Macbeth
First Post
Ceramic DM Fall 2004, Round 3.1: Piratecat vs. Macbeth
Words
By Sage LaTorra
His words tumbled out, a trickle, a stream, a river, a flood. Ebbing and flowing, pulling you under and washing you to a welcome shore. That's how I remember him, not as a person, but as the stories he told, the phrases that came down like rain, like snow, like hail. Looking back now, it's easier to see it. I'm older now, and I can see how it all happened. And even when I can see how it happens it doesn't make his stories any less wondrous, his words any less magical.
Don Diego first arrived in that dry summer, in San Fierro, in our dreams, as an entertainer. He stayed as a legend, or maybe a virus. I still haven't figured out which.
He looked so absurd that first day. The first time he walked into our ruined streets, the roads neglected by the needs of subsistence farming, he looked like a story book, too colorful to be part of our faded village, too alive to be in the dead Mexican town I called home. He had a smile out of place in the dust, a manner alien to our daily death. And the lute... the lute wasn't broken, broken or busted like all the heirloom instruments that sat in the village houses.(1)
I was young, that was my excuse. I was too young to know better, that's why I did it.
He sat down on the old bench, the one we might have sat on if we weren't working in the fields, and waited for somebody to notice. He was so sure of himself. Maybe he knew what would happen, I can only guess, but it seemed like he could see it all laid out in front of him, a flat ocean waiting for him to make waves.
I was the first one to talk to him. I had been working with Papa on the field, and I cam back to the house for a drink. He was just sitting there, waiting. I was too curious, that was my problem, and I walked up to him and studied him. Then I did the one thing that started it all: I spoke.
“Senior, who are you?”
He opened his mouth, and what came out wasn't human. It was beyond human, purer then human, a voice run through a filter, purified into a perfect sound. You couldn't not listen.
“Well, My child, I am Diego, and I am here to tell you a story.”
Stories were only for bedtime. This was special, to get to hear a story, to stay out of the fields for fun.
“Si, Senor.”
“Once, long ago, there was a boy much like you, a young prince...” That's how that first story started, that original sin. The first one was always the best. I can still hear the melodious flow of words that he spun, the perfect cascade of people, places, things I had never even dreamed of. The story soared over a mystical land, the prince met every challenge placed before him, and I was enthralled. “And that, my child, is how it happened.”
When Diego stopped talking, I realized how late it was, how angry my father would be. I told him thank you, like my father had taught me to, and ran back to the fields.
That night Diego stayed with the Lopez's, a guest of a village that couldn't even support itself. I told all the other children about Diego's story, and we decided to sneak into town from the fields the next day and listen. I couldn't have seen the end, so my mistakes can be forgiven.
We all did it. We all made our little excuse, me and Pablo and Juan and Julia and all the other children, and we met Diego sitting just as he had the last day, on the old bench.
Our little feet quaking with fear of the stranger, making a low rumble of impending doom, we walked towards Diego. I had thought I would have to ask for a story, but Diego spoke before I could form words.
“Hello, my children. Have you come for a story?”
“Yes, senor Diego.” I was the only one brave enough to speak.
“Sit down then. And listen to the story...” The words flowed, melted, froze, evaporated into our ears, spread out across the area around the bench, and drained back into Diego, drawing us all in with them. This time the story was full of magic, a wizard giving life to a village by bringing a storm, a special storm of water that would fall, then walk to where it was most needed, one drop at a time. “... and the lord was satisfied with the harvest, the village was allowed to stay, and the crops grew taller then all of you stacked together.”
“All of us together, Don Diego?” The story had given the others enough confidence to speak.
“Even taller, my child. Now, would you like to make the story come true?”
Rain was all our village needed. A chorus of “yes” almost as deep as Diego's own voice came from all of us children.
“Then here is what you will do. You will all go home, and you will find the plant that grows closest to each of your houses, and no matter what plant that is, you will take a leaf of it, and spit on it, and put it under your pillow. And we will see what comes tomorrow, my children.”
It looked like the rain drops could have walked off the leafs. The storm had given the village life, it had given life to the plants, and thereby given us life. Each and every leaf looked like a raindrop had walked onto the very tip of it and sat down.(2) It might have been coincidence, but I still don't think it was. The children of the village, all of us, we knew what it meant. It meant Diego was right. And we told our parents.
The day after the rain, after we had ensured that every plant was growing again, the adults gave us the day off, since the harvest looked so promising, and all of the children went to see Don Diego again. He had spent everyday since he arrived on that same bench.
But this time our parents came too. We told them of what Diego had done, and they wanted to meet this miracle man. From what we told them you would have thought Diego walked on water. In fact, you never know, he might of.
My father was the first to speak to Diego.
“Senor?”
“Si. What is it?”
“Did you bring the rain?” Diego's voice had startled him. He spoke like I would have. Diego was good with kids, so he made sure everybody seemed like a child around him.
“We all brought it, senor.”
This must have been too much for my father. I think he had expected Diego to be a simple story teller, he expected him to not take credit for the rain. But Diego knew what he did. “Then prove it. Do something else.”
“You doubt me?” I had never heard that kind of edge on Diego's voice, except when he acted like the villain in a story. “Senor, I have done nothing but help you, and you doubt me? Tonight I will prove it to you senor. Tonight you will be able to farm the fields as if it was day.”
“Then it will be a good night, Don Diego.” I remember hating my father for that. Hating him for doubting Diego. He just turned and left after that. I wish now that he had stayed.
Diego tool up where he had left off. “Today's story, my children, today's story is about an evil king, and his mage, who might have saved the kingdom, if not for the king's stubbornness. It all started with...” The story wove into our ears, danced with our minds. The words hooked our ears and Diego reeled us into his net like a fisherman. The story dove through caves, and magic was done, and the mage made the sun shine in the depths of the night, and the king was stupid and bull headed. “... and the mage was right, and the king was ashamed. All the people told the king to go away, told him he should have done as the mage said. They all said he should have trusted his magician.”
Diego took a deep bath, and even his breath was melodious. “Now my children, do you want to make the story true?”
We all wanted Diego to be right. I think I wasn't the only one who hated his parents for doubting Diego. It might not seem like much now, but story and a day off from Diego's rain was more then our parents had given us in our whole lives. A little more timidly then last time, we all murmured our agreement.
“Then here is what you will do. Tonight, before you go to sleep, you will take an ember from the fireplace, and throw it out of your window.”
“But won't the embers burn us, Senor Diego?”
“Yes they will, my children. And it will hurt, it will indeed, but you must do it for the magic to work.”
That night the better part of the village went to bed with burned palms. Even as I stirred in my bed, trying to forget the pain in my hands, I saw brilliant flash. Immediately I ran to the window, sure that Diego had worked his magic.
And I was right. Diego did it.
All of us, all of the children, ran out and played in the light, even as Diego's little sun faded. It only lasted a few hours, but we all played in the dirt and dust, kicking up brilliant red clouds into the glow of Diego's sun.(3)
The next weeks were different. The adults knew about Diego's powers now, the magic his cascading words could work. They let all of us, all of the children, spend the days listening to Diego's stories. Diego brought more rain, and richer soil. But he also made other things. His stories had sneaky faeries, and he would bring them to life too. Diego wanted all of his story to come to life, and little things like faeries, mystical plants, and some odd creatures came to life too. But as long as the crops grew, it didn't matter to the adults.
Then came Burro. Diego's story for that fateful day was stranger then before. It had a mad man who made animals that angered the Elders of his village. It was darker, and the words cast a shadow over the entire village.
We did what Diego said that night, as always, since the adults would do anything to keep he crops growing.
And the next morning the Burro was in the fields.
He had been minor character in the story, just another creation of the madman, a half donkey, half dolphin creature that would eat anything, just to keep others from having it. And now he was in the fields.
When my father found Burro, he had already eaten enough to ruin a quarter of the harvest. Burro just stood there, dumbly staring at my father, and chewing away at another corn stock.(4)
The entire village was furious. With what Burro had destroyed, we were almost back to where we had been before Diego arrived. Not quite as bad, not as nearly starving, but still worse off then if Burro had stayed in the story.
My father marched me off to the bench, to go to talk to Don Diego. He was mad, his face red like the sun Diego had put in the sky.
For the first time since he arrived, Diego wasn't on the park bench. It was empty. It was odd to see it again. With Diego there, you always focused on him, but without him, you realized how much the area around the bench had changed. The trees were green, a color unknown in the village before Diego arrived. That's the one change I'll always remember the most. Diego made the night into day, made the village come alive, but it was never so striking as seeing green trees in the village.(5)
We looked all over the town that day. It was if Diego knew we were going to come after him. Like he knew we were going to look for him. Maybe he knew we wouldn't be happy, but I don't think he was sorry. Not after that night.
Nobody had seen Diego all day, and I went to bed for the first time without doing one of Diego's little ceremonies, without bringing his story to life. After my father had tucked me in, I heard Diego's voice. I thought about moving, but the comfort of my sheets was too great, and before I knew it Diego had started a story, and I didn't want to move anymore.
“Listen, my child, to the story of a little boy, much like you...” I let the ebb and flow of his words pull me under, let him drown me in the story. I listened as the little boy, the nephew of the mage from the other story, took vengence on the king. The words were forming a dagger in my hand as the boy made his way into the king's bedroom with his knife, and made it all right. I words wrapped my hands, clenched my fists around the imaginary blade. The boy fixed it all, proved that the mage was right, just by killing the king. “... and with the bloody knife still in his hand, the boy knew it was all made good. The mage would be the new king, and everything would be better. Now, my child, do you want to make the story real?”
I was afraid. I knew that Diego had hurt the harvest, but I also had heard Diego's stories. His words ran over me, and all I could think of was his other stories. How much I had loved his other stories, and how great it was for them to come true. “Yes” I mumbled from beneath my covers.
“Then reach beneath your pillow. I left a knife there. You can work your magic. Your father is wrong, he is like the king in the story. And you, you are like the young boy. I always said you were like the young boy.”
That was it. I was mesmerized. I couldn't fight back, so I did as he said, and it was all over, my child. That was how my story ended, with me killing my own father, and spending the rest of my life drowning in a sea of regret. So please don't make it real again, my child. Let Don Diego's story end here, my child.
(1)Don diego when he first eneters the village.
(2)The Rain Diego rbought with his story.
(3)The sun Diego created in the night sky, from his magical story.
(4)Burro, another magical thing from Diego's stories, eating the crops.
(5)The empty bench where Diego once sat.
Words
By Sage LaTorra
His words tumbled out, a trickle, a stream, a river, a flood. Ebbing and flowing, pulling you under and washing you to a welcome shore. That's how I remember him, not as a person, but as the stories he told, the phrases that came down like rain, like snow, like hail. Looking back now, it's easier to see it. I'm older now, and I can see how it all happened. And even when I can see how it happens it doesn't make his stories any less wondrous, his words any less magical.
Don Diego first arrived in that dry summer, in San Fierro, in our dreams, as an entertainer. He stayed as a legend, or maybe a virus. I still haven't figured out which.
He looked so absurd that first day. The first time he walked into our ruined streets, the roads neglected by the needs of subsistence farming, he looked like a story book, too colorful to be part of our faded village, too alive to be in the dead Mexican town I called home. He had a smile out of place in the dust, a manner alien to our daily death. And the lute... the lute wasn't broken, broken or busted like all the heirloom instruments that sat in the village houses.(1)
I was young, that was my excuse. I was too young to know better, that's why I did it.
He sat down on the old bench, the one we might have sat on if we weren't working in the fields, and waited for somebody to notice. He was so sure of himself. Maybe he knew what would happen, I can only guess, but it seemed like he could see it all laid out in front of him, a flat ocean waiting for him to make waves.
I was the first one to talk to him. I had been working with Papa on the field, and I cam back to the house for a drink. He was just sitting there, waiting. I was too curious, that was my problem, and I walked up to him and studied him. Then I did the one thing that started it all: I spoke.
“Senior, who are you?”
He opened his mouth, and what came out wasn't human. It was beyond human, purer then human, a voice run through a filter, purified into a perfect sound. You couldn't not listen.
“Well, My child, I am Diego, and I am here to tell you a story.”
Stories were only for bedtime. This was special, to get to hear a story, to stay out of the fields for fun.
“Si, Senor.”
“Once, long ago, there was a boy much like you, a young prince...” That's how that first story started, that original sin. The first one was always the best. I can still hear the melodious flow of words that he spun, the perfect cascade of people, places, things I had never even dreamed of. The story soared over a mystical land, the prince met every challenge placed before him, and I was enthralled. “And that, my child, is how it happened.”
When Diego stopped talking, I realized how late it was, how angry my father would be. I told him thank you, like my father had taught me to, and ran back to the fields.
That night Diego stayed with the Lopez's, a guest of a village that couldn't even support itself. I told all the other children about Diego's story, and we decided to sneak into town from the fields the next day and listen. I couldn't have seen the end, so my mistakes can be forgiven.
We all did it. We all made our little excuse, me and Pablo and Juan and Julia and all the other children, and we met Diego sitting just as he had the last day, on the old bench.
Our little feet quaking with fear of the stranger, making a low rumble of impending doom, we walked towards Diego. I had thought I would have to ask for a story, but Diego spoke before I could form words.
“Hello, my children. Have you come for a story?”
“Yes, senor Diego.” I was the only one brave enough to speak.
“Sit down then. And listen to the story...” The words flowed, melted, froze, evaporated into our ears, spread out across the area around the bench, and drained back into Diego, drawing us all in with them. This time the story was full of magic, a wizard giving life to a village by bringing a storm, a special storm of water that would fall, then walk to where it was most needed, one drop at a time. “... and the lord was satisfied with the harvest, the village was allowed to stay, and the crops grew taller then all of you stacked together.”
“All of us together, Don Diego?” The story had given the others enough confidence to speak.
“Even taller, my child. Now, would you like to make the story come true?”
Rain was all our village needed. A chorus of “yes” almost as deep as Diego's own voice came from all of us children.
“Then here is what you will do. You will all go home, and you will find the plant that grows closest to each of your houses, and no matter what plant that is, you will take a leaf of it, and spit on it, and put it under your pillow. And we will see what comes tomorrow, my children.”
It looked like the rain drops could have walked off the leafs. The storm had given the village life, it had given life to the plants, and thereby given us life. Each and every leaf looked like a raindrop had walked onto the very tip of it and sat down.(2) It might have been coincidence, but I still don't think it was. The children of the village, all of us, we knew what it meant. It meant Diego was right. And we told our parents.
The day after the rain, after we had ensured that every plant was growing again, the adults gave us the day off, since the harvest looked so promising, and all of the children went to see Don Diego again. He had spent everyday since he arrived on that same bench.
But this time our parents came too. We told them of what Diego had done, and they wanted to meet this miracle man. From what we told them you would have thought Diego walked on water. In fact, you never know, he might of.
My father was the first to speak to Diego.
“Senor?”
“Si. What is it?”
“Did you bring the rain?” Diego's voice had startled him. He spoke like I would have. Diego was good with kids, so he made sure everybody seemed like a child around him.
“We all brought it, senor.”
This must have been too much for my father. I think he had expected Diego to be a simple story teller, he expected him to not take credit for the rain. But Diego knew what he did. “Then prove it. Do something else.”
“You doubt me?” I had never heard that kind of edge on Diego's voice, except when he acted like the villain in a story. “Senor, I have done nothing but help you, and you doubt me? Tonight I will prove it to you senor. Tonight you will be able to farm the fields as if it was day.”
“Then it will be a good night, Don Diego.” I remember hating my father for that. Hating him for doubting Diego. He just turned and left after that. I wish now that he had stayed.
Diego tool up where he had left off. “Today's story, my children, today's story is about an evil king, and his mage, who might have saved the kingdom, if not for the king's stubbornness. It all started with...” The story wove into our ears, danced with our minds. The words hooked our ears and Diego reeled us into his net like a fisherman. The story dove through caves, and magic was done, and the mage made the sun shine in the depths of the night, and the king was stupid and bull headed. “... and the mage was right, and the king was ashamed. All the people told the king to go away, told him he should have done as the mage said. They all said he should have trusted his magician.”
Diego took a deep bath, and even his breath was melodious. “Now my children, do you want to make the story true?”
We all wanted Diego to be right. I think I wasn't the only one who hated his parents for doubting Diego. It might not seem like much now, but story and a day off from Diego's rain was more then our parents had given us in our whole lives. A little more timidly then last time, we all murmured our agreement.
“Then here is what you will do. Tonight, before you go to sleep, you will take an ember from the fireplace, and throw it out of your window.”
“But won't the embers burn us, Senor Diego?”
“Yes they will, my children. And it will hurt, it will indeed, but you must do it for the magic to work.”
That night the better part of the village went to bed with burned palms. Even as I stirred in my bed, trying to forget the pain in my hands, I saw brilliant flash. Immediately I ran to the window, sure that Diego had worked his magic.
And I was right. Diego did it.
All of us, all of the children, ran out and played in the light, even as Diego's little sun faded. It only lasted a few hours, but we all played in the dirt and dust, kicking up brilliant red clouds into the glow of Diego's sun.(3)
The next weeks were different. The adults knew about Diego's powers now, the magic his cascading words could work. They let all of us, all of the children, spend the days listening to Diego's stories. Diego brought more rain, and richer soil. But he also made other things. His stories had sneaky faeries, and he would bring them to life too. Diego wanted all of his story to come to life, and little things like faeries, mystical plants, and some odd creatures came to life too. But as long as the crops grew, it didn't matter to the adults.
Then came Burro. Diego's story for that fateful day was stranger then before. It had a mad man who made animals that angered the Elders of his village. It was darker, and the words cast a shadow over the entire village.
We did what Diego said that night, as always, since the adults would do anything to keep he crops growing.
And the next morning the Burro was in the fields.
He had been minor character in the story, just another creation of the madman, a half donkey, half dolphin creature that would eat anything, just to keep others from having it. And now he was in the fields.
When my father found Burro, he had already eaten enough to ruin a quarter of the harvest. Burro just stood there, dumbly staring at my father, and chewing away at another corn stock.(4)
The entire village was furious. With what Burro had destroyed, we were almost back to where we had been before Diego arrived. Not quite as bad, not as nearly starving, but still worse off then if Burro had stayed in the story.
My father marched me off to the bench, to go to talk to Don Diego. He was mad, his face red like the sun Diego had put in the sky.
For the first time since he arrived, Diego wasn't on the park bench. It was empty. It was odd to see it again. With Diego there, you always focused on him, but without him, you realized how much the area around the bench had changed. The trees were green, a color unknown in the village before Diego arrived. That's the one change I'll always remember the most. Diego made the night into day, made the village come alive, but it was never so striking as seeing green trees in the village.(5)
We looked all over the town that day. It was if Diego knew we were going to come after him. Like he knew we were going to look for him. Maybe he knew we wouldn't be happy, but I don't think he was sorry. Not after that night.
Nobody had seen Diego all day, and I went to bed for the first time without doing one of Diego's little ceremonies, without bringing his story to life. After my father had tucked me in, I heard Diego's voice. I thought about moving, but the comfort of my sheets was too great, and before I knew it Diego had started a story, and I didn't want to move anymore.
“Listen, my child, to the story of a little boy, much like you...” I let the ebb and flow of his words pull me under, let him drown me in the story. I listened as the little boy, the nephew of the mage from the other story, took vengence on the king. The words were forming a dagger in my hand as the boy made his way into the king's bedroom with his knife, and made it all right. I words wrapped my hands, clenched my fists around the imaginary blade. The boy fixed it all, proved that the mage was right, just by killing the king. “... and with the bloody knife still in his hand, the boy knew it was all made good. The mage would be the new king, and everything would be better. Now, my child, do you want to make the story real?”
I was afraid. I knew that Diego had hurt the harvest, but I also had heard Diego's stories. His words ran over me, and all I could think of was his other stories. How much I had loved his other stories, and how great it was for them to come true. “Yes” I mumbled from beneath my covers.
“Then reach beneath your pillow. I left a knife there. You can work your magic. Your father is wrong, he is like the king in the story. And you, you are like the young boy. I always said you were like the young boy.”
That was it. I was mesmerized. I couldn't fight back, so I did as he said, and it was all over, my child. That was how my story ended, with me killing my own father, and spending the rest of my life drowning in a sea of regret. So please don't make it real again, my child. Let Don Diego's story end here, my child.
(1)Don diego when he first eneters the village.
(2)The Rain Diego rbought with his story.
(3)The sun Diego created in the night sky, from his magical story.
(4)Burro, another magical thing from Diego's stories, eating the crops.
(5)The empty bench where Diego once sat.