from the Journal of Krish...
I practiced making ink and parchment from spring to spring and got to know the process well. I would spend the day working with Logar and Storm, building a house for Carnac. In the evening I would sit with Carnac and learn the craft. It took a long time for us to build that house, and many evenings learning how to write.
That is not to say I did not do other tasks. I would go to the grove at Wenona during ceremonies and just as often tell a tale or two to anyone who would listen. It was a busy time, and for the most part, kept all of our attention on helping Carnac start his new life with Larissa.
In many ways, it was the best of times. The war was over, and while we were not ready to join the growing village, we were ready to help a friend. It was at this time that Carnac began to pester me about writing a journal. I went along with his ramblings as a good friend will do.
So I started writing observations, thoughts, and random bits as a way to please Carnac. Then came the day of the arguement. I sit here, in the garden of Carnac, waiting for the arrival of the rest of the Chosen. I do not feel like music, the tea grows cool, and I feel an unease.
So I write. It helps sometimes. Today though, with the death of Carnac fresh in my thoughts and the feeling that this reunion is going to go bad, I remember that arguement like it was only yesterday.
It was Carnac's fault really, he had forgotton the Grove, or so I thought.. He insisted that I start to write the history of our people onto the parchment scolls. I scoffed at the idea, but he was presistent. I tried to explain that words could not convey a people. The life, the history, what makes our people who and what they are is as much a part of the people and the valley as anything he could imagine. How was I to write about a people that the long told stories could barely touch?
How was I to write into these words the passion, the life of a people that song and dance was only a shadow of the reality? To know the history, the life of a people, one would have to live that life. It is true we pass along the histories and stories and the traditions are taught at a young age and children grow into the life we all know.
How could anyone write about that and make sense to someone who had never known that life?
He smiled as I turned and walked away. I went down by the river to ease my anger. The soft flowing river had always down that for me, and that day was no different. When I went back to the house, nothing was said. For that matter, Carnac never mentioned that day again.
I sit here and I am angry again. I am angry because I see the wisdom in what he was trying to tell me and I feel foolish. He was right. Today more than ever I feel that all that I have learned I must pass on. I do not know if I have the voice to tell everything I have ever learned. I am sure I do not have enough ink and scroll to even begin the story of our people.
Time seems to be slipping through my fingers and I do not believe I can do all that needs to be done now.