Contrarywise

smile with a questioning glance. «So?» she asked. «So, you do be Mayanabi. So what? I'll—I'll get used to it.» Aunt smiled broadly at her old friend and offered her the buttered bread. Fasilla accepted it with equanimity, reaching for the open jar of dark honey on the kitchen table. Relieved that the crisis was over, the two women made jokes while they ate. Then, pouring another round of tea, Aunt said, «You know, the things that happened in Suxonli sixteen years ago? They were a travesty. A distortion of something potentially lovely—Remembrance.» She paused. «Do you know the real meaning of this word?» Fasilla shook her head, her mouth full of brown bread, butter, and dark honey. She swallowed quickly. «Only as an everyday idea.» Aunt took a long draught of tea. «Then let me tell you a tale,» she said matter-of-factly. «And in so doing, you may learn something useful about the Mayanabi Nomads.» Aunt leaned back in her chair, half-closing her hazel eyes, her Jinnjirri hair turning a milky opalescent as she entered the light trance of the storyteller. «Since this tale concerns the Greatkin, we shall call it a Mythrrim, a word which means Great Story. We shall call it the Mythrrim of Remembrance.» Aunt breathed deeply and began: The Mythrrim of Remembrance It is traditional for us two-leggeds to think of ourselves as the Firstborn Race of Mnemlith, but in truth—we aren't. Before we came into existence, there were the Great Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea. They were a wise, four-legged people enormous in size and longevity. They were also marvelous to look at. Winged, the Mythrrim were a wild mix of hyena, lion, and giant falcon. They had brindle hides, large teeth, and rows of horns down their backs. Their feathers were so brilliantly colored that they would have made the Jinnjirri look dull by comparison. But these beasts were not beautiful—unless terrifying things please you. Mythrrim had dogteeth eight inches long, and their eyes were large and protruding. They also liked their meals fresh—freshly killed. The Mythrrim were carnivores, you see, and they were peerless hunters. But let me not dwell on their grisly side; instead, let me tell you of their laughter. Like the lowly hyena, the Mythrrim could make a strange chortling sound deep in their throats. It was the most infectious laugh in the world—cacophonous and wild. And it travelled for miles. So did their stories. The Mythrrim of Soaringsea were wonderful conversationalists. They were also the greatest storytellers to have ever graced Mnemlith. We Mayanabi—we're a pale imitation. You see, the landdraw of Soaringsea had gifted the Mythrrim with seven sets of vocal cords. They were born mimics. There wasn't a sound in the natural world that they couldn't imitate. And their memories? They spanned the centuries. So, you ask, what happened to these fantastic beasts? Well, I can't tell you what became of them without telling you a bit about their means of birth. It involved the Greatkin: specifically, the Greatkin of Civilization and the Greatkin of the Impossible. In the beginning, when the world was still young, Greatkin Themyth and Greatkin Rimble had a secret tryst. Since they had a wild and wooly time in bed, something wild and wooly was born from that union: the Mythrrim. As Themyth was Patron of the Hearth, she knew that the best and most important moments of mortal life were spent beside the blazing campfire. Or cave-hearth. Remember, this was a very primitive time. So Themyth not only taught the Mythrrim how to make fire but also how to speak. She had a reason for doing this; it was Themyth's desire that the Mythrrim be the teachers of the two-leggeds. Rimble thought this was an interesting idea and agreed to it. So, for the first million or so years of two-legged existence, the Great Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea were our good-natured guides through triumph and tragedy. They gave unstintingly and unhesitatingly. And we took—in like fashion. As a people, we were ill-mannered and greedy. But we were also young. The Mythrrim forgave us our shortcomings. And when things got really bad for us—we were a pitifully vulnerable race—-the Mythrrim regaled our hearts and spirits with heroic stories of our true parents: the Greatkin. In this sly way—a legacy of Trickster, no doubt—the Mythrrim also made sure that we remembered the Faces of the Presence—the Shining Ones of Eranossa and of Neath. In time, these talks around the cave fire became an integral part of our lives—and of our society. We attached special meaning to the stories and the comraderie shared at these gatherings. And we gave these meets a name; we called them kinhearths. Well, all went smoothly for a great many years—thousands, in fact. The Mythrrim kept their covenant with us, and we kept kinhearth with them. Some centuries later, however, we began to become a little lax in our attendance at the kinhearth. Our survival as a race was assured by this time. And so our interest in matters of kinship and spirit strayed. We were no longer dependent on each other for protection, you see. Travel and exploration captured our attention. The cave fires still burned brightly through the night, but we did not come. After a while, we forgot that there had ever been any kinhearths at all. We lost our understanding of who we were and who we might become. Gradually, we even lost our understanding of history and eventually came to believe that we were the most important and only beings alive. Well, the Mythrrim got together one year and decided that our disinterest in kinhearth was a bad thing. So the Mythrrim started over again with us. Fortunately, the Mythrrim were a long-lived people. Thus, they knew something of patience. And kindness. Taught by kindness, we learned of kindness. And thus the world was once again a good place in which to be alive. But this golden age didn't last. We did it again; we forgot the stories of the Greatkin. In so doing, we cut ourselves off from our divine inheritance. And again, we were faced with the challenge of our age empty-handed. We had no myths to guide us, no heroes and heroines to emulate. We had only ourselves to turn to, but we at this point were in a state of extensive befuddlement. And alienation. So we were of little help to ourselves. We whimpered a lot, I think. Anyway, the Mythrrim called another meeting. They talked long into the night about us two-leggeds. They decided we were a sweet species but perhaps not overly bright. There was some dissension about this conclusion. Being a fair people, the Mythrrim investigated the situation further. In the upcoming centuries, they kept a watchful eye on our forgetfulness. In due time, the Mythrrim were able to understand its cause. Much to their surprise, these great beasts determined that we two-leggeds were not so much forgetful as intoxicated. Furthermore, it seemed we were neither an inattentive nor retarded people. In fact, it appeared we had learned the most important thing of all; we had learned to love the Presence with all our hearts. Just as the Mythrrim and Greatkin did. We had one minor failing, however. We kept extending this love to include all creation. We were so entranced and delighted by the works of the Great Artist that we forgot about meeting the Great Artist Itself. And kinhearths had been a way to meet this One. Face-to-face, as it were. Now, the world was very large. And it was filled with an endless array of wonders. So, there we'd be—attentive one moment and sensually drunk off our asses the next. Overwhelmed by stimulation. Giddy with emotion and the sheer invigoration of being incarnate. When a people is in such a state for several thousand years, it becomes forgetful. The Mythrrim understood this. And they did not fault us for our weakness or our love. They were mortal like ourselves. And they in their adolescence had responded in much the same way. However, the average lifespan of a Mythrrim was three thousand years. We didn't have time like that on our side. So the Mythrrim decided we needed some help. But what kind? After long deliberation, the Mythrrim went to the Parent of All Remedies: Greatkin Rimble. Rimble conferred with Themyth. Together they concluded that we did need help. But, said Rimble, the help should come from our own kind. The dilemma we faced was ours and ours alone. We must mature as a race, he added. We must fall down and learn to pick ourselves up. Themyth agreed, but less whole-heartedly. She wasn't at all sure we could manage on our own. Neither were the Mythrrim. Trickster listened to their doubts. Then, he laughed, saying: «I didn't say I'd marooon them, folks. I just said they should grow up. Don't worry. They'll have guides. Two-legged guides culled from all the landdraws of the world. And we'll train 'em special like, so they don't forget the names of my brothers and sisters. Including my own, of course.» The Mythrrim were dubious. We had a predilection, they said, for forgetfulness. We had a penchant, they said, for intoxication. «No problem,» said Rimble. «We'll just find us some teetotaler types. No finger-wagging temperance boobs, mind you. Just some people with a disinterest in drunkenness. Folks who'd rather talk to the Artist than spend hours in a gallery of the Artist's works.» Rimble pulled on his goatee, thinking. «Okay,» he said, rubbing his hands together with excitement. «We'll even give these people their own special name. We'll call them—uh—yes. The Mayan-abi. The Friends of Illusion.» «Friends of Illusion?» asked Themyth. «How about 'Masters of or even 'Breakers of?» «Rubbish,» said Rimble hotly. «Illusion has its place! It's not some spiritual disease, you know. It's very classy scenery. And as it comes from the Presence, it should be given just honor!» Themyth decided Rimble had a point. So did the Mythrrim. In this way were the Mayanabi «born.» They were Rimble's wonder children; a kind of everyrace with a high degree of spiritual curiosity and sobriety. The Mythrrim trained them, teaching them the Great Stories—the myths of all the ages and all the peoples of Mnemlith. Then the Mythrrim retired to Soaringsea where some say they remain to this day. As the ocean currents around this archipelago make it impossible to land there with safety, we have had no contact with these great beasts for millennia. Only the Mayanabi keep their memory alive. Most draws say they never existed. The Mayanabi know differently. Anyway, after the Mythrrim left us, the Mayanabi Nomads set about the business at hand: Remembrance. Soon no portion of the world was left untouched by the storytelling of this group. Certain areas of Mnemlith were entrusted with the memory of a particular Greatkin. Suxonli was given the Remembrance of Rimble. Now called the Trickster's Hallows. Each Remembrance—each festival ritual—was very potent. Typical of the teaching of the Mythrrim themselves, a properly done Remembrance did more than simply entertain. It changed people. It literally altered the inner psyches of those listening to the recitation. The ritual, you see, was simply an outer working of the power or influence of the