Story as Apology

Callix Millender resurrected his parents first. It was easiest to start there. He knew where they were buried, and neither had been cremated, or been dead for so long as to have decayed. Too many other dead were now scattered as ashes, or mulched into the dark soil, or slowly dissolved in the ocean deeps. Not to mention those blown to smithereens in explosions, burnt to cinders in fires; eaten and digested as wild beasts. 

Bodily resurrection, he knew, was simple in principle: all the information contained in the living person was conserved, only now diffused into the wider world. But the degree of diffusion mattered, too, he knew. To resurrect those long since eaten by worms would require tracking down the worms, and thus in turn the robins that ate the worms, and the cats that ate the robins...and so on and so forth. 

Callix's parents bodies, on the other hand, were readily at hand, and still reasonably well preserved. What decay there was could be offset by any number of methods: his own genetic material, of course, preserved some memory of them, which he could use to reconstruct them. Then there was memorabilia--their diaries, their old possessions, their letters to friends. And finally, his own memories. 

Callix almost surprised himself with his initial success: perhaps he had doubted the principle, even though of course it was perfectly logical and sound. 

With one success in hand, he felt emboldened to go further. Having resurrected his parents, he now had new source of genetic material and memories with which to resurrect those close to his parents. They were the next link in a chain radiating out from himself:

His parents, reconstructed from the traces they had left on him, could in turn be used to reconstruct those who had left their traces on them, and so on and so forth. Ad infinitum.

As he practiced, he perfected his technique: resurrections came faster and easier. Missing information could be filled in from multiple sources. Someone whose only physical remains were a slightly richer iron contain the dark earth where they had been buried could now be reconstructed from the memories they had left in others; from the physical information in their descendents, and antescedents; from the physical traces they had left on the world. 

Within five years, Callix had resurrected almost ten million people. Truly, he felt, he had mastered the forces of decay and fragmentation. He could restore a human being who had lived decades before, and give him back his personality.

Although on this last point, there was some lingering doubt. Each chain in the link represented some possibility of missing information. And as time went on, he began to doubt even the earlier links in the chain. Were his parents acting as they always had? Was he sure their personalities were unchanged from before their deaths?

Of course, it was hard to be sure this was even a meaningful question: obviously, the fact of having died, of having ceased to be for some years, would change a person. And even had they lived, they would have grown and changed. The question was: would they have changed into people identical to those he had recreated? And if not, did that mean their memories, which he had used to recreate others, compromise his whole project? 

As time went on, and he slowly repopulated the world, he became more and more haunted that he was not flaunting death at all. That, rather than bestowing immortality on the world, he had simply replaced the dead with cheap imitations. That their souls had fled into the soil, or the ocean deeps, or the cremation furnace, or maybe just been annihilated. Death had claimed them, after all, and he had simply substituted forgeries. Perhaps, after all his efforts, he had achieved only a simulation of immortality; no better than if he had made puppets or voodoo dolls of all the dead.

Eventually he understood the only way he could come be sure: he would have to die, and be resurrected himself, and see if he was the same before and after. 

But even having done that, his doubts were never settled.

IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG

And yea, he whom the writhing Five-Tongued Disciples mention occasionally-in-passing as the great Rascal/Exultant/Calder/Whelp/Skunk did say unto his demiurgic cohort: "Thou art lollygaggers. Thy tongues are still. Thy throats, barren. Thy fingers, brittle. Speak, sing, paint to life that which ye envision, or surrender this world unto my keeping." And so saying, he posted in challenge:

 HOW ONE RETURNED FROM THE CITY OF XITH

 It is common knowledge that two cities reside within the desert of Kallax, though there is little traffic between them. Throughout the history of the two, citizens of Que-Lan have sometimes made the journey across the sand to the city of Xith - and occasionally even returned home again - but these emissaries were without exception of that particular brand of merchant who deal only in stealth and cunning, and whose transactions are notoriously one-sided. Citizens of Xith have never made the journey to Que-Lan, for which denizens of the latter are grateful.

It was while searching through a collection of tales told about Xith, that city whose towers jut from the desert like dead hands and whose inhabitants live beneath the sand instead of above, that Thragg first began to consider journeying there. Upon coming across an account of one who returned from Xith, laden with jewels and describing the technique employed in liberating them, Thragg would always speak to himself, “I am cleverer still.” And as each tale of amateurish thievery came before his eyes his resolve grew and grew, until at last he decided that he himself would make the voyage across the desert, and come away with more jewels than those who had gone before him.

Such a journey required careful consideration, however, for though many novice footpads had returned successfully from Xith, many more, some of even greater skill, had never returned. And so Thragg spent three months in preparation, employing his art upon the wealthier houses of Que-Lan to ensure his hands were as deft and his footsteps as light as ever they were. And when he decided he was ready, he very wisely chose for his accomplice the famed Lydia, who had once stolen the Wyvern's Emerald and who alone amongst the thieves of the world could match Thragg for nimbleness. Although generally two thieves are less effective than one, as the misstep of one ensures the downfall of the other, Thragg knew that such an error would never be committed by Lydia, and she knew the same for him. And so it was that one clouded night, a night without stars nor moon, Lydia and Thragg met as if by accident on the road leading out of the city, and without a word or sound, but merely a glance and a nod, turned their silent footsteps towards Xith.

They arrived in the golden light of early morning, for though darkness is in most cases the best armour a thief can acquire, Thragg and Lydia reasoned that as no citizen of Xith would raise itself above the sand unless a footstep landed upon its grainy roof, and as it would be fatal to draw the attention of a Xithian no matter how much shadow was present, it would not matter how bright the sun was shining. Furthermore, they knew that extra illumination would allow them to pick their way more carefully among the rocks and boulders littering the streets of the city, lessening the chance of a misstep. And so the two made their way stealthily through the streets, avoiding the single footfall that would mean their doom.

And finally they came to the temple which was said to house such a ludicrous amount of treasure that an army of thieves could never carry it all away. They entered with all the caution one would expect, and I need not relate the traps and dangers they encountered while traversing the nitrous hallways, since so effortlessly did they avoid them that such an account could only serve to bore the reader. Finally, however, they came upon the treasure room, and though years of gazing upon gold and silver had caused their eyes to adopt some of the hardness and dispassion of these metals, still Thragg and Lydia found themselves affected by the sight of so much wealth, and they paused a moment in wonderment. And they began to sift through the ridiculous pile, judging each piece with professional discrimination, until Thragg uncovered, buried behind several tapestries and a gilded suit of armour, a small and secret passageway leading into yet another quiet corridor. And there was discourse then, as to whether it would be wiser to simply collect as much wealth as possible and escape, or to see what lay beyond the tiny portal in the corner. And though they realized at that moment why it was that novice thieves always came away with treasure, whereas more skilled practitioners often did not return, they decided that the treasure beyond the door must surely be of an extraordinary nature, and felt also that they had an obligation to their trade to always try their fortunes behind whatever hidden doors might present themselves.

And so they entered, and found increasingly subtle traps awaiting them as they made their way forward, along with occasional remains of previous explorers, but again they avoided these with such ease as to make accounts tedious. At last they came to a large chamber, spacious and dimly lit, with statues in strange forms and reliefs carved upon the walls. They saw that there was a Guardian, but Lydia had brought a sword she had removed from a certain barrow, and employed it surreptitiously before the bloated creature could utter its terrible word or point its terrible finger.

And the two came to a large door, on which was written a final warning, that what lay beyond was not treasure at all, but rather something sentient and awful, and it reminded them of the vast wealth lying untouched upstairs, which indeed had been placed there for the purpose of dissuading adventurers from opening this last and fateful aperture. And Lydia, having decided already that the absurd wealth kept above was fair payment for her efforts, and noting that the massive door before them was hardly secret, argued that they should return immediately, and cease their exploration. But Thragg pointed out that doors kept behind hidden doors are themselves hidden, and reminded her of the superior treasure which probably lay beyond, protected now only by a fictional history carved upon the gateway. This time, however, Lydia was immovable, and the two decided to go separate ways.

 As a courtesy, Thragg offered to wait a full hour before opening the door, to give Lydia time to remove herself from Xith with whatever loot she could carry. And remove herself she did, taking only three rings and a brooch which were nevertheless worth more than the rest of the hoard combined. And as she made her way across the sands, she felt a distant rumble, and glanced back at Xith to find its crumbling towers snapping back to perfection, its ruined walls reassembling themselves, and the city adopting an aspect of perfection which it had not held in human memory. And though it had never looked so beautiful, Lydia found something ominous about the angles at which the pristine towers were placed, and the way the wind turned suddenly towards the city, shrouding it from sight with swirling sands. And large shadows without origin began moving across the dunes towards Xith, sliding aside to avoid Lydia on their way, and singing strange songs. Lydia shuddered at the thought of Thragg trapped inside the walls with these, and wondered what he had found in the last and terrible chamber, but she was a businesswoman first, and turned once more toward Que-Lan.

And although sometimes in her later years she caught herself singing as the shadows had done on their way to Xith, the three rings alone were enough to keep her comfortable for the rest of her days. Indeed, such was her wealth that some citizens of Que-Lan grew envious and sought to make the journey across Kallax in search of similar fortune, but although some of these were as skilled as Lydia herself had been in her youth, the days in which citizens of Que-Lan could return from Xith were ended, and none were seen thereafter.

The Perfect Statue

There once was a pious woodcarver who loved the gods. In his modest home he had a small shrine, and every day he would offer prayers to each god in turn. He had carefully whittled statues of all the deities he knew, and one by one he would place them on the altar and address them as he would old and dear friends, with affection and warmth, and never with fear. And sometimes he would ask for small favours, and sometimes he would give thanks, and sometimes he would merely tell them stories of his life, particularly stories in which they played key roles. Certainly he prayed to the gods of luck and beauty and wisdom, as all do, but he also did not neglect the gods of jealousy and hatred and anger, hoping that by acknowledging them each morning, they would be appeased, and not exert their influence so strongly upon his soul.

                The woodcarver made his living selling what he crafted in the marketplace, and on occasion from commissions for specific pieces, for his talent was not insignificant. And it happened one day that a wealthy merchant, passing by his stall, took note of his wares, and was impressed.

                “Good master carver,” he said, holding a small wooden dog to his eye to inspect the detail, “I wonder if you might be interested in crafting something particular for me. You see, I am in the process of installing a small chapel on my property. I hope to dedicate it to Nalgi, the goddess of kindness, to remind myself to use what wealth I have obtained wisely. I shall need for this a representation of the goddess, and believe that your skill could provide me with a very fine one indeed.”

                The woodcarver’s delight can well be imagined at this offer, and he hastily expressed his eagerness. The two shook hands and parted ways, and the carver carefully placed his wooden animals and statues into a tissue-lined box and rushed home to begin.

                The work took three months. First, he spent six days searching a nearby forest for the perfect piece of wood, at last finding a large, strong tree which had been recently toppled by a storm. With help from some neighbours (who refused the money the woodcutter offered when they heard what the piece would be used for, but accepted a meal at his home in thanks), he transported a large section of the trunk to his house, and installed it in his workshop. Each day thereafter, he would awaken, say his prayers as always (giving special thought to Nalgi, but being careful not to neglect the others), and then go out into the village with the aim of performing as many kindnesses as possible. He would help wherever he saw the need, and would bring small carvings he had made to give to children. Then, at midday, he would return home and work on the beautiful piece of wood until he grew too weary to continue.         

Finally, just as the trees began to lose their green and to scatter their fiery embers, it was finished. A friend of the carver’s spent three days at the workshop, carefully painting the limbs and face of the statue, while a local seamstress spent her nights making a simple gown out of spare bits of fabric. Once adorned, the piece was once again transported across town by helpful neighbours, to where the merchant’s chapel waited for it. The piece was unveiled to great acclaim from all gathered (and, thanks to the merchant, the crowd was not inconsiderable). All praised the skill with which it had been crafted, for while the features could perhaps have been more deftly defined by a more prestigious carver, none could deny that the face smiling perfectly down from the wood was Nalgi. To even look upon her features was to feel the thousand tiny kindnesses that had gone into its carving, and all left the gathering praising the artist and the merchant who commissioned the piece. Woodcarver and merchant both went to sleep happy, knowing that they had brought something splendid into the world.

                I wish I could say that the story ended there. But the merchant lived for many years more, and the years brought about a change in his character. He visited less and less the chapel of Nalgi, and more and more the vault where his money was kept. He became greedy and envious, and one day noticed construction happening on his neighbour’s property.

                “Ho there, sir!” he called from the gate. “What is it that you build there?”

                “A chapel!” came the reply from his neighbour, who was overseeing the proceedings. “I mean to honour Plouta, the goddess of wealth, for all that she has brought me!”

                And though the merchant outwardly expressed his delight, and promised to come to see the chapel when it was at last completed, he took note of the expensive materials being used and the skill of the craftsmen employed, and felt a slow warmth spreading across his cheeks. He hastened back to his own chapel and stared up at the smiling face of Nalgi which had been carven for him, forgetting even to kneel and give her greeting, and instead saying to himself, “How shabby Nalgi is looking these days. See how her paint begins to peel, and how poorly she is adorned. I have more wealth now than once I did; I should use it to improve the statue, to make it more beautiful still, that it might inspire all who see it to even greater acts of kindness.”

                And so, as his neighbour’s chapel began to take shape, he too began to renovate. He had beautiful bracelets and rings imported from far-off lands, and had a new robe fashioned from expensive silk. He brought in diamonds and precious stones and vivid paints, and once everything was gathered, he began to improve his statue.

                First, he scrubbed away the fading colour on her limbs and face, and paid a customer’s son who was skilled with a brush to put on a fresh coat in a dazzling colour made rare by the fact that its preparation involved the use of dangerous poisons, and inevitably harmed those forced to brew it. He removed the various simple homemade bracelets which adorned her arms, and which had been given to the woodcarver by friends in thanks for past kindnesses. These he threw away, and replaced with elegant circles of ivory and gold, which glittered cold and untouchable against her glistening arms. The rough gown he tore from her shoulders, and replaced with a new, more fashionable garment. Lastly, he gazed with a frown upon her face, still smiling down at him, and thought to himself until he had an idea. Smiling with delight, he rushed off to contact a jeweler he knew.

                Two weeks later, his neighbour unveiled his beautiful temple to Plouta. There was much admiration and many compliments, for the statue was very beautiful, and richly adorned, and all agreed that there was no better representation of wealth to be seen for hundreds of miles. And then, as the crowd began to depart, some recalled the beautiful statue of Nalgi housed in the chapel next door which they had seen many years before, and wondered whether it was as lovely and perfect as they remembered. And a handful of them went next door and knocked, and the merchant answered readily, dressed in his finery, as if he had expected them. And he led them, beaming, to the chapel, and threw open the door with a flourish, and revealed to them the goddess of kindness, and mistook their gasps for delight.

                Shortly afterwards, once his guests had stammered their excuses and departed, he gazed up at what he had made, and thought upon how much improved Nalgi had become from the simple carving she had been in earlier days, and how the course of his own successful life was to be traced in her progression to the radiant being smiling down at him with her diamond teeth. He smiled back, and went to bed, getting up twice in the night to visit the chapel and stroke the fine silk gown of the sparkling wonder which dwelt there.

                And over the coming months he visited the chapel more and more, more than ever he had visited even when the statue was new. And he sometimes fancied that he heard movement from the chapel when no one was in it, and sometimes imagined that he saw diamond teeth gleaming in the darkness of his bedroom, but set these fanciful notions aside with a laugh and a shudder.

                Then, one night, an alarum was made throughout the town, and the villagers rushed outside to find the merchant’s home consumed in a fiery blaze, and the chapel with it. And, armed with buckets and axes, they first attempted to gain access to the mansion to save the merchant, but finding it impossible, they turned instead to the chapel, to see if they couldn’t at least salvage the costly statue; but this, too they found impossible, so fierce were the flames. And by dawn all that was left was a blackened patch of earth, smoking in a morning rain.

                And the old woodcarver shook his head when he heard that his work had been destroyed, but not too sadly, as he knew that such a tragedy would move the villagers to further acts of kindness, and Nalgi’s presence in the world would be, if anything, increased by the statue’s loss. Still, he decided to walk to the spot where his carving had been housed, to remember. And on his way he passed three sinister-looking men carrying behind them a cart covered in a tarpaulin. And for one moment only the tarpaulin was shifted by the breeze, and the woodcarver caught sight of a hideous face leering out at him with jewelled eyes and sharp diamond teeth, and he recoiled in horror at what he saw, but mercifully recognized nothing of his own craftsmanship in the thing. And then the face was hastily covered again by one of the three villains, who glared malevolently at the woodcarver before moving on again. And the woodcarver walked on as well, thinking to himself, “I shall have to mention to the gods of greed and jealousy that I believe I saw them today. They love hearing such things.”

The Amaravella Art Movement

Since no one has posted in over a year, I think we should try and kick-start this thing. So, in lieu of trying to write something original, here is an art post. The Amaravella movement was sort of the artistic subset of the Russian Cosmist movement of the early 20th century. The name is apparently a Sanskrit word meaning "sprouts of immortality", and the group was active in the 1920s.

Amaravella had scientific and spiritual influences: one early influence was the Lithuanian painter Mikalogus Konstantinas Ciurlionis. Ciurlionis was an important precursor of abstract art in Europe, and also contributed to the Art Nouveau movement, which is pretty evident from his works:

You can see pretty clearly the architectural side of his work, and the mystical side, but also the naturalistic and scientific. The second painting is a stylized picture of lightning, and the last is part of a series of works called The Creation of the World.

A more esoteric early influence on Amaravella was Nicholas (or Nikolai) Roerich, a Russian painter, theosophist, and spiritualist. Roerich in particular brought some serious Eastern mystic influence to the movement.

This Eastern mysticism influenced Boris Smirnov-Rusetsky, a member of Amaravella proper:

Okay, I should stop, though I could put stuff up by this guy forever. You can pretty clearly see the Russian influence, all of his paintings have a pretty strong Russian rodinia feel, but you can also feel the spaciness and the influence of cosmism. In fact, the second painting above is part of his Cosmist cycle.

Another member of Amaravella was Victor Chernovolenko. This guy doesn't even have an English Wikipedia page (outrage!) so I can't tell you much about him, but I have some cool pictures.

Once again, you can see the futurism, and the spaciness, but also the spirituality. The last painting there is called "Pray", and other works of his have distinctly spiritual themes, while still being science-fictiony. 

Anyway, that's all I really have on Amaravella, but I think, going with my original inspiration for this whole mythos of the Cosmists, that it's worth it to see their main artistic offshoot. And personally speaking, I find the art really beautiful. 

The Ultimate Incantation

One Soul, Parchment Thin

Sorry Mythmakers, I'm editing this one for the time being!

The Zero-Worlds Interpretation

"Not only is the moon not really there when nobody looks; but it isn't really there even when you do look"
 - - Ron Garret

"You can look at the world with p-eyes or with q-eyes, but open both eyes, and you go crazy"
- - Wolfgang Pauli to Werner Heisenberg

"Correlations without correlata"
- - David Mermin