by Glenn » Mon Nov 19, 2018 2:03 am
"You would do this," four little words, simple and neutral. If anything, there was disappointment, though it would be in his eyes and not his voice. He was one to explain himself at length, far more than anyone wanted him to. Here, though, there was nothing but that. At first there was nothing but that.
There were men in this world who could do but one thing at a time. Then, there were those like Burnie who could not simply do one thing and one thing alone. For him, writing was often different, for in writing, Burnie, in fact, did many things at once. The letter was mostly written by the time he sat down, however, and in this case, there was reason to do something more than just write.
The desk was controlled chaos. It was covered with papers, tomes, writing instruments, but everything was organized in its own way. Things were piled, tied together, turned at specific angles. There just wasn't room enough for all of it. Clumsily stacked upon one pile was a flask of vaguely green liquid. Whatever other food and drink he had was seemingly cordoned off to other, safer parts of his abode.
As ink met paper, words left his lips once more, like some precocious bard who could both play the lute and sing at the same time. One complemented the other, though she would not know the full truth of this until letter was before her.
"If you wish to keep your child safe," he began, hand moving with quick, precise motions, tone vaguely uninterested, "then you would serve her well by being a mother, by mothering her, by raising her. No matter what accord you made, those who do so now have their own interests. That they made an accord in the first place is testament to the existence of such interests. Only you, not I, not anyone but you, can be trusted to put the interests of your daughter first." There was a dagger. He was uniquely unable to defend himself from it by writing. He was nonetheless goading her. Maybe it was just what he did at knifepoint. "That's step one. Step two is to actually be a mother. Be stronger. Be more selfless. Be more caring. If you really care, you find a way to learn. If you believe in Myrken, then you believe in humanity, and if you believe in humanity, then you believe that you can be capable of that. Otherwise, what's the point to any of it?" Finally, the impatience began to stir in his chest. It did not affect his penmanship in the least. "Stop worrying about unnecessary feuds. You can't truly do a damn thing about those. If not mine and hers, or her people and ours, which is exactly what I'm trying to prevent, by the way, it'd be something else. It's always something else. If you kill me, it'll be something else, at least in the short term. I'm working towards the long term but you don't want to hear a bit of that. Anyway, here's the point: better yourself. Take a direct hand. What do you think I've been trying to do? What do you think I'm doing? Everything else is ultimately cowardice and dereliction."
It was timely he got to the point, because he had, it seems, finished his letter. Without turning, without looking, he rose and waved it about as if swatting a fly behind him in her general direction. "I could fold it into a swan and throw it at you, but that takes more effort than actually writing it." Plus, they didn't fly nearly as well as you'd think. They were for looks and not for function, which made it a wonder that he could manage the trick at all. If she took it, he would slowly start towards the fire, apparently brooding as she read.
Aloisius,
I write this to you as the only stable and everpresent part of Myrken Government. I would address it to the inquisitory or the constabulary but who knows who is in charge of the latter today and as for the former, well, I rather doubt she'd toss me in irons even if I asked nicely. I am not asking you to take direct action here, merely to read this, to be sure to only harrumph, exhale, ruminate for a short time, and then to take the central message within and pass it along as you see fit to be most effective given the current political situation.
Remember, old friend, how you showed me kindness when I first came to Myrken. I know now that this was not due to any sort of general goodwill towards man, but instead due to your skewed and unique sense of justice whereas you find the idea of want and poverty to be anathema, but only when it is directly in front of you. You would eagerly provide a starving man with a feast but you would do nothing to ensure that he did not starve once more in a week's time. You are wholly incapable of enacting systemic reform ever placing a bandage upon the gaping hole in Myrkeners' stomachs.
Still, the intent and focus of kindness is so often less important than the effect upon its recipient. In the immediate, you likely helped to save my life. In the long-term, you gave me pause, pause well-spent in truly looking at the place and the people around me. My natural instinct was to run forward from danger, but your kindness, if nothing else, delayed me, succor that weighed down supple legs and brought a nourished haze to an overly alert mind. What I saw inspired me and it continues to inspire me even now.
This was a hardy people, one who met misfortune after misfortune, so much of it not of their own cause, afflicted by gods and monsters, by drought and famine. They are survivors. In surviving, they shout to the heavens against the powers that oppress them. They celebrate their continued existence with barn dances and costume parties, not escaping the horrors of their lives, but actively defying them. Moreover, they fight, pushing back the darkness time and time again. That, I am afraid to say, has always but been the symbolic equivalent your bandage of repast. Their spirits, their very lifeblood, starves, and they push back, expelling the virus that currently inflicts them. The body remains weak and susceptible to the next disease, actual or symbolic. The process is repeated, as it is when you find a new wastrel.
Nothing ever changes.
I meant to change things. Perhaps this is a lesson you learned sixty years ago, Aloisius. Perhaps, once upon a time, you were a young man who wished to make the world a better place, who failed as I did. Perhaps you learned that there was nothing to be done about it, that every grand, sweeping gesture would only make things all the worse, so that all that could possibly help was the small bandage, the one starving man fed for one moment in time. If you learned that lesson and became a safer, if far more disappointing person for it, then I am afraid that I never can. I cannot stop. I will not stop. I have spent years away from Myrken Wood to recover after my ordeals, and to ensure that I am remain sane, but my purpose remains. I want to help people. I want to help them reach a point where they might live as opposed to just being alive. Survival is the bare minimum, old friend. Sustenance is necessary but it alone does not make for a satisfying life. Even in the best of times, we are fleeting. We will never escape death. Within a hundred years, it will come for all of us. It is my beady-eyed desire, so much as you desire a hamhock, that we do not spend the years of our life just trying to reach as high an age as possible. It is the experiences that matter, the purpose that drives them, not some mere number, worthless alone.
Therefore, as I cannot stop myself from acting with the best of intentions, I will soon return to Myrken, showing remorse only for my failures, not for my attempts. Others are already there. Others will soon return as well. With that in mind, it is very important that you pass along this message to those in authority, even though I know it will pain you to do so: Gloria Wynsee should not be overfed. Her mind is like a knotted tree and to swaddle it further in glistening fat would only cause the run off escaping her mouth to flood the streets with the sap of hypocrisy and misanthropy. I fear the town would not survive.
With regretful warning,
Glenn Burnie