on Atheism, Skeptism and Shambhalalalalalala

I am an atheist.

This is something that I have taken a long time to come to terms with.  I was born and raised strongly Catholic.  I was an alter server.  Took CCD classes, got my first communion and was part of the CYO.  My dad saw to it that we attended mass every Sunday.  I used to leave my pretty ribbons from birthday presents at the foot of my bed, as a gift for the Virgin Mary.  When I was older, I had conversations with the priest and visiting brothers about the "call to priesthood" and how they could possibly know if I didn't have just that call (for non-catholics, females cannot become priests), or how could they know that what I felt wasn't the exact same thing that they felt when they went to seminary, and not an alternate feeling that was a call to nun-hood.

In 7th grade I kinda realized I was just playing around (I did continue to play around until mid high school it should be noted, having sort of a doublethink for awhile).  I have a long history of inventing characters, particularly fantasy characters, and keeping them mentally with me.  What would Efifi (My most main of guardian angel like characters I developed for myself in the vacuum of social ostracism) think of me doing this action?  Eventually, I acknowledged that these were aspects of myself, or of who I wanted to be, and thought of them less often.  I was growing up.  What other things was I just inventing to replace the lack of role models and friends I had?  Christmas Mass that year, it just kinda hit me, and I started tearing up: there is no rational reason to believe any of this - and thanks to their misogynistic outlook, there was plenty of reasons not to support it institutionally.

My dad spent a year not talking to me when I refused to get confirmed and stopped going to church.  This was in high school.  We have since gotten over that, but it is actually still a sore point to my dad who sees the actions of his four daughters and his wife (in either not attending church or not believing in the system at all), as an act of disloyalty.  Sometimes I try to delve deeper into this sentiment, and determine why his prime lesson to us - "Love the Truth" would not apply to religion, and that we should believe out of some perceived loyalty rather than empirical evidence - but this is very touchy to him and I have not been able to develop the topic in conversation without him getting angry.  (This, I should note, is uncharacteristic for him in any other topic.  He is mostly a rational engineer).

Rejecting a religion is not the same thing as atheism.  Though and from high school to college, I did not think in terms of what I am, so much as in terms of what I am not.  I dabbled with the label of "agnostic".  I thought Buddhism had some cool outlooks from time to time.

Coming to Mount Shasta has firmly put me in the camp of a skeptical, agnostic, atheist though.  The breadth of beliefs here, people thinking the mountain is hollow, or the earth as a whole is hollow, and hosts a population of 5th dimensional humans, or aliens, including Jesus, Buddha, and a whole host of people they call the "Ascended Masters" who live on a different vibrational level (whatever that means?)  There are people making bank on wild imaginations.  But then again, is what they believe terribly different from the idea that a sky man impregnated a woman without sex?  Or that a snake could talk?

I have a hard time taking and religion seriously, because I understand how seriously people can take their imaginations.  I think having a creative mind is great.  I form stories in my mind more often than they get written down.  I spend sleepless nights developing ancient societies and complex mythologies.  And this is fun.  At one point, I took these seriously.  I looked at my hard work in field hockey and thought, Efifi is demonstrating herself through me, strong, stoic, capable.  Or when I was feeling vunerable, it was Miranda coming though.  I did transition this supernatural imagination to understanding I was expressing parts of myself that exist and personifying them, but this was a slow transition from 6th grade to 9th.

There is of course something to ritual, and community identification, which are two things organized religion provides.  Becoming part of something greater than yourself is a great way to feel like you are cultivating yourself and moving towards a meaningful goal.  That is what I have Kyudo for though.  When I'm part of a D&D game, I feel the community part satisfied. 

This is a ramble, and I am going to close now.  I note, it is a ramble because half of it was written 3 months ago, in a different mindset, and now I just want to get it done enough to end it... so yeah.  blah.

Chapter 10 - Part II

How do they keep the ceiling so clean? he contemplated while he laid across a lightly padded stone slab.  They are so high up and so full of haphazard cracks.  It must take the Unseen ages to get this work done.  He took in a deep breath and though the air was stale, it was peppered with the smell of unfamiliar and sterile chemicals; a fragrance reminiscent of a combination of vinegar and formaldehyde.  This wasn't the room he had last closed his eyes in.

Ah, I'm naked. he realized as he felt the thin silk sheet that lay limp across his breast.  The fluid sheet of light red rested perfectly to reveal the outlines of his arms and legs, and perhaps other things that he'd have rather kept private.  He considered falling back asleep, but there was a smorgasbord of words and images in his mind that wouldn't leave him alone, and it was rising in crescendo. 

Good.  You are up.  The greeting flooded his head quite unwelcome and he turned his head over to its source.  A decrepit figure loomed over the prone man, head, arms and legs well concealed under a cover of tight olive green wrappings and a face mask of mesh black.  About its body the Silent Scholar wore an ornate emerald green robe that hosted a myriad of native birds etched in gold, reds and blacks.  Wide sleeves too long for its arms by double had been rolled up and tied back while it worked and the short robe was tied tightly about its hip bones.  A plain emerald green, twice pleated skirt stopped mid calf over black leggings and plain black shoes on its feet.  All that was exposed were a pair of intelligent, black almond eyes, two thin strips of hair that arched fluidly along the Silent Scholar's brow and the tips of wavy black tattoos, escaping in random patterns from the confines of the wrappings.   The figure was skinny and slightly hunched.

At its head it wore a black hat that followed the curvature of a skull from forehead to the back of the head, but flipped up at the back like the head of a bassinet.  This indicated that it was one of the Empress Coth Di's top level advisers, one of the Learned, only the second bei'thal to be considered such.  Of course, the Silent Scholar was not a mere bei'thal, trotting their bei from city to city at the behest of her wisdom.  It was not even merely the first of its order, although as the pnum'beithal, the one advancing the art of compromising of the spirit, it certainly held those responsibilities as well.  But a compromise of spirit was always required in the art of the bei, whether the target be of senses, matter, or even time.  This put the pnum'beithal at a particular level of knowledge that its peers could not compete with.  the rha'beithal and the fwoh'beithal might made advances in compromising for eye sight or weightlessness respectively, but none of it would be possible without the continued work of the pnum'beithal.  Consequently, it was the pnum'beithal, lone among all beithal, who had the ear, or rather, the mind, of the empress.

Nobody knew how old the Silent Scholar was, nor if it was male or female, though surely it was mortal human.  This only added to the trepidation people, even the bei, felt at its presence.  Being pnum'beithal was all the identity the Silent Scholar needed, any other qualifier was irrelevant.  Long before it stopped speaking, the bei had named it the Silent Scholar as a sort of dry humor, referring to the constant mental chatter from it that they were subjected to if they were merely in the neighboring room.  It was mostly unintelligible, but the man lying on the padded slab couldn't block it out.

...orange extracted from a carrot mimics... ...stars painted with toads...

 The only offer of relief to a bei came when the Silent Scholar mentally spoke to them, or anyone, directly. 

Cedric.  Welcome home.  I've missed you, my special pet project.

Cedric felt queerly proud, yet objectified by the Silent Scholar's description of himself, but if the Silent Scholar took any interest in his conflicting heart, he made no indication of it.

It is you, right?  Really you that is.  I don't have to pump you with anymore heartsong extract, do I?

Cedric could feel the Silent Scholar's laughter reverberate through his soul and shuddered at the thought of strange concoctions still flowing through his veins.  Still, it had to be done, even he understood that.  His shadow self, while not a strong personality, was proving to be quite a fighter concerning his own consciousness. 

So tell me, what was the last memory you have before waking up here. asked the Silent Scholar.

Cedric knew it could hear, and already wearied of speaking mentally.  "A firelight.  Thoughts of Gregor.  It gets fuzzy again there.  Coming and going in and out of consciousness.  Then, a bandaged woman was there.  She was in a defensive position.  I asked if she kidnapped me from the Eirdred City, and she responded "yes".  She was a threat.  I attacked her. But..." he stopped, a little bit embarrassed.

But what?

"This body is severely out of training.  How many tides has it been? 3? 4?  I lost.  Miserably." Cedric chuckled at his own powerlessness.


There will be time enough to get that back.  What memory do you have before then?

"That one is even more of a haze.  And more abrupt.  Suddenly I was aware of a large group fighting.  There were a great deal of Eirdred men, lightly armored but fit and able and a group of darker skinned men and boys.  They were wearing some crude leather jerkins and the like of mercenaries, but they too were pretty capable.  The mercenaries outnumbered the Eirdren, and looking more like the Eirdren, I assumed that nothing good could come from this.  I let my instincts guide me and ran before anyone could engage me and hid up a tree before I blacked out there.  I suspect the shadow took over at that point."

And before that?

"Well, here, at the University on High, in your office.  Just after you drew my blood and injected whatever it was, that purple goo."

Three tides and only two times you surfaced.  Both times while under duress.  This has been one of my better experiments.  

"You have all you need from the shadow?"


Yes, data which I am still going through.  When I speak with him about my findings, I want you to be there.  It laughed.  You were a cook you know.  For the Archne household.

"A cook?" Cedric shared the laugh with the Silent Scholar mentally.  As too many of his friends, and not a few of his past lovers could attest, his cooking was the surest way to an extended trip to the privy.

Chapter 10 - Part I

Today you have escaped the imposing walls of alabaster limestone and ivory marble for the only the third time since your arrival.  Your training has kept you busy but you have been afforded some freedom before the next task.  You knew how you wanted to spend that time and so for the day, you left the place you call home to face the masses in the streets.

                Your search is not difficult.  There are thousands who play this part, but you have a higher mind today.  You want only the best. 

                Among the beggars, the handless thieves and the castrated rapists, an old man, hair white as the walls of the university, exposed to the late morning sun, is wrapped in a velvet cloak of tired black.  He huddles, murmuring softly to himself.  His hands beat lightly against the tools of his trade in a rhythmic motion, ignoring your presence entirely as you kneel before the man and place a single cube of silver in the palm of his hand and another of copper in his waiting bowl.

                You know what happens next.  The method is the same for all fortune tellers.  He simply understands it better.  From a pile of black glass rocks, he will take one.  With his shaky might, he will break it upon the hard, straight edge of his iron anvil, steel if he is as good as his reputation.  The stone will fracture, producing a shiny edge on both of the resulting pieces. 

He will tell you that nothing is absolute, he will tell you that the gifts of the keepers can be both a blessing and a curse.  He will tell you that one piece of obsidian will reveal all the successes and gains to be had from your next actions.  He will tell you the other contains the secrets to all the failures to be had.  If you are lucky, the larger piece will be your good fortunes, and the smaller, will be forgettable.  If you are lucky, the half of your happy future will cleanly cut and each facet of the imperfect stone will tell the old soothsayer of glory and triumph.  If you are lucky, the other piece, the stone of disgrace, will be nothing more than a chip; irrelevant and meaningless. 

You have always been lucky, you tell yourself, you have nothing to fear.

But what, then, are you doing here?

His spotted hand runs over his holdings of black glass rocks, each individual, each unique to their fortune seeker.  His dull eyes then fix on you, and you feel yourself tremble.  The man’s once black irises are blanketed with a milk white fog and you know he cannot see.  Yet somehow his pupils focus on yours and bore into your soul.

Then, he selects the stone.  Your stone, your obsidian.  It had been waiting for you to come this day, and now it will reveal its secrets.

He raises his fist, fingers firmly holding it in place as his hand descends upon the anvil.  You hear the obsidian crack and you feel trepidation rush over you and you struggle to see the result.

The pieces have fallen upon the dirt road.  The old man’s right hand combs the dust and debris, searching for that smooth, cold stone.  He picks up one, and deposits it into his free hand.  He picks up the second soon after.  Then he picks up a third piece.

Even the fortune teller seems taken aback, unsure what so many pieces will reveal.  You know this when he mutters, “You walk east, and arrive west, young man.  Your roads are more than can be travelled by two feet”  His accent is hard to understand, he speaks an ancient dialect of the middle tongue, whether natively or by practice, you cannot say.  It is not your language but you understand enough.

He produces the largest of the three pieces, rubbing it in between his fingers several times before laying it gently upon the anvil.  It is long, and the thickness of you little finger.

“This is your good fortune.” Says he, and you let out an involuntary sigh of relief, “It is a nearly flawless cut; there is little to stand in your way.  If you do what is in your mind to do, you will become a great name in your field and respect will come from friends, enemies and superiors, all.

He then produces a medium piece of obsidian, once joined to the largest piece, it is no larger than the silver cube you paid.  He fits the two pieces together again, but they do not fit perfectly.  A sliver of black appears to have chipped away in the violence of the breaking.

“Your misfortunes will be few.  Your prestige, your alliances and promotions will remain intact without fail. But you will have other miseries; the piece of misfortune is clean and without abrasion.  Your failings will be unrelated to your success, too far removed from your gains.  You may recover easily.”

“And the last piece?” you speak up for the first time, knowing it is not done this way, but fearing to be left without the knowledge.

The old man ignores your thoughtlessness, and answers with his hand.  He produces the last, and smallest piece.  What the piece lacks in size, it makes up for in thickness, appearing more as an uncut stone than broken obsidian.  He places it on top of the other two pieces, and then pauses to consider the three.

He glares at the constructed tower, his blind eyes darting over each facet of each piece.  Finally he grunts, satisfied, but haughty.  “This is neither fortune nor misfortune,” he repeats slowly, first to himself, and then to you.

“This is neither fortune nor misfortune… This is a die cast by GOD!” he cackles suddenly and with strength not expected in a man as brittle as he, the old man pushes the anvil over and all three pieces succumb to the violence and fall.  “This is another, you who are not you, and it will as easily break your fortunes as redeem your failures, but you will have no control over it.

You are frantic.  You know you should not believe in this nonsense.  The world had rational explanations for phenomenon; you learned that in the walls of the university.  But terror fills your heart.  The three pieces of obsidian had slid to the dirt before the anvil had finally crashed.  The weight of the steel easily crushed the large and medium pieces, breaking them into a million new futures.  But on top of the black rubble, the smallest, thickest piece remained intact, cushioned by the two pieces beneath it even as it dealt their shattering force.

“What does this mean?”  You say, but the man will not answer you again.  His sightless gaze does not return to you, for he is in his own world of magic and mystery.  He does not stop laughing and it is all you can do to run away before it infects your mind.

When you return to your dorm, you try to forget about it.  You try to rationalize that the ranting of an old and crazy man means nothing.  You do not speak of this to even your dear friend and bunkmate.

But you never forget, Cedric.  You are the fortunes of GOD, you are proof of the existences outside of the spectrums of man.

Chapter 9 - Part IX

"Stop."

The sedan, now wielded by 4 very tired but very stoic men, halted at the command.  The men laid their lady down gently while one of them draw back the thick, heavy lilac curtains.  Lady Kreihl dropped two tired feet to the well groomed dirt path that neatly wound through the clustered courtyard of cherry, plum and peach trees that populated the lower bailey of the Tsitul compound.   

Lady Tsitul dismissed her sedan while her head of house, an old maid by the name of Sejae greeted her with a padded robe.  The woman was bent over, old as she was, but she hardly let that get in the way of her duties as she helped her mistress into the robe.  "My lady is out late tonight." she uttered with a smile.

"Yes, mehra" Kreihl smiled back to her old confidant and one time wet-nurse.  "And it will be later still.  See that no one disturbs me.  The magnut are out tonight."

"Ah dear," the old woman sighed, "I do hate when those raccoon dogs get into our fruit stores.  Do take care." and she too departed.

Kreihl was sad to see Sejae go, but the magnut were skittish, and it was a strange notion to include servants in subterfuge.  In another world she would have treasured her old friend's input.

She was going to face this complication with her head held high, but it was never easy dealing with the servants of the empire.  Pho-Boteth wanted too much information and gave too little in return.

In the east the horizon was painted a subversive shade of purple and pink while the minor moon had made a stealth ascent since her visit to the Archne household.  Afterall, it was only once a tide or so that the night was completely devoid of any moon all night.

The lady walked past some of the cherry blossom blooms and was greeted with a satisfyingly sweet breeze.  The plums had all but finished their spectacular displays of pink, purple and white and had since lost their petals, but the cherries were in their full glory.  She rested her arm on a nearby branch and the path at her feet was littered with a rain of soft pink petals.

"Naming us magnut is hardly a new invention."

Lady Tsitul felt her heart stop as she spun around and saw the man she had been waiting for, Lord Vaughn.  She knew, of course, that he was no true lord.  It was likely the empire had bestowed upon the man some great and honored duty that could not be trusted to mere laypeople like herself. 

"It is childish of you people.  But Empress Coth Di understands that children need to be allowed to play from time to time." he condescended to her.

 "Perhaps if you did not growl and whine when you were unhappy we'd have less cause to make the comparison.  But you didn't come here to discuss the finer points of Eirdren slang now did we?  You and yours have put me in quite a bit of trouble now.  My son is to be wed to that husband-killing whore and take on the name Archne."

Vaughn was unable to determine what she was more upset about, the fact that her son's marriage would put him in potentially mortal danger or that a Tsitul son would walk the halls of a hated house. 

"She accepted?  Where is the box?  I told you, you must bring back the box!" though he was typically composed, as a son of Pho-Boteth, he was not immune to his upbringing and he uttered a guttural growl to indicate his displeasure.

"How was I to?  She accepted the gift.  If I had taken it from her then she'd be in her full right to claim betrayal and I might not have left her compound alive!  Are you daft?  Surely you might have expected this eventuality?  And now the Empire's ambition has caught the two of us." Lady Kreihl spit back with frustration.  Empire promises of autonomy were barely worth this relationship.
Vaughn did not hold back as he delivered a swift slap to Kreihl's face.  "Watch your tongue.  You border on treasonous."

Shocked at the physical abuse, the lady kept her composure and glared back at him.  "As ever the House Tsitul serves the Scholar Empress.  I speak only of the short-sightedness of her magnut."
Vaughn thought for a moment.  Nobody was supposed to accept the box.  It was plain and ordinary.  It had been compromised - a fact the Lady Tsitul knew nothing about - but the nature of the compromise was such that whoever opened the box would see an object of secrecy and shame.  It should have elicited rejection.  That was the weakness of the compromise.

"What was the color of the box when you gave it to the Lady Archne?" he demanded.

"What?  I don't know.  It was an oak box right?  Then brown.  I didn't see anything unusual." she replied unsure of what information he was trying to extract.

"Then it did not change" he muttered under his breath, careful to keep his rhetorical question from reaching the ears of the Lady Tsitul herself.

"What did you say?" she huffed impatiently.

"I don't think the Lady Archne is our quarry.  I will have to obtain another box for you to present to the Nogrem Household tomorrow."

"And about him?" Lady Tsitul asked.

Vaughn had nearly forgotten the initial demands Lady Tsitul made when they had first approached her.  "He's resting comfortably at the edge of the city.  Tomorrow he will begin the journey to the University on High and his new life."

Kreihl looked satisfied.  "Then I leave you to your nightly wanderings, magnut.  Good night."
Vaughn bowed and took his leave of her but continued to walk through the fruit gardens of the Tsitul compound contemplating the situation.  The box was supposed to change color at the presence of a nearby gegleth; alive or otherwise.  But rather than a simple hue of blue, it remained the same, and he felt this left him at square one.  Lady Archne had drawn a great deal of attention to herself in the previous tide, with the death of her husband and her reportedly reclusive nature.  She was his best guess as to who might have kidnapped the creature, and now that there was no evidence to incriminate her, he felt at a loss.

"Damn." he sighed, but no sooner had he let out a grunt of unhappiness than he felt a trembling quake at his feet.  The rapidly reddening sky, blushing at the onset of dawn, was now assisted with the tips of huge flames licking at the horizon.  In moments the Lady Tsitul had run back to the fruit garden and found Vaughn, grunting audibly.

"What happened?" she yelled.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about your son.  Go back to bed and prepare yourself an alibi for your peers.  After the flames die down, I am sure your fellow lords might wonder if you had anything to do with the death of Lady Archne."