Beyond the Oxford ventures, you have things like Moody’s League of Coloured Peoples, founded in London in 1931 and organising against colour bar practices in Britain itself. The West African Students' Union had been running since 1925, building a public anticolonial intellectual culture that fed directly into multiple independence movements of the following decades. CLR James was in England from 1932! And so on and so forth! And many in these organisations were white British activists or public intellectuals or writers! This was a live political and literary scene running in parallel with Tolkien's and explicitly arguing against the racial categories his fiction sought to preserve. Which is to say, I think what’s more likely than ‘the legendarium is the way it is with regards to race because Tolkien didn’t know any such antiracist thought existed’ is that ‘the legendarium is the way it is with regards to race specifically because Tolkien did know such antiracist thought existed’.

can i say i am so glad the guy was not a lazy writer and also that he disliked direct allegory because if one of sharky’s minion gangs in scouring of the shire were called the hobbiton majlis or something, i would probably start cooking people’s cats

Anyway, I’m so tired of how “of his time" just keeps getting used to mean "the time as understood by conservative Oxford dons," when the actual record shows Black British and colony diasporas and white progressives were producing sustained public counter-discourse in the same space the whole time, in his own country, in his own language, in his literal university. So when people say he was "just a product of his environment," I just always want to know which environment they mean exactly, because the one he was actually in very much did sustain quite a lot of anticolonial thought. 

Also just to get into the basics again, bro was famously a philologist, ie not exactly a profession where you could plausibly bumble through life without ever encountering race-as-a-formal-category. Philology in this period, and especially in Oxbridge, was literally a primary engine of race science. The Indo-European/Aryan linguistic apparatus that mapped language families onto racial stock was built by people doing Tolkien's exact job, so I really don’t think he passively inherited racial categories without noticing, he inherited them deliberately through years of formal study, with copious footnotes and his own academic judgement. Like I always find it so funny when people, even on that post, refer to the racial dynamics of the legendarium as ‘unconscious bias’ because I just know Tolkien is spinning like a power drill in his grave every single time, because they just implied he was shit at his job 😭

Anyway, the entire feudal value system of the legendarium runs on inherited blood as a determinant of worth (even within the Shire, ie the most ‘normal people not kings of men’ place, where Sam is placed as a Good Man Friday), and this is a very well known fact within fandom. Aragorn's legitimacy is genealogical-first and earned-second, the blood of Númenor "running true" in some lines and "thinning" in others is outright presented as a real, quasi-biological fact about a person's capacity for greatness, and not to forget Faramir’s entire speech about greater and lesser men, and the ‘childless lords sit alone while barbarians bay at the gates’ bit.

Or if you prefer a Silm example, (note: the context of the exile and whether or not you think they deserved what they got is irrelevant to this point) but the Doom of Mandos and the Noldorin re-entry ban, when viewed as a mechanism detached from context, is fundamentally just the ontological excision of a ‘birthright citizenship’ as a consequence of a person’s actions. Idk how big this was outside the UK but remember when Shamima Begum was extensively groomed as a child and fucked off to join ISIS and the UK decided to strip her of citizenship and leave her stateless? This is basically just that, ie the legitimisation of an ontologically confirmed birthright citizenship that can be granted to exceptional cases at the behest of the ruling body (see: Hobbits, Peredhels) due to their extraordinary actions, but also can just as easily be taken away by the same ruling body in response to a transgression. Like this is literally just present-day ‘migrant criminality’ discourse, how can you say he didn’t anticipate the rise of postcolonial global migration 😭

(once again to the reader, please let me reiterate i am simply comparing the mechanism of the exile alone, i am not saying that the Fëanorians are fucking ISIS, and i certainly am not saying that the exiled Noldor are the equivalent of stateless refugees, so pls don’t jump up my ass 😭)

Tolkien wasn't writing this in a vacuum where phrenology was a fringe pseudoscience nobody respectable touched, it was institutionally embedded and state sanctioned British science well into the interwar period, with its own society and journals, and an enormous presence in Oxbridge. Moral and mental character of Great Men™️ being first fixed by descent and the subsequent positive/negative shaping of character by choices and environment being seen as a somewhat effective yet undeniably secondary mechanism, is literally the loadbearing premise of race science. It’s not a borrowed aesthetic! The entire legendarium runs on this logic! 

Once again, and this is also re: a few reblogs of my original post that take a similar route, what do you mean ‘he did not anticipate a world where migration is the norm’??? 😭The legendarium isn’t a product of 1937 alone, bro was notoriously still tinkering with its genealogies and societal architecture well into the 1960s and early 70s and pretty much until the day he died, like a fucking dweeb (for once, complimentary), hence why it takes the fragmented form it does. That's a working lifespan that runs through major global decolonisation, Windrush, the 1958 Notting Hill race riots, the 1962 Commonwealth Immigrants Act, through literally the entire long and convoluted and drawn out process by which Britain had to publicly and unavoidably reckon with the idea that the empire's subjects were now their neighbours. At some point we need to truly engage with what "of his time" means, ie we have to reckon with the fact that “his time” kept moving and the foundational elements of the legendarium didn’t. 

And to bring up the same example from my original post but in a different light, Tolkien was completely capable of precise and deliberate racial argument the second it was framed as being about himself rather than his fiction. In said well known example, in 1938, some German publisher wants confirmation of his "Aryan" descent for translation rights, and Tolkien's (drafted) response is sharp and furiously specific, knowing exactly what's being asked of him by the Nazis and exactly why it's grotesque. Compare that to the total absence of literally any comparable interrogation applied to the Haradrim or orcs, or the entire chronology and geography of Middle-earth where evil consistently arrives from the same two compass directions wearing the same coded features. Man like. Tolkien was honestly a pretty clever guy, and ngl I feel it does him a (very funny) disservice to assume he didn’t have the capacity to scrutinise race to the level he does ☠️

Anyway I think where the fandom focus on “unconscious bias of the era" does not actually originate in a true desire to absolve Tolkien (fair enough, because this is a man who has never once asked to be absolved of the opinions he holds strongly enough to work into his narrative at such depth) the individual, and but rather in the interests of keeping the emotional crutch of loving a beloved childhood text without having to acknowledge that the person who made it was making choices in the same way Rudyard Kipling or Rider Haggard was making choices, and yet very few people offer Haggard this kind of protective custody in present day.

Almost nobody aside from hardcore conservatives sits around saying King Solomon's Mines just "reflected the assumptions of empire" as if Haggard had no hand in shaping said assumptions himself, we read it (correctly) as a deliberately shaped ideological project worth taking seriously as an argument. Tolkien, specifically due to the fandom culture around him both then and now, often gets a pass that even Kipling doesn't, and imo it's not because the textual evidence is thinner but because the fandom loves him more and flinches harder when he’s hit. Which is to say, the insistence on ‘Tolkien was of his time and his time was bad’ being the chosen interpretive lens is less a claim about ‘the time’ Tolkien existed in than it is a claim about us as a fandom today. 

On a vaguely related note, I also think ‘this fandom gives grace to the author’ should not be treated as a complimentary statement, especially because one of the elements of the Tolkien fandom which genuinely baffles me is the general air of author-genuflection across the board regardless of what fandom pocket you’re in (and a towards Christopher LMFAOOO) never have I been in a fandom that consistently deifies the creator to this extent, and it’s doubly baffling considering that he isn’t exactly a sensitive up and coming artist but a dude who has enormous mainstream cultural impact and, crucially, has been dead as a doornail for decades. 

Like it is quite funny but also on a serious note, whilst the sentiment is understandable because yeah the world and its languages are as immense as the work he put into it and it is very important to so many of us, I think a publicly performed culture of ‘grateful to the author for this wonderful world’ is one of the things that preclude a deeper critical understanding of the legendarium itself. Amusingly, this is literally the only thing that makes me miss the bloodsoaked battlefields of anime fandom, because Masashi Kishimoto may have painstakingly drawn 3 billion pages of Naruto, but 95% of the fandom would probably, upon meeting the guy, tie him to a chair and beat him repeatedly on the head with a rubber hammer going ‘why the fuck did you do this? what the fuck is wrong with you? did you hate twelve year old me personally?’ 

I didn’t expect to see a skinny rail of a guy standing on the porch, bouncing on his heels as he waited for someone to answer the door. His cheeks were bright red, he had a short beard and curly blond hair, a guitar that had seen better days was slung over his back, but what really got my attention was that he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Hello!” He knelt down to my level, grinning broadly. “Is there any chores or work I could do for your family to earn my bread?”  

I glanced at Bear to see his reaction to this bizarre fellow. Normally my dog would at least be a little apprehensive around a stranger, but much to my surprise Bear was happily panting away. The man looked at Bear and actually squealed. “Oh, a good boy!” He gave Bear’s ears a scratch and Bear licked his hand.

I craned my neck in and yelled for my mom, “Mom, there’s a man here who wants to do work for bread. Can I have him help clean my room?”  

“Sure, sweetie!”  

Of course, my mom was distracted. She loved her books. But since she said it was okay, I let the man in. He bowed his head politely. “Thank you, thank you so much. Sun was about to burn me alive. My friends call me Daffodil, what’s yours?”

“I’m Will. Come on, let’s go clean my room.” Mom said I had to, after all, before I went to go play, and if all Daffodil wanted was bread then what was the harm?

Daffodil was a very efficient cleaner, and I learned quickly he was a complete weirdo but he was nice. He asked the names of all my stuffed animals, asked about my favorite games to play, my favorite color. When he wasn’t asking about me, he was humming tunes to songs I didn’t know.  

We just got done when Mom popped in to ask who I was talking to and screamed when she saw a strange man in her son’s bedroom. “Who- Will, who is that?!” She grabbed me by the back of the shirt and yanked me away.  

“Mom, it’s the man I told you wants to work for bread! You said it was okay!” I complained.

Daffodil politely bowed his head. “Not to be argumentative, ma’am, but he’s right,” He said.

My mom was pretty embarrassed, but in the end Daffodil did end up staying for dinner. She came to the same conclusions I did- weird, but absolutely harmless. He was a traveler, just planning on cooling his heels in town for a while.

How long was a while?

“Maybe a week, maybe a century. I’ll make up my mind later.”  

As he left, he gave me a dried out flower. “Thank you for dinner,” He said before tipping his head once more and skipping down the street.  

I still have that flower on my desk.  

Daffodil did end up staying a while, several years in fact. He’d typically go door to door, asking for work in exchange for something to eat or a place to sleep. If he wasn’t doing that, you’d find him in the park playing guitar for tips or selling pressed wildflowers. His songs told stories of home, of gardens that went for miles and a wife named Rose and another named Dahlia and their dozen children inbetween them. I rather liked his songs, even though apparently he had some raunchier ones that my mom told me about when I was older. He never sung them around the kids though.

My mom gave him a pair of my dad’s old boots during winter, and I swear he did a little dance and promised to dedicate a song to her. When my dad got home, he was also a little hesitant about Daffodil (I’m pretty sure I heard him ask mom if Daffodil was a queer), but I thought it was impossible not to warm up to such a charming fellow.  

I learned better when I got older.

See, Daffodil never minced his words. Never pulled any punches. He got into several heated arguments with one of the neighbors, Mr. Robert Miller, about why he wouldn’t go to church. Miller was a quite devout Christian, always trying to convince the ‘lost sheep’ of God to join the flock. Most people knew better than to try to argue with him about it.  

Daffodil was not most people.

I was about nine when I overheard one argument between the two.

“Mr. Miller, I am well aware you’ll put a roof over my head and food in my mouth if I go to church, but again I don’t think it’s very Christ like to blackmail me like that.”

“It’s not blackmail. I’m just trying to help you-”

“No, no, you’re helping yourself feel good.”

“How dare you!”

I enjoying a good amount of eavesdropping as a kid, so I kept myself hidden behind the fence dividing our two yards as I continued to listen in on this bickering.

“I’ve been around the block a few times, Mr. Miller, I know how it works. The moment we’re done here, you’re going to run to all your other little church friends and talk about the heathen that won’t hear God, you will pray together and pat yourselves on the back for doing a job well done.”  

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Nothing. Or a lot of things, depends who you ask. I found my version of god in song and in nature. I’m at peace with that.”

“You’re one of those, aren’t you? Is that why you won’t go to church?”

There was a pause before I heard Daffodil sigh.

“I am not inclined to share my sexual past with anyone, Mr. Miller. Good day.”

“You are then! You’ll burn in hell, faggot!”

I’d never heard that word before. But the way he spat it out so venomously almost frightened me. I almost asked my mom what it meant, but I lost my nerve, given it sounded like a bad word and I didn’t want to get in trouble.

Didn’t lose my nerve to ask Daffodil though, next day while he raked leaves for old Ms. Reed.

“What’s a faggot, Daffodil?”

He didn’t even miss a beat as he twirled the rake in the air. “A bundle of sticks,” He responded.  

“That’s all? Like a bitch is a female dog?” I couldn’t say these words around my mom. But I could ask Daffodil anything and he’d tell me the truth.

“Sorta.”

I remember him laughing and performing another twirl of the rake. “Will boy, just know that Mr. Miller meant it in a way to cut me down. It’s a nasty word, so don’t use it. You can use some of the other bad words when you get old enough, but that’s just one of the words you can’t.”

“Why?” I asked.

Daffodil never got mad when I asked why, but this time he looked a little sad as he reached over and ruffled my hair.  

“You’ll understand one day.”

And I did understand one day. I suppose Daffodil wasn’t exactly hypermasculine, he put flowers in his hair, danced down the street to no music, cried when he was emotional and was not afraid to get excited over things like baby bunnies or dogs. To be totally transparent though, I don’t think Daffodil was gay. He was too much of a flirt with any women close to his age.  

Didn’t matter though. He was a piece of pyrite surrounded by the asphalt on the cul de sac and people didn’t like that too much.  

It really came to a head when I was twelve. Daffodil was one of my friends, my parents loved having him for dinner and it wasn’t often that he wasn’t crashing on our couch, snoring like a freight train and his oversized legs hanging over the couch arm. I felt like he was a cool uncle, the guy I could turn to whenever I had a problem or question.

I was doing dishes while my mom was enjoying a glass of wine with Mrs. Miller in the living room. I still hadn’t learned not to eavesdrop, so I took a break from the suds to listen in.

“-And I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to have him hanging around Will all the time.”

I heard my mom laugh. “Anna, Daffodil’s harmless. Weird, definitely, but harmless.”

“Well, you know he’s… you know… like that. What if Will turns out like that too?”  

“Anna, you can’t seriously believe Daffodil is homosexual. Really, I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“I just care about you and your son! And god knows what he might have if he is a homo, what if he gives Will AIDS?”

“Anna!” My mom sounded horrified, and I felt the same. I did not like the implication that Mrs. Miller was throwing out there.  

“I’m being serious!”

“And I’m being serious when I say, again, Daffodil isn’t gay and he doesn’t have AIDS. Besides, I think the neighborhood’s done well with him around. You know we haven’t had anything really bad happen since he started staying around here? No one’s lost their job, everyone has a good looking yard, no one’s gotten badly sick or died…”

“What, are you saying he’s had something to do with that?”

“Well, maybe he’s a good luck charm. Let’s change the subject. How’s Levi, has his grades improved?”

I went back to the kitchen after the subject changed. I genuinely hoped it was just the Millers with such nasty thoughts, that their venom was contained in the family.

I was wrong. Mr. Miller was a deacon at the church at this time and had the respect of a lot of parishioners. His nasty thoughts had taken root in many people’s minds.

I don’t know why I was out late that night. It was hot, maybe I couldn’t sleep, but I wasn’t really the kind of kid to wander the streets after dark. This is the only night I remember doing it. I heard a commotion and followed the sound, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back, Daffodil taught me.

I found a mob of twelve men and all of them had surrounded Daffodil. For the first time in my life I saw Daffodil look afraid.  

“You don’t have to do this,” He said, hands raised in the air. He wasn’t armed. He was defenseless.

I saw Mr. Miller lift up a baseball bat. “We told you to leave, Daffodil. You wouldn’t listen. You forced us to do this,” I swear I heard pure evil in his voice that night.

Daffodil looked down and then he looked straight at me. I heard him mutter ‘stay put’ before he looked back at Mr. Miller. “Then I suppose I’ll cease to speak. My words have fallen on deaf ears for long enough. Do what you came to do.”

They descended on him like a pack of wild dogs, and he never fought back, not once.  

I watched them beat him into the ground with bats or golf clubs or whatever the hell they brought. They beat him while he howled in pain, they beat him until he only whimpered, and they beat him until he was still and quiet. When they left, all clearly proud of what they’d done, that’s when I crawled out of my hiding spot and hurried to Daffodil’s side.

He didn’t even look like a human anymore, he looked like fresh roadkill. That friendly face that I never saw without a smile before tonight was swollen and broken, the flowers in his hair were squashed on the ground…  

“Daffodil?”

Somehow, Daffodil turned his head towards the sound of my voice. “… Will. Good… good boy, for not leaving your hiding spot…”

“Why wouldn’t you let me help you?” My eyes overflowed with tears, they landed on my friend’s face.

“Because… I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt for me, my little friend.”

A shaky hand, one with fingers bent in horrifying angles, reached up and touched my face, smearing blood across my cheek.

“Thank you for listening to me. Thank you… for being my friend.”

I waited until he seemed to stop breathing before I dragged him off the road and into the nearby woods. He was far too heavy for me to consider doing this in a sane state of mind, but I was on autopilot at this point. All I could think of was how they might further desecrate Daffodil’s body in the morning. How they’ll say he deserved it, and then put him in a grave that didn’t have a proper headstone and not even a name.  

I folded his arms over his chest, like he was just sleeping. I covered him in leaves and flowers. I took one and put it in his hair, tucked behind his ear.

This was the grave he deserved. The best a twelve year old boy could do.  

I didn’t eat for two days after Daffodil’s death. I didn’t leave my room. My mom was confused as to what was wrong until she realized Daffodil hadn’t shown up. Miller claimed he just left town but mom knew he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

She managed to pry the real story from me and then she called the police.  

Here’s the kicker though- the body was gone. They found the grave I made for him, the piles of leaves and flowers, but there was no Daffodil. My mom told me that maybe Daffodil was okay, that he got up and just chose to quietly leave, but I knew I saw him stop breathing.  

You know how my mom said Daffodil was a good luck charm, right? I think she was right. Well, half right. Daffodil was good luck to the people that did him good, and their neighbors prospered because of that. But Daffodil wasn’t going to give that kindness any longer to the people that beat him and left him for dead.

The week after Daffodil’s death, I saw him.  

I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t been able to sleep well since the incident. I was staring out the window when I saw a familiar head of golden hair walk into the space between ours and the Millers. I couldn’t believe it. I rubbed my eyes a dozen times before I got up and pulled the window up, ready to call out to my friend to see if it was really him or if it was just a dream.

The word froze in my mouth when I realized I wasn’t sure if this was really Daffodil. Sure, he had the golden hair and the beard, but he was… different. Taller, which was quite a feat given he was already a giant. There was this unnatural glow about him, and he wore strange clothes. If this had been a few years later, I’d say he looked dressed to be in a ren fair.  

One look confirmed though that he wasn’t wearing shoes. It was still Daffodil.

He turned to look at me and now he smiled, but there was an unfamiliar mischievousness to it. He put a finger to his lips to shush me before he opened the window and reached inside. Out he pulled the Miller’s infant daughter, Rebecca. He cradled her for a brief moment before he turned his head behind him and whistled.

Two women walked out from the bushes. I didn’t recognize them. Both were also quite tall, one with hair almost silver in the moonlight wearing a white gown and the other with midnight black hair cut short to her jaw and a sword hanging from her waist. Daffodil handed Rebecca to the swordswoman who bounced her up and down a few times before walking away. I saw the silver haired woman slip in through the window and a few minutes later left the front door with the Miller’s two sons, four year old Micah and seven year old Asher. Both were still in their pajamas but clung to the woman’s hands and looked at peace with her. She walked down the street and vanished in the dark.

Now it was just Daffodil again. He looked at me, still smirking, before he rubbed his hands together before lifting them up to his mouth and blowing on them. I saw sparks fly out from his palms and dance in the air before going black.

The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning to police all over the street. The three youngest Miller children were gone. And the eldest, seventeen year old Levi, was dead. Autopsy would later reveal he had gone undiagnosed with brain cancer, even though he’d just had a physical a few months prior and he was healthy as a horse.  

Sure, I was asked if I’d seen anything, since my window was closest to the Miller’s, but I just remembered Daffodil putting his finger to his lips and told them nothing.  

Only one child of the Millers would be found, baby Rebecca, returned to her crib. But a week in and Mrs. Miller looked ready to have a meltdown. A teatime with mom and she confided all about how Rebecca never slept, only cried, and how she swore she heard her daughter giggling whenever she wasn’t in the room.  

That child was certainly not Rebecca, but once again I kept my mouth shut.  

Things went downhill for the Millers the fastest, but they weren’t alone. Several other households faced their own bizarre and sudden catastrophes. The Petersons were in a terrible car accident that cost Mr. Peterson his legs and Mrs. Peterson her memory. To her death, she believed every morning was July 21, strangely not the day of the accident but the day of Daffodil’s disappearance. The Caldwells had a nasty divorce after Mrs. Caldwell got mysteriously pregnant, even though Mr. Caldwell had a vasectomy. It’d later come out she was approached by a young handsome man and they had a moment of passion in the backseat of Mr. Caldwell’s car.  

The Anderson’s house burned down. The Rivers were infertile. The Ward’s prize garden wilted and died while Mr. Ward wasted away with an illness no doctor could diagnose. The Reeves lost their jobs. I could go on. But I’m sure you guessed by now what each of the families had in common.

Each of those families had someone directly involved with Daffodil’s beating.

While everyone else’s family was suffering disaster after disaster, ours only prospered. Bear’s health held strong until he was nearly sixteen, long time for a big dog. My parents thought they were out of luck when it came to having another kid, but mom became pregnant with twins. I insisted one be named Daffodil. They compromised and Marie’s middle name is Daffodil. They were also approved to adopt and that’s when I got a brother just a few months younger than me, Brian. We became thick as thieves the day he came into our lives and we’re still quite close. My dad got an amazing job when he was discharged from the army, mom got some serious promotions so we got to go on amazing vacations and make amazing memories.  

I was eighteen when Mr. Miller finally cracked and hung himself. He’d lost everything- his job after he failed a drug test that he should’ve passed with flying colors, his position as a deacon after said failed drug test made common knowledge, his wife after she was just done with his bullshit, he just had to give up the car because of the debt he was in and was about to lose the house. In his suicide note he did confess to Daffodil’s murder and named the other conspirators as well. A few of them were already dead from various means, but the others got in pretty deep shit, even though they couldn’t be officially charged without a body apparently.  

Sometimes I wondered if I dreamed that night I saw Daffodil outside. Sometime I even believed it.

But it’s been a long time since then. I have a family of my own now, married the love of my life and we have a six year old daughter, Iris. I actually own the Miller’s house, I got it for a steal because of the suicide. My wife thinks it serves for great inspiration, she’s a horror novelist, so that works out.

Maybe I would’ve forgotten Daffodil one day if my daughter hadn’t run to get the door before I could stop her. Girl has no fear, probably like I did when I was her size.

I almost reached the living room when I heard her yell back, “Daaaaadddyyyy, there’s a man asking if we have bread!”

“Erm, not quite, if you have work so I can have bread. Close enough though.”

I never forgot that voice. I ran for the door, nearly tripping over the dog in the process. I whipped open the door the rest of the way, nearly bowling over Iris in the process.

He looks exactly the same as he did back then. Same beard, same guitar slung over his back, same lack of shoes. He stared at me for a few moments before his eyes widened and he grinned.

There was blood everywhere in those days, so it was a good time to be a shrine cat. You just had to loiter by the channels cut into the sides of the altar and you'd never go hungry or without fusses.

The priests would try to fuss me, sometimes. Some of them thought they were cat people.

“Oh sweet Suki,” they'd say, reaching out with their perfectly trimmed nails, “you are so pretty with your soft fur and the gore on your whiskers. Wouldn't you like a pet beneath your blood-stained chin?”

But I knew they were not cat people. They were god people.

Now and again, I would let them think they were safe and accept their touch. Then, thinking they were safe, I would sctratch and bite them. Catching them unawares, I could get a really good grip on their flesh.

That is where the real treats of the shrines were kept, of course.

I had learned this from the ghosts of the sacrifices. Some of those ghosts were cat people, so I let them pet me and tell me their stories. I would lick up their lifeblood and – with the taste of their heart’s milk on my tongue – I would guide them through the tricky currents and rocks of the river.

This left plenty of time for stories.

This is how I learned the gods were prisoners, even though they did not know it.

This is how I learned the priests kept the gods’ secrets hidden on the insides of their skin, inscribed in moonlight and blossoms where none could see.

Oh, I'm sorry, I was telling you about how the gods made the world, wasn't I?

Well, that's the thing. In those days, the gods knew how they'd done it.

And, so long as the priests kept them walled up in cathedrals or sacred springs or afterlives, the priests were the only ones they could tell the secrets of creation.

It would have remained that way, were it not for the ghosts and the shrine cats.

The ghosts, you see, were not too happy about being sacrificed to keep the god-walls up.

But the shrine cats were the only ones they could talk to, and most of us were happy as we were. Happy to keep sleeping on the warm red-stained stone of the altars. Happy to keep supping on the streams of gravestone-blessed viscera as they joined the river.

However, some of the priests kept trying to pet me. Even though they were not cat people.

So I, clever Suki, listened to the ghosts and stole the secrets from the priests’ illuminated skins.

I carried those secrets to the orchard fields and spat them up in the roots of the apple trees.

When the blossoms bloomed on the trees, the breeze carried dreams of injustice.

When the fruit fell upon the earth, they held inside them visions of a future celestial.

When the priests found out what I'd done, they cursed me… because of course they did. They called me ungrateful and wicked and flighty (all true). They bid the earth always echo my footfall. They bid the wind always carry my scent.

With that curse, and with the bloody channels from the shrines all dried up, I died hungry.

But the ghosts and the gods were grateful. So the ghosts taught me how to dig my claws into the flank of life. Then the gods gave me all their old standing stones and chapels and hells to haunt.

What had I been telling you?

Oh, right. So… living amongst the mortals as they do, the gods find it hard to explain how they do their godly things. Y'know, like making the world.

Maybe it's because the words for that sort of thing only exist in the godly places, and they won't live there anymore. Or maybe it's because they gave too many of their secrets to the priests and now they're lost.

You might say: but Suki! You haunt those godly places now! And you stole those secrets from the priests with your sharp teeth! Surely, you can tell us what the gods cannot?

And to that I say: maybe I could or maybe I couldn't. But if I do hold onto those knowings, they are mine and mine alone.

You live in a world celestial. The gods walk among you, close enough to clasp your hand or pick your pocket.

Just try to enjoy it, will you?

---

This story was based on the prompt 'Suki - cat, ancient, vindictive, distractable' by one of my Ko-Fi supporters.