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edenfallingAnother random snippet from "Harvest," my ongoing attempt to write about Ekanu Thousandbirds and Denifar Rollesdun in Gwynorae. Ekanu is planning to go back to Vinaeo when she leaves the Ileara chapterhouse; Laefa oku Daeluach, one of her pledged students, is thinking of going with her. This conversation or something like it definitely happens during the course of "Harvest," but I doubt it will appear in the finished story... at least not as-is. (Its tone is all wrong.)
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Harvest: Lullabies
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"What's Vinaeo like?" Laefa asked one afternoon, lifting his chin from the base of his violin and fixing Ekanu with a curious gaze. "Besides big, crowded, and hot -- I know that. But what's it like to live there?"
Ekanu let her fingers wander idly over the harpsichord keys, ghosting too lightly to produce sound. "Strange, at first," she said after modulating through a series of phantom chords. "All the true buildings are made of stone. Everything else rots too fast, or wears away in the rain. But the islands in the river, and the edges of the main streets, they're lined with huts and shanties and lean-to shops, all wood and leaves. They wash away in the floods or catch fire if someone's careless with a lantern, but nobody pays attention. They aren't built to last, and only the poor live there."
"That's-- how can they not care?" Laefa demanded. The Hlaenor built everything for the generations, and any loss was mourned and rebuilt. Slapdash work was more than careless; it was wrong. To lose half a city and shrug it off would be unthinkable.
Ekanu shrugged. "Vinaeo is old. It's built on its own bones. And the jungle eats everything anyway. They can't bury their dead -- did you know that? They butcher them, leave the meat and blood on cairns and in trees for the jaguars and birds to consume. They only keep the bones, and those they burn; they keep the ashes in jars by the family shrines. The poor can't even afford that. They give everything back to the jungle -- flesh and blood, breath and bones, eyes and dreams. They pray for the Green Lady and her phantom cats to take them gently."
She pressed harder on the keys, waking a ripple of sound. "They have a song about her, about watching death approach:
"River-child, river-child, listen to the night song
The Green Lady's voice whispers through the trees
Roots hold the branches, branches hold the leaves
Wind on the water, water on the stones
Cat shadows ripple, dancing over bones."
She held the last note, a minor dissonance, letting it trail into silence without resolution: an unfinished, uncomfortable chord.
Laefa shivered. "That's morbid."
Ekanu smiled. "It's a lullaby. That's what Vinaeo is like."
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Inspired by the 7/27/09![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15_minute_fic word #117: rotting
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The Vinaean lullaby is a hastily adapted version of the first verse of a slightly less morbid lullaby I wrote for a different fantasy world altogether. (Someday I may get around to writing one or another of my vaguely outlined novels set in that world. But probably not.) Anyway, the original song goes like this:
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The Woodwife's Lullaby
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Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the wind blowing through the trees.
Roots hold the branches, branches hold the leaves.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
Green water flowing over rough-cut stones.
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the bird in the bramble-bush.
Moss holds the brown snail, blue sky holds the thrush.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
Soft feathers drifting to the rough-cut stones.
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the deer running with the wind.
Moon holds the queen deer, sunlight holds the king.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
Cracked antlers resting on the rough-cut stones.
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the girl dancing by the stream.
Wind holds her laughter, water holds her dreams.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
White lilies blooming round the rough-cut stones.
Optionally, you then repeat the first verse and trail off very slowly on the last note. If I had a piano, a reliable scanner, and the knowledge and ability to post photos to this journal, I would write out and post the melody as well, but as those conditions do not apply, I won't. (It's in slow 4/4, each line takes two measures, there is no melisma, and it is, I think, in Dorian mode... but even if I'm wrong about that, it sure as hell isn't major.)
---------------------------------------------
Harvest: Lullabies
---------------------------------------------
"What's Vinaeo like?" Laefa asked one afternoon, lifting his chin from the base of his violin and fixing Ekanu with a curious gaze. "Besides big, crowded, and hot -- I know that. But what's it like to live there?"
Ekanu let her fingers wander idly over the harpsichord keys, ghosting too lightly to produce sound. "Strange, at first," she said after modulating through a series of phantom chords. "All the true buildings are made of stone. Everything else rots too fast, or wears away in the rain. But the islands in the river, and the edges of the main streets, they're lined with huts and shanties and lean-to shops, all wood and leaves. They wash away in the floods or catch fire if someone's careless with a lantern, but nobody pays attention. They aren't built to last, and only the poor live there."
"That's-- how can they not care?" Laefa demanded. The Hlaenor built everything for the generations, and any loss was mourned and rebuilt. Slapdash work was more than careless; it was wrong. To lose half a city and shrug it off would be unthinkable.
Ekanu shrugged. "Vinaeo is old. It's built on its own bones. And the jungle eats everything anyway. They can't bury their dead -- did you know that? They butcher them, leave the meat and blood on cairns and in trees for the jaguars and birds to consume. They only keep the bones, and those they burn; they keep the ashes in jars by the family shrines. The poor can't even afford that. They give everything back to the jungle -- flesh and blood, breath and bones, eyes and dreams. They pray for the Green Lady and her phantom cats to take them gently."
She pressed harder on the keys, waking a ripple of sound. "They have a song about her, about watching death approach:
"River-child, river-child, listen to the night song
The Green Lady's voice whispers through the trees
Roots hold the branches, branches hold the leaves
Wind on the water, water on the stones
Cat shadows ripple, dancing over bones."
She held the last note, a minor dissonance, letting it trail into silence without resolution: an unfinished, uncomfortable chord.
Laefa shivered. "That's morbid."
Ekanu smiled. "It's a lullaby. That's what Vinaeo is like."
---------------------------------------------
Inspired by the 7/27/09
15_minute_fic word #117: rotting---------------------------------------------
The Vinaean lullaby is a hastily adapted version of the first verse of a slightly less morbid lullaby I wrote for a different fantasy world altogether. (Someday I may get around to writing one or another of my vaguely outlined novels set in that world. But probably not.) Anyway, the original song goes like this:
---------------------------------------------
The Woodwife's Lullaby
---------------------------------------------
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the wind blowing through the trees.
Roots hold the branches, branches hold the leaves.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
Green water flowing over rough-cut stones.
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the bird in the bramble-bush.
Moss holds the brown snail, blue sky holds the thrush.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
Soft feathers drifting to the rough-cut stones.
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the deer running with the wind.
Moon holds the queen deer, sunlight holds the king.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
Cracked antlers resting on the rough-cut stones.
Willow child, willow child, listen to the wood-song,
The song of the girl dancing by the stream.
Wind holds her laughter, water holds her dreams.
Spring turns to summer, autumn turns to snow,
White lilies blooming round the rough-cut stones.
Optionally, you then repeat the first verse and trail off very slowly on the last note. If I had a piano, a reliable scanner, and the knowledge and ability to post photos to this journal, I would write out and post the melody as well, but as those conditions do not apply, I won't. (It's in slow 4/4, each line takes two measures, there is no melisma, and it is, I think, in Dorian mode... but even if I'm wrong about that, it sure as hell isn't major.)
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Date: 2009-10-28 07:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-28 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-06 05:54 pm (UTC)