Aircraft

It was so cold that I awoke in the night before the dawn. I went up to the hills, as always. I stood in a high place, remembering that I was lowly and of humble birth. Around me, the damp wind swirled. I could smell the heather, and I knew that many before me had felt the touch of the wet, and many after me also would.

I realised that in this world of the new, most people confuse that which is made with the skill that makes it. In my time, craeft meant the art of making, the art of definition and persuasion which turned the unformed into the thing desired. A windcrafter practised windcraft, twisting the tendrils of the wind into useful work. A woodcrafter practised woodcraft, turning the raw wood of a certain kind of tree into an object of beauty or of use (or both).

I practised aircraft, for my dominion was that of air, unmoving and almost intangible, yet susceptible to sudden impetus or compression. People jeered at me for a pilot, but I never was nor would be one. I made things of air. Castles and armies, fantastic beasts and tiny animals, these were my craftworkings.

In this world, it is not a useful skill. And so, as glorious Ursula of blessed memory advises, I fold my hands and sleep, for aught else is pointless.