The Lost West

Editorial- Where do the stories come from?

2009-02-03T02:07:00.000-08:00

I've been asked over and over again where the stories come from. I keep to the same reply- the stories come from people like you. If I were one to tell tales, I would not make up stories about the honest walking dead, or tall redwoods used as living ships, or cities of vampires or trolls, or seas of grass or of blood. That is not my nature, I just simply do not have the capacity for that kind of wit or imagination.

There is the matter of being sensitive. I was always sensitive as a boy. When the first electronic cash registers went into the local market, I couldn't go inside without holding my hands over my ears due to the high pitched electric whine the machines made. Throughout my life, I have been much more sensitive to things that other people never seem to hear, or are easily able to ignore. You saw a shadow, and it was nothing more than that. I see the shadow, and take a second glance to find someone wavering in the places where the light didn't quite reach, and then I see them disappear. I don't see or hear or feel anything that anybody else doesn't, I just happen to not be able to ignore them the way most people do without a thought.

That place where the lost socks go- I find them. I also find lost letters, medallions, missing journals, notes, and forgotten family photos. The problem is that I also find ones that are clearly not from places I would likely ever visit. Eventually, I learned that there were a few others like me, sending their messages in bottles and leaving them to be lost and found later by others like them. So, I post what I find, trying to make sense of some of the things that arrive on my doorstep.

Tall Ship Shanty

2009-02-03T01:12:00.000-08:00

There are ships at seas, made of trees
There are trees I see, shipping across seas
Dance in the riggings, look lively my man!
Dance in the riggings, look lively my man!

We shall sail and drift and dream under stars
We shall sleep and snore while you count your scars
Keep to your tiller and keep watch for new ports
Keep to your tiller while you pace to and forth

There are seas of grass and seas sand
There are seas of dreams until we touch land
Dance in the riggings, look lively my man!
Dance in the riggings, look lively my man!

Come rain or come thunder do not leave your post
Unless lightning burst us asunder, stay by your post!
Give us water, give us shelter, and let us stir not
Tie us, bind us, let not slip our cots!

The living shall sleep to find ports of new lands
Lost shall we be if the dead attend with poor hand
So dance in the riggings, look lively my man!
Dance in the riggings, and look lively my man!

_____
The Tall Ship Shanty is an old tune, a reminder to captain and crew to pick one's navigator carefully. The tall ships may only be guided by at least four slumbering crew. The navigator's job is to ensure that the crew sleeping in the rigging remain undisturbed, else they lose their focus and then their way. Such jobs are often left to the recently dead.

Regarding "Our Fair City"

2008-08-31T19:00:00.000-07:00

Reply in post from Leo Stormkeeper to Mr. A______

Indeed, sir, I surmise you are correct in your assertion regarding New Helvetia and the character thereof. While travelers on my side of The River are borne with less frequency across our seas, I have had occasion to overhear the discussion of distinct characteristics and whole personalities that have been ascribed respectively to residents and cities as whole entities. These shipside scholars and now myself do also consider this to be the Lost City of Vampires.

Your assertation was correct in this regard. I would not hazard to place the title upon it's residents openly, and the reason for this is that the word LOST has great meaning in assignation of the title. The City of Vampires is considered lost for none of its residents is truly cognizant that they are vampiric in nature, and are mostly uncognizant of their dining requirements. In fact, I would suggest that should you ever visit this Bank anytime in the future, please forgo any such references. The people here, for their unusual dining requirements, are truly welcoming and friendly, and mostly have no idea that they are capable of draining wholly a man to the point of total lethargy. It is better to leave them in their own environs where they are safe in their ignorance. Let them share amongst themselves as they have done since this City was just a trading post, a confluency of seas and a crossroads, of which there are precious few in this land.

As for the spirit or soul of this fine place, I cannot say much except that I am continually reminded of every other place I have visited, yet it is like none of them. I have yet to delve more into the question as to why it is this way here, yet so different in the Shining City by THE Bay. I shall correspond with you further as matters in this realm develop.

The matter of the device you sent me is another one entirely. I do believe that this device was intended as an innocuous means of communication, a means of giving me some insight into how a short time of your life may progress. Please, do not send me another device! The last one caused such consternation on my part that I nearly lost all sense of myself. I do not fault you in this matter, but I believe that our places of residence may be so differing in their fundamental natures that I doubt you would find a messenger stone much more welcome in post.

The squawking contraption I received reminds me greatly of the lost genius that preceded the historical war over the abandoned path of Physic Reasoning. I feel the last chance to create artifacts such as yours was closed with the signing of the Ohio Valley Compact, as the whole of my nation was concatenated to a mere two thirds of its former self, along with the loosely associated city states on the other coast that borders the Sea of Life. But, the hour is late, and there are reasons I must retire to the local establishments where I can enjoy the direct company of the woman I mentioned in my article. Since I last published that article, she has taken an affection to me that I have found...interesting.

For now, I hope to see your reply in post soon- you are my most interesting correspondent, and I would want to know more about the nature of this inventive place you live.

Sincerely,
Leo Stormkeeper
Journal Keeper and Publisher
The New Helvetia Confederacy

Our Fair City

2008-08-24T17:05:00.000-07:00

by Leo Stormkeeper, published from The New Helvetia Confederation

- On matters Pertaining to Sustenance - Visitors and Residents - The Nature of various Gifts - and, an Unusual Visitor -

Let it be said that this City is unique in it's Character, and has within itself a capricious and subtle Wit often ignored by passers by and even many of its own esteemed citizenry. To this end and direction my own tale leads, giving some credence to the rumors that exist pertaining to the thriving spirit of Our Fair City.

I write this missive with a fresh perspective that comes from having spent a late night out on one of the retaining walls that keeps the bodies over which we travel at bay. Many have spent such nights, staring blankly up at the stars, watching the fog roll in from the marshlands, and otherwise enjoying the lights from there contrasted by the delicate reflections of the boisterous night pleasures to be found on the waterfront and elsewhere beyond the Jib Boom Commons.

My night was spent differently from those of others who seek the privacy of a romantic semi-darkness, shielded from the caprices of rolling heads and other nocturnal oddities. I had no desire to meet another for a gentle tryst, nor to complete some business that required privacy not found within the many cafes and fine establishments that dot the Grand port town of New Helvetia. Mine was spent without choice, as I had made some mistakes with regard to the nature of my residency and that being a visitor sometimes means never really understanding all of the intricacies of life where one lays their hat.

This was the situation as presented to me just a few hours prior. The lazy afternoon reflected off of the red and black cobbled walks throughout the Middle District. Willows and elms reflected a gentle light across the painted ladies that grace the district's straight avenues, interspersed with the other buildings of commerce and congregation that seem so common here. The small churches, shrines, and temples erected haphazardly and with seemingly random purpose gave their own to the golden light, some additional fragrances to accommodate the camellias and roses in bloom, song to go with the busy bustle and language of shipping and legal commerce.

Through this pace the citizenry, so unlike each other yet the same for that unlikeness. While we here in this city of confluences may hardly believe it, there is a uniformity to most cities that is almost despised here. Everyone does not look like everyone else, and I can tell you from traveling between the Manhattan Preserves through to the Shining City by THE Bay, people of most cities really do strive for some kind of sameness in appearance that is easy to grasp for most Visitors.

Yet, here, I still feel like a visitor, in spite of having been in regular residence for many months. I spent the last afternoon, watching people together, ambling slowly along in the heat of August. Some shared a similarity in happiness, but not in dress. Others shared some manner of dress, but could not be more dissimilar in attitude and presence. One of the common sayings here is, however, "I can tell that you..." or "I can see that you...". These statements remain unquestioned by the addressees, and I took some interest in them, as this was something unique to New Helvetia that I had never seen nor heard elsewhere, yet it was almost a common greeting, whether is was between strangers or friends, lovers or enemies.

The afternoon wore on, and I found myself following lovers who seemed to share few words, but built a language between themselves by simply walking together, holding hands. Then I would follow some old friends, one happy and the other sad, only to watch them leave with one sad and the other ecstatic, but both seemed not only satisfied with their lots, they seemed to crave such differences. I continued on, hearing these greetings, seeing these emotional exchanges between sailors, washer women, drovers, and men of accomplishment.

Eventually, I grew to enjoy this banter, though none would take it up with me. It seems as though I have been here in the Fair City for a time, my presence is still much as a visitor or outsider to all here, and I was politely ignored much to my consternation. At one point in the early evening, I finally worked up my courage and sat beside a young woman who was staring silently at the ground. She seemed quite morose, as though she had none in the world to speak her problems to. This was my opportunity!

I greeted her, "I can see that you are troubled, would you like to talk?". This did not receive the usual response, but instead she started briefly, and then after oddly appraising me, said, "Are you sure?"

'Of course', I replied, 'I enjoy talking with everyone.'

My reward was an instant smile of such radiance that I felt I had happened upon what made this city tick. We sat and spoke at great length, and as the early eve waned, I was reduced to silently nodding while my companion talked on at great length of the wonders of her small life, bouncing from profession to profession with an almost dizzying regularity. By the time evening had made its full presence felt, she politely rose, and bussed my cheek, taking her leave.

Through this time, I politely sat through her entire dissertation of her daily life in this city. My legs had lost some sensation, but I felt it best not to disturb her while she seemed to come out of a horrible mood into a fresh burst of joi de vivre. By this time, however, I found that all I was capable of doing was nodding. When she left me, somehow, I was unable to do or feel anything of consequence, not even a shadow of the foul mood that possessed my companion earlier was there to keep me company.

Some time passed, and so did many people. None even showed an interest in greeting me, instead walking along with their companions or alone, engrossed in the beauty of New Helvetia at night or in the quiet repast of their friends' conviviality.

Later on, my friend did return, and passed by me again. She and I nodded, as she did not seem to consider anything out of the ordinary, and as I was simply consigned to the only behavior left to me. More time passed, and as the moon rose, she passed again, clearly tired and seeking rest. Her eyes rested on me, and finally she realized that something was not quite right.

'You are not from 'round here, are you?', she queried me with some concern. More nodding. 'I wish I had known, this is so very not good. I don't know how to help you. Oh my.'

She pulled me to my feet, and help half-drag me through the streets of the city in the deep of night. She explained to me that had she known, she would not have burdened a visitor with her troubles. For all of that, I still could not understand how I might have lost so much from just one conversation. Some time later, I felt myself rest against the stone abutment viewing our city and separating it from a small sea of grass. Here I was left, and for all of her concern, my companions said that putting me here was best for everyone.

Hours passed, and the City I found so beautiful also proved to be something I could not wholly fathom. But watching those lights, and those people under them, I came to a greater understanding. Happy and sad, moroseness and joyfulness, extremes all- being passed between residents hither tither and with the same fervency that the Manhattanites pass their currencies, or the Shining Ones pass their lyrics and songs. I fell for the mistake of not understanding the value of where I live.

Some time shortly before dawn, I was visited in my inopportune state by none other than the ships' navigator who had helped deliver me across this wide and glorious nation. After righting himself, he discovered the nature of my conundrum, and hoisted me down to his vessel. After some hot beverage and guarded rest, I was fine by noon the next day.

It was then that he confirmed to me the nature of the residency here, and while I understand the dangers of such an environment, I chose to stay while his ship departed for other shores. I know why the people here seem to thrive on so little, why the wee temples of personal items exist everywhere, and how I should never presume that just because one may seem familiar with a way of life, it may never be what you suspect. I am a permanent visitor among residents who exist by giving and taking everything. It is something that I may never be capable of, but I can enjoy watching the game.

The Midwinter Circle

2008-01-06T20:02:00.000-08:00

On Midwinter's Night, I was given the opportunity to sit in a roundhouse near the City of Sacraments and hear the Dancemaster of the Reed People sing a story told only to a few people, and only once a year. From dusk to dawn on the longest night of the year, he and his village would come together to dance the story of the phenomenal world, and to draw a new boundary around its existence in the form of the oldest story ever retold.

The Dancemaster cuts a heroic figure dressed in a shimmering cloak and white leggings, and a crown that cuts serpentine figures as his gaze cuts across the smoky roundhouse. His proud nose, high brow and peppered hair at the temples give him a quiet air of authority that he deserves, for he is the priest of his people, akin to a Pontiff or a Prophet in another land. I am his guest tonight, and I am seated near to his singers and foot drummers beating an earth drum the length of a wagon.

My honor is not singular. The Reed People have long been famous for their winter hospitality, even among their enemies. Other residents and people from other villages are in the huge theater of the roundhouse, dug into the earth and buried around the central support of a gigantic redwood rising from the center to the heavens. Echoes come from across the structure as old friends give greetings and gifts of drink and meat are handed about, for this is a sharing time. Even some Wind Town People are there, their customary bitterness muted as they too soften to the enjoyment of good company and a convivial atmosphere. The low flicker of the lanterns and light bugs nesting in the ceiling slowly start to match the drumming and the lull and flow of the conversations. The warmth of the cavernous hall is comforting when you consider the echoing scream of the storm everyone left at the door.

At some hidden signal, the conversation dropped and the drumbeat gave way to the solitary chant of the Dancemaster calling the closing of the Midwinter Circle. Every winter, he explained, Coyote gets so hungry that He loses all fear, and tries to eat everything he can grab. He tries to eat trees, and you can hear them crack in his teeth in the cold. Coyote tries to eat the river, and you can hear it freeze in fear at his approach. He tries to gnash the wind, and it screams between his teeth. Eventually, if he can find nothing else, He will even try to eat the moon and the sun, chasing them until the night won't end. Once he gets tired of that, says the Dancemaster, Coyote will try to find anything nearby, and woe to any who let him in the door.

The only way to stop Coyote, says the Dancemaster, is to tell a new story, create a new circle of life to grow after all that was eaten and ravaged by the hungry trickster. If the story is good, and it is complete, then the strength of Coyote will wane as his place in the world is recreated. If Coyote can disrupt the story, then the world will stay barren forever, and Coyote will chase the wind and the sun in a land of forever night with only the dead and rolling heads for company.

At this, the high priest of the Reed People signals for the first circle to start. Time and space slowly create a place at the center of the world that we all watch from the flickering darkness. Slowly, they move, the round feathery headdresses creating points of glimmering light at the edge of the roundhouse floor. The Dancemaster quietly explains to me that these two represent the points that make up different existences moving back and forth through space and time, creating a framework for all of the reality that everyone else wants to tell into the story of the world. Slowly, as the first circle completes, the dancers point to others, inviting them inside to create their own circles. Otters, beavers, deer, wolves, trees, birds and people just being themselves all slowly join to create complicated interwoven rings. Eventually, only myself, the drummers, the very young, and the very old are left outside of the circle.

The Dancemaster looks down at me, and motions quietly for me to stand up and come with him. We wind our way through the shadows and away from the others in the roundhouse to a side entry. With myself, and two of his assistants, we breach the seal of the side door and slip out into the night. Outside, the moon is gone, and the stars shine on a pristine snow covered tableau. Clouds are nearby, but the worst of the storm has passed. Silent under a nearby tree, a dark figure sits, waiting.

Our small group comes to the figure, cloaked in shadow, and sits in silence near him. I follow the cue of the Dancemaster and his assistants, as it appears that this is something special and solemn, and not to be disrupted by foolish questioning. As we sit down in the snow, the dark figure across from me, the Dancemaster to my right and a male assistant to my left, the woman assistant takes her station standing in the deeper shadows behind the one across from me. Again their is perfect stillness.

'I am here to tell the story that will end Coyote's grip upon the world. Tonight we will tell the story together, and Death will come to end the imbalance afflicting us,' and with that, the figure tossed a coal before him, lighting the kindling between us. Briefly, I could see his grey skin and ragged nails. I saw that he had no breath before him in the air. The chill of the night was replaced by my fear of things more dangerous than cold. One of the dead sat before us, and in his raspy voice he continued, 'Tonight we tell the story of the First Circle, and the First Story.'

But if you want to know more wisdom from the dead, you will have to read on, for that is another tale, the tale of The First Circle and the Creation of Life and Death.

A Murder of Crows

2007-10-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

There is a price you pay for telling a story about Death. Among those partaking of that story, one must die. Death must have her due, for she will not sit idly by while people talk about her. Some people say that she was there when the first story was told about her, and ever since then, she has compared the stories that have come since, always wanting to hear what people who will meet her might say.

She meets a lot of Crows. The Crows are always talking about things dying. Well, its part of their job, really. Crows eat dead things that few others would want, so they are always talking about Death whether she likes it or not. She still listens, and a Crow dies at the end of every story. The Crows just view it as a natural occupational hazard, the gossip and stories continue, and Death gets her due.

Just so you know, I am not a Crow. I just listen to them. Sometimes you can learn things. I learned why they are called a Murder. I did not learn the story I am going to tell about Death from them, though. I learned this story another way, and I am sure the Crows have their own version. I daresay you would not want to try and listen in. Its only told on Midwinter Night, and that's one night I have never seen a Crow. Regardless, someone still has to die, its just the rules.

You can imagine some of my trepidation at writing this all down. I mean, does someone have to die when the story is started, or when it is read, or is it upon publication? What about the parts of the story itself- is the wives' tale about Death's curiosity enough to exact a cost, or does the legend its based on have its own burden and a separate existence? Just how often does Death come silently in the night if people are reading this in several places at once? Does she read this over your shoulder, or mine? Regardless, you are reading it, and I have written it, and I probably have written things since, so I guess we can just go on and continue the rest of the tale. Sit down and have a snack while you are at it. Death and the Crows are.

So, I give you The Midwinter Circle...