The gloom of Götterdämmerung compounds. A caesure has just gobbled Linden and Mahrtiir, deserting the newly awoken Jeremiah, Stave, and a band of bleary ten-ton belles by the blasted ridge. The chapter is titled “The Right Materials”, referring to the crucial substance, malachite, which in its correct configuration might deliver, or at least reprieve, the Land’s Immortals. Ere we consider further happenings, let us take a peek at its significance from cultural history’s point of view.
Whether or not the author admits to a profound knowledge of world mythology, or has stumbled upon various similarities by chance alone, the reader has nonetheless beheld that substance oft bears some significance when Jeremiah unleashes his architectural theurgies. In quite a few cultures, bone symbolizes rebirth, and this he indeed accomplished via the Quellvisk carcass contrivance. I cannot be certain about racecar tracks, as plastic as a material has not yet become revered in neomythos. Granted, a fane piled together from lego blocks might serve as a shrine for the corruption and greed of technological capitalism. However, malachite is already surrounded by a wealth of intriguing meanings…
In ye olden yoredays, in the mysterious desertbound confines of Egypt, the inhabitants associated the mineral with Hathor. This popular deity provided matronage over many an earthy affair, including joy and fertility, yet she was also kenned as the personification of the Milky Way, “Lady of Stars”, and the protector of women. Another legend tells that the sky goddess cast down stars towards the lands of mortals in the form of malachite nuggets. In the Norse culture, the dís Freyja, linked to love, lusciousness, and everything to which such notions might lead, had her own connection to this substance, as did the analogous goddesses of other Indo-European civilizations. Folklore sources educate us further about its importance in warding off evil. A popular Mesopotamian concept of sacred trees producing malachite fruits--which raises some questions about divine dental and digestive systems, should any ethereal being wish to consume such...rocky delicacies--further contributes to the mineral’s numinous nature.
The narrative presents the reader with a kettleful of similitudes. The Elohim embody the stars of this other-realm, and “the Lady of the Stars”, Infelice, could rival Freyja with her aloof, fey lushness. Women strive to erect the hearg, and later,
Spoiler
When the stars have indeed been coaxed to enter the protection of malachite, the new Forestal Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir plants the parallel of a holy tree next to the construction, turning the ensemble into a hiis of an ilk, a sacred grove suited to the consummation of Linden and Covenant’s love.
Now, let us return to the grim tale…
Together with this succinct depiction of the teenager’s condition, the reader plummets into the mind of a new point-of-view character. A fascinating turn of events, as such a shift has not occurred since Linden’s thunderstruck tottering into the Land some thirty years back. Yet, wherefore introduce an additional beacon of self-doubt and angst well past the first kilometers of the final volume? Ah, but one could sniff Jeremiah’s nature from afar: In the Covenant tomes, merry and confident individuals from the world outside crop up as frequently as penguins in the middle of Sahara. The author must have had his reasons for this third wheel, though. Throughout the first three volumes, he has dumped eldritch powers upon the boy, underlined his significance as something other than a mere Foul-pawn. He must be able to provide something that both Covenant and Linden fail to offer.Jeremiah was only a boy, but in some ways he knew too much. In others, he knew too little.
Returning to the quote: the prodigy is an immature, ham-fisted puddle of mess. He may ooze Earthpower, not suffer from hunger or tiredness, and withstand the elements akin to some miniature wannabe-Giant. As a contrast, however, he lacks social skills, has never immersed into the fascinating activity of placing a spoon into his mouth, never buttoned up his own pajamas, and before some Quellvisk sculpting, had never even scurried alone into the bushes for an ickle tinkle-wee-wee. Some other young men of his age would have already smoked weed, gotten sloshed every weekend for a few years in row, practiced horizontal humppa with every female classmate, perhaps stolen something, or even become a juvenile convict. Jeremiah? On one hand, an innocent, caged songbird; on the other, a disturbed victim whom the Despiser and other eldritch, blasphemous abominations from the elder-reaches of the Earth have abused for years.
Matters murk even hence: The boy had constructed graves, unfathomable sepulchers of the psyche, where his awareness could curl up and conceal itself from the horrors of the nefarious bonfire. If only this form of dissociation had not subjected him to the possession of said vicious wights, and lead, for one, to the betrayal of Linden… Ah, and he scarcely feels akin to a roly-poly pink pony prancing on sun-kissed meadows after such experiences…
AndHating what was done to him both aided and harmed him. It gave him the desire to fight back--and yet it also convinced him that he would not have been so hurt if he did not deserve it. If he had not been such a coward, [. . .] Foul and the croyel would not have been able to use him. [. . .] Nevertheless he yearned to pay back what had happened to him. At the same time, he hated what he felt. [. . .] The result was a conflicting moil of emotions which he did not know how to manage.
We will witness how such attributes affect the unfolding events… Now, however, in spite of fretting over Linden’s abandonment of him--what a misinterpretation conceived by his maladjustment--he bubbles with eagerness to foil Foul’s vile wiles and prove his allegiance with the Forces of Good™.[Anele] had given him inarticulate scraps of knowledge and horrific vulnerabilities, and an instinct for moral dread. Much as he treasured Anele’s gifts, their implications appalled him.
As a side note: the obsession to tittle-tattle about the soilure of Linden’s jeans and Jeremiah’s pyjamas in every second paragraph begins to annoy at this point. Have the readers been tossed in the middle of an elaborate detergent commercial, or do these habiliments indeed incorporate some mystic mumbo-jumbo and mucklore that will aid the anti-heroes on their respective quests?
Now, the pipsqueak strides over to the resting Swordmainnir, on the outside as cocksure as an aristocratic peacock wearing crown jewels, yet on the inside a puling fledgling yearning for the safety of mommy hen’s wings. But lo and behold, what befalls! The Giantesses ignore his demands to get started with the fane-building, and remain as mute as the boulders they lean against, and but stare at the spot where the Chosen has vanished. What is the matter? Did some aspirant half-Elohim again remove their gift of tongues together with their wits?
No.
Oho, what an accomplishment after mere hours of sustained sentience! Even Covenant could not fash Foamfollower with his constant grousing. What misdeed of his could have dragged such thunderclouds upon them? As he approaches the tenebrous titans through the barrenness, the despondency of the situation seems to solidify into a corporeal demon ready to bounce upon him from the crater-mottled misery. Anew, the author waxes rhapsodic about gloom and doom and other matters ending in oom, while jabbing Jeremiah’s sore places with a clawed finger about the shortage of provisions, proper shut-eye, and, most importantly, mommy.His health-sense was precise: he could see that he had offended the Swordmainnir. There was anxiety in the slump of their shoulders, worries aggravated by a great weight of weariness. And they carried griefs which Jeremiah did not recognize. But there was also anger. They refusal to acknowledge his call was deliberate.
The reader may oft perceive the Swordmainnir as ribald quipsters ready to detonate into earth-shaking fits of laughter even on the brink of the utmost destruction. Let us not forget, however, that Jeremiah faces a troop of veritable slaughtering machines, beginning from eight times the mass of a regular mortal, belike much more, as standard human anatomy measurements would not succeed to support such bulk. This would for instance lead to disproportionately long and broad feet, and much sturdier leg-bones. Such a creature would be able to pulverize Covenant’s skull with a single fistblow, or, had not Grueburn worn the sturdy bucket cataphract as a proper support while leaping hither and thither with the Sun-Sage in her arms, she would have knocked the frailer companion unconscious with her set of wild-jouncing charms. An infuriated, glowering Giant would thus be an imposing, intimidating sight. Add an umpteen centuries of warcraft-cunning, daunting battle-scars, and the stark charisma of the females to this, and one must perhaps laud Jeremiah for not incrementing the pyjama patina with a few yellow stains at this point. Moreover, the origin of their ire soon becomes manifest.Troubled gusts stirred up dust, carried it away. Clad in twilight, the Giants resembled shadows or stones. Like shadows or stones, they looked deaf to persuasion. [. . .] Even seated, the Ironhand was taller than he was. She seemed to glare down at him in the gloom.
The Ironhand said sternly, “By the measure of your kind, you are not a child. Much has been given to you. Therefore much is expected in return. [. . .] Do you indeed comprehend what Linden Giantfriend has done for love of you?” Her tone was a bared blade. “Your manner suggests that you do not. [. . .] I do not speak of her search for you across many centuries and uncounted leagues, or her many efforts to relieve your absent mind. We ourselves have done much in Lostson Longwrath’s name, and we are not his mothers. Now, however, Linden Giantfriend has exceeded our conceptions of love and fidelity. Knowing that you have need of her, she yet prizes your worth so highly that she has hazarded more than her own extinction. This she has done for the Land’s sake, aye, but also for yours, that your endeavors here may accomplish their intended purpose.”
“Does her attempt not express her devotion? Does it not merit your esteem?”
So...his whiny dismissal of his mother’s strivings had inspired the unburying of the tomahawk. The pup does attempt to yap back at this point, yet the weepy mini-Linden within makes him acquiesce to softer emotions. What a maelstrom of mental conflicts.
In essence, Jeremiah must hunt down and snare a means to mature quickly. Occasional prods to the right direction, such as the abovementioned conclusion, do drift up to the surface, yet not often enough. In a very Giantish manner, the Ironhand suggests that he ought to learn patience.He understood what his mother was trying to do--and yet he had treated her courage like a betrayal.
With that, we are flung anew into a scene where Giants serve as the main characters’ voices of wisdom. Whether it is Covenant and Foamfollower, Linden and Pitchwife or Linden and Coldspray, they always have conveyed their itty-bitty comrades over physical and psychical barriers. And, the solution to the bumbling cub’s dilemma might just lie therein. Hark and heed, hothead...
In due course, a pact is formed. While the rest of the femmes fatales snore, two aid the architect in turn. Grueburn, scarcely for the first time, snatches the harnesses of the situation and promises to both bear boulders and blather about Longwrath, whom Jeremiah has not hitherto met. To the Giants, he represents a raw wound with salt poured in, yet the boy may merit from such knowledge in the end...
Thence, the bleak harshness dissolves into banter, as the Giantesses yet retain a morsel of good cheer and an impish edge. Oh Linden, Linden Timelady, wherefore did you not spare two minutes to explain to your poor, clueless sod of a son about bees and flowers ere you decided to lunge into the local variant of a TARDIS? Then again, shame on the raunchy Amazons for thus ill-treating Jeremiah’s naivety.
‘Tis a fine hour to recycle some Wiki cartoons. Jeremiah, Jeremiah...you do not pronounce something like that to a curvy lady of war sporting centuries of earthy experiences.Grueburn nodded her approval; and Latebirth said, “That is well thought, young Jeremiah. In the absence of plain commands, we would doubtless cause ourselves much unnecessary labor.”
“And we would moan,” Grueburn stated, feigning pride, “Even among GIants, I am prized for the purity and pathos of my moans.”
“I don’t believe you,” snorted Jeremiah. Carried on a rise of anticipation, he tried to emulate his companions. With gibes, the Swordmainnir refreshed their spirits: he saw that. Now he wanted to participate. “You’ve probably never moaned in your whole life.”
“Latebirth has not,” Grueburn asserted, “She is entirely dour. But I am capable, I do assure you, of the most extravagant moans.”
This and the following chapter do provide some interesting peeks into the individuality of the scantily depicted Swordmainnir, however. For one, it appears that apart from exhibiting a more aggressive nature than the males, promiscuity belongs to Giantess-ish traits as well. Did fluffy ol’ Foamy or the hottie Honninscrave ever brag about their 1337 luvskillz in the hammock? Nope.
Thereafter, the inherent glumness of the hour re-conquers all hearts. While the dainty damoiselles grunt and sweat and, biceps bulging, heave up humongous rocks, Jeremiah doodles in the dirt and receives a dreary bedtime tale about a bewitched Giant.
Jeremiah’s possession does parallel that of Exalt, yet the latter’s plight intermingled with Joan’s as well. A curious admixture, this, in particular if one wishes to pursue all those meandering theories about externalizations or Landish doppelgängers. In the meanwhile, downhill speeds the rollercoaster of the lad’s excitability again, the narrative having deeply disturbed him. Snappity snap. One almost wants to spank him for his rude “What’s your point?” reply to Grueburn while she laments Longwrath’s unsung fate. The Giantesses strain to ladle some common sense into the boy’s obstinate ears, even if their own fury blinded them afore Infelice, thus preventing the gaining of further enlightenment about Exalt’s geas.Jeremiah tried not to listen. Grueburn raised too many echoes. They were as insistent as the erratic buffeting of the wind. But unlike the wind, they did not hurry past him. Instead they squirmed like crimes in the background of his mind.
Alas, if only Hope had not teetered on the verge of extinction ever since the World Serpent was roused…“My point, young Jeremiah, is that Longwrath’s madness and pain do not foretell your doom. There is this difference between you. You were taken. He was bartered in a witless exchange.”
Jeremiah flinched. Before he could stop himself, he retorted, “It’s the same thing. [. . .] My [natural] mother gave us away. ” He remembered it vividly. The croyel had delighted in raising such spectres from their graves. “She must have thought she was getting something. She sacrificed my sisters and me when she handed herself to Lord Foul.”
Grueburn’s shoulders slumped. “Then I will grieve for you. And I will hold out hope for Lostson Longwrath, that he may evade his geas as you have foiled your imprisonment.”
Later, Stave joins the rock-collection gang, while the gosling grouses and the Giantesses deplete their strength. Grueburn’s enervation begins to affect her wits: a boulder-y misjudgement nigh-on causes a rockfall. Having just experienced my worst jet-lag ever, I can attest that stars and moons begin to erupt in one’s vision during high noon as a consequence of extreme exhaustion. In the wormeaten, star-forsaken Land, this of course would have demonstrated a positive turn of events… During one of his fleeting instances of compassion, Jeremiah wishes to aid the lumbering she-colossus, the desire to prove himself worthy furthermore poking him in the ribs.
Alas, he cannot restore the Swordmain with earthfire. In spite of her reassurances, he stumbles, and plummets into one of his abysses of incertitude.His flames were more than light and warmth. They were Earthpower. He wanted to believe that their uses were not limited to fusing marrowmeld structures and cooking sour tubers. But he had no one to teach him. He could only learn by trying.
Afore this uncanny display, Grueburn expresses something bordering on dread. One must recall that albeit boasting formidable strength and resilience, Giants do not wield sorceries. Against Kasreyn’s restraining hoopie-loopies, even the mighty Glowlimn could not contrive a counter-attack. Still, Grueburn attempts to soothe that jangling bundle of nerves, and even offers shrink services.His inability to help Grueburn felt like just another demonstration that he was not good enough to deserve success. Without warning, he saw Lord Foul’s eyes in the bonfire that had maimed him. Unbidden and compulsory, that memory cut him like the flick of a lash. It cut deep enough to draw blood.
In that instant, he wanted to hit back. He saw the croyel’s neck gripped in his strangling hands; saw himself pounding the Despiser’s head to pulp with a stone. His eagerness to hurt them was so swift that it snatched a snarl past his teeth before he could restrain himself.
One must wonder if she has adopted one of those blatantly misleading names à lá Bluff Stoutgirth, or if she indeed practices snow worship in a sanctum of elder-ice back Home. Grueburn radiates far softer emotions than the Ironhand--and bucketfuls more than the self-proclaimed epitome of empathy, Kindwind--what with for instance later confessing to Linden that she feels more than plain friendship towards her, not to mention the flesh-and-blood pennant scene in the previous chapter. Apart from Linden herself, she is the first one to show genuine concern towards the boy, who, regrettably, has chosen to espouse some of mommy’s harsh world-views. At least he does not snap aloud his worst disbelief, but even so, the impolite dismissal of her gentleness tells many a sad tale.“Heed me, young Jeremiah. Linden Giantfriend fears for you. She fears that both the croyel and the Despiser have wrought untold harm. [. . .] But I do not perceive the form or substance of your distress. Will you not reveal yourself to me? There is much to be gained by the setting aside of such concealments. And I remind you that I am a Giant. The burden of joy is mine. It belongs to the ears that hear, not to the mouth that speaks.”
Alas, that is what people do, but not always, not everywhere. Selective trust represents another form of maturity he must acquire, or risk becoming the all-despising Foul-ling.People judge. The croyel taught me that. Mom taught me that. She judges herself all the time.
The building continues, and in due course the Giantesses crawl off to bed. Jeremiah still seeks for an essential element to finalize the fane: a capstone of pure malachite. A desperate fever to accomplish something, to prove his worth, burns in his veins, and at the same time, he must flee, flee, flee, stay half a step ahead of the hydra of memories, the rank, venomous breath of which he can smell wherever he might scuttle. Then, his feckless skedaddle almost causes a fatal falling injury; the Haruchai manages to prevent this on the last heartbeat. Perhaps providential in all its grimness, this slip, as it helps hammer some much-needed reason into the lad’s stubborn skull.
Thus, in spite of the atrocious pun, he does succumb to some of Stave’s support, who further reminds him that the Magic of Friendship does not solely belong to pastel-hued squeaky ponies, and that requesting aid would not dishonor him either. Even if the cub cannot weave all his worries into words, he at least gains an additional pair of eyes and a health-sense that might uncover the capstone. After much probing, Stave sights a promising, monolithic candidate further up the cliffside, in a location operose to attain. Jeremiah huffs and puffs about the impossibility, but the Haruchai stands firm and stresses the necessity of patience, just as the Giantesses have done.But now he understood that being overtaken by his fears was not the worst possible outcome. Even a retreat to his graves was not the worst. Anything could be destroyed, anything at all, by a senseless, childish accident.
Then, the ex-Master takes advantage of his amazing gecko abilities and presumes a perilous climb up a sheer rock face in order to fetch the missing puzzle piece. Sometime after Jeremiah has bitten all his nails off in trepidation while gaping at the audacious display, Rime shuffles onto the stage to scrutinize the severity of the situation. At this point, it appears that the author has re-re-re-re-listened to his precious Wagners a soupcon too much. The Ironhand begins hailing her sisters-in-arms for aid in a very Valkyrja-esque manner. Slam a winged helmet onto her graying curls, and ware of bringing glass objects to the proximity; she most certainly possesses enough bust and loudness of voice to assume the role.“Chosen-son.” Now Stave’s tone was unmistakably a reprimand. “You judge in haste. Therefore you judge falsely. Have you come so far in Linden Avery’s care and failed to learn that despair gives poor counsel?”
At the beginning of scene III of Die Valküre, Gerhilde, Waltraute, Helmwige et al face a high precipice and basically greet and call to one another by name to descend, accompanied by the whole “Hojotoho! Heiaha!” rigmarole. Their numbers almost correspond to the Swordmainnir as well, particularly when Brünnhilde keeps tarrying somewhere off-screen with Wälsung.“Ho, Swordmainnir! Bestir yourselves! [. . .] Hear me! Hear and come!”
The Rimehilde scene cries for another cartoon (click the thumbnail for a larger image):Acht sind we erst: eine noch fehlt.
Anyhow, Grueburn and the rest of the ladies seem less inclined to burst into sopranino “Ha ha ha ha ha ha heiaha!”’s, but nevertheless assemble into a catchball team sans specific instructions from the Valkyrja matron. The reader has descried the same behavior erenow; even if not equipped with telepathic abilities, centuries upon centuries of campaigns must have honed certain combat formations and maneuvers into the tantamounts of instincts. As Coldspray has gauged, Stave cannot retain his balance when he finally unfetters the monolith supposed to manifest malachite within. The ridge shudders, baneful splinters sharp enough to impale Giants tumble down along with the hapless Haruchai, whom the Swordmainnir attempt to rescue… He strikes the hands of one, two, rolls…
What about the star-stone, the sole hope of the Elohim?
The monolith was broken. Its burden of malachite may have been shattered, made useless. Everything may have been wasted. Even Linden’s ride into the chaos of a caesure--
In the east, a dull dawn announced the third sunless day.
Should be guessable based on the TLD cartoon even if I've begun using anatomically correct proportions in these later representations.
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