#use a pestle and mortar to create medicine in some stories so that could work...???? but its not as well known i think | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elisajdb · 3 years

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GoChi Week 2021: A Fulfilled Life: Part Two

GoChi Week 2021

A Fulfilled Life

Day Two Prompt: Romantic @gochi-week

Goku added another log of wood to the dying fire. The flames grew twice its size from the thick log. Goku hoped that will be enough. It was the last one. He could go out and get more firewood but he promised to stay here and watch Celia. When Goku made a promise, he kept it.

Celia laid nearby on a futon wrapped in a blanket. Her sudden coughing had Goku rushing to her side. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

Celia cleared her hoarse throat. “You’re so kind. If I were well, I would cook you a meal. Seeing you eat, always makes me happy. You’re so adorable.”

“Adorable?”

“It means kind; you make people feel good. No one has reacted the way you have to my cooking.” Celia’s sickly smile was tender. “You eat every morsel and you’re always hungry for more. You’re special.”

Goku was used to being called names. Most were of criticism. Very rare he received praised for being himself and he received a lot from Celia. Celia was a kind woman. She fed him yummy meals and mended his clothes. When she fell ill, Goku did all he could to accommodate her. Goku never got sick but saw it happen to Master Roshi, Krillin and Lunch but Celia appeared sicker. Last night she was burning up and this morning she woke with chills and couldn’t move from her futon. If something wasn’t done soon, she’ll die and Goku didn’t want that to happen to a kind woman like Celia.

The cabin door burst open. A man in a bearskin coat, matching hat, knitted scarf and gloves walked in. He had a large sack over his right shoulder and logs of wood under his left arm. He kicked the door shut to keep the cold air out.

“How’s Celia, Goku?”

Goku took the logs of wood from the burly, bearded man. He stacked them by the fireplace. “Still sick. She looks really bad, Silas.”

Silas set down his sack and removed his hat and scarf as he approached Celia. Goku stared at the two confused. Celia was ill but the way Celia and Silas smiled at each other reminded Goku of those weird movies blue-haired Lunch loved to watch. She always cried watching them. Silas touched Celia’s forehead with his gloved hand. “You’re burning up again. Sorry I took so long to get back to you.”

Goku saw Celia wrap her sweaty hands around Silas’s gloved one. Celia didn’t allow any direct touching in fear she will spread her sickness to him and Silas. “You’re here now, Silas.”

“I have the medicine to cure you. I’ll make it now.” Silas grabbed his heavy bag and carried it to the kitchen. “I’ll need your help, Goku.” Silas placed the bag on the table. Goku climbed onto the seat and stood on it to peer inside the bag Silas opened.

A foul stench latched itself onto Goku’s nose. He covered his nose with his hands to protect himself but the strong scent penetrated his hands. “Yuck! What stinks?”

Silas pulled out a variety of green and color plants and wet, squishy dark red organs. “This is medicine for Celia, Goku. These plants are medicinal herbs: yellow root, echinacea, elderberry, hyssop, lemongrass and catnip. This squishy flesh is liver from bear and boar. It’s all around these mountains. It’s better than the chemical medicines used in the big cities.”

The foul stench made Goku’s head hurt. “It stinks!”

Silas grabbed a mortar and pestle. “It does. City medicines don’t have a stench. Chemicals are used to drown the smell. It makes their medicine less effective.” Silas placed the yellow root in the mortar. He began mashing it with the pestle. “Watch and learn, Goku. You may have to use this to cure someone you love one day.”

Goku wiped the sweat off his forehead. He did everything from memory: mashed the plants he collected in the mortar and pestle until they were fine crumbs, drained the blood from the bear and boar liver and boil for an hour; transfer the livers in another pot and boil again for another hour with the crushed herbs.

While that cooked, Goku made chicken soup from a recipe in the cooking books ChiChi sometimes used. He mentally thanked ChiChi for showing him to use appliances and kitchen utensils a year ago when Gohan was a newborn and she needed extra help around the house. The soup was finished an hour before the medicine was ready. Goku spent that time cleaning the kitchen. It was a mess with dirt and animal blood on the floor and table. The counter was covered with messy bowls and stains of food. If ChiChi saw this mess, she’ll kill him. Grabbing a soapy towel, Goku started his big clean. He occasionally looked up to check on Gohan in the other room.

The two-year-old sat on the sofa, clutching his stuffed rabbit engrossed with the talking animals on TV. He was wide awake. After Goku fed Gohan breakfast, he placed Gohan in a carrier and attached him on his back. He’ll take it to his grave he gathered herbs and killed wild animals while Gohan napped on his back. It was either take Gohan with him or leave him unattended at home while ChiChi slept. ChiChi was so ill she couldn’t get out of bed so Goku made a hasty decision. It was all for ChiChi’s health but Goku knew ChiChi wouldn’t see it that way if she knew the truth.

Goku finished mopping the floor when the timer on the stove beeped. Goku turned off the shrilled sound. He raised the lid off the pot. “Ugh!” he groaned. The scent was putrid. “Guess it’s ready.”

Goku filled a mug of the smelly brew. Remembering Silas’ final instructions, he sprinkled cinnamon and stirred to mute the foul scent. Now it was time for the final test. Goku blew on the mug. His lips touched the top of the mug but before he could taste the liquid contents, Goku pulled back.

“Argh!” The cinnamon didn’t help at all! “It still smells like dookie!”

Pinching his nose, Goku sipped the liquid and quickly spat it out. Still bitter and foul; exactly as it should be.

Goku heard ChiChi coughing heavily as he entered their bedroom. He cautiously walked in carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a mug with a saucer plate covering it. “ChiChi, I got something for you.”

ChiChi groaned as she pulled the covers off her face. She felt as if she was hit by a truck. Her body ached, her head throbbed and her throat was sore. ChiChi sat up and pushed her messy hair back. She thought she was delirious. Goku held a tray of food. Was this for her? “Did you cook?”

Goku placed the tray on the nightstand. “Just medicine and soup.” Goku handed ChiChi the mug.

“Medicine?” ChiChi noticed the mug had a saucer plate over it. She lifted the saucer, “Why is this…. Ugh!” ChiChi closed it. “It’s ghastly. What is this?”

“Medicine. Drink it. It stinks but it will make you better. I promise.”

ChiChi removed the saucer and immediately recoiled. “Urrgh! How do you know it will make me better?” ChiChi sipped and pulled back. She shuddered as some of the liquid went down her throat. “I taste yellow root and lemongrass. Ugh. This smells like a dead animal.”

Goku knew ChiChi would throw the mug back at him if she knew liver from boar and bear helped created this concoction. “Fresh stuff and herbs I picked outside. When I trained for the 22nd tournament, I met Silas and Celia. They live in the mountains south of Yunzabit Heights. I got the recipe from them.”

“Who are Silas and Celia?”

“A married couple. I was living outside when Silas found me hunting dinner. It was winter and he didn’t think it was right for a kid to be living outside. I told him I can take care of myself but he insisted and invited me to his home for a meal. I stayed with them for a month before I moved on. Grandpa taught me some things, too, but I forgot. Silas showed me what plants to pick, what to eat and how to create herbs to season any meat I hunt. When Celia got sick, he made medicine with plants and stuff around his home.”

ChiChi looked skeptically at the mug. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Goku nodded. “It stinks but Celia was better the next day. She’s a nice lady. She made a lot of yummy food for me and fixed my clothes whenever I tore them. I think she was really nice to me because she and Silas didn’t have kids.”

ChiChi stared at the putrid liquid. After hearing that story, there was no way she could reject this. She pinched her nose and drunk the hot, smelly liquid in four gulps. She made a gagging sound as she handed the empty mug to Goku. “I hope it works.” She rubbed her throat. The aftertaste was horrific!

“Time for the good stuff,” Goku said as he handed ChiChi the soup.

This pleasing smell of the hot soup made ChiChi’s mouth water. “Is this my reward for drinking the stinky medicine?”

“Yup. Silas did this for Celia, too.”

“And you’re doing this for me,” she whispered. For several moments, ChiChi stared at the soup.

When she tasted it, Goku saw tears roll down ChiChi’s cheeks. “What?” he panicked. “Is it bad? Did I put too much salt?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong,” ChiChi sniffed. “This is so sweet. I didn’t know you were a romantic, Goku.”

“Romantic?” Goku knew that word. It always tied with flowers and doing nice gestures. Romantic didn’t tie to medicine and food. “I just made medicine and soup.”

“You did,” ChiChi cried, “but it’s more than that. You remembered something years ago to take care of me.”

“Yeah?” Goku drawled slowly still not seeing what he did as romantic. It was practical. ChiChi’s sick and Goku thought of some medicine he felt will cure her. How was that romantic?

ChiChi stirred the hot soup with a spoon before taking a bite. “Mmm,” she moaned. This was so good and what she needed to wash down the nasty medicine! “Delicious. This is the best soup I’ve ever tasted!”

“It is?” Goku tasted it. It was okay but not as good as the soup ChiChi makes. Maybe this cold weakened ChiChi’s sense of taste.

ChiChi wasn’t sure if the medicine was working but her mood was lifting at the wonderful gesture of her sweet and romantic husband. “Where’s Gohan? Did you feed him this wonderful soup, too?”

“Not the soup but Gohan’s already eaten breakfast and lunch. He’s watching TV now.”

ChiChi groaned. Gohan was only allowed an hour of TV time a day and she knew Goku broke that rule. “Did you put Gohan in front of the TV all day?”

“Yeah,” Goku knew ChiChi would be upset with that, “but he’s watching those educational videos. I had to distract him while I made your medicine and soup.”

“Okay.” ChiChi accepted that excuse. After this sweet gesture from her husband, ChiChi couldn’t be mad at Goku today.

Goku kept ChiChi company until she finished her meal. When he left, the concoction of the medicine finally got to her. She fell asleep at three in the afternoon and didn’t awaken until thirteen hours later.

Her throat wasn’t sore; her nose wasn’t stuffy, her body didn’t ache. She didn’t feel sick at all.

The medicine worked.

For the first time in two days, ChiChi got out of bed. She felt great! She was so happy to be strong enough to cook and clean again for her family, and after the way Goku took care of her, ChiChi wanted to give him a big meal and later tonight, show her thanks in her own personal way.

However, with Goku running the house these last two days, ChiChi knew she had a big task on her hands. Her house. Her kitchen. How much of a mess did Goku leave for her?

To ChiChi’s surprise, the kitchen was spotless. The floor was mopped clean. There were no food stains on the table, counter or refrigerator. All the dishes were put away in their correct spots. ChiChi was impressed. Goku was never this clean. The few times Goku cooked, ChiChi was left to clean the tsunami mess he left behind.

ChiChi went to the living room next. This was Goku’s bedroom for the last two days. When she became ill, ChiChi kicked Goku out of their bedroom. She didn’t want to risk him getting sick. If she and Goku were sick, who will care for Gohan? The television was off but the lamplight was still on. This room wasn’t as neat as the kitchen but ChiChi’s heart melted as she understood why. Goku slept on the sofa with Gohan on his chest. Her baby’s tiny hands clutched Goku’s shirt as he peacefully slept. An opened baby book was sprawled over Goku’s face and papers were on the floor. ChiChi knelt and picked up the papers. They were folded like a card. ChiChi opened one. Her eyes watered at the words inside.

‘Get well soon, Mommy!’ With it, was a crude drawing of their happy family. Gohan could write some letters but they weren’t completely legible and he couldn’t form words yet. Goku’s education was limited but he did know how to read and write basic words and he wrote the following notes on the makeshift card.

Mommy always takes care of Daddy and me.

She gives good baths and makes yummy food.

When Mommy is sick, Daddy takes over.

Because Daddy loves Mommy like Silas loves Celia.

ChiChi clutched the card to her chest and softly wept.

Oh, Goku. You are a romantic.

#Gochiweek #Gochi week #gochiweek2021 #Goku #ChiChi #GoChi #fanfic #Day Two Prompt #Romantic #ssj4 goku

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weaselle · 4 years

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Let’s talk about Witchcraft!

I used to pal around with people who considered themselves witches and pagans. California is a great place for finding people of a similar mindset, and I began a journey into what I then considered witchcraft with books by Aleister Crowley and a skill with tarot cards. Later, I celebrated a year’s worth of Sabbats with a group I joined in Germany. In Alabama I helped a couple people who were struggling with leaving christianity remain connected to a natural spiritualism through concepts such as the Lord and Lady. But my personal witching identity never truly fell in line with Wiccan paganism.

My grandmother had Gifts, I’ve written about them before. She had The Voice and she had True Dreams and some kind of Sight, all of which I personally witnessed before she passed. I share the same birthmark as she, and, present at my birth, she pronounced some kind of minor prophecy regarding me when she saw the mark. My mother died when I was very young and nobody else took it seriously enough to remember this ‘prophecy’; Grandma herself when she recounted the story seemed to feel telling me her actual words would... not be a good idea.

I have my own variation of her gifts, more like Charm than Voice I would say; nothing special about my dreams when I have them at all, definitely some kind of Sight. But these gifts are not the kind of thing that are controlled or used on purpose, and, at least in my own family, come rarely into our lives. Altogether I have had noticeable access to these gifts perhaps ten times in my 40+ years.

However, I have developed a brand of practical witchcraft that suits me and seems more (not to be dismissive of other folks but) more real than what I was participating in when I was spending time with wiccan flavored witchery. Perhaps an example is in order. Let us consider the Athame, the witch’s blade.

Most of the people I’ve known to have an Athame have had some silly ceremonial decorative thing. Some chrome plated jagged shaped enormous monstrosity, and they only use it ten times a year to salute the 4 directions and ritualistically sacrifice some cheese or whatever.

But witchcraft is old. The OLDEST magic, the FIRST magic -- witching is older than the very concept of a decorative knife. Witchcraft, in my opinion, is a very practical practice.

My own Athame is my chef’s knife.

I use it every day. I know its weight, the feel of it in my hand, I’m skilled with it, I care for it daily, sharpening, cleaning; it feeds me, a part of almost every dinner I eat. If I lost it I would feel as though I lost a part of myself. I can use it to create things that will, for example, win over a romantic partner’s family (let’s be honest, cooking and witchcraft are closely tied together). It is well suited to butchering a small animal, if I was the kind of witch that did animal sacrifice, this is the knife I would use.

This, to me, is a witch’s blade.

The rest of a witch’s tool box is just as practical. Knife, music, wand, chalice, candle, pentacle. Other witch’s tools are basically these same things, much the way a torch is basically a big candle. Mystical as they may seem in a modern setting, these things are, in their purest form, simply the things you would need to be different than an animal, and survive as a human being in the wild.

You have fire (candle). A musical sound (bell is often simplest but plenty of witch kits substitute a flute, or a small drum, or some other simple instrument). A pentacle is little more than a flat work surface, like a cutting board, which is far more rare and valuable than we take it for if you live in the wild. And lets talk about the chalice and wand.

A wand is a stick. Possibly the first multi-purpose tool humans ever regularly used. You can use it to dig tubers. Draw diagrams in the dirt. Stir a stew or poke a fire. It extends your reach when getting fruit from trees or poking into holes for small edible creatures. A spear is, at its base concept, a large wand (the chimpanzees we’ve observed making and using spears are mostly mothers btw). And there are two reasons I suspect one might attach significance to waving a stick around in the air.

1: if you see a group of people talking and gesturing, but one of them is gesturing with some kind of stick, that one is in charge or has some special say in things. Right? I mean obviously there will be exceptions, but that basic observation is pretty true. In this way, it confers an invisible power.

2: if you are entering an old holy place, one that you only enter a few times a year, some kind of cave, or small grove, or temple... I can tell you from experience you’re probably going to want to find a stick and wave it around in front of you, around the entire space. Or you’re going to get that icky startle you feel when you catch a strand of spiderweb to the face. Imagine how that whole process might look to someone who doesn’t know what’s happening.

But there’s something else about a wand. A classic wand will have a pointy end (of obvious use in a variety of situations) and a thicker blunt end. This is not just for grip. That blunt end can combine with the chalice or cup to be a mortar and pestle. Now your wand, knife, chalice and candle are really coming together, because when you are done making whatever it is with the knife and mortar and pestle (probably on the surface of your pentacle) you can hang your chalice over the candle and heat it. This is how a witch might make a medicinal tea, or potion.

Sometimes, one might attach something to the tip of the wand to specialize it, so a wand might have a rounded riverstone that would be a greater pestle. Or it might have a crystal that can make fire from sunlight. Or it might have a gem with a point hard enough to inscribe things on stones. All manner of things. Practical Things, though, is what I’m saying. Things that would have bordered on magic when the first humans had access to these tools.

So that for the tools. But what about Spells?

I don’t know how witching on the internet works. I’m old. But I’m going to tell you how a money spell I’ve used works, and that will give you an insight into my brand of witching and magic maybe. What you do is, you put a container on your altar (you have an altar. No, you DO. It’s either that place your keys and wallet always wind up, or the desk you do your creating at, or the spot next to the stove that’s supposed to be clear space but your cutting board and favorite knife is always there in front of jars of your favorite seasonings even though technically all that stuff has other places they are supposed to be kept. Sadly it might be your TV. These places fill altar functions. Unless you have a specially designated altar somewhere else already, of course) ANYway, you take a container, the bigger it is the stronger the spell but also the more time and effort it will take. Anyway, you put it on your altar. You stand in front of your altar and you make a solemn promise to put every penny you find there, in that container. Only literal penny coins, mind you. You vow to fill it to overflowing. You get an image in your head of what that looks like, and you concentrate on that, and you dedicate yourself to arriving in a universe in which this image is a reality. Basically, by spending time and energy on the promise, you make yourself take it seriously. You decide what you will do with those pennies. Be standing there making your penny collecting vow when you decide on that thing. It must be a whole thing, don’t add them to other money for anything, and don’t spend them on things you already set money aside for regularly; ideally you pair what you are doing with those pennies to concepts of reward and/or sacrifice. So you could vow to take them to a wishing fountain and throw them all in yourself or give them to other people to make wishes, or decide to take them all to a dessert place you like but rarely go to, and spend them on your favorite dessert they have for you or your bestie (fountain or cake, you walk away from spending them without owning anything more than when you started - hence an aspect of sacrifice… eating the pennies as cake or throwing them out as an offering is the same as burning them in a fire in many ways) And - this is important - you think about how money is desirable and vital enough that even the smallest possible increment, the lowly penny, is still worth handling and saving and spending in a planned and disciplined fashion. You THINK about that. Then you go about your life. But as you do so, you pick up and pocket every single penny you see. Pennies are worth so little, that we would often rather dump one in the garbage than pick through the dustpan to save it, but that’s not you anymore. Now, you will cross the street to pick one up out of the gutter if you see one. You’ll still put your change in the tip jar, but you’ll hold back the pennies. The more crazy into this you are, the stronger the spell… top-tier witches doing this spell would wade waist deep in cow poop to acquire a single shit-stained penny. You’re on a mission. You’ve made a promise. And you’re witching. When you get home with these pennies, at some point you’ll put them in the container on your altar. Each time you do, because of how brains work, you’ll be reminded of your promise. You’ll see your vision of overflowing coins again. You’ll imagine how fun the wishing fountain is going to be, or how delicious the cake is going to taste. And - this is important - you’ll think about how money is so desirable and vital that that even the smallest possible increment is worth handling and saving and spending in a planned and disciplined fashion. It may take you weeks to fill the container. It may take you months. But when you are done, when you have completed your vow, dispense the pennies as you planned. Don’t forget to give it extra time here. Look lovingly at the vision you have manifested, at the overflowing container when you have filled it. Feel the weight of it. Count them, roll them, recognize specific pennies that look different, think about pennies you collected in memorable ways. Fill yourself with pride and satisfaction, and carry that feeling with you to the fountain, to the dessert shop. Let your planned activity at that place magnify those feelings, reinforce those feelings. This is the culmination of the spell, the fireball leaving the tip of the wand -- experience the wonder and power of what you have done. See, true witching is, at its heart, extremely practical. It’s just a way for a human being to use intuition to reach truths housed in the dark mystery of our beings that science is only recently able to shed some light on. Things like how wearing clothes you perceive as “tough” will actually make you produce more “tough” chemicals like testosterone and adrenaline (according to studies that measured hormone levels of people switching between wearing leather jackets and pink dresses) or how if you BELIEVE a substance is medication, it can have some curative effects even if it’s just a sugar pill (placebos). Witching is often just working with these realities without access to detailed knowledge of all the science behind it.

Anyhow, when this spell is done, you will see money differently. Your spending habits will be different. You’ll think about money differently. Throwing your change in the tip jar won’t be a mindless activity, and maybe it makes you realize how little you’re actually putting in there and you wind up spending more money on tips than you used to - that’s okay, that’s good, the fact is, the thing you are doing with that money, how you chose to allocate your change from buying a cup of coffee, that is no longer an activity that you don’t really pay attention to; you put thought into it now. Money will have more value, now that not only are you WILLING to pick though dirt for a single cent, but it is actually habit to do so if you see one. Now something is no longer “just a dollar” it is ONE HUNDRED CENTS, and you have a visceral understanding of how much each of those cents is worth to you. And - this is important - you have completed an exercise in money management, wherein you dedicated to a planned expenditure, saved up the necessary funds, and followed through, laying paths in your neural network that take long enough to become habit and end in reward experience (it doesn’t have to be cake, simply completing your plan will give you the reward feelings, like finishing a video game level). You did this without having to change your finances, expenditures, or budget. It was just pennies, it wasn’t like when you try to save for a vacation and the saving is like a new bill you struggle to pay. This fit into your budget like it was nothing. Like it was extra money from nowhere, like it was… magic. The effects will keep spreading, rippling, transforming your life, your RELATIONSHIP with money will have been transformed, in a way too big to fully understand all implications - maybe people see a change in how you are with money and become more likely to trust you with it, more willing to loan you some when you need it. Maybe this will have filled you with ideas for other money management goals and the confidence to see them through and who knows where that will lead you? There is so much mystery and interconnection in this universe, the effects may well be long lasting and incredibly impactful. And that’s how a witch does a money spell. imo. Obviously, if you’ve read the first part of this post, you know I’m not saying this is how all magic works, or that there is no true mystery -- after all, did i not get suddenly taken to a casino for 15 minutes one morning so Grandma could win that poker jackpot with a royal flush in clubs that her late husband told her about in a dream? Clearly there is a great mysticism in the universe. But in my experience, much of the day to day experience of life and magic for a witch is rooted in practical practices.

Now go have fun darlings, and make magic happen

#witching #witchcraft #witch #witchery

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epic-summaries · 5 years

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Animals in Mythology- Rabbits and the Moon

I just want to compare these stories.

Story 1 - Moon Rabbit in Asian Mythologies

This is a story originally from Chinese mythology but it has variants from other surrounding cultures which each have their little differences. (Here my main source is from the Jataka Tales, which is originally in Sanskrit and the Buddhist version. I used it because it uses Indra and I like Indra.)

So, rabbit and his friends decided to make a feast*. Monkey gathers a bunch of mangoes, otter gets fish. Jackal gets a lizard and stolen milk-curds*. And rabbits? He could get grass but he felt bad about that. Everyone had brought such great food! What food does a rabbit have? He had rabbit meat, that’s the answer.

So, Indra* disguised as an ascetic comes to the feast. Rabbit does his thing and throws himself into a fire. However, Indra was ready for rabbit and rabbit did not burn!* Indra was like, “the fact that you would sacrifice yourself to feed us is virtuous.” Then he creates the picture of the rabbit in the moon. Guess what, the rabbit is a previous life of Gautama Buddha.*

Differences in the versions, I feel like every line has a caveat. But in every version the core story is the same, just different details.

1. In the Jataka version it’s because it’s Uposatha Day, others it’s because a stranger comes to their house and they want to feed their guest

2. The animals friends may differ in different versions

3. Indra, Cheng’e or insert local moon deity

4. Other versions have Rabbit actually dies

5. In most other versions and specifically the East Asian versions, the rabbit is sent to the moon and now he pounding with a mortar and pestle. And chilling with the local moon deity He’s either making medicine, rice cakes or the elixir of life. I love rice cakes but the elixir to life seems more thematically appropriate. The rabbit becomes immortal because of his sacrifice, so let’s make the thing that can make others immortal.

Story 2 - Aztec Mythology

Story 2. A. Quetzalcoatl one

So this one is super similar to the Asian myth.

So, local nice deity, Quetzalcoatl, is walking around as a man (for reasons he’s not our normal feathered serpent). He gets hungry and tired and thirsty. He is about to die! So, a rabbit hops along an decided you can eat me! This way Quetzalcoatl doesn’t die. Quetzalcoatl so moved by this takes rabbit and tells her that humans will always remember you and I will put your image on the moon.

Story 2. B - Tecciztecatl

So, this is a part of a much longer story. What you need to know, the gods have been trying to create the sun and have been failing. This is try number 5.

So everyone likes Nanahuatzin. He is humble and brave and decides to throw himself in fire to become the new sun. (Okay?) But Tecciztecatl really wanted to be the sun! Tecciztecatl hesitated four times before jumping in the fire. Well, now they are stuck with two suns. Damn. Well no one really likes Tecciztecatl and he was a cowards… hmm… let’s throw a rabbit at him so he’s not as bright as Nanahuatzin. And I have questions. A. Why a rabbit? B. Was the poor rabbit just there? C. How does that work? I can’t throw something at a source of light and it dims. Especially a fire! D. Just why?

Anyway, I also read somewhere about Aztec Mythology that the moon was just the decapitated head of the lunar deity, so I like to think that the rabbit hit Tecciztecatl in the face. And he had such a WTF face.

So that’s why there is an imprint of a rabbit on the moon and why the moon is dimmer than the sun.

Story 3 - Rabbit and Crane in Cree Mythology

And it’s the last one.

Rabbit wanted to ride the moon. (There’s a reason so many kids want to be astronauts.) So Crane is like I’ll bring you there! Rabbit is like Yay! Crane flies to the moon but things start happening to Crane’s body. His legs become longer, because Rabbit was holding his legs. (Which I imagine Rabbit holding for dear life while Crane flies like some fire jet.) When they get to the moon, Rabbit climbs up, touches Crane’s head with a bloody paw, and touches the moon. (How did he get a bloody paw? And btw that’s why Crane’s have a red mark.)

On a clear night you can see Rabbit and Crane flying to the moon.

And that is why cranes look the way they do.

This story reminds me of the Mantis and the Moon from Africa.

Previous post in series: St. Guinefort and the loyal mongoose

#rabbit #the moon #jade rabbit #rabbit on the moon #queztalcoatl #chinese mythology #buddhist mythology #japanese mythology #korean mythology #asian mythology #aztec mythology #cree mythology

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osmw1 · 6 years

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Poison-Wielding Fugitive Chapter 22

“Father, is there anything else that you need?” “I’m alright for this here now. But the next batch will be a bit tricky, so I’ve got to get started on it soon.”

The trembling apothecary replies with a cough interspersed. That’s a little worrying.

“I’ll help out too.”

I begin tidying the messed-up room. Arleaf watches her dad so that she can make his work easier, even if only a bit. A coughing fit interrupts his work, but he soldiers on. He blends herbs both poisonous and not, along with some dried monster organs all together with his mortar and pestle. He then distills and boils the mixture, but the lengthy and complicated process still isn’t finished. During a break in their work, I meet Arleaf’s mother for the first time. She walked out to the shop from her bedroom.

“Haa… haa…” “Mother. Hold on, okay?”

Arleaf wipes the cold sweat off her mom’s face, wrings out the towel, and places it on her forehead to cool her down. I take a peek at Arleaf’s mom. I can see where Arleaf gets her good looks from. There’s a red spot around her collarbone… I see a petal.

A single petal… and according to Veno, she dies if the petal disappears. It’s no laughing matter anymore. There’s no way they didn’t notice her condition until now. While we wait for the medicine to be finished, I can only hope both Arleaf’s parents get better after taking it.

I’m not here to watch them work; I help out with the compounding. Seems like they’ve gotta turn a bunch of different ingredients into medicine. And after helping out at Arleaf’s home for a few hours…

“Almost done.”

Arleaf’s dad mutters out while holding back his coughs.

‘How baffling… that would only halt its progression but not completely cure the person of the disease. Does he want to test the vitality of the patients?’

What?! Why would they make something like that? Didn’t you say that they can easily recover if they take their meds?

‘Judging by that man’s work, it looks as though he knows not how to make medicine to treat Bloodflower… aye, it seems not all humans have found a cure.’

Hold on, Veno. You’re saying the cure isn’t common knowledge?

‘If that is the finished product, then indeed, I think he knows not.’

… that reminds me, Veno even knows how to make stamina recovery potions.

‘Perhaps, that is how the apothecary makes his money. By selling his symptomatic treatment and not curing the cause, he will have an unending source of income.’

No way he’d do that. Never mind himself, that’s his wife who’s been infected. That kind of profiteering just doesn’t make sense.

‘I wonder. Humans are greedy animals. There are humans that can simply abandon the sick, even if they are blood-related. For example, if a man wants another woman, his first wife becomes a nuisance.’

You’re cold. Why are humans such despicable creatures to you, Veno? You’re normally brimming with curiosity, and so I even go out of my way to tell you about things…

‘…’

He stays silent after hearing me out. However it may be, Veno, do you know how to make a proper cure? If you do, tell me and I’ll advise them.

‘By doing so, thou art beckoning misfortune upon thyself. Even I would avoid doing so. Dost thou recognize the risk of this action?’

… what do you mean by that?

‘Thou wilt not be recognized for thine efforts if thou should fail. We shall be driven out of this village.’

How awful for you to speak like that. I’m trying to do what I can to save these people. How can I do nothing and watch them suffer?

‘That medicine depends on the fortitude of the patient. There is a chance of survival; there is no need to be pessimistic.’

I can’t stand such a cold-hearted idea of prioritizing my own survival.

‘Thou… I do not disagree with thine feelings. In fact, I find it very noble. However… I have experienced how foolish humans can be, thus the reason for my advice.’

But I haven’t heard a single damn reason from you! How the hell am I supposed to understand anything?

‘Hah… listen then. Hear my advice then extend thine hand. I fear the burden of the repercussions will be too heavy for thee. I ask thee to refrain from making a hasty decision.’

A hasty decision?

‘Aye. Saving others will incur an appropriate liability. Should thou fail, they will hesitate not to turn upon thee. It matters not whether our intentions are good or not, they will come for thine head.’

Veno begins to explain. Once, there was a person trying to find a cure to the epidemic. By chance, he concocted a potion that was effective and shared it with the people closest to him. The ones who received help were thankful to him. Unfortunately, the cure he created was by accident. He was not able to eradicate the disease. Once the story of how he found a cure spread out, others surrounded him desperately demanded him to recreate the cure. Of course, he had no more cure to offer. He tried reasoning that he had only unexpectedly stumbled upon a working formula.

Those who clung to that small glimmer of hope found nothing in return. Anything else they did was rash and thoughtless, Veno lamented. This is the guy that spread the disease around, isn’t he? I bet that bunch bought their cure for an unimaginable amount of money! That’s right, they’re his accomplices. That makes them no better than him.

They’re witches—no, demons! Let’s get them! We’ll hunt them witches! Try them all!

The family of the dead arm themselves and lynch the ones who were saved. The ones who were saved were branded as witches…

‘… a long time ago, I was given a record of pharmaceutical insight. I spoke with this person and learned that he was repenting for living. Repenting, as the others who were not so lucky had shifted their blame on him, making him a scapegoat.’

… Veno must have a point in telling me all this. Man is bound to commit acts of foolishness. I can deduce that he’s trying to tell me that I could possibly hurt the innocent.

‘Thus, if I teach thee how to create a cure, thou ought to take responsibility. Ascertain whether thou can and should.’

… I can’t half-ass this. I really have to do this well and follow through with it.

‘I have come to be fond of thee. Hence I wish not to see thee needlessly hurt.’

I believe him. Really, that kind of thing isn’t out of the realm of possibility. What if I give people a hope but can’t follow through with it? That’s scary to think of. Not to mention, I’m a nobody. They’re just some village people from a strange and unknown parallel world.

“…”

Suddenly, I had a flashback of everything that had happened since I came here. Arleaf saved me, helped me complete quests, and got me a good rate at the inn. And though this village may be rather quiet, people took me in. Everyone’s been warm and cordial to me. To think that I could emotionally wall them off and think about my survival first…

I was only staying here to train and develop myself before the pursuers get to me. The swamp was simply convenient for me. I can make all these excuses, but I can’t excuse the fact that everyone treated me well. I chuckle a little at Veno.

‘What is it? Is something funny?’

I’m a wanted criminal because of you. If I do good, then they’ll have less of a reason to pursue us. That means I should help them out to fulfill my childish sense of justice. Even if Veno’s medicine doesn’t work, it doesn’t change a thing. I’d rather regret doing something than regret not doing anything at all.

‘Good grief… well, we have become stronger. Thou need only to do thine best. However, if others seem to do anything foolish, thou must follow my orders. Thou must protect thyself against any possible dangers.’

Suppose the villagers do anything foolish like Veno said, I have to listen to what Veno tells me to do to survive. I pray for that day never to come.

‘Then, I shall teach thee how to create a remedy for Bloodflower. Listen closely.’

Gotcha. As Arleaf’s father completes the finishing touches on his medicine, I grab the bowl he was planning to use.

“That won’t heal this disease.” “Hah? What are you sayin’, Cohgray?” “Yukihisa?”

Arleaf’s father glares at me with doubtful eyes while Arleaf worriedly watches us.

“You know that too, don’t you? This will only alleviate the symptoms of Bloodflower and nothing more. It depends on the patient’s system to fight the disease.” “… ah. But as everyone knows, this is the only thing that works against Bloodflower.” “I know of a cure for Bloodflower. I didn’t think it had spread this far, so I was a bit shocked is all.” “The hell you sayin’? If you’re going to screw around, then get the hell out of—cough cough cough.”

The instant the man looked at me when I interrupted him, his face flushed red with anger, only to be cut off by his violent coughing. I took the opportunity to bare his chest. Only one petal of blood remains.

His condition is as bad as his wife’s, who has been confined to her bed for a while. Impressive. Normally at this stage, people can’t get up. That’s what Veno’s said in his analysis of the disease.

“Father!”

Arleaf calls out while rubbing her father’s back, trying to soothe his cough.

“Cough cough. Ar-Arlea—cough.”

Arleaf’s father points at me, trying to get me out of his way.

“Mu…” “Father, I didn’t know your condition worsened this much…”

Flustered at the state her dad is in, Arleaf avoids looking him in the eyes. It doesn’t seem like Arleaf’s dad has the strength to force me out of his way either.

“Are you saying—there’s such a mi-miraculous drug…?” “Watch me. All I need to do is add a little more to what you’ve just made.”

I repeated what Veno had just said to me and continue Arleaf’s dad’s work. The poisonous herb pogneuk magically appears in front of my eyes. Consumption of it causes shortness of breath.

‘Mash the pogneuk with the mortar and pestle then add the neutralizer, making a potion. Add in a pinch of dietetrodake spores.’

I add the ingredients exactly as Veno instructs me to.

‘Then, take five milliliters of water squeezed out of marphina and mix that in. We do not have enough from the previous time we made it.’

I just wanted to double-check whether I’m making this right. Most of what I added in is toxic. This only looks real deadly to me. You sure this is okay?

‘Worry not and just do as I say. Up comes the hardest part. So that it accounts for five percent of the potion the apothecary has made, add in our concoction. Any less and it shall not be effective. Any more and it shall spell death.’

Gah… you couldn’t have made this any harder, could you? I can probably use Detect Poison on the final product, but I can’t stand to see myself fail now. I try to stop my hand from shaking so much and hope that this is five percent.

previously: /ch001/ /ch002/ /ch003/ /ch004/ /ch005/ /ch006/ /ch007/ /ch008/ /ch009/ /ch010/ /ch011/ /ch012/ /ch013/ /ch014/ /ch015/ /ch016/ /ch017/ /ch018/ /ch019/ /ch020/ /ch021/ /ch022/ /next/ (full list of translated chapters) (discussion thread on Novel Updates) (please support me on Patreon or Paypal)

#Poison-Wielding Fugitive #PWF #Average Translations #AvgTL #emily osment #毒使いの逃亡者 #一般の英訳 #light novel #ln #aneko yusagi #アネコユサギ

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davidastbury · 6 years

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Ah, Lundun. Smells of weed, kebabs and sitting next to a man at the bus stop with a big box of economy Daz between his knees trying to crack a coconut on someone's garden wall :)).

Michelle Goldsmith

The Dreamer. 1962

From his bedroom window he could see how summer was expiring and giving way to Autumn. In the early mornings the landscape was obscured by low mists, as if changes were being made and, like in a theatre interval, we aren’t meant to see - and then it lifted and the leaves were a little more golden; the plant stalks were sagging even lower; the distant trees darker and with denser shadows, more blue than green. The wooden fence was slimy and speckled with moss and beyond it the meadow (Buttercup Meadow!) was like wet crushed velvet. Birds were circulating above the trees and thousands of creatures were preparing for the coming cold weather. Every tree, plant and animal knew exactly what to do ... he was entranced by the solemn purposefulness of everything - of the unquestioning and unquestionable perfection of it all. He was caught - hardly able to breathe, giving himself up to the voluptuous thrill of being part of the force driving every created being towards its own correct and individual destiny.

On the Train

Old couple. I bet they would agree with me if I said to them that the popular idea of long married couples ‘growing more alike over the years’ is a load of rubbish. You don’t become the same; you don’t develop a single mind; your souls do not ‘merge’. Instead, if the relationship is good, you actually intensify your individuality; you remain yourself; you do not deviate from what feels natural.

But there is something else - quite the opposite of the popular delusion. People who have been together for a long time take on a duty to each other for which there is no name. The only writer who has tried to illustrate this duty (the only writer I have come across!) is Rainer Maria Rilke, who refers to it as ‘...becoming the guardian of each other’s solitude’.

The guardian of each other’s solitude - magnificent,

Towards a better understanding of Hamlet’s Soliloquy

During the Elizabethan period most sensible folk would do anything to avoid doctors, depending instead on natural remedies for most of their ills. One such all-purpose embrocation was known as Gruffle, a mixture to be applied externally on the affected parts. The three main ingredients were Wormwood, Chamomile and Cowslip, pounded in a pestle and mortar and then stewed in Mead. When solidified it could be smeared, with a warmed spoon directly onto the skin.

Imagine, if you will, an Elizabeth bedroom, where, in the gloom of a seven watt candle, a typical hard-working couple grope their way to the bedstead. They toss off their heavy garments - the doublet and breeches; the corsets and ruffs and peer into the darkness for the pewter pot of Gruffle. The is a noise of small items falling onto the wooden floor - and then a voice rings out loud and clear - ‘Ay, there’s the rub!’

Nearly on the Train

Dad at the wheel and he’s going too fast on slow roads and too slow on fast roads - perhaps because he’s upset. Morning mists over the Cumbria moors and nearly fifty miles to Carlisle. Every visit home gets sadder; it’s like seeing a loved one becoming deaf - you do your best but they aren’t fully with you in the way they once were. The car passed the gate leading up to a farm; an old school friend now runs it - just a glimpse of farmhouse through the window condensation. There was no future for her here; she would never live here again; her childhood days on her friend’s farm, the village school, the church choir, the little shops, were becoming a closed book.

So...she would get the 10.50 from Carlisle to London - and then three days (and nights!) with her boyfriend before traveling down to the South of France. He was nice but couldn’t match the importance of her ambition.

She’s done two years at the Sorbonne and is taking a year of research at the university of Montpellier. Her speciality is C19 literature, particularly the work of Balzac. As the car swept through the villages it never occurred to her that all her life she had been surrounded by Balzac’s stories.

Watched a TV documentary on the life of Steve McQueen. Steve, apparently was deaf, and this added considerably to his sex-appeal. Let me explain. Struggling to understand what people were saying brought about his trademark facial expression - he would cock his head and narrow his eyes, which women found utterly irresistible.

My one good ear pricked up - in no uncertain terms - (as Holden Caulfield would say) - in no uncertain terms!

Ben and Lorna and Ian...........1966

I think I have mentioned Ben before; he was an old chap who, every evening during the working week used to occupy a bar-stool in the Bodega, Cross Street, Manchester. He was a widower, wealthy and weary - good suits and bow-ties, white beard and gold glasses, Coutts Bank, Russian cigarettes, and double measures of Irish whiskey. All the regulars knew him - and liked him.

One night I was drinking with Ian and his girlfriend Lorna. Lorna went to the bar to buy something and got into conversation with Ben. It went on for some time - Ian looking round every so often to see what was happening. Finally she left Ben and went to the toilets - again quite a long time. As soon as she rejoined us it was clear that she was upset. She wasn’t crying but she had that look - you know what I mean.

Ian didn’t miss out on this either; he wanted an explanation and she just sat and shook her head - I began to feel that I should leave them alone. The following week I met Ian and, into our second drinks, I asked him what had happened between Lorna and Ben.

Apparently it had been very difficult for Lorna to put it into words, but she tried. And now Ian, who had struggled to understand what she was on about, had the same difficulty in trying to explain it to me - and I now have the same difficulty, fifty-one years later, writing it.

Essentially - and incredibly - Lorna had felt during her short chat with Ben - that this elderly, elegant, sad old man was the only person, in all her nineteen years, who actually understood her.

Simon B

Simon came to Britain from Berlin in the Kindertransport system set up just before World War ll.

He was taken in by a Quaker couple who looked after him and with that sublime tolerance often found in Quakers, never tried to introduce him to their religion. Later, when it became clear that he no longer had a family, they formally adopted him. He found scholarships for his years through Grammar schools and then studied medicine. His chosen speciality was caring for sick children and he became a Consultant Paediatrician.

I have occasionally met him - the last time was at a Holocaust conference - where he was a guest speaker. I was near him during one of the breaks and caught some fragments of his conversation. He looked like everyone’s idea of the perfect English gentleman; the patient, kindly, slightly humorous voice; the top-drawer manners; the deference to the other persons viewpoint; the quick eye for peoples feelings and all the other qualities that are a delight to experience.

And I heard him say - ‘Yes, I have been back - and guess what? The factory is still standing!’

A Day at the Lakes.

It was a struggle finding somewhere to park the car but by luck and a bit of aggression he squeezed into a slot. For an hour or so they wandered the cobbled streets, drifting into a few shops, and then had afternoon tea in a crowded little cafe with tiny windows. He suggested spending some time ‘on the water’. Everything about the boy involved a story - he had a friend whose dad had a connection to the conservation authorities and....he had arranged to borrow a boat. All they had to do was mention the dad’s name at the marina office.

Soon, she was sitting prettily in a very narrow and elegantly varnished rowing boat. It had steel scrollwork at the passenger end, cushioned seating and all in all she wouldn’t have felt out of place holding a parasol. The boy started to row, enjoying being watched by queues of day trippers, and turned the boat towards the open lake. Her serenity was disturbed when she touched the water and the coldness surprised her. It would be awful to have an accident and have to swim - she would probably be helpless - she would panic and drown. He was rowing expertly, but he was also watching her - it was as if he could read her thoughts.

‘The water is three-hundred feet deep here’ - he said.

She knew he was the sort that would enjoy frightening her - that he might do stupid things, like rocking the boat side to side - and find it amusing.

But he continued rowing - they were a long way from the shore and he kept looking over his shoulder - heading for a small Island. She saw the small jetty and the painted sign with the words - ‘Private Island: Landing not Permitted’.

He said - ‘ It’s fine, don’t worry’.

Together they pulled the boat out of the water, dragging it into the waterside bushes, and then set about exploring the island. The trees took away most of the light and the ground was thick with pine needles. And then the trees ended and they found themselves in a sort of clearing - like someone’s back garden - a neatly trimmed lawn, flower beds and a wooden pavilion.

He tried the door and it swung open. She didn’t even look at him - she was tired of his irritating cockiness and was thinking of what she was going to do next.

once started work for a firm at about this time of year - the run-up to Christmas. It was an open plan office and most of the staff had worked there for years. Everyone knew what they were doing (except me) and there was a lot of proprietorial and territorial rules and customs to be observed - who sat where and who always had the first lunch break etc. I studied the various power groupings of the women and their likes and dislikes. The men, mostly dull and unhelpful, wanted to get through the day and then round to the pub.

Anyway, things were eased up as the holiday approached and the desks became cluttered with greetings cards. These people - or more accurately - these women, who worked together all day and every day, gave each other Christmas cards; and it was important to them that I wasn’t left out. My work surface was taken over by right pictures of robins and jovial Santas - placed surreptitiously on the desk by women I didn’t even know.

Given the chance I would throw this at every writer who has broken our hearts with the great love stories - ‘Yes, yes, yes - but you did not write about the “real one” - it is impossible to write about the “real one” !

Autumn Morning in Whalley Range ......1965

They had met at a party and had left together. They shuffled along, as young people do, jauntily kicking up the leaves, heading towards the main road, hoping that the buses had started. It was misty - the street lights acid yellow against a cold sky. They passed rows of Victorian villas that once-upon-a-time had servants in the attics and kitchens in the basements - now decaying and split up into flats.

You could hear their laughter in the silent street. And then - they stopped and kissed - just at the junction of Mayfield Road and Alexandra Road - near to the pub where there had been a stabbing.

R lost her mother at the age of twelve, and her father quickly remarried. She was the youngest of four; there was a eight year gap to her nearest sister. She left school at fifteen and took a job in a textile company where she learned to touch-type. At seventeen she became a receptionist at a dental surgery - but the job didn’t last because the dentist assaulted her. She was sacked and paid up to the day of the assault. It was around this time that she was also assaulted by her best friend’s dad. Her boyfriend was angry and went to the police. The desk sergeant listened to him and replied - ‘What you’ve got to understand son, is that men only do this sort of thing to women who give certain signals’. So that was that.

I think it was from then onwards that she really did give the ‘certain signals’. She entered and won a glamour contest run by her new employer. The advertising agency sent her to the Lucy Clayton school and she found work modelling. She left our town and as far as I know, never came back.

R. (and her boyfriend)

Following the second assault R’s boyfriend noticed a sharp change in her personality. After such shocks, at a vulnerable age, you might expect to see some sort of mistrust and withdrawal - instead she became aggressively extroverted and as far as men where concerned, very flirtatious. She viewed her exceptional good looks as the means to ‘get the better’ of every man she came across - she knew that she was irresistible.

All this was upsetting to her boyfriend. He was like the boy in the Arabian Nights tale - an orphan who begged in the streets and one day saw a diamond - a perfect diamond - lying in the dust. His joy subsided when he realised that every dealer in the souk would cheat him. R’s boyfriend wanted to keep her for himself, but she wanted to go dancing and drinking in clubs - places where she would make heads turn and provoke words of admiring insinuation.

The boyfriend was utterly unworldly - as innocent and wide-eyed as a lamb on the way to the abattoir. And the good friend advising him to finish with her - who consoled him and said he would soon find someone nicer - who bought him another drink and all the time had a R’s phone number scribbled on a cigarette packet.

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