Lands of Red and Gold #52: The Shape of Things to Come
Lands of Red and Gold #52: The Shape of Things to Come
Finishing the post on the fate of the Holy Roman Empire is taking much longer than I’d planned. In the meantime, here’s a glimpse of the future of the LRGverse.
* * *
Dawson (formerly Unega) [Montgomery, Alabama]
Alleghania
Above, a waning gibbous moon hangs low over the western horizon, offering steady light in an otherwise cloudless sky. In the east, as if in counterpoint, faint glimmers of blue are beginning to emerge from the blackness; the first signs of the approaching dawn.
Below, Myumitsi Makan makes his careful way through the streets of Dawson. Today marks his second morning in this growing new town, this place of mills and workshops. A town which would be most appropriately titled if the same unegas who dominate it had not renamed it [1].
In this time of pre-dawn, the light is not yet bright, nor is the world yet balanced, but it meets Makan’s needs. He can see well enough for his purposes; all he wants, for now, is to follow the right streets to reach the park, without stumbling over horse manure or street rails or any of the other hazards on the roadways of this crowded town.
A shout rings out from behind him, a wordless warning for him to stand aside. He does so, as the fading shout is replaced by the clip-clop of iron-shod horse hooves and the fainter slide of iron wheels on iron rails.
A horsecar [horse-drawn tram] passes by; evidently, even this early hour is not enough to deter the inhabitants of Dawson from labour. Few if any of the inhabitants follow the path laid down by the Good Man, so they would not have risen for prayers; only the ravenous demands of the ever-growing mills could have called them from their beds. These mills and horsecars mark a new way of shaping the world, or so he has heard from a dozen or more people during his short sojourn in this town. Alleghanians are a proud people, it seems.
The hints of blue are becoming more predominant in the eastern sky as Makan resumes his walk through Dawson. The distance remaining is not far, if he can trust a day and a half’s worth of memories of the town’s layout.
He will have to learn more, of course, and quickly. Dawson is a town crying out for labourers, by all reports. The rich soils which once supported the farms and diverse crops of the Congxie are now being replaced by endless cotton fields. Once that cotton is harvested, most of it is brought here to the mills of Dawson.
All in all, a welcome opportunity to earn some Alleghanian coin. And, if he is honest with himself, an even more auspicious opportunity to live somewhere that people will not recognise him for his father’s name. The past shapes a man’s future, both his deeds and those of his forebears, but surely some consequences can be side-stepped.
His strides bring him to an open expanse of green parkland, grass scattered with a few cornnart [wattle] and hickory trees. A perfect place for morning invocation; the time when night is in balance with day and prayers are most harmonious. Most Congxie make their morning invocations in a temple or in a shrine in their own homes, but Makan has always preferred to pray out of doors. He needs only himself, a mat, and a copy of Oora Gulalu [The Endless Road] or The Great Dreaming and, if possible, an open space.
As he looks more closely around the park, he notices that signs have been placed at several points around the entrance. He had not come close enough to see them yesterday when he first heard of the park; now, he has the time to look more closely.
The nearest sign shows a dark-skinned face, with tightly curled black hair, grossly exaggerated lips, and round yellow circles for eyes; just as the Alleghanians – or, more accurately, the Cavendians – depict the African race. Two diagonal red lines cross over the face.
Below the crossed face is writing. In English only, which he can read to a degree, though he is more fluent in French, and most fluent in his own language. The words on the sign proclaim: NO BLACKS ALLOWED.
That message is clear enough, so Makan ignores it. Here is the openness he needs, and dawn is about to break. He unrolls the mat, facing east, kneels down upon it, and places his copy of Oora Gulalu to one side, for the moment.
Now, Makan prays, as he has done every dawn and dusk for all of his adult life. He prays for wisdom, for knowledge, and for his deeds to bring only harmony. He invokes guides to aid his course through the day, calling in turn on the Fire Brothers, then Tsul Kalu, then the Rainbow Serpent.
Before he can invoke a fourth guide, a most unwelcome voice interrupts him. “What are you doing here, nigger?”
Makan brings himself to his feet, however reluctantly; to leave a prayer unfinished is a most inauspicious start to any day.
A clean-shaven, wig-festooned, typically overdressed unega stands before him, the colour of his rage showing plainly on his sickly, creamy skin, even in this early light. As is true of most unegas, this man is shorter than Makan, but speaks much more loudly than is required in such circumstances.
“I am praying,” Makan says.
“Go pester your pagan gods somewhere else,” the unega says. His clipped accent marks him as a Cavendian, although that would be obvious anyway. “Even if you can’t read, you can see the sign. No blacks allowed here.”
“I’ve read it,” Makan says. Calmness is called for; the first path will not be followed by responding with anger.
“So get your black arse out of here!” the other man proclaims.
“But I’m not black. I’m Congxie,” he says. Even an unbalanced unega should see that much. Makan’s skin and curly hair have much the same shade as Africans, but the breadth of his nose, the bulk of his jaw, and the height of his cheekbones announce to all the world that he is Congxie.
“Who cares what tribes you niggers divide yourselves into?” the unega says. “The same rules are for all of you.”
“Rules you wrote for bondsmen, not for free men,” Makan says.
“Don’t get fresh, nigger,” the other man says. “This is Alleghania now, and our laws are what matter. Get your big black arse out of the park before I call the militia.”
Not worth a fight, Makan tells himself. Pride has its place, but so does judgement. He rolls up his mat, collects the book, and walks away. As he leaves, though, one thought runs through his mind again and again.
If those are the rules, then they must be changed.
* * *
[1] Unega is one of the Congxie words for white; originally borrowed from Cherokee, but now almost exclusively used to refer to people of European descent.
* * *
Thoughts?
Finishing the post on the fate of the Holy Roman Empire is taking much longer than I’d planned. In the meantime, here’s a glimpse of the future of the LRGverse.
* * *
Dawson (formerly Unega) [Montgomery, Alabama]
Alleghania
Above, a waning gibbous moon hangs low over the western horizon, offering steady light in an otherwise cloudless sky. In the east, as if in counterpoint, faint glimmers of blue are beginning to emerge from the blackness; the first signs of the approaching dawn.
Below, Myumitsi Makan makes his careful way through the streets of Dawson. Today marks his second morning in this growing new town, this place of mills and workshops. A town which would be most appropriately titled if the same unegas who dominate it had not renamed it [1].
In this time of pre-dawn, the light is not yet bright, nor is the world yet balanced, but it meets Makan’s needs. He can see well enough for his purposes; all he wants, for now, is to follow the right streets to reach the park, without stumbling over horse manure or street rails or any of the other hazards on the roadways of this crowded town.
A shout rings out from behind him, a wordless warning for him to stand aside. He does so, as the fading shout is replaced by the clip-clop of iron-shod horse hooves and the fainter slide of iron wheels on iron rails.
A horsecar [horse-drawn tram] passes by; evidently, even this early hour is not enough to deter the inhabitants of Dawson from labour. Few if any of the inhabitants follow the path laid down by the Good Man, so they would not have risen for prayers; only the ravenous demands of the ever-growing mills could have called them from their beds. These mills and horsecars mark a new way of shaping the world, or so he has heard from a dozen or more people during his short sojourn in this town. Alleghanians are a proud people, it seems.
The hints of blue are becoming more predominant in the eastern sky as Makan resumes his walk through Dawson. The distance remaining is not far, if he can trust a day and a half’s worth of memories of the town’s layout.
He will have to learn more, of course, and quickly. Dawson is a town crying out for labourers, by all reports. The rich soils which once supported the farms and diverse crops of the Congxie are now being replaced by endless cotton fields. Once that cotton is harvested, most of it is brought here to the mills of Dawson.
All in all, a welcome opportunity to earn some Alleghanian coin. And, if he is honest with himself, an even more auspicious opportunity to live somewhere that people will not recognise him for his father’s name. The past shapes a man’s future, both his deeds and those of his forebears, but surely some consequences can be side-stepped.
His strides bring him to an open expanse of green parkland, grass scattered with a few cornnart [wattle] and hickory trees. A perfect place for morning invocation; the time when night is in balance with day and prayers are most harmonious. Most Congxie make their morning invocations in a temple or in a shrine in their own homes, but Makan has always preferred to pray out of doors. He needs only himself, a mat, and a copy of Oora Gulalu [The Endless Road] or The Great Dreaming and, if possible, an open space.
As he looks more closely around the park, he notices that signs have been placed at several points around the entrance. He had not come close enough to see them yesterday when he first heard of the park; now, he has the time to look more closely.
The nearest sign shows a dark-skinned face, with tightly curled black hair, grossly exaggerated lips, and round yellow circles for eyes; just as the Alleghanians – or, more accurately, the Cavendians – depict the African race. Two diagonal red lines cross over the face.
Below the crossed face is writing. In English only, which he can read to a degree, though he is more fluent in French, and most fluent in his own language. The words on the sign proclaim: NO BLACKS ALLOWED.
That message is clear enough, so Makan ignores it. Here is the openness he needs, and dawn is about to break. He unrolls the mat, facing east, kneels down upon it, and places his copy of Oora Gulalu to one side, for the moment.
Now, Makan prays, as he has done every dawn and dusk for all of his adult life. He prays for wisdom, for knowledge, and for his deeds to bring only harmony. He invokes guides to aid his course through the day, calling in turn on the Fire Brothers, then Tsul Kalu, then the Rainbow Serpent.
Before he can invoke a fourth guide, a most unwelcome voice interrupts him. “What are you doing here, nigger?”
Makan brings himself to his feet, however reluctantly; to leave a prayer unfinished is a most inauspicious start to any day.
A clean-shaven, wig-festooned, typically overdressed unega stands before him, the colour of his rage showing plainly on his sickly, creamy skin, even in this early light. As is true of most unegas, this man is shorter than Makan, but speaks much more loudly than is required in such circumstances.
“I am praying,” Makan says.
“Go pester your pagan gods somewhere else,” the unega says. His clipped accent marks him as a Cavendian, although that would be obvious anyway. “Even if you can’t read, you can see the sign. No blacks allowed here.”
“I’ve read it,” Makan says. Calmness is called for; the first path will not be followed by responding with anger.
“So get your black arse out of here!” the other man proclaims.
“But I’m not black. I’m Congxie,” he says. Even an unbalanced unega should see that much. Makan’s skin and curly hair have much the same shade as Africans, but the breadth of his nose, the bulk of his jaw, and the height of his cheekbones announce to all the world that he is Congxie.
“Who cares what tribes you niggers divide yourselves into?” the unega says. “The same rules are for all of you.”
“Rules you wrote for bondsmen, not for free men,” Makan says.
“Don’t get fresh, nigger,” the other man says. “This is Alleghania now, and our laws are what matter. Get your big black arse out of the park before I call the militia.”
Not worth a fight, Makan tells himself. Pride has its place, but so does judgement. He rolls up his mat, collects the book, and walks away. As he leaves, though, one thought runs through his mind again and again.
If those are the rules, then they must be changed.
* * *
[1] Unega is one of the Congxie words for white; originally borrowed from Cherokee, but now almost exclusively used to refer to people of European descent.
* * *
Thoughts?
