed; but he knew not why. That they did had been enough, but his company was questioning why it was so. A fair question, he was only now realizing.

“And my answer would be insufficient; as I could speak of ‘what’, but never have I known ‘why’. If I held such answers, I would not be travelling today.” Well read as he was, he knew that centuries of philosophers had tackled the existential question without turning up a clear response. No answers had been given in what papers he had read; only further questions and musings.

Maybe they were not meant to know.

 

[White Swallow]

»Have I?, Or do you take part of that burden on yourself. «
The White Swallow took on a more relaxed position as he leaned against a reed-woven pillow thing, the booklet he held, he placed on the ground between them.

From behind, a small shaggy semi-long furred cat with a tabby pattern sneaked into view. The little feline stood there for a moment observing the situation before stepping on Swallow's book, turning around a few times and laying down.

With a light sigh, he continued: »We are thought that a man's worth is valued by the good they do in this world while they still live. To others, to themselves...As much as you are a guest in this library, you treat its books with dignity.« He eyed the selected Sahiyi poem book in Harun's hands.
»And so are we, the living, guests of Kalik in this world, so we must adhere to treat it with dignity. No man needs to suffer needlessly, yet they still do. Those who commit sins are destined to never succeed beyond this mortal world.«
Yet further on such exploration when the scholar continued with it. Sahiyi mystics were well versed on exploration and knowledge, while some, like Nasir Suhail who studied the stars, some others preferred to convey their knowledge of the intangible through poems.
»If we return to the poem, It's actually a prayer for evening hours. What do you surmise from it?« Of course, everything connected.

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

The reply he received overtly spoke of his own projection. The White Swallow’s observation had certainly soured the old scribe; but could he truly justify his reaction? Here was was mourning over lost literature and works of beauty, while his companion mourned over the loss of his own kin. The world he knew was not one of absolutes; there was no need to find his sacrilege acceptable, nor to condone the execution of dissidents. Harun simply closed his lips as if to quell a retort, before returning smile and nod.

“A fair retort.” He gave his reply, glancing down at the cat and it’s chosen napping spot. He couldn’t help but emit a soft, amused chuckle at the familiar feline behaviour.

The White Swallow continued to describe philosophy that was readily agreeable with him. Respect ought not be handed out according to his station in life but the content of one’s character; ethics it seemed his new company shared with him. But these were the ethics of man; and the topic of the moment was the ethics of the divine.

“Noble, and you say god views likewise?” What a strange concept it was. Not that it was absurd or improper, but rather unlike the religious ethics he had been exposed to. Writings of the Six concerned itself with how best to please them and earn their favour. This poem was far more introspective in nature, concerning itself with giving strength to the reader.

Harun opened the book again at the question that followed, scanning the poem again for a moment before finally looking up to give his reply.


“I am finding much symbolism here. You know, poetry I have always loved as a medium; I find much can be conveyed within it’s layered expression. Here, the poem speaks of lives lived connected though symbolism of renewal. But these symbols chosen are common and unremarkable; part of the ongoing process of life. Deliberately chosen for that reason, I muse.

I find it is quelling to the ego; a reminder that we are but one grain of sand among many in this world. And to find strength in acceptance of this is apt. Isn’t it of less importance to concern oneself with what can be gained, over concern with how one might grow?” He concluded, still holding the open book gingerly in his hands.

“Such is my pondering, and what I have gleamed; I'm sure there is further symbolism I cannot be aware of. Yet, it is my first encounter and reading; tell me please, of it's meaning and significance to you?”

 

[White Swallow]

The tabby feline purred. It didn't behave like a street cat, perfectly comfortable around people, neither was it starved. The little feline blinking slowly between snoozes, its ears twitching back and forth as the two spoke.

»First, every person is born flawed, there are no exceptions in this. With this poem, we are reminded of a person's ever-changing nature. But see, would you consider yourself the same as ten years ago?« Perhaps not as an apt comparison for the older Harun, when the Swallow was comparatively only just with one foot in adulthood, a change of ten years was far greater.
»It is a change very visible to us, yet change happens every day, every minute an imprint forever changes our course of action and behaviour, we are the sum of everything in this world. Such change is not necessarily good, but it is different. What the Sahiyi strive for, is for this change to be meaningful, a step to perfection, to be closer to Kalik. So many things tarry a body to themselves and to others. A lack of discipline, a lack of restrain among other things...As a Sahiyi Henremdi you are to reflect upon yourself and grow, cause no strife nor sin.«

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

“Truly not; I have realized that one never ceases growing. A decade past I knew not what I know now; and a decade ahead I’ve no doubt I will learn and grow still.” He replied, pleased at the question and happy to share his answer which had long been a dear tenet he carried through life. The question itself had primed Harun for the statement to follow with intrigue, well and truly distracting him from the lazing feline on the book.

As White Swallow continued, Harun nodded slowly and sagely in agreement with the statement. Every day presented an opportunity to learn and expand upon his experience; it often seemed it was a matter of identifying these moments and reflecting upon them. In embarking on his journey he had hoped to seek more of these moments out. Despite the differing views, or perhaps because of them, the man whose company he held was truly a gift.

“A virtuous tenet. One I must confess to be most agreeable, regardless of sanctity.” Perhaps not a tenet of his faith, it was a notion he could agree with in his heart regardless. No priest or tutor had taught him this, it was a lesson he had to learn himself. Perhaps the first lesson of all too, for with humility came an open mind, and with that came opportunity for wisdom.

 

[White Swallow]

The white Swallow went silent for a moment, offering no response in return, at least for now. While he may have said many things agreeable as wise, those were merely some of the teachings of his faith.

» However, I've been meaning to approach you for something else entirely, the book you have, I need to borrow it for a transcription.«

 

[Harun Ahidjar]

He remained still for that silent moment, uncertain whether it was solemn or awkward. Perhaps he had erred in his phrasing? But his company seemed to he patient; an admirable quality that rendered the notion far less off putting.

“Oh, of course. I hope my care has been appropriate.” Harun responded with a soft smile, closing the book gently and handing it over to the White Swallow. As he did, he could not help but give one more look of admiration over the designs adorning the cover.

Scribes were certainly less common where he hailed from, he noted. Fortunate for his income, but a shame literature was available to so few.