I had an idea for a story about a young woman who was living with people who were different, not just superficially different – such as hair colour, or eye colour, or skin colour – but different in some significant way.
Suddenly, just as the rain began to fall in earnest, he sat down and howled.
When people treat others badly, they have to rationalize it so they can go on living with themselves. We give ourselves excuses.
They stopped for a moment to watch the evening sky transform itself in a show of dazzling radiance as gold transmuted into shades of vermilion that waned into shimmering purple, then darkened to deep blue as the first glittering sky fires appeared. Soon the sooty black night became a backdrop to the multitude of blazing lights that filled the summer sky, with a concentrated accumulation wending its way like a path across the vault above.
That is truly the loss of innocence, Ayla, when we understand what we must do in order to live. That.
Children are always a joy, but pain, too. And they all must lead their own lives. Even Mut will let Her children go their own way, someday, but I fear for us if we ever neglect Her. If we forget to respect our Great Earth Mother, She will withhold Her blessings, and no longer provide for us.
Once I got over feeling sick in the morning, I’ve been feeling good,” Levela said. “Vigorous and strong. Although, lately, I get tired easily. I want to sleep late and take naps in the day, and sometimes if I stand for a long time, my back hurts.” “Sounds about right, wouldn’t you say,” Velima said, smiling at her daughter. “Just the way you are supposed to feel.
Jondalar, you give me nothing but joy, nothing but pleasure. I love it when you want me, any time, any place. If you want me, there is no time I am not ready for you. I always want you. I love you.
The sparks he made with just flint were not usually long-lived enough to make fire, anyway.
The Shamud had told him once that the Mother favoured him so much no woman could refuse him, not even the Mother Herself could refuse him – that was his gift – but he warned him to be wary. Gifts from the Mother were not an unmixed blessing, they put one in Her debt.
The ones that counted were the ones that cared.
No, Nezzie. No medicine can make him well,’ she replied in a firm voice that was tinged with sorrow.
At a bend in the river, an upland stream fell into the Middle Mother, which itself came from higher ground. The marrow-chilling air had caught and stilled the waters in the act of falling, and the strong dry winds had sculpted them into strange and grotesque shapes. Caricatures of living creatures captured by frost, poised to begin a headlong flight down the course of the long river, seemed to be waiting impatiently, as if knowing the turning of the season, and their release, was not far off.
A frown creased Ayla’s forehead. She remembered he had used that word to describe her when she used her sling, and she wasn’t sure if she understood the word the way he used it. “Are you artist?” she asked. He made a wry grimace. Her question had touched at the heart of an issue about which he had strong feelings.
His people believed that the Mother had first created a spirit world, and the spirits of all things in it were perfect. The spirits then produced living copies of themselves, to populate the ordinary world. The spirit was the model, the pattern from which all things were derived, but no copy could be as perfect as the original; not even the spirits themselves could make perfect copies, that was why each was different.
When such single minded strength of will and purpose is directed to reach its goal, no boundary can resist.
They are lazy, worthless men who contribute nothing, unless they’re shamed into it, and they have little shame.
The men compete in what they do; the women in what they make,’ she said, then smiled, ’including babies, though that is a very subtle competition, and nearly everyone thinks she is the winner.
Hablan con sombras en la lengua.
Sorry. That is courtesy, right? Custom? Jondalar, what good are words like sorry? It doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t make me feel any better.” He pulled his hand through his hair. She was right. Whatever he had done – and he thought he knew what it was – being sorry didn’t help.
La mano y la vista hacen al artista.