Lands of Red and Gold, Act II
- Thread starter Jared
- Start date
Excrement just got real !
Always good to have some visuals.
I concur. One of the best illustrations for this timeline yet.
By the time they're in a position to object, the analogy will probably be long dead anyway. That, or changing their name to Aztlan if and when they win independence; something of a reversal from OTL where they invented the name Aztecs to refer to the Mexica (their predecessors).
Excrement just got real !
If I were of a mind (and more precisely, had the time), what happens in Daluming with the Prophet could be spun off into its own mini-timeline. There's just so much that can be done with him.
I'll have to curtail it for the main timeline, and give more of an overview form, but it should still be fun.
Kaiphranos
Donor
I'm thinking English-Daluming relations were pretty sour already, after Baffin's expedition...
Read the last two updates: cool stuff. I suspect there may be a market for Christian apocalypticism in Daluming, given that their own apocalypse turned out to be a bust. So China is still divided at the "present date?" That's going to be a big change - the Manchus were butterflied? Or do they continue as a "third party" in the NE?
Bruce
Bruce
I just read up on Thomas Totney. He was one crazy dude
Why, yes. Yes, he was.
He certainly believes he's on a mission. Although how much the Daluming peoples would need to be forcibly converted is a more ambiguous question. They do, after all, believe that this is the time of the Closure, when things are going to change.
Certainly, if Totney remains on his own his efforts will be quite temporary. He doesn't even necessarily have the support of any ships; their crews may well spurn the mutiny and head back south to *Geelong. The EIC wanted this to be a punitive expedition designed to awe the natives into opening trade on English terms; whatever Totney ends up doing, it certainly won't be that.
Totney would either have to find enough local support (hah!), or establish some sort of local clique that dominates the spices long enough for the EIC to swallow its anger and deal with him as the representative. There is a lot of money to be made off spices, but that doesn't mean that they will be willing to put up with him.
On the English side, yes. On the Daluming side, not so much. They didn't think too much of what happened, they had just given a foreigner the same respectful burial that they permitted to their own honoured dead.
Of course, even if Totney hadn't pulled a mutiny, the bombardment of the Mound of Memory has already appalled the Daluming perhaps beyond redemption. The closest analogy I can think of would be if a foreign power visited the USA and started dynamiting all of the war cemeteries.
Could certainly happen.
It may not have been all that clear because these were people speaking from their own perspective, but they were actually talking about whether China would not be divided in the seventeenth century (as happened in their history), rather than the actual division continuing to their present.
This has already been described earlier in the timeline (see post #51). The short version is that the disruptions of the Aururian plagues led to a different downfall of the Ming: rather than the Manchu taking over, they were defeated by a Yuan Chonghuan (a general who won some battles against them in OTL, but who was betrayed to his death by the Ming Emperor). ITTL, after defeating the Manchus, Yuan turns on the Ming Emperor who he (rightly) suspects of planning to betray him. Yuan sets up a new dynasty in northern China (the You), while the Ming hold on in southern China.
The Manchus are not entirely gone, but have been pushed back into Manchuria. They're still around, and still a threat of sorts, but not yet (and perhaps not ever) rulers of China.
And incidentally, the use of the name Cathay for China came about because with China dividied, Europeans started to use the two names to refer to the different parts of China. When China was reunited under the Cathayan portion, well, the name Cathay stuck for the whole country.
So China ITTL is not majorly divided at "the present date". I'm not ruling out some Taiwan-esque divided China scenario, but the large bulk of the country is united.
Lands of Red and Gold #81: The People of God
Lands of Red and Gold #81: The People of God
I’d originally planned to tell the tale of Thomas Totney and Daluming in a couple of long posts, but this is taking a long time to write due to various work commitments. So I’m posting this in a few smaller instalments; this is the first.
* * *
“I proclaim from the Lord of Hosts the return of His Word and the building of His Temple in the Land of Gold. In the Furnace of the Master Goldsmith the World shall be cleansed. The Corruption shall be purged and the Ungodly shall be Stubble to this Flame.”
- Thomas Totney, Captain-General of Jehovah, Apprentice of the Master Goldsmith [Christ], Shepherd of the People of God
* * *
Time of the Closure / March 1648
Yuragir [Coffs Harbour, New South Wales], Kingdom of Daluming / Captaincy of Jehovah
Grit crunched beneath Hiram Forsyth’s boots. Grit and rubble, the waste of a ruined heathen monument. He stood on the first level of the Mexican temple, the pyramid of skulls called Glazkul, and witnessed the righteous wrath of the Lord. Cannon had smote this ungodly shrine. While its massive bulk could not be so easily shattered, chips of stone mixed with occasional shards of glass beneath his feet, testament to the beginning of righteous destruction.
So it had to be. Colonel Fairweather had been a backslider who ignored the Prophet’s words, but he had understood the evil of this monument. The heathen Mexicans here had raised this ungodly temple, and they needed to be taught this lesson. Fairweather had discovered that he had none of the friends he believed, and was now standing before the immortal Judge, but perhaps his last great act would be restitution for earlier lapses. Though that was a matter for the Lord to determine, properly.
Forsyth followed behind the Prophet as he made a slow circuit of the pyramid. Slow, because so many men crowded around him. Listening to him. Seeking more guidance from the mouth of God’s messenger.
For his part, Forsyth stood back. He knew his role. Besides, he had been given most of the long voyage from London to take in the Prophet’s teachings. Of the degradation of this world, the corruption that came with those who placed greed before God. Here the message needed to be brought first. Here, where the land of gold had attracted the greed of men, both heathen Mexicans and avaricious Christians. Gold itself could be pure, but first it needed to be refined. So this new land of gold needed to be purified and brought to the Lord.
“The Mexicans approach!” someone called.
“Prepare the armies of Jehovah!” the Prophet shouted. He gave other commands too, but they did not carry above the hubbub. Two men hurried down from the pyramid to relay the orders, while many others moved down more slowly.
With the thinning crowd, Forsyth had a clearer view of the land beyond the pyramid. A stretch of mostly flat ground stretched down toward a small river, with a city built on a hill beyond the river. A few of the grain-trees of this land were planted in fields. The natives were emerging from between the trees; disordered groups of men slowly walking toward the pyramid.
“Brother Hiram, walk with me,” the Prophet said.
Forsyth kept a step behind the Prophet down the narrow stairway of the pyramid, then walked alongside as God’s messenger commanded. A cluster of other men trailed them, but kept a few steps apart. The soldiers forming up on the field opened up to allow the Prophet to stride between them; the space they left for Forsyth was more of an afterthought.
Forsyth said nothing, but he knew his role here. During the long voyage from London, he had learned more than just the Prophet’s wisdom. He had been one of the five sailors assigned to learn the language of the Land of Gold. Not the language of these Mexicans, but a traders’ language. The Island speech, it was called, for some reason no-one had bothered to explain to him. Forsyth had not mastered it, but he could make himself understood, according to the woman who had taught them; a naval officer’s native mistress.
The Prophet stood at the front of the assembling warriors of the Lord. Forsyth stood beside him, ready to interpret the Prophet’s words for the heathens. If the Mexicans sent out an emissary to listen, that is. Forsyth did not know whether the heathens would listen to the truth, or fight with the faithlessness of the ungodly.
The Prophet said, “A banner should have been made ready. A banner of the Lord.”
Making such a banner would have warned Fairweather and his few true loyal supporters of what was planned when they landed. Forsyth knew better than to question the Prophet, though; his mind had been on weightier matters during the long voyage.
“A banner must be made. Gold and red, to mark the time of our coming. Gold for the land, and red for the flames of our purification.”
“I will see it done, after we have met the natives,” Forsyth said.
“Your task is to stand beside me,” the Prophet said. “But the banner will be made.”
The natives had been drawing nearer as they spoke. Close enough, now, for Forsyth to make out some details. Hundreds of the black-skinned men. Not in a true line, but advancing slowly, irregularly. Though... yes, in the centre of the line, a group of men striding with the confidence of those born to command. Even heathens must have leaders, he supposed.
The natives were dark-skinned, but as they approached, he saw that they had little else in common. Each man seemed to be dressed in his own style, whether clothes or armour or both. None had any uniform, any commonality to say whether they belonged together. No true combination of colour or symbols to mark them as a group. When they came close enough, he saw that many of them bore representations of skulls, on armour or helm or elsewhere, but even with those depictions of skulls, it seemed there were never two alike.
The natives stopped short of the Christians’ line. Here, at last, they formed something resembling a line of their own. They appeared watchful, but as far as Forsyth could judge, not immediately ready for battle. While plenty of them carried weapons, none of them seemed to be preparing to charge.
Three of the natives, in the centre of the line, took three steps forward. They waved several times at the Christians’ line.
The Prophet said, “Brothers Hiram and Isaiah, walk with me.” God’s messenger strode forth to meet the natives, wearing his piety and confidence as armour. Forsyth was less certain whether that was a wise course, but he stepped forward anyway. On the other side, Isaiah Ashkettle, the slayer of Colonel Fairweather, did the same.
They met the heathens more or less in the middle of the ground between them. Three natives, one clearly a high-ranked warrior, the second a senior, much-adorned but unarmoured man, the third a middle-aged, shaven-headed, plainly dressed man. The warrior had the most impressive bearing; gleaming bronze armour and helm, tunic dyed blue, a large bronze axe, and representation of skulls in the braids of his beard.
Forsyth expected the warrior to be the one to talk, but the older man stepped forward. He spoke in a rhythmic, rapid-fire language which made no sense at all. The shaven-headed man beside him, though, spoke in the Island speech. “This man is Ilangi, Father of the Bunkitchmee. The warrior is the great Wing Jonah, slayer of sixteen, and commander of the king’s warriors. Ilangi asks, who are you who have brought calamity to the kingdom?”
After Forsyth translated, the Prophet said, “I am Thomas Totney, Captain-General of Jehovah, head of the Army of God. I have come as witness on behalf of Jehovah, to teach you to end your heathen ways and adopt the service of the Lord.”
Forsyth looked to the interpreter, struggling to find the right words in the Island speech. “This is Thomas Totney, the... high commander under god, the true God, the One God. He has come carrying the message of the One God. He has come to teach you of the end of the old... ways, and call you to serve the One God.”
The interpreter’s eyes went wide. “He has come to close the old world?”
“Yes,” Forsyth said.
The interpreter relayed those words to Ilangi, who must be some kind of heathen priest. The old man’s shoulders slumped for a moment, halfway through the translation. When it finished, Ilangi and Wing Jonah began a vociferous argument.
The Prophet said, “How do they answer?”
Forsyth relayed the message. The interpreter said, “They are considering your words.”
Judging by the shouting and gesticulating between the pair, Forsyth thought it more a fight than due consideration. The priest was louder than the warrior, strangely enough. The interpreter asked them another question, and the priest snapped a reply.
“The Father asks if you have brought the message of the Closure, why have you struck at the Mound of Memory?” The interpreter took in his puzzlement, and added, “The building that your thunder has struck.”
The Prophet said, “Glazkul was bombarded in tyranny, by a corrupted man who cared more for gold than God. He rightly abhorred this Mexican pyramid, but wrongly struck at you rather than told you the truth. So the tyrant has been killed. I am here, we are here, to tell you the truth of the Word of God and the error of your old ways. You must abandon the path of ungodliness, cast aside this monument to the devil, and take up the true faith. But this is something that you should have heard through words, not thunder.”
Forsyth said, “The Mound was struck at the order of... an unbalanced man [1]. One who desired gold and did not follow the One God. He was right to hate this Mexican building, but wrong to attack you rather than tell you of the One God. So we have killed him. Now the Prophet is here to tell you the truth of the One God, of the wrong path you followed before the Closure. You must abandon your old Godless ways, and follow the One God. But the Prophet says that you should have been told this message from his mouth, not with weapons.”
The interpreter said, “What is a Mexican?”
“Your people.”
“We know of no Mexicans. The people here – the Father’s people – are the Bunkitchmee.”
Ah, yes, Baffin wrote that these Mexicans called themselves the Bunditch. Forsyth did remember that, now that he was prompted, but from Baffin’s tale, the descriptions of the headhunters and pyramid builders had drawn most of his notice. Who really cared if these Mexicans used a different name for their tribe? “Tell them of the Prophet’s words, then, whatever you call that building.”
The interpreter translated, although he had to repeat the same words two or three times – it was hard to judge – before the warrior listened properly. The Father and Wing Jonah had another conversation, much shorter and calmer this time.
The Father said, “This is something that we will hear more of. You may enter Yuragir, with never more than two hands of your companions at once.”
“Two hands?” Forsyth asked. His teacher had never mentioned the word used like that.
The interpreter tapped his thumb on the joints of his index finger, then the middle finger. A most peculiar gesture. “Four and twenty, the Islanders would say.”
Before Forsyth could translate that, Wing Jonah spoke. “If you speak in peace, we will listen. If you Inglundirr, any of you, strike any blow against Daluming, you will all be killed.”
After Forsyth translated both statements, the Prophet said, “I am the messenger of God, and I will proclaim His Word to everyone in this land.”
* * *
Time of the Closure / April 1648
Yuragir [Coffs Harbour, New South Wales], Kingdom of Daluming / Captaincy of Jehovah
Glass made for a most impressive skull.
Or so Ilangi had to conclude, after seeing this fact demonstrated. Todnee had fashioned a mask for himself. A mask of glass, cast in the shape of a skull, with teeth grinning open and two eyes watching through the glass sockets.
The eyes of a madman, or the eyes of the man who brings the Closure? Todnee wore the skull mask constantly now, but it had been a gift. From the best glassworker in Yuragir, who now proclaimed himself a follower of the Messenger. The Messenger of his “One God”; who proclaimed that none of the other gods truly existed.
Todnee spoke now, as he had done many times during his days in the city. His original followers came and went, and they obeyed the instructions not to bring in more than two hands’ worth at any one time. Todnee himself had never left, though, staying in the city to spread his message.
The Messenger spoke now, at great length. He paused from time to time to allow the man beside him – the younger of the two Inglundirr interpreters, whatever his name was – to translate into the Islander’s speech, and then the Daluming interpreter, Keajura, rendered them into proper speech. That ponderous process would probably not be needed for much longer: Keajura reported that he was learning more of the Inglundirr tongue each day.
“The old ways must be closed. This is the truth I proclaim to you. It is unbalanced, ungodly, an abomination” – a word that Ilangi now understood without translation, having heard it so frequently – “to severe the head and entomb it. That is despised by the One God, and will curse those so entombed to be denied true rest. From this time on, you must bury the whole body properly in the earth, with the sign of the cross above it. That is what the One God commands, and that alone will secure his blessing for the dead.”
The interpreter kept speaking, but Ilangi stopped listening. Todnee had made similar proclamations many times. It appeared at first that few people listened to him, but he continued. In a city gripped by light-fever [typhus], with the king dead and no successor named, and with the Closure at hand, he had found more listeners. How many more would listen to him as he continued?
The Messenger was dangerous, but killing him would be even more dangerous, even if he was a madman. Too many people paid him heed, even if they did not agree with all of what he said. Which was why Ilangi had come to hear what the Messenger said about more serious questions.
After Todnee reached a temporary pause, Ilangi said, “Ask him what is his message about who should hold the blue and white staff [i.e. become king].”
The reply came back, “Djeeyoba [Jehovah] is the Most High, the king of kings. What you should ask is who should rule in his stead.”
“If your One God is the king of kings, do you claim to be king?”
“I am the commander of his earthly armies, and his messenger.”
Ilangi kept his voice carefully neutral. “So would you seek to take up the staff that King Otella left?”
The Messenger said, “A new king must be chosen. One who will swear to obey Djeeyoba, and to heed his messenger.”
“He must be a vassal, you say? Like the chiefs of the highlands?” The western highlands had been divided into three mutually warring confederacies, until King Otella’s grandfather had conquered one of those confederacies, the Nyenna Murra, and forced its chiefs into vassalage. Other parts of the highlands had also been made vassal chiefs in the past. “Not a king then, but a vassal chief?”
The interpreters had much argument before they translated. Eventually the Messenger answered, “He would be the king. But even kings are subject to Djeeyoba, the King of Kings, the Most High One God.”
That was not a king, to Ilangi’s way of thinking. The king was absolute, he had no equal in his own realm. How else could he be called a king? Whatever Todnee had in mind, he did not want Daluming to have a true king.
“And what of your ships? Where have they gone?” The Inglundirr ships had sailed off soon after the desecration of the Mound of Memory. None of them had come back.
“The ships serve the One God’s purposes elsewhere. This is a large land, this place of gold, and the Word of God must be spread across it. When the ships are needed, they will return.”
An evasive answer. If Todnee really was a madman, had those ships left because they wanted no part of him and his actions? If Todnee truly was a messenger of the One God, were the ships waiting to come back with more of his followers? Ilangi needed to know, and he needed to know quickly.
For so far he had succeeded in delaying decisions, but this could not wait forever. He was the Father now, but those who opposed him had fled Yuragir, and that included members of the royal family. They would continue to oppose him in whatever he did, he was sure.
If Ilangi accepted the words of the Messenger, then his priestly opponents would proclaim one of the princes to be the true king, and Ilangi a servant of an imposter. If Ilangi rejected the words of the Messenger – as he was inclined to do – then his priestly opponents might well use this as an excuse to rally opposition against him and whomever he chose as king.
Even if Ilangi wanted to resist the Messenger, he would have to face down the invaders. Killing all of the Inglundirr was impossible: only a few came into the city at a time, and the rest were encamped across the river with their thunder-weapons. They could flee to the south, to where the rebels reportedly were already gathering. And their ships could return whenever they wished. The Messenger himself could be slain, but he had many followers. Even some Bungudjimay within the city listened to him.
The kingdom balances on the edge of a blade. Which fate should I grasp? Looking at the Messenger, at that glass-skull visage, Ilangi could not decide.
* * *
[1] “Unbalanced” is Forsyth’s best attempt to translate “evil” using the Islander language, which – reflecting their Plirite faith – does not have the same concept.
* * *
Thoughts?
I’d originally planned to tell the tale of Thomas Totney and Daluming in a couple of long posts, but this is taking a long time to write due to various work commitments. So I’m posting this in a few smaller instalments; this is the first.
* * *
“I proclaim from the Lord of Hosts the return of His Word and the building of His Temple in the Land of Gold. In the Furnace of the Master Goldsmith the World shall be cleansed. The Corruption shall be purged and the Ungodly shall be Stubble to this Flame.”
- Thomas Totney, Captain-General of Jehovah, Apprentice of the Master Goldsmith [Christ], Shepherd of the People of God
* * *
Time of the Closure / March 1648
Yuragir [Coffs Harbour, New South Wales], Kingdom of Daluming / Captaincy of Jehovah
Grit crunched beneath Hiram Forsyth’s boots. Grit and rubble, the waste of a ruined heathen monument. He stood on the first level of the Mexican temple, the pyramid of skulls called Glazkul, and witnessed the righteous wrath of the Lord. Cannon had smote this ungodly shrine. While its massive bulk could not be so easily shattered, chips of stone mixed with occasional shards of glass beneath his feet, testament to the beginning of righteous destruction.
So it had to be. Colonel Fairweather had been a backslider who ignored the Prophet’s words, but he had understood the evil of this monument. The heathen Mexicans here had raised this ungodly temple, and they needed to be taught this lesson. Fairweather had discovered that he had none of the friends he believed, and was now standing before the immortal Judge, but perhaps his last great act would be restitution for earlier lapses. Though that was a matter for the Lord to determine, properly.
Forsyth followed behind the Prophet as he made a slow circuit of the pyramid. Slow, because so many men crowded around him. Listening to him. Seeking more guidance from the mouth of God’s messenger.
For his part, Forsyth stood back. He knew his role. Besides, he had been given most of the long voyage from London to take in the Prophet’s teachings. Of the degradation of this world, the corruption that came with those who placed greed before God. Here the message needed to be brought first. Here, where the land of gold had attracted the greed of men, both heathen Mexicans and avaricious Christians. Gold itself could be pure, but first it needed to be refined. So this new land of gold needed to be purified and brought to the Lord.
“The Mexicans approach!” someone called.
“Prepare the armies of Jehovah!” the Prophet shouted. He gave other commands too, but they did not carry above the hubbub. Two men hurried down from the pyramid to relay the orders, while many others moved down more slowly.
With the thinning crowd, Forsyth had a clearer view of the land beyond the pyramid. A stretch of mostly flat ground stretched down toward a small river, with a city built on a hill beyond the river. A few of the grain-trees of this land were planted in fields. The natives were emerging from between the trees; disordered groups of men slowly walking toward the pyramid.
“Brother Hiram, walk with me,” the Prophet said.
Forsyth kept a step behind the Prophet down the narrow stairway of the pyramid, then walked alongside as God’s messenger commanded. A cluster of other men trailed them, but kept a few steps apart. The soldiers forming up on the field opened up to allow the Prophet to stride between them; the space they left for Forsyth was more of an afterthought.
Forsyth said nothing, but he knew his role here. During the long voyage from London, he had learned more than just the Prophet’s wisdom. He had been one of the five sailors assigned to learn the language of the Land of Gold. Not the language of these Mexicans, but a traders’ language. The Island speech, it was called, for some reason no-one had bothered to explain to him. Forsyth had not mastered it, but he could make himself understood, according to the woman who had taught them; a naval officer’s native mistress.
The Prophet stood at the front of the assembling warriors of the Lord. Forsyth stood beside him, ready to interpret the Prophet’s words for the heathens. If the Mexicans sent out an emissary to listen, that is. Forsyth did not know whether the heathens would listen to the truth, or fight with the faithlessness of the ungodly.
The Prophet said, “A banner should have been made ready. A banner of the Lord.”
Making such a banner would have warned Fairweather and his few true loyal supporters of what was planned when they landed. Forsyth knew better than to question the Prophet, though; his mind had been on weightier matters during the long voyage.
“A banner must be made. Gold and red, to mark the time of our coming. Gold for the land, and red for the flames of our purification.”
“I will see it done, after we have met the natives,” Forsyth said.
“Your task is to stand beside me,” the Prophet said. “But the banner will be made.”
The natives had been drawing nearer as they spoke. Close enough, now, for Forsyth to make out some details. Hundreds of the black-skinned men. Not in a true line, but advancing slowly, irregularly. Though... yes, in the centre of the line, a group of men striding with the confidence of those born to command. Even heathens must have leaders, he supposed.
The natives were dark-skinned, but as they approached, he saw that they had little else in common. Each man seemed to be dressed in his own style, whether clothes or armour or both. None had any uniform, any commonality to say whether they belonged together. No true combination of colour or symbols to mark them as a group. When they came close enough, he saw that many of them bore representations of skulls, on armour or helm or elsewhere, but even with those depictions of skulls, it seemed there were never two alike.
The natives stopped short of the Christians’ line. Here, at last, they formed something resembling a line of their own. They appeared watchful, but as far as Forsyth could judge, not immediately ready for battle. While plenty of them carried weapons, none of them seemed to be preparing to charge.
Three of the natives, in the centre of the line, took three steps forward. They waved several times at the Christians’ line.
The Prophet said, “Brothers Hiram and Isaiah, walk with me.” God’s messenger strode forth to meet the natives, wearing his piety and confidence as armour. Forsyth was less certain whether that was a wise course, but he stepped forward anyway. On the other side, Isaiah Ashkettle, the slayer of Colonel Fairweather, did the same.
They met the heathens more or less in the middle of the ground between them. Three natives, one clearly a high-ranked warrior, the second a senior, much-adorned but unarmoured man, the third a middle-aged, shaven-headed, plainly dressed man. The warrior had the most impressive bearing; gleaming bronze armour and helm, tunic dyed blue, a large bronze axe, and representation of skulls in the braids of his beard.
Forsyth expected the warrior to be the one to talk, but the older man stepped forward. He spoke in a rhythmic, rapid-fire language which made no sense at all. The shaven-headed man beside him, though, spoke in the Island speech. “This man is Ilangi, Father of the Bunkitchmee. The warrior is the great Wing Jonah, slayer of sixteen, and commander of the king’s warriors. Ilangi asks, who are you who have brought calamity to the kingdom?”
After Forsyth translated, the Prophet said, “I am Thomas Totney, Captain-General of Jehovah, head of the Army of God. I have come as witness on behalf of Jehovah, to teach you to end your heathen ways and adopt the service of the Lord.”
Forsyth looked to the interpreter, struggling to find the right words in the Island speech. “This is Thomas Totney, the... high commander under god, the true God, the One God. He has come carrying the message of the One God. He has come to teach you of the end of the old... ways, and call you to serve the One God.”
The interpreter’s eyes went wide. “He has come to close the old world?”
“Yes,” Forsyth said.
The interpreter relayed those words to Ilangi, who must be some kind of heathen priest. The old man’s shoulders slumped for a moment, halfway through the translation. When it finished, Ilangi and Wing Jonah began a vociferous argument.
The Prophet said, “How do they answer?”
Forsyth relayed the message. The interpreter said, “They are considering your words.”
Judging by the shouting and gesticulating between the pair, Forsyth thought it more a fight than due consideration. The priest was louder than the warrior, strangely enough. The interpreter asked them another question, and the priest snapped a reply.
“The Father asks if you have brought the message of the Closure, why have you struck at the Mound of Memory?” The interpreter took in his puzzlement, and added, “The building that your thunder has struck.”
The Prophet said, “Glazkul was bombarded in tyranny, by a corrupted man who cared more for gold than God. He rightly abhorred this Mexican pyramid, but wrongly struck at you rather than told you the truth. So the tyrant has been killed. I am here, we are here, to tell you the truth of the Word of God and the error of your old ways. You must abandon the path of ungodliness, cast aside this monument to the devil, and take up the true faith. But this is something that you should have heard through words, not thunder.”
Forsyth said, “The Mound was struck at the order of... an unbalanced man [1]. One who desired gold and did not follow the One God. He was right to hate this Mexican building, but wrong to attack you rather than tell you of the One God. So we have killed him. Now the Prophet is here to tell you the truth of the One God, of the wrong path you followed before the Closure. You must abandon your old Godless ways, and follow the One God. But the Prophet says that you should have been told this message from his mouth, not with weapons.”
The interpreter said, “What is a Mexican?”
“Your people.”
“We know of no Mexicans. The people here – the Father’s people – are the Bunkitchmee.”
Ah, yes, Baffin wrote that these Mexicans called themselves the Bunditch. Forsyth did remember that, now that he was prompted, but from Baffin’s tale, the descriptions of the headhunters and pyramid builders had drawn most of his notice. Who really cared if these Mexicans used a different name for their tribe? “Tell them of the Prophet’s words, then, whatever you call that building.”
The interpreter translated, although he had to repeat the same words two or three times – it was hard to judge – before the warrior listened properly. The Father and Wing Jonah had another conversation, much shorter and calmer this time.
The Father said, “This is something that we will hear more of. You may enter Yuragir, with never more than two hands of your companions at once.”
“Two hands?” Forsyth asked. His teacher had never mentioned the word used like that.
The interpreter tapped his thumb on the joints of his index finger, then the middle finger. A most peculiar gesture. “Four and twenty, the Islanders would say.”
Before Forsyth could translate that, Wing Jonah spoke. “If you speak in peace, we will listen. If you Inglundirr, any of you, strike any blow against Daluming, you will all be killed.”
After Forsyth translated both statements, the Prophet said, “I am the messenger of God, and I will proclaim His Word to everyone in this land.”
* * *
Time of the Closure / April 1648
Yuragir [Coffs Harbour, New South Wales], Kingdom of Daluming / Captaincy of Jehovah
Glass made for a most impressive skull.
Or so Ilangi had to conclude, after seeing this fact demonstrated. Todnee had fashioned a mask for himself. A mask of glass, cast in the shape of a skull, with teeth grinning open and two eyes watching through the glass sockets.
The eyes of a madman, or the eyes of the man who brings the Closure? Todnee wore the skull mask constantly now, but it had been a gift. From the best glassworker in Yuragir, who now proclaimed himself a follower of the Messenger. The Messenger of his “One God”; who proclaimed that none of the other gods truly existed.
Todnee spoke now, as he had done many times during his days in the city. His original followers came and went, and they obeyed the instructions not to bring in more than two hands’ worth at any one time. Todnee himself had never left, though, staying in the city to spread his message.
The Messenger spoke now, at great length. He paused from time to time to allow the man beside him – the younger of the two Inglundirr interpreters, whatever his name was – to translate into the Islander’s speech, and then the Daluming interpreter, Keajura, rendered them into proper speech. That ponderous process would probably not be needed for much longer: Keajura reported that he was learning more of the Inglundirr tongue each day.
“The old ways must be closed. This is the truth I proclaim to you. It is unbalanced, ungodly, an abomination” – a word that Ilangi now understood without translation, having heard it so frequently – “to severe the head and entomb it. That is despised by the One God, and will curse those so entombed to be denied true rest. From this time on, you must bury the whole body properly in the earth, with the sign of the cross above it. That is what the One God commands, and that alone will secure his blessing for the dead.”
The interpreter kept speaking, but Ilangi stopped listening. Todnee had made similar proclamations many times. It appeared at first that few people listened to him, but he continued. In a city gripped by light-fever [typhus], with the king dead and no successor named, and with the Closure at hand, he had found more listeners. How many more would listen to him as he continued?
The Messenger was dangerous, but killing him would be even more dangerous, even if he was a madman. Too many people paid him heed, even if they did not agree with all of what he said. Which was why Ilangi had come to hear what the Messenger said about more serious questions.
After Todnee reached a temporary pause, Ilangi said, “Ask him what is his message about who should hold the blue and white staff [i.e. become king].”
The reply came back, “Djeeyoba [Jehovah] is the Most High, the king of kings. What you should ask is who should rule in his stead.”
“If your One God is the king of kings, do you claim to be king?”
“I am the commander of his earthly armies, and his messenger.”
Ilangi kept his voice carefully neutral. “So would you seek to take up the staff that King Otella left?”
The Messenger said, “A new king must be chosen. One who will swear to obey Djeeyoba, and to heed his messenger.”
“He must be a vassal, you say? Like the chiefs of the highlands?” The western highlands had been divided into three mutually warring confederacies, until King Otella’s grandfather had conquered one of those confederacies, the Nyenna Murra, and forced its chiefs into vassalage. Other parts of the highlands had also been made vassal chiefs in the past. “Not a king then, but a vassal chief?”
The interpreters had much argument before they translated. Eventually the Messenger answered, “He would be the king. But even kings are subject to Djeeyoba, the King of Kings, the Most High One God.”
That was not a king, to Ilangi’s way of thinking. The king was absolute, he had no equal in his own realm. How else could he be called a king? Whatever Todnee had in mind, he did not want Daluming to have a true king.
“And what of your ships? Where have they gone?” The Inglundirr ships had sailed off soon after the desecration of the Mound of Memory. None of them had come back.
“The ships serve the One God’s purposes elsewhere. This is a large land, this place of gold, and the Word of God must be spread across it. When the ships are needed, they will return.”
An evasive answer. If Todnee really was a madman, had those ships left because they wanted no part of him and his actions? If Todnee truly was a messenger of the One God, were the ships waiting to come back with more of his followers? Ilangi needed to know, and he needed to know quickly.
For so far he had succeeded in delaying decisions, but this could not wait forever. He was the Father now, but those who opposed him had fled Yuragir, and that included members of the royal family. They would continue to oppose him in whatever he did, he was sure.
If Ilangi accepted the words of the Messenger, then his priestly opponents would proclaim one of the princes to be the true king, and Ilangi a servant of an imposter. If Ilangi rejected the words of the Messenger – as he was inclined to do – then his priestly opponents might well use this as an excuse to rally opposition against him and whomever he chose as king.
Even if Ilangi wanted to resist the Messenger, he would have to face down the invaders. Killing all of the Inglundirr was impossible: only a few came into the city at a time, and the rest were encamped across the river with their thunder-weapons. They could flee to the south, to where the rebels reportedly were already gathering. And their ships could return whenever they wished. The Messenger himself could be slain, but he had many followers. Even some Bungudjimay within the city listened to him.
The kingdom balances on the edge of a blade. Which fate should I grasp? Looking at the Messenger, at that glass-skull visage, Ilangi could not decide.
* * *
[1] “Unbalanced” is Forsyth’s best attempt to translate “evil” using the Islander language, which – reflecting their Plirite faith – does not have the same concept.
* * *
Thoughts?
Kaiphranos
Donor
That... seems to have gone pretty well for Totney, actually. I guess it's largely a matter of timing, but he seems to have avoided a couple of missteps that could have easily set the Bungudjimay against him. Looks like there's a civil war in the offing--now with a religious component, how fun!
(Nice Title Drop from the Prophet there, by the way...)
(Nice Title Drop from the Prophet there, by the way...)
twovultures
Donor
"Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience."
-C.S. Lewis
-C.S. Lewis
Yes, Totney did rather better than might have been expected. Mostly luck, so far, both in the timing of his first arrival and in the way he chooses to convey his message to the Bungudjimay. Of course, he always wanted to convert them first if possible, hence he took the chance to preach at them when offered.
But as you note, he only has to misstep once for things to go pear-shaped very quickly. Could be a rather nasty
Could be a four or five-way war, for extra fun. A Christian convert clique, an Ilangi-backed monarch, a Yuragir rebel-backed monarch, the old Father is still lurking in the highlands, vassal chieftains in the highlands trying to break away, and other independent chieftains in the highlands doing some invasion of their own.
Always fun to work one in now and then.
How apt. If Totney gets into any sort of power in Daluming, his rule will be quite puritanical, if you'll forgive the expression.
twovultures
Donor
He may be trying to appeal to their Mexican heritage. A culturally sensitive move, and one that actually might make sense if he was visiting an alt-history Mexica* empire...but he's not.
Totney likes the mask because he thinks it appeals to Daluming sensibilities, and so he wears it pretty much all the time.
Of course, it was originally given to him by a prominent Daluming glassworker, so he has some grounds for thinking it. The possibility that it was made for him as an elaborate joke is not something which has occurred.
Lands of Red and Gold is now changing
I've been doing a lot of thinking over the last few weeks about Lands of Red and Gold, how it's written, and how it is going to end up.
I started writing this timeline in late 2008. A bit over 5 real years, and 350,000 words later, the timeline is now only up to 1650 or so - a bare 40 years or so after the PoD. The pace has been much too slow, for a timeline which I plan to run into the twentieth century.
Also, this is taking up a lot of my (now much more limited) free time to write. I'm now married and have both a higher workload and other hobbies besides AH which I like to enjoy from time to time. And to be honest, sometimes writing this feels more like a chore than a pleasure. I have an obsessive attention to detail at the best of times, and I think I've let it get the better of me.
I was sagely given some advice when I started Act II, which boiled down to "keep things moving, summarise heavily, and don't get bogged down in the detail". I tried to follow that advice, but plainly it hasn't worked. A big part of this is my liking for writing long narrative sections in posts, which while they may be entertaining to write and to read (I hope!), take a fair amount of time, and are very slow to progress the timeline.
I always planned to do some time skips in this timeline. After the end of the Daluming sequence, I'd planned to skip through to 1660, around the time of the next great plague and its aftermath. I'd also planned to keep the focus almost exclusively on *Australia and *NZ, with only snippets showing the rest of the world.
From now on, to keep both my and (hopefully) readers' interest, the way and pace of writing LoRaG is going to change. Narrative interludes won't disappear entirely, but they will be fewer, and used more in connection with some more detailed summaries of the fate of various societies, and with bigger jumps forward in time. I'll keep the three-act structure, but the remainder of Act II (which ends with the Nine Years' War) and all of Act III will be smaller than planned, and told at a faster pace.
To begin with, the rest of the Daluming sequence will be wrapped up in more of an overview form, followed by a wrapup of the broader Proxy Wars, then it will be forward to 1660 and the events around that time - also told mostly in summary/overview form.
I've been doing a lot of thinking over the last few weeks about Lands of Red and Gold, how it's written, and how it is going to end up.
I started writing this timeline in late 2008. A bit over 5 real years, and 350,000 words later, the timeline is now only up to 1650 or so - a bare 40 years or so after the PoD. The pace has been much too slow, for a timeline which I plan to run into the twentieth century.
Also, this is taking up a lot of my (now much more limited) free time to write. I'm now married and have both a higher workload and other hobbies besides AH which I like to enjoy from time to time. And to be honest, sometimes writing this feels more like a chore than a pleasure. I have an obsessive attention to detail at the best of times, and I think I've let it get the better of me.
I was sagely given some advice when I started Act II, which boiled down to "keep things moving, summarise heavily, and don't get bogged down in the detail". I tried to follow that advice, but plainly it hasn't worked. A big part of this is my liking for writing long narrative sections in posts, which while they may be entertaining to write and to read (I hope!), take a fair amount of time, and are very slow to progress the timeline.
I always planned to do some time skips in this timeline. After the end of the Daluming sequence, I'd planned to skip through to 1660, around the time of the next great plague and its aftermath. I'd also planned to keep the focus almost exclusively on *Australia and *NZ, with only snippets showing the rest of the world.
From now on, to keep both my and (hopefully) readers' interest, the way and pace of writing LoRaG is going to change. Narrative interludes won't disappear entirely, but they will be fewer, and used more in connection with some more detailed summaries of the fate of various societies, and with bigger jumps forward in time. I'll keep the three-act structure, but the remainder of Act II (which ends with the Nine Years' War) and all of Act III will be smaller than planned, and told at a faster pace.
To begin with, the rest of the Daluming sequence will be wrapped up in more of an overview form, followed by a wrapup of the broader Proxy Wars, then it will be forward to 1660 and the events around that time - also told mostly in summary/overview form.
twovultures
Donor
Well, I'll still keep reading faithfully
While you and Jonathan Edelstein are good writers (I mean really good. Like, intimidating good) and I do enjoy your work, I find that forum threads are not the best format for reading good literature. Someday, I think you should work Lands of Red and Gold as a setting for a book, it would let your talent shine and do better justice to it.
While you and Jonathan Edelstein are good writers (I mean really good. Like, intimidating good) and I do enjoy your work, I find that forum threads are not the best format for reading good literature. Someday, I think you should work Lands of Red and Gold as a setting for a book, it would let your talent shine and do better justice to it.
A pity, as some of the narrative has been rather moving (some of the battle sequences especially), but the recitation of numbers and years is a heavy burden on you indeed.