Fear and Freedom

Healing the Hurts of the Earth, and Resisting the Orcs

Lúthien Tinúviel, Allan Lee

I recently signed a petition that constitutes a sort of "please cease and desist" request from two private individuals to their local Planning Department. The story need not be told here, but, in summary, the local government very clearly overstepped its bounds and intruded upon the peace of honest citizens as they made an act of good faith by attempting to confirm the legality of their living situation.

We have been seeing this sort of intimidation very often recently, and it has become more and more apparent that government positions are increasingly attractive to power-minded individuals, those who would "lord it over" their fellow man: "Dominion and service, egoism and altruism, possession and gift, self-interest and gratuitousness: these profoundly contrasting approaches confront each other in every age and place" (Homily, Benedict XVI, St. Peter's Basilica, 18 Feb. 2012).

Not all would agree with the theological account of "the beginning", but many in this day and age agree that a certain stewardship of the earth, a relationship with nature that is mutually beneficial, is laudable, and may, in its various forms, be the one appropriate vocation of man.

It just so happens that the persons at the center of the story mentioned above were seeking to grow vegetables, raise chickens and goats, and otherwise live a very "green" lifestyle from a converted, off-grid school bus. They were seeking to perform a deeply human function, following deeply human desires. They were doing no different from the first people of this country, English immigrants in America, the frontier families, and indeed many peoples in various countries, cultures, and economies throughout the world today. It seems odd that their quiet, unobtrusive, and humble lifestyle should cause any stir whatsoever.

It should cause no stir unless it be an inspiration to live in like manner.

That county officials sought to extend the tentacle of arbitrary conformation is a clear sign that America is no longer free, and that the government has made itself an enemy of humankind and of nature, enforcing -- and thereby merely postponing the certain demise of -- a flailing social and economic doctrine.

Why should we expect fear and intimidation when we seek to do the simplest of things, when we choose to do that for which we were made? Why should we balk at the idea of freedom?

Before even it has become illegal to practice one's religion in this country (an impending doom, no doubt), it is illegal to own private property. You are certainly allowed to hand over your life's saving for a deed, title, and other proofs of nominal ownership, but you are not permitted to do as you will with the earth that you cultivate. Instead, the agents of cookie-cutter suburbia come knocking at your door, demanding some blathering nonsense.

The environs are foggy, but the choice is clear.

The current state of affairs, the current tone of local government (and certainly state and national government) effectively precludes any chance of overcoming absurd legal boundaries on an individual basis. What can one man do? He can do something. A foundational principle of the American nation was that a man can't tramp all over you merely because he has the bigger stick. We no longer live in that nation. We live in a state of passive-aggressive cold war with our governing bodies.

And we must put up a rampart of defense against what is clearly an infringement upon our rights as human persons, which include the right to produce food for our own sustenance and shelter against the elements, without restrictions based on our means or some pitiable norm of "success". It is not a moral wrong to be poor. It is a moral right to care in the best way one may for oneself and one's family.

It is time for persons and families of like mind and similar pursuits to band together and live as they see fit, and to reject all unreasonable molestation as well as the consequences of that rejection. We must no longer allow ourselves to be punished for the basic activities required of existence. We must no longer allow arbitrary policies to define our very nature.

We are human beings born in a place, and this is no crime. We have every right to preserve our existence in this place without interference, especially if we obtain property and cultivate it to our liking. It is time to take a stand, and to reject unjust discrimination by a nihilistic society pressured by a police state. It is time for "the adornment of Arda and the healing of its hurts" (Tolkien, quoted in Patrick Curry's "Iron Crown, Iron Cage ..."). It is time to raise happy families to join in the work that has been set out before us. It is time to reject the jealousy of Cain, and justly preserve the pursuit of innocence.

Fiction: "Strannik: A Vision"

Herbert James Draper, "The Lament for Icarus"

Written by Jonathan Torres
Edited by Ross J. McKnight



Mother.

You were the first to point me towards the desert star. I looked up and never turned my face away. To have, to hold, to consume - this is all I ever wanted. In searching I have found who I am. I am your son. As I wander, I hear you calling my name. Strannik. I wander. I hear your call. I will never turn away.

Your love is my staff. I do not wander alone. The further I walk, the further I stumble, the further I crawl, the sand cuts harder, the winds flow faster, but the star burns ever brighter. I do not wander alone.

In my first three years of traveling I have met my brothers and sisters, yet have met none like me. I mentioned the star on the horizon and they smiled. Yes, they saw it, but they did not want it. They did not love it. They claimed the sands were too rough, the winds too wild, and so they turned away just as the star burned brighter. I will never turn away.

My brothers and sisters traveled with me for a short time, pretending to want it, pretending to love it. One by one they fell. One by one they came to me and wept. They told me they were sorry. I forgave them, and let them return to their homes. All of them, they turned away.

The last to turn was my first brother. As we crested the high dune in the West he collapsed. Grabbing sand sweat and blood I pulled him to his feet. He grasped my shoulder and looked at me. Our eyes met and I understood. He whispered my name. Strannik. I wander, and I hear you calling. He was so close, so close, mother. So close. He spoke to me one last time. I did not understand his words.

I let him go. I never looked back. The journey is almost complete.

I use all of my strength to place one foot ahead of the other. The winds scream against you, mother. I curse them, damn them to Hell. The star wages war against me, and I weep. The violent sands begin to stir. One foot ahead of the other. Mother, stay with me! Alone, I drop my staff and continue without it. The sand-star bursts out in rage. My veins are full of fire. I turn my face to the ground, looking at my feet full of blood. One more step and I will touch the star. Mother, stay with me! One movement from my body. I lean forward, I look up. My face burns red. My voice disintegrates. The sand turns to glass. The ground shatters and my body is dismembered. My soul flies to the star, and the star catches what was always its son.

The nova of my life twinkled in the midnight sky. My brothers and sisters looked up and smiled, and they turned away.

I never turned away. I never turned away.

Fiction: "Kronos: A Fable"

Eyvind Earle, "Garden of Eden"

Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres


1.

2127. And the world is happy – all the world. Having returned to the woods, the fields, away from the deathly cities, and back to the earth, where loving plants grow and animals become less frightful. Back to the farms and to the peace of the country, in which all people find their natural home.

The change in climate over the last century has had the great effect of rendering vesture unnecessary. The days are warm though the wind blows cool at times. And the great labor is to keep fruit-bearing plants to their plots, for they outstretch in gangly fronds their slow-swelling stalks.

There are many such colonies as ours upon moundy green high grounds among the swaths of bog and wetland. The mountains of what was the Blue Ridge untouched except their mysterious fogs and mists now merge with the smoky evaporation steaming from the staid water below, in the mornings leaving bright greeny mounds glistening, an ancient land of reptiles with hot stones and earthy crevasses.

And in all of this the joys of love. My lover himself is in the woods today to harvest honey as I sit here writing the journal of this our new life. Years of utter waste and darkness behind. Who could have said with any hope we would be here in the perfection of bliss? And yet it is so.

Who knows what happiness will befall me next. I keep this record of my joys for recollection. Many days from now I will have flowered – spread colorful wings, known inexplicable ecstasies. I write now as from the heart of one initiate of pleasure, a mere acolyte of happiness, but destined to burst through the very bounds of sense.

2.

No need to count the days in any urgency. As if our lives constantly prepare for demanding events created to justify them. A tyranny. I live, and today is a life of flowers, blooms of this eternal spring. I awaken to the scent of a bright yellow bundle laid upon my lap. My lover is broader than I with dark curls on the chest, dark curls above the brow. He stands and bares healthy teeth. We embrace.

He walks me through the field outside our wall. The dew bites but briefly before sun restores comfort to the little toes. He takes me to the bee hives. Harmless creatures after the quietus, the purest most efficient natural adaptation in history: immortality and harmony.

We walk the natural bridge to watch the Falls. The crashing water steams up from far below, blessing the pores and refreshing the senses beyond possibility. Possibility is overthrown. A lilting call from the eastern bank and we disappear.

With the Perfection we all know instinctively the greatest pleasure available in any circumstance, and we nearly always act accordingly. My lover, for instance, bears the scent of sweet daylily and fresh lavender – his hair is fluid, thick, affirmative of the hand that strokes it. We recount the joys of each day. There is no pleasure mindful we together leave untouched.

I am still chased by dreams.

3.

I dreamed last night that I bathed alone at the Falls. My hair streamed behind as I surfaced and turned to the shore. There a solitary bloom hung over in the midnight darkness. I stretched out my hand to touch the stem and a shock of intoxicating agony transfixed it there. I awoke with tears.

4.

Again at the pool beneath the Falls. The water of such a temperature to quicken the mind, burst the heart. I dove deep into the center but could not reach the bottom. As I swam towards the surface, I thought I saw a wavering form retreat from the water's edge, but slow.

Wind rustled the cold dewy wild blooms, settled weighted resting stalks. The night was still, and memory left me; I knew not myself or why I sat there by a pool on a rock. I withheld the pride of some cause, but could not place it. An owl jeered.

I made the mild climb to the grassy clifftop and morning broke though dawn could not. A soft breeze tousled fern fronds and the fine hairs on my head; the birds called from their early waking as the sky turned the very color of dreams. Still shadow with a rising blue.

The figure reappeared. She lay down oddly shaped amid the river stones. She seemed soft and rounded in all parts. Her eyes half-closed, she released low sighs, musical moans from out the water babble. Brown hair splayed out upon the mottled pebbles as she loosed small cries, drawing legs up around her bulbous middle. She pressed her curved back against a low rounded boulder and in one bright moment a call that reverberated from tree boles on the stream-side to nighted cliffs through the little vale and surging into space – a small noisy creature appeared between her thighs glowing by the weakening moonlight.

She lifted the little one to her breast wiping free the blood and fluids. She gazed awhile at the sleeping form until she shook violently, her head falling back upon the rock.

Days passed. The water coursing livened and spoke. The coiling breezes played in her hair and the babe wailed. It's feeble shape slid fortunately toward her standing nipple, and it sucked forth life.

Weeks. Months. Years. The child grew. He lingered, at times moaned sweetly; he would, at times, sit quite still at her side, clasp her face between his little hands and seem to pray. He wet her cheeks with tears that wet his own, brushed back her flowing hair and was quiet in the loneliness of grief. She lay and breathed.

The sun rose one morning glowing; a vast wine-drenched sky hung over the vale. The water, catching the light, dyed blue rocky banks with a rosy hue. And for the first time the boy upraised his eyes to the cresting mass upon the horizon. He climbed the stone steps of the Falls and gazed out from a body that hung upon forgotten will.

Now I could see his eyes open upon worlds of hope, fear, despair, love. Torn by agony he yet did not turn his face from the wonder in the sky. The earth unrolled its rich tapestry before his feet, and with a cry that struck my heart to stone he sprang forward like a bucking antelope. I watched his flying form until another cry bewildered my ears, wrenched my gaze to the stream-side. There the terrified mother wrestled with stoney limbs to rise and cast about with racing breath and pained look.

Footprints in the wet earth. Pursuit. Without a thought running weeping seeing every trace with a longing that effaced her. Her form – wind blowing the grass unknowing going. The orb over all the earth let forth a new radiance of volatile swallowing fire – blood and wine from the sky.

Black figures recede into the gargantuan sun like crust of dross in a crucible and I wonder what pitiless curse plagues mother and child. The sun grows ever closer, the land vanishing, subsumed into its mass while the wind's searing torrent knocks me flat like streaming beach-grass – abandoned pawn on the sands. The cooked earth coughs up flares upon the wastes and I am wracked with pangs.

* * *

Upon my awakening, the eyes of the youngest Prefect a mile distant burst open. His heart flutters – he searches reasonless.

My lover looks at me. I nod. He smiles, caresses my ears, my hair, but in his eyes there is the sickest dread. He brings me with every effort to where I must forget myself in the extenuation of every sense.