Chyrán's "The Ring" - Part I: Return + Part II: Encounter

The dominating inactivity on the Forum gives me the opportunity to finally play again with a couple of ideas I've always put off and which need a good deal of time to develop. One of these ideas is the most famous work attributed to the poet/novelist Chyrán, which I touched on in the Ciosa entry - his untitled work, also known as "The Ring". In the following the "refrain" from this essential Santharian piece of literature. The poetic novella features a circular structure, constantly reinventing its form, content, narrator, reader, and everything else it touches, but regularly leads up to a refrain of a sailor leaving and/or arriving at the harbour. It is, basically, along the line of my previous work "The Journey", but even more open of interpretation.

Finally we get a glimpse of that central part of this crucial work, the part which would reappear - albeit altered - again and again throughout the text. This of course is only a small part of it, but it's a start and should give you an idea what's ahead. Prose and rhyme will alternate in the whole text, and the complete work is meant to consist of single chapters which stand on their own ranging from actual narrations over dreams, fantasies, poetical and/or philosophical journeys. Start and end point of a chapter is a "ship" - or let's say: a form of "vehicle" - that will carry the reader onwards, but never ever things are what they seem to be. Difficult to explain, so it need to develop naturally. I don't plan to just write the book down, but to add pieces regularly whenever time allows and more and more make it a whole experience. Repetitions and cross-references will also play an important role, so it's quite likely that previous chapters will then be partly changed to construct the whole.

Here's the reworked, expanded and finally completed part I of Chyrán's poetical novella "The Ring", entitled "Return" setting the theme for the things to come:

I. Return

Land ho! Land ho! T'Foggy Old Lady's all aglow!"

Could it be? Ciosa already? - Looking up at the crow's nest from where I heard the shout I see one of the crewmen wave excitedly. A few moments later loud cheers ring through the ship. Enthused I drop my ropes as well and head for starboard to have a look firsthand.

Ciosa it is.

Yet I barely recognize her through the early morning haze, said Old Lady, the ancient Avennorian port, town of many voices, colors and creed, gateway to the continents, stalwart bastion defying the ever changing sands of time. But then she emerges bit by bit in her scantly lit glory, still dreamy, but defiant and magnificent she awakens from her slumber. There it is indeed, the long awaited sight of the quay, bathed in shimmering moonlight, droves of tiny fishing boats rocking quietly next to it, a couple of heavy bareks and tritons interspersed. The day calls and there's already commotion on some of these ships, and here and there one can spot the occasional sailor stopping and pointing out at sea to announce the arrival of the newcomers. That would be us, and some of our crew wave back at them.

The rolling hills the city was built on slowly peel out of the nightly cloak the closer we draw, and with them the majestic walls of the Astrendum overlooking the city arise... And somewhere in the far distance there must also be the familiar face of Jepp. Always watching, always knowing Brooding Jepp, the gigantic stone-face of the nearby quarry and for ages guardian of this ancient Avennorian harbour. Perhaps his features are a whim of the Gods, maybe they were once hewn into the mountainside by unknowns or he's a remnant of a giant once petrified by archmages when the War of the Chosen raged. Could be the giant will rise again when the spell wears off someday, some say. Whatever the truth, Jepp's always here - to bid you well on your way, here to greet returning souls, be it morn, bright day or eve. He knows your path, your quests and goals, the worries, doubts, your grief - whether bliss or woes, the giant knows, he knows.

"Land ho! Land ho! What's up there, Jepp? Won't you look down below?"

I hear the sailors chant. A smile they earn, though join in I can't, just grab my things, and off I go - up and about to spread my wings. Yes, back I am, it's my city that calls. Far too long I've been away, too long I've missed those grey, yet proud and trusted walls, and now I've come to stay.

Returned they are, my tired feet, from labour strained, past are cold and heat, returned they are, welcomed home, distant those places now they once did roam. The pier lies quiet, calm in the morning breeze, the sailors' to and fro I barely notice as I go, and cobblestone beat accompanies my leave. Though slowly - almost unnoticed - the market comes alive. The bakers lay out their rolls, divers present their pearls, and fresh fish are put on ice. Kegs are carried, sausages varied are sorted, cut and hung, and with an eye's twinkle pastries turn sugar-sprinkled, and happy tunes are being hummed. The smell of spices fills the air: from tangy, bitter, sharp, austere they range - some are common, others rare, from every tribe and place a share.

I shoulder my bag and move along. A nod here, one there, then purse my lips to whistle a song. Through dark alleys I go and Sneaker's Ave, the place where poor Knupp once found his death, and I imagine to sneak up that very lane, as a personal tribute - well, to the Sneaker's disputable fame. Another lane, and after that one more, all up that hill I walk, past stalls and taverns, inns and seedy places - many a stranger I meet, amongst them just a couple familiar faces.

Once up, I pause, let my feet rest for a while. I turn around, look back to catch my breath. For a few moments my gaze drifts over all the hustling and the bustling, and as I look down I can't help but sigh - 'cause my eyes follow people moving, from here to there, up, down and around. As if they all know what they want, as if it just has to be found - and in all that: determination abounds. Once more the day has risen, and with it life in an ancient harbour town. The wafts of mist are almost gone, chased by the sun, replaced by dawn.

"Land ho! Land ho! What's up there, Jepp? Won't you look down below?"

The crew's blitheful ditty comes to mind. Now that I'm up here myself I let my eyes wander, over the port, our ship and think: It's almost as if they're addressing me - the sailors wave and laugh and ask what I see. Amused I turn to find Old Jepp now awakened, the Injèrá's light finally has brought him back - it's hard to notice, but in all the morning glory he's as alive as a face in a rock could get. Still, while he sees it all his eternal wisdom remains unspoken, never he seems in the mood, he just observes, contemplates and broods... Somehow I understand. Thus by the same token I follow his example, watch and decide to keep things to myself. What other wisdom might I conceive at this very moment anyway other than how great it is to greet the day, so eventually I turn, and, well, in that spirit choose to walk away.

Already I've reached my street - there's the well, the giant oak and Tinker's Square, the place where we as children used to meet. Just a few steps more to my humble abode waiting ashore.

II. Encounter

And so it goes, day in, day out, through morning, midday, afternoon, off we drift, deepening the rift to what we've left. There, you see... sailing away, about to be free... and gone it is. Was it too soon? How does it feel: as a curse, a boon? Are we bereft? Oblivious we've begun to travel, and oblivious we bit by bit unravel wind and weather that will lead us forth, that teases, threatens, shakes us, marks the course.

And thus, with our steady guides the evening silently arrives. It sneaks around at first, distant, a mere horizon, a thought remote, then caressing us gently, finally spreading its velvety coat. It finds me leaning against the railing still, almost untouched - as you will - by the day, as if I've never ever been away to do my sailor's chores. Motionless I stand there, my eyes fixed on what's left from the outlines of the coast, and unnoticed in the darkness everything drowns - mountains, hills, some indistinct Manthrian towns.

"Still out there?"

I hear the question, but don't look up. The waterfront that I'm still observing from afar, the dock that reminds me of the whole continent behind it, seems cleared from all the hands loading and unloading the ships by now. Soon we'll leave both, the dock and the continent behind it. And while the port is almost engulfed in the murkiness of the dusk, I spot two people sitting on a bench near a lantern watching the sea's late gentle movements, listening just as I do to the ever recurring sound of waves rolling to shore, ceaselessly, unwavering. Or at least I believe in seeing these two, and that is all that matters to me.

"I bet you're thinking about someone, right?"

I don't answer, just keep on staring at the spot on the waterfront: the bench and the silhouettes of two strangers, two people, who might have strolled to the port to tell the day good-bye, wordlessly, together.

"You know, I knew a girl here, on this very port. Wanna hear the story?"

I nod, still in thought as I look over the water. Then I sense her warm lips touching my cheek and I turn around. Our eyes meet briefly, but a moment later she's already looking out at the sea again.

"What I wouldn't give to be off towards the sunset in a ship like that," her soft voice whispers. "See her sails billow with the fancies of the wind? At first she merely snuck along the coast, covertly like a thief, as if in waiting for a sign from somewhere, maybe reluctant to tear herself away from these lands..."

Yes, I see her: there she goes, and along her way she leaves fleeting traces. The waters tolerate, then swallow them, while away she sails, on to explore the infinite, the enigma of the distant spaces. The sun is waning, the moon by now has risen, and fascinated he peeks over the sails - the ripples he dips in a luminous shine, thus lighting up otherwise uncertain trails. A single image remains, in a moment enshrined.

"But now, look! Now she picks up momentum..." She points, bathed in delight, in her eyes a glimmer of a discoverer. "And her flags bulge and rattle violently, as if the wind is going to tear them apart anytime..." She talks, she describes vividly, she exudes the dreamy eloquence of a poet, a poet, who has found his subject... "Look! How she finally turns... slowly, slowly... but there's no doubt that she moves away now... away from the coast..." Right into the vastness of the water surrounding it, into the darkness and the unknown, off and away...

Off and away, off and away, to her destiny she goes. Where will she end up? Well, no one really knows - only that with her gone a day's end draws nigh. And maybe it's just a thought, but keep it close. You might raise your hand and wave good-bye, but in doing so: contemplate also what you chose. So I tell myself as I see her leaving, left behind. But my breast's still heaving, and so I grasp the tender fingers next to mine, from the Twelven sent, my gift benign.

"What is it? Something I said?" she asks and I turn and smirk at her remark.

"Ha, no, don't you worry," I reply. "A thought just crossed my mind, you see..." It's been there since like forever, and while it's uplifting, it's also daunting, haunting, pressuring me...

Yet at the same instance already I dismiss the notion, instead get up and have to walk the quay. I go back and forth, again and again, caught in observing my own pacing, and it seems I'm lost in mazy thoughts and all the while my heart is racing.

"You know..." I begin again, yet find myself still walking. But then my voice leaves me. Quietly I continue going, she just looks on. The ship out there has just escaped my sight, and with its departure words I planned to say are... gone.

But after a while my feet demand a rest, and then she jumps up, stirred, curious and gay, holds on to me. Begrudgingly I obey - and stand still. I look out at sea, I can't do without. It's the time now where moon and Injèrá compete - night crawls in, and its cold grip more and more defeats the fading day's once burdening heat.

"So? You wanted to say?" Outspoken she is, jaunty, bright as day.

He looks at her and she at him, seen from afar their faces almost merge, inevitably the light grows dim.

"See those two? Those two at the quay? Holding hands, looking out at the sea?"

His eyes follow the pointing finger, he squints, then nods. "Yes, there, at the lantern, near the bench, that couple..." He steps forward, then sits down on a rock and she follows the example, determined to talk.

Down they look both, from the ledge of the hill they're sitting on, enframed by bushes, a birch and a yew. They overlook town and port - and the two strangers of course whose presence graces to brighten their view. Now they both step towards the lantern, their shapes become clearer and as they touch the girl on the hill also moves nearer - to the man who holds her hand in his arm, who makes her heart jump, lets her feel safe and calm.

"You think they're in love?" she wants to know and prepares to agree by saying, "I also thought so."

But quiet he remains. The sounds from below fill the air, muffled, but still, they climb up and up to reach the two watchers on top of the hill: from a smithy there's a faint cling and a clang, somewhere a mother scoulds her son, from a tavern comes shouting and laughter, a cat's meows echo through an alleyway, and a drunkard sings praise of the hereafter. The evening lies in the air, a common sight, a habit, a practised rite, an all too familiar mix of noises, sounds and voices and all the bustle rises from time to time, only to ebb away and repeat itself, buried within are pleasures, prayers, cries and choices.

From the hill one can see life down there, sense its excitement, exuberance, even the debauchery the evening brings with it, but then again one can also glimpse hints of its elusiveness, of sorrows and the absence of joy. And there's solitude lingering behind a single window where a candle is just being blown out, somewhere remote, on the outskirts of the town, away from people cheering, maybe celebrating for a reason, maybe just drinking to forget hardship and suffering. A cool breeze crosses over from the sea, for a while decides to join the watchers sitting on the ledge. Unseen windy fingers shake the trees and the bushes close by rustle cautiously.

"You think?" she begins again, yet the question she asked a while ago seems far away by now, almost forgotten and with it what it meant, to her and to him. As if to herself she's talking her whispering just drowns in the emergence of nearby sounds, the sounds of someone walking.

"Here you are...”

The two heads turn as I approach. My voice pierces the silence that has engulfed the both of them and finally, with a sigh of relief, I step towards the ledge as well. I take in the sight, the sounds, the smell, absorb the amusement that spills over from below, welcome the invitation it has for us in tow.

“We missed you,” he says and with his eyes conveys just that.

He makes room and points to where he has sat, and I remember it’s the very same spot on which he and I once met, when I left the temple and he walked up from below, when we both paused for a moment near that yew, when we started to know... each other. Yet familiar already we were back then like sister and brother, sharing the same thoughts, reminding us what we forgot, the one always speaking the words for the other.

“I know, I missed you too”, I answer, but don’t sit down, instead just let my gaze wander. The wind carries the rich aroma of spiced pork, mixed with fish and roasted vegetables, circles around me, entices, leafs through my hair, a lively messenger from the evening’s hustle and bustle, a dancer holding out his hand, who wants us to come down and join whatever makes an evening bright and a life worth living: Your hand, my lady, would you care giving?

“Let’s not linger around here”, I declare. Why just wait till the night turns cold? Better head down, taste what’s in the air, see what happens, what might unfold... “Now, how about it?” I ask. “Anyone here to go along with me?”

“Sure!” he says. “The tavern waits, let’s eat and talk, then walk the quay...”

But quiet she remains, I notice. Silently she shakes her head. The town she keeps on watching – she sees the lanterns glowing, the streets that are flowing from here to there, purposefully, linking this and that with everywhere. There’s a girl running down a lane... a stray dog - nowhere he belongs... a flurry chasing foliage down the drain... and a young fellow strolling just along...

There are all those buildings, looking tall and somber, in their own way they appear to ponder why people go in and out, lean on their walls, stand about... Folks, it seems, cannot stand still, that is: not for long - unlike houses whose will is strong, whose determination clear: to remain unchanged, year by year. Too bad though that they’re made by man, so that whenever he wishes he also can - destroy that home, his own or that of others, be it of foes, loved ones, brothers. As such is man’s nature, that is his urge, to build and to strive and to conquer and purge... Or so they say, that’s what I’ve heard, and I’m inclined to believe their every word: that to find one’s fortune is rarely enough to secure a man’s pleasure. Man will seek more than he can treasure, of might and gain and fame and love. I wonder: How can he ever find his measure?

It’s getting late already, but I need to leave, head out for a while. Get away from these houses, the goings-on, the crowd, from what makes those busy people proud so that they can feast and bawl and prance and take a wench’s comfort for romance. Ah, it’s not for me, a poet’s soul who enjoys a walk, a lake, a tree, prefers to listen to the leaves rustle instead of diving in the social bustle. A thought’s company is all I need when I’m alone, may it yield fruit once it has been sown. Thus away from the city and its lights, I go to embrace what others call a windy, chilly, even ghastly night.

Up the path to Seyella’s sanctuary I walk. People’s noises I’ve exchanged for the breeze and it swirls around me, sings a soughing hymn. I remind myself that windsingers use to hunt for gusts like these, on precipices they stand, calm, the weather grim, then they chant or whimper or howl along – they say to understand the world means joining its song. Oh, how I envy them! I’m just a writer, clumsily I forge my words, but by no means I’m as knowing as an elf. Just rhymes to parchment I do coerce – flawed is what they are, tainted by the self. Yes, I give new meaning to what I’ve learned, but the elf requires none, she takes it in. While I think and build and craft my verse, the singer’s voice resounds from within...

“The Twelve with you!” someone sudddenly disturbs my musings.

“And with you too!” I greet back, just briefly looking up.

Two strangers are walking down the same path I’m taking, passing me by. How curious, I can’t help but think to myself. What I gladly chose to leave behind, others set out for, determined, eager to find. Ha, there they go, there they laugh, there they rejoice on life’s behalf, skipping, one might say dancing on their way down as I ascend, my thoughts the baggage that keeps me bent. Off and away, off and away, to their destiny they go. Where will they end up? Well, no one really knows. Just a fleeting image they will remain to inspire a poet’s floundering quill...

... dip in, dip in, take your fill...

Pick what stirs you if you will, so that from such moments might emerge an ode, a ballad even a dirge, something at least that stands still amidst everything that rushes by, that, because it was finally spoken helps us lift up and fly – that stands as an eternal token, asking what lies beyond, and why.

... dip in, dip in, take your fill...

Oh, my trusted, my beloved quill! With combined effort merging ink and skill isn't it our joint duty to point away from the business of the day? How adequate then that it's night already on my mission to find what's steady, hunt for the indelible, the permanent, the everlasting – by means of observing, reflecting, incessantly asking... What could we say? What should we write? What moral do we adhere, what's our plight? Say, quill, or maybe pause a moment, let's think: What's the story behind this sight?

Well, this sight now, yes, just wait, hush! Let's stay here for a bit... I feel it somehow – this must be the right spot... This ledge, this bush, this birch, this yew, I know the place, often I've taken in the view... From here you can see ships coming through the straight below that leads to town, first passing the gate, then circling around the whole waterfront, eventually reaching the harbour's shore, where they'll finish their travels and finally moor. However rough the sea has been, once arrived everything stands still.

... dip in, dip in, take your fill...

And here I stand now, let my thoughts drift. Night has fallen. No ships coming from afar are to be seen. The wind has calmed down, no use singing with it I say to myself and smile. The waves in the distance can barely be heard. But I know they are still there, and with them what they have to say - a truth they silently conceal, or at least that's what and how I feel:

"On and on, arrived then gone
- a wave is but the wind's next pawn.
May a gale pick it up to dance and twirl,
make it sink back, let it rise, toss and whirl,
may it be a maelstrom's pet, aye,
even split by a ship, on and on,
arrived and gone, ever on, just a pawn
- on that endless, endless, endless trip.

Oh, so grim must be their given fate:
in the ocean lost, helpless, just born to wait.
As all a wave can do is
watch the Injèrá in circles go around,
how she dips in the sea, rises again,
how she forfeits, reconquers her reign,
at night gone missing, at morning found
- that's the life of a wave, monotony-bound.
There's not much more to it than
harken to the wind,
aye, he's the master.
He knows how to conjure heavenly bliss,
but by doing so he may also bring disaster,
drag travellers into the ocean's watery abyss.

Oh, so grim must be a wave's given fate:
in the ocean lost, helpless, just born to wait.
But isn't there an end to all their desperate strive?
Isn't there's a day when they will finally arrive?
A day when all the waves will have landed,
yet the truth untold is: they'll just be stranded..."

I know these words by heart, but my voice trembles as I whisper them. Silence falls again, no sound disturbs my lonliness. I stay a few more moments where I've been standing all along, look out at sea and watch that couple that promenades the quay. However I'm quiet now, too much has been said, too many memories well up from the place I just fled.

"That was beautiful..." I suddenly hear her say. "How beautiful you speak about the waves, their ways... But, say, must their life always be so sad? Is there nothing more a poet sees and has to add?"

Her voice in my ear I look down... down... down in front of me, where my eyes meet the waves, one, two, a dozen, thousands of wind-driven slaves. The moonlight shimmers as they gently sway in the breeze, and I repeat to myself, remembering, but with an urge to appease:

"A day when all the waves will have landed,
yet the truth untold is: they'll just be stranded..."

Against the wind I now raise my voice. Fate might be grim, but I do have a choice. And as from the wind I've heard I add another verse:

"Do you know what's it for a wave, that day?
When it will reach an island, a shore, a bay?
Say, what's it for a wave, that day?
Well, how would we know, what could we say?
I feel that's not what makes a wave churn,
rather while waiting it has learned to yearn
and savour the night, find delight in the day,
and to welcome the breeze, saying: Take me away!"

Motionless I stand there, my eyes now fail to see the coast, unnoticed in the darkness everything drowned - mountains, hills, some indistinct Manthrian towns. Thus is where I find myself: leaning against the railing still, thinking...

... dip in, dip in, take your fill...

One day I swear I'll write it all down. Maybe it will be a tale about myself, the sea, its waves, the ships that come into town... - but that day I'll sing with the wind like an elf.

I am but a wave. A wave I've been, a wave I'll be, a wave that rocks on open sea.