The Raiselig Dossier: The Festival of Light Part 3

After a goodly time, Raiselig sat on a rock. The rock was beside the road. It was a diversion Raiselig had not given themself in some time.

Nevertheless, the road and the rock.

Down and up the road lay in different directions than either down or up. Indeed, their only relation to each other was direct opposition. It had always bothered Raiselig, more-so that it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

The town lay below Raiselig, down the large hill some quarter-hour’s walk. They could see better than most at such a distance, and could see the people bustling about, readying for their own winter holiday. Raiselig didn’t even know its name.

The files on the town lay in Raiselig’s yellowwood chest. They could look if they wanted, but they didn’t.

Was it time? Raiselig could not convince themself that it was not.

Then, Raiselig was joined by a young mortal. At first they thought it a cat, or perhaps a frog, but instead it was a human child. The boy, or was it a girl, sat down next to Raiselig, and looked up at their night-black face.

“What are you?”

Such a question! Raiselig didn’t move an inch. It was as though they had been turned to stone, to onyx, to obsidian formed in the molten rock of the earth. Would the girl (or was it a boy?) understand? Did even Raiselig understand? Was there anything to be understood, or was there simply what was? What even was the question?

What Raiselig said was this:

In the old days, long before there were humans as you know them today, there was what I was. I did what I was, and I was what I did. I had no name, and my only purpose was in my hunger.

For it was a hunger, as surely as a thirst or lust. When I was comfortable, it drove me from my place of rest. When satiated, my fear of its return consumed my peace. In the still hours, yes, the still hours, it crawled from the grass and nuzzled the back of my neck, claiming me as its own. I was not the only one, but it claimed me as sure as anything.

I danced in the darkness at its whim. I let loose what had so long been hidden. I drew the eye of wandering beast, and called to the poor things that had yet to even speak the word ‘human.’ I took them deep into the forest, far away from their kin, their safety, their homes, their tribes, their proper places.

I was a light, winking from the darkness. I promised so much to the weary and frightened and lost. I offered food and wine, and rest. I would give them peace from the frightening surroundings, and I would lead them back home.

Do I sound nice? I was not nice. My claws and fangs sank into them and I drank their gaze. Unable or unwilling, they did not resist as I ushered them through strange and terrible sights. Did they see what I showed them, or did they conjure their own? I do not know. What returned to their people was unrecognizable.

I know they feared me. They hid and made signs with their fingers and throats to keep me away. They hung nets around their beds, but I slipped in and drank deep. When they were lost, I was there to fill my belly, with promises of safety and home on my lips. They named me. In their fear they named me, and the name was mine own, shared among my many shapes, my many selves. They whispered of the horrible Adzo-Adze.

Raiselig gasped. It had been many generations since that name had passed their lips. They had forgotten how it tasted on the tongue. They didn’t even know I could say it — how many years spent believing it had been taken from me, when it was no further than my own lips. Had I the will, I could have taken it back all the while.

I will be punished for saying it, I am sure.

It is an old name. A dead name. A name I am not supposed to say, because it is not who I am. It cannot be. For the world to work, I must never be that name again. But is it not who I am? Is not this mortal name a mask placed over the soul of who and what I am and was? Was not the dead name a mask as well?

I burned. Yes, I burned. I burned for those who saw me, and pulled them away into the forest. But none will ever see me burn again. Even if I did, the forests have all been cut down, and new trees of stone and plaster rise in their place. The dark places have retreated to the inside, and I can no more guide my children.

Yes, they were my children. All of them.

What am I? I do not know the answer. A thousand points of light. In the night sky. In the dark forest. In the windows. In the waters. Reflected and dancing. They fall in the winter, coating the ground in perfect white. They are lit against the darkness. They are blown out to allow for rest. They are gathered together to warm old bones and bring nourishment. What is a single spark to such conflagration?

No, not even a spark. Now, I wear dark suits and carve lines into paper. I craft borders and fences in words of iron and steel. I describe and proscribe. I don’t burn any more. I might have forgotten how.

Iron and steel? Paper and ink, as solid as the rain. Precedent — ha! The holy claim that ‘as it has been, so should it still be.’ But where was precedent when my skin was torn from my back, and cold wool smeared in its place? Where was the blessed and pure past when my fellows were pulled from their holes and dragged into the light? Where were they when Law was written with blood-tipped blades instead of ink-stained nibs? Where were the Scriveners then?

The wind did not answer. The rock did not answer. The road, same as ever, gave no answer save stoic and silent indifference. The child hadn’t heard the question. Indeed, it likely hadn’t heard anything Raiselig had said.

The child didn’t need to answer. Raiselig knew. Peacekeepers, lawyers, and clerks? Soldiers, assassins, and worse. The swords might now be pens, the battle-cries now handshakes, the blood-rage replaced with cold professionalism; but never did the mission change.

“Are you a monster?”

Raiselig closed their mouth and opened their eyes. Burning bright, the eyes. “We were all monsters back then. Perhaps we still are. Perhaps we never were. Perhaps we all had our own place, and I lied to myself, said their promise to me was no lie.”

“What promise?”

“That there was method to it all. That they were different. That I needed to change.”

The girl-boy looked away at last, the stars in their eyes turning their focus on the village below.

“It’s yule time.”

Raiselig thought for only a moment. “I have not heard of that holiday. It must be new.”

“No. It’s been around forever and ever. My parents celebrated it.”

“I see,” Raiselig looked down at the garlands being hung in the town square, the trees being hung with candles and colored glass, the parcels of brown parchment and string carried underarm. “Then I must be mistaken.”

“It’s okay,” the boy-girl said, patting the black suit sleeve. “I’m mistaken a lot.”

Raiselig heaved a sigh. “There will come a time, child, when you will learn that many things you took for granted are chains. Never stop looking, child, for the world is ever changing.”

They knew how to live in the world. How many times had they said to Calchona, half in jest, that they knew better how to live in the world than most humans did? Countless times, for Raiselig could see the patterns and strings that tied everything together. They relished in them. They reveled.

Now, Raiselig knew how wrong they had been; Yes, they saw the strings, but they did not slide through them like wind and water-drops. They saw the strings because if they did not look, they would be caught fast in the webbing. They would be devoured.

Raiselig took out their pen and a slip of paper, and began to write.

“Can you carry a message, child?” they asked as they wrote.

“I can.”

Raiselig’s pen slowed. They couldn’t end it like this. There was so much more to be said, but how to make them understand? There had been a place for Raiselig in the world they had created. Perhaps it was love, perhaps respect, yet they made Raiselig who they need them to be. They shaped them and defined them, and if they had fought back they would have cast them to the wolves.

Raiselig folded the paper, and with a hand that had no right to be steady, wrote a single letter on the front.

There. It was done.

They handed it to the child. “Here. Take this back to your home. Someone will come for it soon, though they won’t know why. Give it to them, and they’ll understand.” They took a deep breath. “If they ask…when it happened, tell them…the frog didn’t know.”

With an understanding reserved for children and saints, the child took the message and ran. Raiselig watched them go.

The sun was rising, the snow glistening in the sudden heat.

They should have written to Calchona.

No. Why should they? What final words would mean anything? A thousand words said over their lives together, all final, now.

Calchona’s deep brown eyes surfaced in their memory. The smiles, the winks, the nods, the ever-present gentle nudges…She knew it had been coming. She had perhaps always known it would.

Raiselig looked back.

It was a world of clear lines, but only some of them could be seen. Raiselig knew who they were, who they had been, who they could be. The only cost was themself.

In front lay the forest and the hills, the trees and the animals who knew nothing of laws, they knew only their hearts. They pushed forward and toiled and found themselves in the midst of their own lives, not mirrored in the eyes of others.

They will make you who they need you to be. They will shape you and define you.

They took their willowick pen out of their pocket. It was the tool of the Scrivener. There was no instrument more holy.

Kneeling in the dirt by the side of the road, they lay the pen on the ground before their cabinet.

They were so tired.

They understood the laws, they could follow the paths, they knew how to be a Scrivener. Laws were important. Agreements and understandings. You couldn’t hate something you truly understood. Even the most dangerous of beast could be avoided or controlled, if you knew them. Really knew them.

But Raiselig had to read. The shelves on their shoulders had been a burden, in the end. How many people could live their lives freely and easily, without such weight on their back? But Raiselig could not let it down, not even for a moment. The simplest of acts — a greeting, an apology, a request — required such time and tender effort to craft properly. And in the end, it was not enough to hide their skin, their eyes, their nature. All it had earned Raiselig was exhaustion.

They took off their bowler hat. Their jacket came next, folded gently and laid by the side of the road. Their shirt and slacks were likewise prepared. Piece by piece, their offending vestment was shed, discarded, left behind for someone else to find and care for as they chose.

There was no going back. They could only go forward.

Raiselig.

It was not Raiselig’s word, it was their word. Their language. It meant something to them. It defined Raiselig in the comfortable trappings of human terms. It had a face, and arms, and a beating heart of some kind. It ate and drank and felt happy and sad.

It was not Raiselig’s name. It was not Raiselig.

It too was left by the side of the road.

Standing there, they looked about at the bright green grass and clear blue sky. They felt the cold wind on their hot skin, and heard the distant sound of church-bells echoing through the air.

Somewhere was a forest. Somewhere was a mountain. Somewhere was a river. Somewhere was a graveyard. Somewhere were people living their lives. Somewhere was a place they could just be.

They looked up to where what was once called giver-of-life-bringer-of-death smoldered in the deep empty. If there had still been eyes, they would have watered. Perhaps in pain, perhaps in joy. There was no place for a smile to spread, save the thousands of memories where it was far far to late.

Somewhere, a deep breath. A journey was over. A journey was begun.

They began to burn.

So bright.