Arhat
- Arhat
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
"Welcome to the Archive. I am Arhatta, but if it suits you call me Arhat." Stillness kept the calm soothed, stillness of my heart, untouched by calamity, vice, or vitality. Death not kin, but rebirth conquered by the brahmacarya, by the culmination of life. "I have peace, I have harmony with all things, and with the upward twist of my lips the world shall know me through my visage. For I am neither what I was nor what I am. I am the visage. I am Lohan, the Arhatta."
"You will begin to know us. We are the Archive. We each have our tale. For I, Arhatta, have known the age of mongols, when the Yuan Dynasty shun, and when the Ming Dynasty prevailed over them, until its iron will was brought to the blade by the hardened hands, which tilled their soil." My story is long and words can only mire the mirth of my nirvana. Know me in thoughts or do not know me at all. Words leave to petty banter the unchecked heart, which frolics like the puppy nipping at an imagined butterfly.
Think on this in your thoughts, but not in your words. Stillness. Think on honor, for we attain it not by our deeds or what we achieve, but by what people give unto us. Honor is a golden prize which weighs down your brahmacarya. I received the name Arahan, worthy one, but they always read the absent words. Foe destroyer, they whispered. I'm neither worthy nor destroyer. I am the visage. Being worthy is subjective to world you live in. I no longer worry on such things. I am worthy of everything and nothing, for I no longer live.
Namo Tassa Bhagavato, Arahato, Samma-sammbuddhassa—Homage to him, the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the perfectly enlightened Buddha. "We are what we seek. I sought mirth, I am mirth."
King Bamci
- King Bamci
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
My palace has fallen, my subjects gone, but my family is with me. At least I have solace. I was from the Singa Raja Palace. I was King, I am King, but with no throne. "Call me Bamci." He scratched his shoulder, his eyebrows turned inward with annoyance, the never ending kind. "Sorry it itches. It always itches.” He stole a glance upwards and smiled at the ceiling above. "At least I need not fear more of the white bombs from the sky."
Bamci went silent as if confused or lost, thinking on some minor thought. "The itching, it is so much at times it fuddles. Please sit and talk awhile." Taking lead, Bamci sat cross legged on his glass stand. "It's not the most comfortable, but it suits my needs. I've come to...respect what little I have. Where was I? Yes, you are correct, I was speaking on my kingship. It was a splendid palace, as all palaces should be, in the grand country of Indonesia. I spent a good four hundred years there before my travels took me here."
A bit of green dust brushed from his knee, Bamci leaned forward and rested his elbow against his leg, and with his hand cupping his chin. Regal some would say, with the gentle glaze of the indifferent eye. If it wasn't for the decay of his bronze skin, one might believe his foolish pose. "Those were good days, but we have cheerful company now. The Archive suits me and my wife Rajni, and the skies can no longer spit their venom. Oh, what I would do for a cloth."
Cikopich
- Cikopich
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
"Ha, I escaped the flame and the bity ity tatanua floats away. No harm to me. The soul whispers death to ears. I'm Cik." Rattling in place, as he shifted from foot to foot on the paved floor, Cik broadened his smile to a splendid row of teeth.
"I've many things to do. I'm with the Archive you see. I'm Cik. Nice to meet you. You ask what I do or where I'm from. Ha, I care not what brought me here. I'm warrior, Guardian Against the Flame. I control the Sacred Red Box. No flame can lick, our flesh unscorched."
These questions flicked in Cik's thoughts, his purpose intact and his heart juddering confidence. The hateful flame held no will over him, as long as he watched the Sacred Red Box. It was his duty, and as a warrior of the Malagan and now a member of the Archive, to be steadfast in his resolve to prevent the fiery from consuming them all. "Tick or tack, I'll quench the evil if it dares to come. Tick or tack. Flame a petty thing as long as Cik be near."
Ana Deo
- Ana Deo
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
We are united, we are one. We are neither nor the either. We are the tutelar, we are the ana deo, the ancestral pair. We speak as one, without loss of the other. We are one.
Our home, off on misty shores, broods in our mind, thinking upon how fair they fare without us. We used to guard and protect the house of spirits, the heda. We lived at the greatest heights, not in flight or size, but in other things of much more concern.
You may not understand this, for we are one, and neither are we whole or together, but we still stand as the bars to a land so holy. As we stood barring the entrance to such a great house of spirit, we stand still vigilant till the day time test our will, and we become one in dust together. If only we didn't now guard a wall, at least give us a closet a corner or even a lamp, but still we stand, always vigilant. No evil shall pass, no evil shall harm the holy wall we protect. For holy it is, for why else would be stand so still so long? Forever, till dust brings us together.
Iyo or Tena
- Iyo or Tena
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
What is the place you call the Archive? Hmm, I like it not. Easily broken. Too astir, too active for the likes of me. I'm from afar like us all, but I find myself more content than most. I'm almost a thousand years old. Pity those years steered by so fast.
But, this is splendid company I keep. Many tales they have, which are worth your ear. I advise, listen, and learn, but keep calm within for the unsteady heart cannot bend ear to good use.
Oh, have I forgotten to introduce myself. Pity on me, time sure does move fast. I'm Iyo if you catch me right and Tena if you catch me wrong. I hope you find our community welcoming, but I'm not of this Archive you speak, and if it has anything to do with Ms. Kitty, well, I smile on such things.
Kala
- Kala
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
"So you want to know something about me? Well, what fancies ya?" Kala sniffed, his lava rock nostrils flaring.
"I'm from Bali, but not originally mind you. I've been many a place and Bali wasn't my favorite. Not a bad sort, just not my favorite. No, I'm from Java, the old Java when times were dust and people vain. Eh, things probably haven't changed much have they?" Kala's eyes ground in circles, itching the ear.
His eyes stopped, he crunched his teeth together, and let his stone tongue run across his lips as if parched. "You know what, I could go for some greens. Do you have any greens? Spicy stuff and not right once inside, but the taste, now that is hard to beat. You're not a spirit are you? I hope not. I'm supposed to eat you if you are. I get awful hungry. You're probably not a spirit though. You best leave before I do get hungry. Come back again though. Not many people talk to me. Eating them probably doesn't help."
Tatanua
Tatanua
Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.
The Malagan is a story. It is a telling of times which were; a telling to guide the spirits to the beyond. It is a celebration of unity and a blessing for those gone. I'm that memory of a tale, which should carry the wild spirit of he who has passed. Yet, my story is forgotten, I'm not a tale, nor a memory or a thought. I'm haunted by the tatanua I've betrayed, the spirit which doesn't see the land of the golden sun.
I see him walking amid the tall pines, a wisp of smoke in the twilight breeze. I see him skidding over the white capped waves. His whisper sings in the twilight. His breath cuts between brittle leaves. He is always there and I always remember what I have forgotten. I'm the outcast. I've not tasted the flames, where my brethren become one with their spirits, with their tatanua. I stand cold and barren, with hidden eyes and the knowledge of what I've lost.
I'm named for that which I've betrayed. I'm the evil spirit, the twisted tatanua, which has no tale to tell and a life of tainted remembrance.
The South Hampton Press & The East Hampton Press
Judah's Watermill Grimoire Project had a full feature article "Artifacts at the Watermill Center Come to Life in an Action Tale from a Writer in Residence" by Pat Rogers in The South Hampton Press and The East Hampton Press.
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