It Came Upon The Midnight Clear

Being the Account of a different Seeing, and not an Explanation of any sort.

It is a great road, this parade of iron chariots and masters of sophistry and lore. Along it is a grand canal, bearing the debris of sudden squalls and human unconcern. This road runs from the North of my land to its centre, and I live along it; it is lifeblood to many, and through it, my land hangs pendant from its mother. This is a second Lyonesse, another City of Lions sprung fishlike from the sea.

Behind it, another world lies, where the College of Dragons teaches the true Art, and numbers are but one way of truth among many. Another world, where the fates of dwarves and dragons are inextricably entwined, and the speaking of stones is a higher tongue than the yapping of men.

Two worlds crossing, conjoint and trembling at the threshold. In one, I am sorcerer, keeping myself both celibate and wise. In the other, I am speaker-to-gods and assassin, knowing myself neither celibate nor wise. In both, there is the Road, and people travel upon it, filled with thoughts of trade and wealth, life and death – and sometimes, with no thoughts at all save the continuous striving which binds them to the Universe.

I am the Wanderer. Let me tell you of the path I trod, and the world as I have seen it. Let me show you a place where the lines which part the worlds are crossed, and how.

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Sentinels guard the sky now, where before there was only the white shore and castles to be built, before they took unclaimed sea, and stole from it land for a million souls. I used to live there, in the East of this country, on the coast which is no more. With great old seeing-glass I saw the ships pass by with all-mysterious cargoes. They spoke with me, and the fragments of my thoughts in their songs remain, thinned by wind and memory:

Under the sky
walks he now on the sand
a great reaver
to the fragile river
of life at the terminus
'tween wet sea and sand.

The multitude
borne on a rustling wind
crackle their limbs
in stalk-eyed eddyings
running light
on the grains:
little old men of age largely unknown
rhyming in ancient tongues.

Hard shell, go well.
My careless feet conceal
a heart which goes
with the many dwellers
on the sand-surf-swell.

Then came the war-machines of that ancient time, and there was war between Land and Sea; the Land was victorious, and the dwellers on the terminus were drowned and buried: to this day if you dig hard enough, you may find their pathetic remains at the feet of the tall towers.

Thus passed the first world, traveller, if you seek such again, know that the terminus abides, as always, between the salt- water and the sea-strand.