a collection of texts on, about, or with the theme of stories.

On Love and Death and Omens and Trees



In books of death there is always talk of trees.  All forests carry omens and all omens are foolish, natural things.

Love is an omen.  We learn this in the third Book of the First Word—the edicts inherited from, they say, pre-time.  “Love is an omen that defies all omens, that subsists on trees yet subverts them.”  

In a forest of its own, love, begging death, portends one life alone.



Ahana is a saint because other people said so.  Her hair was long and her bosom was full and her brain was built like bone.

At eight years old, Ahana saw the Sun set for good.  Her home near the peak, with the thistles and the berries and the hibiscus in bloom, lost its state of beatitude. The limestone turned dark, the forest turned dark, the dark turned darker and then her mother disappeared.

A stranger had said that her mother was there, there in the Books with some talk of God.  “God and Light and your Mother and the Sun each have disappeared into their own songs.”  His face frayed in the moon-shine.  “The Books sing these songs, Ahana, and there,” he said, “your mother has gone.”

Thus in time—with Books—Ahana came to know the most of God and Light and even the Sun, her brain surrounded by their stories in stone.  But her mind, in her mother’s wait, had matured a marrow of its own.

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