RVA: The Parable of the Glassblower
Jul. 1st, 2015 04:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalNot my usual RVA story. This comes from some noodling about the Foxen faith, as practiced by the Mother Country.
* * *
Once there was a Commoner vixen, a glassblower by trade. Working by her furnace, she blew into a steel tube, creating exquisite glass globes that she shaped into bowls, wine glasses, lenses for both eyeglasses and scopes for examining the worlds in the sky and in a drop of water. The countess she served praised her for her skill, heaping reward upon reward, and the Glassblower wanted for nothing. Though in truth she wanted little at all, being totally devoted to her art.
In time, the Glassblower took on an apprentice, whom she drove mercilessly, even as she imparted every skill she'd ever learned upon him. But though the apprentice was gifted, she thought him lazy, for he was never by the glass forge as much as she.
“Where do you go for hours at a time?” the Glassblower raged. “Late to the forge in the morning. Leaving before the sun has set. What is there for you besides the glass?”
“My wife is warm and I loathe to leave our bed,” the apprentice replied. “Our children are happy, and wish to see and talk with me at the evening table. Why do you begrudge me their company?”
“If you wish to be a glassblower, then there must only be the glass,” she said to him, bitter at how easily he was distracted.
“But what of my family?” he asked. “What of your family?”
“My sisters will carry my family's name. I care nothing for frivolous cubs or a needy spouse. I need only the glass.”
“Then I will leave you to your one love,” he said, removing his apprentice badge and leaving it on the work table. “For if I have only the glass, I have nothing.”
The Glassblower raged at her former apprentice, until he slammed the doors of her workshop behind him. With a last curse she went back to work, resolving never to take on an apprentice again.
For his part, the apprentice did well. His work was not of the Glassblower's quality, but his life wa comfortable and his family brought him great joy.
In time, the Glassblower grew old. The winters now made her bones ache, and the only way she eased their pains was to stay near her forge's blessed heat. From morning till night, and sometimes through the night to morning again, the Glassblower toiled at her forge, cursing the need of her body to eat and sleep. The days of her life seemed to flee from her, the years grew heavy on her shoulders, and there was never enough time to complete all the projects she formed in her mind.
Then one evening, as she blew into her steel pipe to create a bowl tinted green with flakes of copper in the molten glass, a terrible seizure overcame her. The half-formed bowl dropped into the forge to melt into a shapeless blob as the steel pipe fell from her paws and she dropped to the floor. The Glassblower cried out for help, but all in her countess' household knew better than to approach the forge while she worked, so as not to incur her wrath.
As she lay paralyzed on the floor, her bowels evacuated, spittle soaking her chin, laying in her own waste, the Glassblower could only curse for all the works she would never now create. Then the blackness overcame her, and her curses were silenced.
When the Glassblower awoke again, she found herself lying naked in a field of snow, the evening sky covered in clouds, as snowflakes fell around her, soaking her bare fur. She tried to cry out, but only a croak emerged from her throat, and her traitorous, paralyzed limbs refused to move. And all around her was the Cold and Dark.
In the distance however, there were snow covered hills, and in those hills a cave, and in that cave a warm, bright fire beckoned. Again the Glassblower tried to get up, and again her body failed her, and the warm fire, so much like her beloved forge, stayed out of reach. Snow began to cover her body, and she cried out to the Mother Goddess to save her, as she not had since she had been an apprentice herself, in her distant youth.
Then a tall vixen in a flowing white cloak came out of the blowing snow, heading towards the Glassblower. Her fur was at once a deep red and pure white, black as pitch and bright brown, and all the colors between that a Foxen pelt might have. The vixen's eyes were the black of the deepest night, and were filled with a thousand stars. And by that, the Glassblower knew her.
“Oh, great Mother Goddess, help me!” she gasped.
The Mother Goddess looked down on the Glassblower, and her star filled eyes were colder than the snow. “Why should I help one who has turned her tail towards Me?”
“I have not!” the Glassblower cried. “I have dutifully attended Your ceremonies. I have spoken Your name in prayer. I have captured your image, however poorly, in the art of my glass. I have been faithful!”
“Mouthing words and creating false images of Me does not mean you have been faithful,” the Mother Goddess said. “When has your art brought comfort to a crying child? Fed someone who was hungry? Warmed someone who was cold?”
“Did I not make glass windows to let in the warm sunlight to people's homes? Did I not make lenses for those with weak sight to see the world You made for us? Did not the lenses I made for the scientists allow them to explore the mysteries You gave us to fill our hearts with wonder?”
“You did,” the Mother Goddess said. “But where was your heart when you created these things? A lens or a plate of glass or a beautiful statue were all the same to you. You lived for your glass, but you lived for nothing else.”
The Glassblower shivered, the snow rising around her, growing so deathly cold. “Is this why you damn me? For not glorifying you with family, with children?”
“I do not demand children to show your faith in Me. Many I find glorious even if they live in solitude and never speak a word of prayer to Me. But they were part of the world, taking in all the its pleasures, not merely being machines devoted to the pursuit of their arts. When you completed a glass bowl, or a lens, or a statue of Me, did you ever pause to admire your work? Or did you simply move on to your next commission, with no thought of the past?”
The snow continued to rise around her, as the Glassblower said, “I did not look. No, I did not.” And for perhaps the first time in her life, the Glassblower felt shamed.
And the Mother Goddess, with Her all seeing star filled eyes, saw that shame. With gentle paws She drew the cold Glassblower in Her arms, wrapping her like a newborn cub in the Goddess' cloak. Then the Mother Goddess carried the Glassblower into Her den, and warmed the vixen by Her eternal fire.
* * *
It is said in some places that the Glassblower found peace in the Mother Goddess' arms, and that was the end of the matter.
It is said in some places that the Glassblower awoke from her seizure miraculously healed, to become the Mother Goddess' devoted priestess, passing on her skills to new apprentices, and becoming like a second mother to them all.
But in many places it is said that the Glassblower awoke in a healer's bed, having been found unconscious by a servant when her wise countess noted her missing. After a year of difficult recovery, the Glassblower could walk again, though only with the aid of a staff. Her paws remained unsteady though, the palsy still plaguing them, and she no longer had the strength to hold her steel pipe to blow out her creations in the forge. But she was a willing sage to anyone asking questions about her old art, and that she frequently laughed, watching other vixens grandchildren play in the warm sun.
But in all ends of this tale, the Mother Goddess smiled.
* * *
Once there was a Commoner vixen, a glassblower by trade. Working by her furnace, she blew into a steel tube, creating exquisite glass globes that she shaped into bowls, wine glasses, lenses for both eyeglasses and scopes for examining the worlds in the sky and in a drop of water. The countess she served praised her for her skill, heaping reward upon reward, and the Glassblower wanted for nothing. Though in truth she wanted little at all, being totally devoted to her art.
In time, the Glassblower took on an apprentice, whom she drove mercilessly, even as she imparted every skill she'd ever learned upon him. But though the apprentice was gifted, she thought him lazy, for he was never by the glass forge as much as she.
“Where do you go for hours at a time?” the Glassblower raged. “Late to the forge in the morning. Leaving before the sun has set. What is there for you besides the glass?”
“My wife is warm and I loathe to leave our bed,” the apprentice replied. “Our children are happy, and wish to see and talk with me at the evening table. Why do you begrudge me their company?”
“If you wish to be a glassblower, then there must only be the glass,” she said to him, bitter at how easily he was distracted.
“But what of my family?” he asked. “What of your family?”
“My sisters will carry my family's name. I care nothing for frivolous cubs or a needy spouse. I need only the glass.”
“Then I will leave you to your one love,” he said, removing his apprentice badge and leaving it on the work table. “For if I have only the glass, I have nothing.”
The Glassblower raged at her former apprentice, until he slammed the doors of her workshop behind him. With a last curse she went back to work, resolving never to take on an apprentice again.
For his part, the apprentice did well. His work was not of the Glassblower's quality, but his life wa comfortable and his family brought him great joy.
In time, the Glassblower grew old. The winters now made her bones ache, and the only way she eased their pains was to stay near her forge's blessed heat. From morning till night, and sometimes through the night to morning again, the Glassblower toiled at her forge, cursing the need of her body to eat and sleep. The days of her life seemed to flee from her, the years grew heavy on her shoulders, and there was never enough time to complete all the projects she formed in her mind.
Then one evening, as she blew into her steel pipe to create a bowl tinted green with flakes of copper in the molten glass, a terrible seizure overcame her. The half-formed bowl dropped into the forge to melt into a shapeless blob as the steel pipe fell from her paws and she dropped to the floor. The Glassblower cried out for help, but all in her countess' household knew better than to approach the forge while she worked, so as not to incur her wrath.
As she lay paralyzed on the floor, her bowels evacuated, spittle soaking her chin, laying in her own waste, the Glassblower could only curse for all the works she would never now create. Then the blackness overcame her, and her curses were silenced.
When the Glassblower awoke again, she found herself lying naked in a field of snow, the evening sky covered in clouds, as snowflakes fell around her, soaking her bare fur. She tried to cry out, but only a croak emerged from her throat, and her traitorous, paralyzed limbs refused to move. And all around her was the Cold and Dark.
In the distance however, there were snow covered hills, and in those hills a cave, and in that cave a warm, bright fire beckoned. Again the Glassblower tried to get up, and again her body failed her, and the warm fire, so much like her beloved forge, stayed out of reach. Snow began to cover her body, and she cried out to the Mother Goddess to save her, as she not had since she had been an apprentice herself, in her distant youth.
Then a tall vixen in a flowing white cloak came out of the blowing snow, heading towards the Glassblower. Her fur was at once a deep red and pure white, black as pitch and bright brown, and all the colors between that a Foxen pelt might have. The vixen's eyes were the black of the deepest night, and were filled with a thousand stars. And by that, the Glassblower knew her.
“Oh, great Mother Goddess, help me!” she gasped.
The Mother Goddess looked down on the Glassblower, and her star filled eyes were colder than the snow. “Why should I help one who has turned her tail towards Me?”
“I have not!” the Glassblower cried. “I have dutifully attended Your ceremonies. I have spoken Your name in prayer. I have captured your image, however poorly, in the art of my glass. I have been faithful!”
“Mouthing words and creating false images of Me does not mean you have been faithful,” the Mother Goddess said. “When has your art brought comfort to a crying child? Fed someone who was hungry? Warmed someone who was cold?”
“Did I not make glass windows to let in the warm sunlight to people's homes? Did I not make lenses for those with weak sight to see the world You made for us? Did not the lenses I made for the scientists allow them to explore the mysteries You gave us to fill our hearts with wonder?”
“You did,” the Mother Goddess said. “But where was your heart when you created these things? A lens or a plate of glass or a beautiful statue were all the same to you. You lived for your glass, but you lived for nothing else.”
The Glassblower shivered, the snow rising around her, growing so deathly cold. “Is this why you damn me? For not glorifying you with family, with children?”
“I do not demand children to show your faith in Me. Many I find glorious even if they live in solitude and never speak a word of prayer to Me. But they were part of the world, taking in all the its pleasures, not merely being machines devoted to the pursuit of their arts. When you completed a glass bowl, or a lens, or a statue of Me, did you ever pause to admire your work? Or did you simply move on to your next commission, with no thought of the past?”
The snow continued to rise around her, as the Glassblower said, “I did not look. No, I did not.” And for perhaps the first time in her life, the Glassblower felt shamed.
And the Mother Goddess, with Her all seeing star filled eyes, saw that shame. With gentle paws She drew the cold Glassblower in Her arms, wrapping her like a newborn cub in the Goddess' cloak. Then the Mother Goddess carried the Glassblower into Her den, and warmed the vixen by Her eternal fire.
* * *
It is said in some places that the Glassblower found peace in the Mother Goddess' arms, and that was the end of the matter.
It is said in some places that the Glassblower awoke from her seizure miraculously healed, to become the Mother Goddess' devoted priestess, passing on her skills to new apprentices, and becoming like a second mother to them all.
But in many places it is said that the Glassblower awoke in a healer's bed, having been found unconscious by a servant when her wise countess noted her missing. After a year of difficult recovery, the Glassblower could walk again, though only with the aid of a staff. Her paws remained unsteady though, the palsy still plaguing them, and she no longer had the strength to hold her steel pipe to blow out her creations in the forge. But she was a willing sage to anyone asking questions about her old art, and that she frequently laughed, watching other vixens grandchildren play in the warm sun.
But in all ends of this tale, the Mother Goddess smiled.
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Date: 2015-07-01 01:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-02 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-01 03:18 pm (UTC)I don't like choking up and getting all teary first thing in the morning.
But I wouldn't want to miss out on that story.
It's a problem.
It's not your problem. Keep it up.
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Date: 2015-07-01 04:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-02 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-02 01:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-02 08:29 am (UTC)