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EDITORIAL
FRIENDS AT ANCIENTWORLDS
AncientWorlds, Maximius Flavius  Today I sat down at the dinner table with a couple of friends and we started discussing trips abroad. My friends have friends in England, and visit them quite often. That's of course when I started to list the friends I have abroad. I noticed there are a dozen places I've been told to visit, and better yet, a dozen people who have told me they would put me up at just about any time. You know - "we have a couch in the living-room and it can fit the both of you" ("both" referring to my the person who actually controls my whip and myself). My friends were amazed - although they must now think I am a complete geek - but not as amazed as I was myself. I started to think about it, and really couldn't believe I have met a dozen absolutely perfect people who I call friends and whom I could visit any time. My friends of course said: "you've met all these people by frequenting just some ancient history site?" I said yes, but that it is not just any site.
The theme of this issue, the NOLA II Convention, is of course a related matter. I still find it amazing so many take the time, work hard and travel. To me it is not amazing people do that - quite the contrary, I would have loved to do so myself! What I find amazing is that we have such a great spirit and such a number of great people at this site that conventions and events like the NOLA II are possible.
Because of the special nature of the issue at hand, we have done some changes in our common editorial policies. As visible, some of the "featured" content of this issue appears here on this editorial page - Andabairhta Gunthigg's wonderful piece, Poetry Corner, and the second part of Valeria Sergius's short story. Our City & Groups section is filled with the last reports on how the AncientWorlds GoldFest went in several cities, as well as reports of newly erected groups. It seems that active group construction has again started in many of our cities! This section was edited by your humble general editor. Again, Vortigern Aedui and the historians of our site have filled the History & Archaeology section with research. Aifa Niafer and her crew have again managed to compile an extensive Archaeology News section. The most prominent feature of this time is, as already mentioned, the section wholly devoted to NOLA II Special Featured articles, edited by Hapshetsut Nebet. For once, your humble editor is pleased with the gossip content of the ACTA DIVRNA! Stories about people, buses, places and bras - and, luckily, no food poisonings!
Our next deadline is, again, the 13th of December. I was thinking, as a possible theme, the history of newspapers! I, for one, would be interested in knowing how exactly ACTA DIVRNA - the original, ancient one - was brought to life, and what kind of newspapers or "publications" there were in other ancient civilizations? If you are interested, please write on such matters. All texts are welcome, as always. To the writers and readers, again thank you for this issue!
DRIBBLING THROUGH THE LORD OF THE RINGS EXHIBITION - LONDON
Germania, Andabairhta Gunthigg  I finally visited the superb LoTR exhibition, at the Science Museum, in London. What an experience!
I had anticipated that the exhibition would be very busy, as we had to go in by “timed” tickets, i.e. 2.00pm. When we met our friends, we had 15 minutes before our timed entry. However, there was no queue, so we asked if we could go in earlier. What a treat!! In comparison to what I’ve been told by other people you could say that we almost had the place to ourselves! I’d say there were maybe 60/70 people in there at any one time. We were able to take our time sauntering from exhibit to exhibit, never crowded, jostled or feeling as though we were being pushed along. We were even able to retrace our steps, getting REALLy close to all of the great items on display.
When you walk in, it's between the Argonath - these were cast from the originals used in the film and they stand around 8 feet high. We were able to take our time looking round, we never felt in the slightest crowded, we were able to get up close to all the exhibits and go back and see them again. The litmus test was my husband – ordinarily he will go around an exhibition, enjoy it but be waiting outside for me a good half hour before I've finished! But on this occasion - he was absolutely entranced - and spent as long as me in there.
So, what can I tell you? A few minor downsides first, I think. The voice quality on the short documentary films was poor, for which the amplifying system more than anything else was responsible, so the voice-overs “grated” on the ear a little.
I noticed that with those exhibits in the glass cases, there was, in many cases, a thin film of dust on the shelves on which the exhibits rested. This was particularly noticeable in the glass case where the palantir was – it had a dusty look to it. To my mind, in such an exhibition, it’s essential to keep everything looking absolutely fresh at all times (except where of course it’s MEANT to look dusty!).
Another minor downside was that there were several watercolour pictures and sketches there which were hard to see as the lighting on them wasn't particularly good.
The other BIG letdown was the souvenirs on leaving the exhibition. After viewing creations of such excellent quality, the souvenirs looked, in the main, utter crap - cheap and tacky. I had gone into the exhibition with high hopes of purchasing some gifts, but there was nothing, as far as I was concerned, that was worth having. The small statuettes of the characters on sale, lacked sparkle and bore little resemblance to the actors, the mugs were heavy duty and ugly, cheap pencil tins, plastic backpacks and other shoddily made and presented goods did nothing for the LoTR image. There were a couple of resin cubes with etched figures in them (you know the sort of thing) which I felt were reasonably attractive, but that was about it.
However these were minor distractions in comparison with the general glory of the exhibition.
There were several of the costumes there – and they were utterly wonderful. In most cases, natural fabrics were used. They had Galadrials dress and cloak - stunningly beautiful, silk and bugle beads, with a glorious silver and mother of pearl clasp across the breast. They had two of Arwens costumes - the "requiem dress" - which was a kind of plum silk velvet, with long organza silk sleeves and silver embroidery around the neck. Even more attractive, as far as I was concerned, was Arwens riding costume - the one where she rides with Frodo. It’s made of the softest wearable, suede,layered in a dusty blue.
They had Aragorns Strider outfit. All suede, leather, wool, linen. It appears that Viggo wore it constantly - and even washed it himself - so that it would LOOK as though he really HAD worn it for years. I noticed a large puddle of drool on the ground around the figure wearing the costume, left I suspect by the many Aragorn fans who restlessly roam the various Tolkien internet forums dreaming of their hero!
The stitching and craftsmanship of all of these costumes and the armour was amazing. All the main character clothes looked infinitely comfortable and wearable. They had a hobbit costume from one of the body doubles, and costume examples from rohan, orcs, the Southroons, Elves - they also had Saurons Armour there – highly imposing on a 7’ figure. Sarumans costume was beautiful, Gandalfs was fantastically tactile. A clever little extra added - they had tiny wind machines to make the draperies on the costumes flutter and “live”.
What REALLY got me, was the attention to detail in the costumes, the armour and the weapons which was awe-inspiring. Where body doubles for the Hobbits were used, the weave in the material of the clothes was reduced in size so that it wouldn't look out of proportion . There were two packs for Sam - one full size, one sized for the body double. Complete with pans.
Some of the weapons were works of art - admittedly they'd used urethene in many - but in the "major" weapons, they used all real materials - real wood, steel, brass. And it showed - tooling, etching on blades, the bows - superb. Aiglios, the spear was utterly lovely as were Handirs weapons. I would love to have one of these wonderful pieces.
One of the elven boats was there, complete with Boromirs body, a remarkably life-like effigy (if you'll excuse the paradox). We stood there, waiting for the figure to open its eyes! The rings were all there, some of them looking rather disappointingly "plastic"; the One Ring itself was in a room separate from the main exhibition - in the "round" you walked in and there was flame all around the wall - voiceovers - and in the middle, a tall glass cylinder - in which was suspended the One Ring. It looked bigger than lifesize.
The documentaries were fascinating – probably much is/will be on the DVD but there were lots of lovely little snippets written on cards throughout the exhibition - e.g. regarding the horse that Aragorn rode - the one that nudges him, he formed such a close bond with the animal that he bought it after filming was finished.
I won’t say too much more about the documentaries because I’m sure that the DVDs will, as I say, hold information about them, including the fantastic “Massive” digital imaging software which I can only say, left me open mouthed with wonder.
Also wonderful was the section concerning prosthetics. It took 10 hours to make up the guy who played Lurtz. They had a glorious little film where they were working on him - he'd fallen asleep by this time and was snoring his head off!
My husband and I did the Gandalf/Frodo special effect on the wagon thing! We now have a photo of me, Hobbit size, sitting next to my husband, Gandalf size.
The quality of the items in the exhibition is, I believe, worthy of being housed in a museum in NZ on permanent display. I’ve been told that sets and props can look very tawdry or naff off a film. I can say, hand on heart that there was very little that could have fallen into those categories. I was looking at works of art yesterday and real craftsmanship; even the set piece of rolls and scrolls from Minas Tirith looked great. I felt as though I could have picked up a scroll and unrolling it, find it chock full of history or magical inscriptions.
Yes, it was a superb exhibition, but, greedy as I am - still NOT big enough! I wanted MORE!
However, having been and seen all of these wonderful things – it’s very easy to believe in Middle Earth. It has a history, a power, a life, almost a SMELL, of reality! As a colleague of mine who went to see the Exhibition a few weeks ago said: I felt privileged!"
POETRY
THESE BURST
Meara Brigantes into petals before my eyes
guise of blooming
assuming nothing more than feelings,
reeled inside my heart
art for the sake of flames.
blame will never do
too few roses, too many thorns
adorn thoughts of you
askew within this mind
finding a way to renew the parts.
starting down a path from chaos
loss of perspective, gain of time
signs remain the only clue,
blueness from charms
arms holding onto truth and love.
BLACK ROSES
Caileadair Etana I see a bouquet of black roses in my mind
Perfect dark buds tightly closed
Sugared with white frost so cold
Forest green leaves flaring out
Ebon thorns threatening blood.
I gave myself this gift long ago
Naively believed in its illusive beauty
Carried its fragrance of attar with me
Bearing the frost inside my heart
Pricking myself daily upon its thorns.
Ah, black roses!
What damage you did down the years
Though ever you remained unsullied
Petals frozen in a world of shadow
Which I could never penetrate.
You wonder where I am now
Why no longer am I under your spell
Blood flowing black upon the ice
Tears feeding your frenzied hunger
Soul lost in contemplation of your glory.
Do you not see that you are powerless?
I have enclosed you in a tomb of crystal
Where your perilous beauty can no longer harm
But will ever serve as reminder and warning.
I have created a new gift of roses
--and they are red with the richness of love
--yellow with the warmth of joy
--white with the purity of truth.
~Caileadair~
© 1/23/97
TIME
LuciusFlaccus Valerius What crueler thing
can there exist
then time?
The way it marches
on and on, forever
dooming us to the end.
There are no second chances
no opportunities to change
what has already occurred.
So unlike ourselves,
who edit and change
the things we make,
the things around us.
Time has never changed,
and will never change.
Time is what is,
was, and will be.
Godlike, inexerably
it marches on
with no account
of that which we hold
dearest –
ourselves.
-LVF
THREE CRIES OF THE HAMMERKOP
PART II OF II
AncientWorlds, Valeria Sergius Some ancients believed that in the same way humans can see their reflections mirrored in still water, a hammerkop bird can see reflections of the future, and knows who is shortly going to die. When the bird sees the image of a person with death overshadowing him, it will fly to the home of the doomed, and utter its three warning cries. The hammerkop will watch for the falling star which prophesies death, as it falls above the area of the dwelling in which someone is about to die. When it sees this star, it will fly over the abode venting its mournful cries. AFRICAN MYTH
Radama was true to his word. Around sundown, after her mother had sat with her and forced her to eat some soup and then left her to sleep, a creaking sound outside her window woke her from her restless nap. Radama peeked his head through the window, the ever present smile on his face.
“I told you not to worry. I am here. And I have a pousse-pousse waiting outside to carry you to the springs.”
Rana shook her head feebly. “I cannot. I do not have the strength any longer. Just let me go.”
“No!” Rana had never heard him speak so harshly. Even at his angriest, there was always a lilt underneath, his playfulness never far from the surface. But not now.
“Why should you care, Rad? You don’t even like me.”
“I do too like you!” he protested. “Which is why I’m going to take you right now to the healing waters. Then you shall grow up and grow beautiful…and then one day you will be my wife.”
If she could have laughed, she would have, but even the thought of laughing sapped her strength. There was no way she would ever marry the boy who toted trouble with him where ever he walked. Right now, he eased through her open window, stealthily moving so not to disturb her maman and sister.
She was surprised at how easily Rad lifted her off the bed. He carried her gingerly to the window, then deftly maneuvered her out. And as he said, the small rickshaw stood waiting, although it was missing a wheel and leaned to one side. He had made sure to take one that no one would even care to miss. He lowered her into the seat, then positioned himself in front of the vehicle and took up the poles. He managed to balance the rickshaw to keep the side with the missing wheel from scraping the ground.
The moon was high over the mountains as he pulled her over the rutted road, and the smell of spices from the now-closed market tinged the night air. It was cool, and she shivered since Rad had forgotten to bring her blanket.
Most of the villagers were inside their homes, eating their evening meals. A few men were gathered around the meeting hut where inside the owner served strong brew distilled from sugar canes. One of the men spotted Radama and waved.
“Manao ahoana, Radama. Where are you off to?” The words were slurred.
“I am going to the loharanos.
“Whaa, the springs? So far and at night? Boy, you need to get home ‘fore your Maman comes looking for you.”
“She already knows,” Radama said easily. Rana heard the lie and thought that Rad did not lie very well. Yet, the man said nothing else as Radama pulled her along. She wondered whether the man in his drunk even saw her.
The night got cooler as they entered the rainforest and she shivered with ague and fever. No one knew exactly what was wrong with her. The village doctor said that she had sickness of the lung and had given her medicines but they had not worked. And there was no money to take her to the big hospital in Antananarivo. Her maman sold flowers and spices at the mart to the tourists, but only made enough to buy seeds for their garden, a goat to milk, and cloth for dresses. This had been enough before her father left. Before she became sick. It would take a month’s worth of money just to bury her in the christened graveyard along with a marker to let the world know that there had once been a girl named Ranavalona Mokae.
In the distance, they heard lemurs moving through the trees. A breeze caused the tree fronds to whisper, and Rana thought she heard the voices of the ancestors beckoning her in the wind. She felt ready to go to them. A burst of leaves startled them as a bird flew from its branches; it cried three times.
They traveled for miles. She knew that by now her mother would have checked her room, found her gone. But they did not hear the cries of the villagers searching for them – not yet.
Now she could smell the sulphur from the hot springs. Saw the lights in the distance from the hotels where the tourists stayed who came to see the famous waters. They came to play in the water, to buy the precious gems formed in the caverns, to look at the pretty homes lining the large avenues where the rich lived. The tourists did not care to see the poor, to see the tin huts where they lived, to see the people who served them, who sold them their trinkets.
“We are here,” Radama said at last as he stopped the pousse-pousse as close to the water as safety allowed. He walked to where she sat.
“I have to place you in the water so you can be healed. It should make you feel good.” He lifted her from the rickshaw and carried her the few steps to the springs. He walked her into the water, all the time holding her as the waters closed over them up to their necks. Immediately, the heat of the springs began to take the chill away, to seep into her skin, her bones. Death seemed to take a few steps back. Maybe, to tease her this one last time.
The waters began to swell around them. Radama held her tightly. In the moonlight, his face was unsure, as though he was not certain what was happening.
“Rad,” she said without the breathlessness that had bothered her for weeks. “I’m scared.”
“It is OK. I won’t let anything happen to you, Rana. Just hold still and let the waters go through you.”
But even as he spoke, the current became a fast moving eddy surrounding them, pulling at them, as though it wanted to swallow them whole.
“Please, I want to go Rad. The water will kill us.”
“No, it will not. You’ll see. You will be whole again. I promise.” He held her tightly as she struggled against his grasp.
The water rose past their chins up to their noses. It rushed into her nostrils and filled her lungs. She was drowning! She fought like a gazelle, already dead between the devouring teeth of a tiger. But she needed to breathe one last time. She had to!
Suddenly, the water pushed out of her lungs into her throat and she began to cough violently. Water and blood poured from her mouth. She gagged as the torrent spewed back into the spring. She knew she was dying now. There was so much blood.
Then mercifully it was over. The water calmed and slowly went back down. She took a breath…a really deep breath. No longer was there that heavy band that had constricted her chest. Now the air felt crisp and clean as it moved easily in and out of her lungs. And she could move without the tiredness that had sapped her strength, making her feel old. The fever that had consumed her was gone.
“Rad…I…I am healed.” And she knew it was true.
They pulled themselves out of the spring. She didn’t need his help.
“Thank you, thank you so much Radama. I am going to live. The hammerkop was wrong.” She hugged him, then moved away embarrassed.
The boy smiled shyly, and reached over to kiss her cheek.
“So you will marry me one day?” he asked.
She smiled. “We shall see. You have to give my maman a good bride price.”
“Even better than this,” he countered.
“Yes. I am not cheap. Sohandra’s man is giving Maman many chickens and another goat. Plus jewels, also.” Then she remembered. “Maman! I must tell Maman! And Sohandra! They will be so happy! Let’s go home!”
Rana gladly walked the trek back to their village as Radama pulled the empty rickshaw. It had been months since she felt this strong. Her legs were as sturdy as they had once been. The night was no longer threatening, but a comfort, as it had witnessed the miracle of her healing, and the shelter of its cloak had made it all possible. She laughed at the moon in the sky, knowing that there would be more moons to come. No birds flew above, but even if there had been, she would have just laughed anyway. A star burst, then fell from the sky.
When they arrived back at the village, the dawn was just emerging over the mountains. The morning air was crisp, but no longer cold. The day would be warm, welcoming. Already along the way, the merchants were setting up their wares under the white umbrellas. Soon the tourists would be straddling in on their pousse-pousses, looking for things to buy. She knew Maman would be too worried now to be heading to market, sure that something would have happened to her. But once Maman saw her walking, saw her standing and talking and laughing…
Both children approached her hut carefully, not sure what to expect. But no one was standing in the doorway. All was quiet. Maybe Maman had gone to their neighbors in search of her.
They entered, and she heard her Maman sobbing from her room.
She walked to her room, ready to comfort her worried mother, to tell her everything was all right now…then stopped in the doorway.
On her bed, where hours before she had lain dying, Sohandra now lay still, her beauty frozen in death. Rana’s heart stopped. Maman sat in the chair next to the bed, her body shaking with sobs. Some of the neighbor women stood around the bed, Lona among them.
“Maman” Rana whispered. “What happened….”
Her mother turned, tears streaming down her face. “Rana, where were you?! We looked everywhere when we found you gone. We went to the neighbors, not knowing where you could go….”
Rana pointed, her shock making her reborn body stiff. She felt Radama’s hand on her shoulders. “How…”
“We looked for you in the night. Sohandra was walking towards the trees…I told her that you couldn’t have walked that far, but she was desperate to find you. A bird cried and startled her. She fell and hit her head on a rock. She got up…and seemed all right except for a small gash on her head. She walked back to the house and went straight for your room…and then the bird cried through the window…three times…and then she fell onto the bed…and did not move again. Never again.”
Rana could see the gash now, the dried blood that marred the smoothness of her sister’s skin. She walked slowly, as though in a trance, pushing past the neighbor women, who were also crying. Sohandra, beautiful Sohandra, seemed even more beautiful now. Rana touched her sister’s face. It was cool.
Tears flowed from her own eyes as she realized too late that every blessing comes with a price. Outside, a bird cried three times, then cried no more.
THE END
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EDITORIAL
Maximius Flavius
DRIBBLING THROUGH THE LORD OF THE RINGS EXHIBITION - LONDON
Andabairhta Gunthigg
POETRY CORNER
THREE CRIES OF THE HAMMERKOP
Valeria Sergius
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