A traditional piece dictated possibly centuries past by an unnamed ghost, and eventually put to pen. It is considered an explanation and exhortation to celebrate the Feast of Ghosts. With the festival fast approaching, copies have been sent to the foreign royals while the Nharati natives would no doubt know this piece well.
As the year wans and darkness grows, the veil between the land of the living and the land of the dead grows thin. Chill tendrils reach past the boundary, sweeping the minds of the living, the dead growing in strength.
It grows nearer, that sweetly anticipated time. Only then can I come close to tasting the tangy crisp of an apple, or the grease of meat upon my lips, or the tart splash of wine on my tongue. Even then I shall not taste it, but it grows tantalizingly close, a wisp of something just out of reach rather than an idea so wholely removed from my meager existence. I remember these things then, the feel of my daughter's hand in mine as if it were just a hair's breadth away from touching rather than centuries, the caress of warm blankets on my skin, the heat of a fire crackling on the hearth.
There is no warmth now, no, nor cold. I feel nothing, days of nothing, weeks of nothing, years of nothing stretching out into oblivion with but this one week of relief from such deprivation. When I speak, you will hear me, and it will not needs be a shout for you to hear the weakest whisper. No, for this one week, when I may sing and speak, it will not fade into the soundless void, but it will ring through the halls and into your ears.
We ask little enough of you, the living .. not a crust of bread or a place for rest. For most of the year, we go unnoticed and forgotten, onlookers to lives we once lived. Do you think it does not pain us? Do you think we do not yearn to feel the things you feel? To taste the things you taste? To have the sweet press of a lover's lips against ours, and yes, even to feel the cruel bursts of pain that each of you so longs to avoid. The sear of flame against flesh is better than this.
But that week each year, you will not forget us; you will not ignore us; you will celebrate us. For a week, we will walk alongside you, the sensations hovering ever closer ..and at the end of this week, you shall throw a feast in our honour.
It shall be a lavish affair, each one of you in your best .. silks and satins and velvets, for it is not just taste we miss, but the lush fabrics on our skins. The meal, oh the meal, it must be extravagant to sate our lusts: the finest wines so exquisite to the palate, ales, strong spirits, roasted meats and fowl, all manner of bread and rolls, soups, stews, vegetables, rich sauces, cakes and tarts and sweet fruits.
In your hearths, fires must burn hot and high, not a one allowed to dim; and from your doorways and your walls, hang herbs and flowers to scent the air. Call your musicians to sing and play so that our ears might linger on the sounds so dim within our daily existence. Every sense must be delighted, every sense must be overwhelmed if we are to come close to luxuriating in it for the briefest of times.
It is this we call you to do once a year, when the veil is thin, so that we remain content. Do not fail to honour us, your ancestors and your guardians from what lies beyond.
Tue Oct 21, 2008 2:42 am