Mighty Quill, Mighty Sword

Two instruments.      

For all of mankind's might wailing and raging, for all its self-extollations and its ballyhooed ephemeral successes, two of its inventions have been more responsible for the construction and destruction of all that man has conquered and made in its history.      

There exists no truth in this world, but the truth that all truth is but perception.  No one, however objective he or she may claim to be, can view the world with more than his own eyes.  Each second of each day that he is alive, he is interpreting and sorting all that he sees and hears and feels.  And it is the essential capricious nature of humankind to adapt this sensory input to a paradigm that pleases us.                      

Many a school child has played Whispering Down The Lane, where a word or phrase mumbled at the beginning of a chain of children has been all butchered by the time the last child's rendition is uttered.  And history--that seemingly endless pyramid of information of which we fancy ourselves the capstone--is no more than a rendition of events passed down through the centuries, often with the carelessness of a small child at play.       

The quill.  A feather from a bird, chosen for the strength of its stem and the ease for which it fit into the writer's hand.  So have the quills of many people--holy men and scholars and the purely recreational historians.  By the sword are born the victors, and to the victors go the spoils.  To the victors goes the privilege of telling the tale when it has played itself out.  The sword spills forth the lifeblood from a man's body; it drains him of his essence.  The quill sucks a similar essence from the writer who uses it; it exits the quill in the ink.     

These are all recent developments in my own thinking.  Sometimes I believe we are all born with a great deal more knowledge than our minds are capable of handling.  But regardless of its existence on a conscious or a subconscious level, that knowledge remains with us--in a compressed form perhaps.  And then, maybe, in the span of a life, something happens to trigger that memory, something snaps.  And suddenly, one may find themself thinking along wholly different lines then they had previously been doing.      The victors always get the last word, and the losers are swept under the rug of time.      

It was during this time of personal enlightenment, while I taught and researched during the day, and read and contemplated at night, that I first heard about the recently discovered Breton Scripts.  An archaeological research team from Chambourg University, under the direction of  Professor Philippe Barnes, had uncovered a pile of written personal notes in Brittany.  Barnes, a world renowned expert on Medieval archaeology, believed the documents dated from the sixth century, common era.      

In other words, the Breton Scripts dated from the same time as the great epic poem, the Dovinian.  The Dovinian has been revered the world over for giving a personal look into the lives of some particularly well-to-do people; it is also considered the first instance of courtly love in a manuscript.  What Medievalist hasn't read the Dovinian?  What Western Civilization or literature teacher hasn't assigned the Dovinian?      

The Breton Scripts, however, posed more questions than they answered.  The research team had been excavating a site believed to have been a great cultural center before falling to barbarians sometime before the reign of Charles the Great.  The team had uncovered a large, grey stone, which contained many compartments.  The Breton Scripts were found inside the stone, in incredibly legible condition.  However, as they were written in an unknown language--a language which was obviously Celtic in origin but mostly undecipherable--their contents spoke to a world which no longer existed.      

This is how I got involved with the Breton Scripts; my concentration has been Celtic cultures.  I have also devoted more time than most anyone on the planet studying the Celtic languages.  Though not yet through my doctoral work, I still had gained a reputation as an authority in Celtic linguistics.  None of this buffered my surprise when Professor Barnes called me to request that I work on a translation of the Breton Scripts.      Such an opportunity does not arise twice in a lifetime.      

These are not my words.  I have here done little embellishing; what little I have done has been for the sake of clarity for the modern reader.  These are her words.  I am honored to have been the humble editor for Hiduae, the last Queen of Gaelia.

"As for me in my life, I wanted nothing better than to be a priestess of the Great Mother.  But my father knew I was destined for other paths.  A priestess, he told me, must possess piety, strength, wit, compassion and patience.  I had four of those five--I have never been a patient person--and so I became a queen instead."                

The young Gael girl stood in the shadows, trying to control her nerves.  This whole event had such a heavy air of prophecy about it that Hiduae felt ill. From her vantage, she could watch all that was going on in the court; she could see her father, Matug, bowing before the Queen, Newag, and King Banui.  Matug was resplendent in his green velvet robes and the red mantle, worn as a sign of high honor, for Matug himself was King Emeritus of Gaelia.      

The Great Hall was quite full on this New Year's day.  The people of Nan-Ton-Cin had come out to Castle Sullias to celebrate.  As was customary, new Gael knights were presented and dubbed on this day of good omen.  Such was Matug's reasoning for bringing Hiduae to the castle.      

"If I may ask a boon of you, my Lady," Matug said in his loud but gentle voice.      

Newag nodded.  "Whatever I can grant, my friend."      

Matug smiled.  "Lady, my younger daughter, Hiduae, is twelve years old.  I have taught her what I can, and now I feel she is ready.  I would like her to enter your service."      

The girl in the shadows shivered at her mention by name.  But still she peered out curiously, anxious to see the Queen's reaction.  Newag was older than she by many decades, and Hiduae wondered how pleasant that service would be.  Then again, she thought, Newag is no older than Father.      

In her seat, Queen Newag smiled.  "Any daughter of yours I would welcome, Matug.  Where is the girl?"      

Hiduae stiffened as her father turned around, searching for her.  "Hiduae, dearest, where have you gotten to?  Come out, girl!"      

Come out, girl.      

Come out and meet your destiny.      

Hiduae took a deep breath, and stepped out of the shadows, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.  She went to stand before the King and Queen.  A murmur of interest and surprise spread through the great hall.  Her father tapped her lightly, and she bowed.  "It is my honor to serve the royal house and the people of Gaelia, my king and queen," she said in a voice too deep for a girl so young.      

Banui leaned over and whispered to Newag.  "She is young, but she fights like a dark fiend.  I have seen her on the tilt field.  And she is learned as well.  I was afraid Matug would give her into the priestesship, but this..."  The king smiled broadly.      

Newag's eyes were transfixed on Hiduae, not looking at her, but rather experiencing her.  Matug noticed this with some pride.  His daughter was indeed precocious; already she was taller than he, and he had been quite large in his youth.  It seemed all people upon meeting Hiduae first fell into shock, and then, regaining themselves, came to love her.      

But Newag's eyes were perceiving nothing of the physical world.  The old queen saw an aura around this gawky child, as of power burgeoning.  She could see the child, grown to womanhood, a leader of people.  This child, who could certainly lift a half sword now, would in time possess the great fullsword.  This is my heir, she thought.  This child shall be queen after me.  And in a corner of her mind, she had already begun to make room for Hiduae as the new queen.

Emilie J. Conroy

ejconroy778@gmail.com