Very funny first sentence. :O) I appreciate the feedback. How do I let you know when chapter one is up? I’m new here.
Young Adult / Secret Speakers: Prologue (Analysis)
Prologue:
Of the Gods there be but two who live in Airen Or.
From Great Intelligence their wisdom grew
And thus was born a plan, a door
Through which their children of light would pass
and bid farewell to Thelras, to Cael;
Then through the law of Arbiter Will amass
Glory or condemnation, a consequence, still.
And so the Secret Speakers tell the tales of those who choose
To return through the door in splendor or blight,
Bearing marks of those who win or lose.
I’m going to tell you a story. I’ll start here, where I am, in the center of endless space.
In the center of space there is a room. The room is a room of smooth, stone floor surrounded by numberless stars. In the center of the room there is a glowing orb that slowly spins and hovers above the glossy floor. The enormous orb is an orb of blinding, white-hot immortality. It is called the Mysterielle, for it is endless. Within the Mysterielle countless, smaller orbs tumble and roll. Each one resembles the Mysterielle in luster and luminosity; yet, each is filled with threads of light that spark and shimmer.
These orbs of light in miniature are called Secret Speakers. I am one of them. Most are assigned to tell the truthful story of the creature to which they are singularly born, each at its appointed moment. Some, however, are born to tell the story of an era, and so these Secret Speakers are born to many. We are called Secret Speakers, not because we expose your secrets, or the secrets of the misdeeds of man, as you might imagine, but because we know your secrets and narrate your stories quietly. We do this for one purpose, and one purpose only: as we narrate your life, its every moment, and every choice you make, these stories are recorded in the Eternal Book of Time in which the seemingly meaningless details of life are written. But they all add up to something wonderfully important as you shall see.
Our number is known only to those who sit with the Mysterielle without beginning of days or end of time. And those who sit, who wait for the Secret Speakers to be born, consist of two gods most holy.
I’d like to tell you a story that is mine, and mine only to tell. Not because I am possessive of it, but because the gods have asked me to make it known at long last. I narrated it for the Eternal Book of Time long ago, but it is worth re-telling to you here because it has everything to do with you, as you shall come to learn. To state it more plainly, this particular narration touches every soul that has ever lived or will live.
There was, you see, a small event that took place in Mead Loreagh nestled within what the folk there refer to as the Lands of Ice, which, if it could be found, would be found near the North Pole. From my vantage point here in Airen Or, Mead Loreagh (along with a smattering of other green and fertile countries surrounded by snow and ice) looks like one of several small, green emeralds scattered on the fur of a polar bear. The emerald of Mead Loreagh has a strand of pale-blue water that curls out like a necklace to the north seas. To the untrained, earthly eye looking down from a plane, there is only white to be seen. No green. The gods have kept these lands invisible from the world. The name of the place looks difficult to pronounce, yet it is really very simple to say: meed loree. That’s it.
The folk of Mead Loreagh called and still call themselves “hoomin” which isn’t too far different from the English word human. For the hoomin, however, the word means “people that are hidden.” This is true, for they are land-loving folk who are hidden away from the world of man. They know nothing of trains, electricity, running water, or airplanes, though they hear airplanes drone in the sky from time to time.
Their language is a conglomeration of the many languages of man, and they are very fond of words that rhyme. This conglomeration of tongues came from a time when, the hoomin sent ships along a strand of blue river (again, invisible to the untrained, earthly eye—as were the hoomin themselves). These ships were sent out into the world to bring back spices and citrus fruits, particularly in the dead of winter, which they call the Shortlightren Dons, when the days were short and their bodies craved flavorful things.
The hoomin are normally pleasantly plump as far as earth-dwelling creatures go, but during the time of this story they were deprived of having enough to eat, which showed in their sunken eyes and the sallowness of their cheeks. Once every seven days, in fact, the hoomin folk were required to take all that they grew, or weaved, or sewed or milked to the temple of Osden Shorn, where it was then handed back to them in small, sad-looking portions. Law-making Harrold King hoarded the rest within the walls of the temple, where it often turned to rot and pig fodder, except for what made its way into his belly.
And so, nearly everyone (except those that hid what food they could) felt keen hunger nearly every day. During the Shortlightren Dons the nights were colder than they should have been because they didn’t have enough blankets to keep them warm. It was difficult to sleep the whole night through—without waking up with a shiver.
They still have a particular fondness for sheep, and the grass-munching creatures dot the hillsides and valleys at every turn. They also find great pleasure in planting and tending to orchards and vineyards, so where sheep are not seen grazing, or where there isn’t a stone cottage thatched with grass on the roof, there is most likely an orchard, or a vineyard. Or woods. The land is thick with trees and woodlands.
Beneath the feet of the hoomin, the fertile land is rich with gold, gems and jewels, which are cultivated by the small and spritely Impissh Nissen, (no taller than the length of your hand.) They call the jewels “moss blossoms” for they grow up out of the moss, almost as though they were flowers.
The hoomin’s cottages are situated between the road and the lake where the hillsides slope more gently. The hillsides slope around Lakinren Bae, a lake which lies like a jewel in the center of High Loreagh, Mead Loreagh, and Low Loreagh. Due to some force of nature, mountains rise sharply skywards to the east of the lake. (That would be High Loreagh.) Then, on both sides of the lake the mountains give way to hillsides, where the hoomin live. To the east lie the lowlands that are marked by winding canals, which is naturally called Low Loreagh.
The hoomin mark time according to the Era’s—or periods of time—that shape their existence. At the time of the story I am about to repeat to you, they were living in the midst of the Fallow Era, and the yarren (or year) was F.E. 797. There was one among them, at that time, who prophesied that the Fallow Era was coming to an end. And so, of course, stories were being told of what might come. The legend of the Planter Era was on their lips, amidst whirls of pipe smoke during quiet evenings in front of the glowing embers of their fireplaces, and the hoomin wondered as they fell asleep what would happen to them when the old era passed away to make room for the new.
There is one more thing I would like to mention about the hoomin folk. They have an almost uncanny ability to sense the spirits that dwell in the rocks and trees around them. It’s not that they are superstitious. I think perhaps, it is due to the fact that the valley of the Loreagh’s is surrounded by ice, and, like a funnel, the very stuff of life gets poured into that spot of earth. The air pulses with a vibrancy unknown on other continents where life can be spread, well, rather thinly. The grasses grow greener and more lush, the vines and flowers more vibrant and colorful. They teach from the Scrolls of Truth that all things have a light, or spirit that existed before they were created in physical form, whether rock, or bird, or twig, or cloud. Or hoomin.
As far as that goes, I wish I could describe what we see when we look down on earth and all that dwells upon it. As Secret Speakers, we are able to see particles of light, and since everything you touch, and all that has been created is made up of light in varying degrees, suffice it to say you are absolutely brilliant to behold. So is this book in your hands.
There are those whose light is more refined and, for lack of a better word, shimmery. Why you don’t see it, only the gods know. But it is there just the same. There are those, such as the hoomin I shall tell of, whose light is so diminished that they are nearly as dense as lead metal. There are many varying degrees in between. This is the cause of much suffering in the world of hoomin and man alike.
I mentioned that my story began with an incident; a very small one, indeed, but it was all that was needed to get the ball rolling. You shall read about it in the story, but all you need to know at this point is this:
Just before the incident occurred which launched The Great Deliverance, there was a small pop, and an opening appeared on the Mysterielle. I emerged. I was born: lit from within by the glowing red sparks of the story I had waited so long to reveal, a story that has come to be known in Airen Or as ‘the great deliverance.” I was one of the few Secret Speakers of which I told earlier: not assigned to a person, but to an era that was to shape the destiny of all things living.
I tumbled out and rolled across the floor, whereupon the delicate hand of Thelras, Mother Queen of Light, reached down and picked me up. She turned me over in her hands and whispered:
“Mysterielle nah brah steerrohn.”
The sound filled the air like the rushing of great waters. It was the sort of sound that makes you want to sit and imagine what you hear in its music, much like you want to sit by a fire at night and imagine what pictures you see in the dancing flames. I know this, because I know and see all things, for I am eternal.
Then Cael, Father King of Light, reached out and took me in his hands. He looked into my blood-red depths. His deeper, more thunderous roar pierced my heart, and I trembled.
“Yes, dear one, it is time for the change.
The great plan unfolds. Let the story begin—
and end—according to the law of Arbiter Will.”
One final thing might be worth explanation: the gods never interfere in the lives of their offspring. That is the meaning of the law of Arbiter Will. Their offspring must act for themselves. Cael looked at me once again and nodded. It was time. I rose in the air and hovered.
“I should like to hear your report once it is finished,” he said to me.
“And you shall.”
I disappeared in his hand.
In the next instant (and miles below the realm of Airen Or) I hovered above the neck of Tharin Zothiker while she lay still as though she were dead, scarcely breathing. Oh, what a gentle face. A crack of moonlight pierced through a wood crack in the box where she lay. In that moment the darkness was transformed into a dusty glow and her face appeared to be the sun! Then it was gone. I rested upon her forehead and spoke these words:
So nice, so kind, polite and loyal.
So clean, so humble, valiant, royal.
You, dear one, have a journey to make.
You will not be alone, though much is at stake.
That accomplished, I lay upon her neck. My excitement caused me to be somewhat more dense than usual. It took me a moment to calm myself so that I could return to my permeable self and nestle beneath her skin, in the little hollow there. My presence there would give her the feeling, for the rest of this story, that she had just the hint of a lump in her throat. You must remember that I was not born to her as her personal Secret Speaker. She was born with one. I am an Era-born Secret Speaker. Since the change of the era to which I was born could not take place without her actions, it was with her I resided to tell the tale.
Like a rooster announcing the coming of dawn, the sound of a sharp trumpet blast awoke the hillsides of Mead Loreagh. In a dark wooden box, Tharin opened her eyes, and saw nothing but more darkness. Her pale, blue eyes glowed faintly like watery ponds. Such a simple moment, yet it is all woven into this story, which makes this moment, and every moment of her life, great indeed. You shall learn in due time whether or not she survives.
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CharlesB reviewed Version 1 -
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petal603 reviewed Version 1 -
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Autumn_Sims reviewed Version 1 -
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This piece has a Dark Crystal feel to it, which I enjoyed very much. I really like the pace of the story, for me it makes the “storytelling” all the more real. The language, land and characters are portrayed perfectly. I could see in my mind’s eye little people going throughout there lives, like we do. Also the Mysterielle, and the Secret Speakers watching.
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forgetaboutit reviewed Version 1 -
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Wow…
This sounds like a bad acid trip.
I kid. This is a really really well developed story. Th flow was good and the set up of the time period and mood was amazing. Tell me when chapter one is up.
sehoner reviewed Version 1 -
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I think it is written quite well. I do believe there is a lot of information in this first chapter-almost too much. At times I felt myself getting confused or overwhelmed at all the places, names and definitions so that I had to re-read a bit.
I get the feeling of a cross between LOTR, Never Ending Story and something else I can’t name.
I do like, however, the way or style in which the story is being told. That sort of backwards old english way of speaking kept me thoroughly Intrigued.
Other than the plethora of information from the gate (which may or may not be a bad thing) I can’t think of any revisions. I am not sure I could even tell you how to drop or delay some of the info without hurting the actual story.
Good luck and thanks.
JJKinni reviewed Version 1 -
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I think it is a very creative and fresh look at adolesent lit. The words you used to make the story have its own voice were positive attributes to the story. Although the novel this reminds me of isn’t really anything like yours at all it does alot with language. It reminded alot of a clockwork orange, eventhough the stories are nothing alike.
I think that you need to add more of that language that the narrator uses at times. Really fill the story with it. Make it so we still can read it and understand the story, but at the same time it gives the reader another aspect that draws us in.
Seriously if you haven’t you might want to take a looke at Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange. It’s a adolesent book like your story, and it does the most amazing things with language and creating this entire culture around this seperate type of slang language. I think you would benefit from it alot.
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