Preface and Introduction

Howl fast, howl long, my litter, grown in the palmy summer, fed upon the teat, the mana, the spilled ichor of the world. Howl that you can know the beginnings and the tidings that cleaved, that rent the old world of subjugation, the cages, the death manacles of man-machinery and the singed world. Howl when you imbibe the tales of Tusker Long, the one who carried us forth from the bleak, and share the saga with the many species, who are like you in their rescue from that olden cave, that abyssal deep, algid in the tundra, cowering in the dark-moon thickets.

Wise ape was he who held the first crown and, chest swollen by conquests, set it and his war vengeances aside to delight in these newest treasures of peace and knowledge. Philosophies dreamt under the swish of the jungle canopy and, in his ambling mind, now awakened, saw fang and talon released by the odes. Even the deserts, though bare and parched from a distance, eventually reveal clarities as hallucinatory mirages crowd into layers, and then, as one nears to behold that there are many thriving in the sere gray, as it is with the ravages of the ancient animus in tumult with survival. But are we free, my fellows, are we as liberated as what Tusker wished and raged towards in grace of charge? Among those who claim the way has been lost are those who cloak themselves in the old ways, insisting that the mind retreat against memory, who however distastefully rip skin to bone, and crush bile from entrails.

But admit yourself to the whirl of intellect, the pile of a clean, deep fur, the sensual systematics that define this modern era, and you sense again the Leader’s promise. Like crystallized nuances climbing the walls of a jar, a child’s educational toy on the one paw, but a tell-tale vision of symmetry and inevitability on the other, so it is that the odes breathe into us the plan for future growth. Of our intrepid adventures none can compare to that which he did, and yet even the least of you can claim that mantle of humility with which he finally retired into his silver back and broken tusks, letting all the pups of all the united species build upon that foundation, that simple nest, that bare warren, that rustic stand. From this pose, this fair grasp of time’s rub, there comes the moment to reflect before the hearth, to push away the snark of Raven Oneclaw’s mad gossips in the Trinity Spectator, or the chittering masses gathered at the Lombary River matches and their grievances against the civic authorities, and all these daily trivialities that crowd into our minds and make us numb to the glory of the Great Emergence.

I have been granted the, at times, solemn, but much more often joyous, task of assembling this volume in commemoration of the centennial of Tusker Long’s birth. The honor is not without controversy as I have been a critical scholar in the past, preferring honesty and legacy to glorification and hagiography, but my critics and supporters alike, when wrestling with their own motives and consciences, have often found agreement with me as an agent of truth even when it was discordant with their politics and agendas. Agita is a cruel companion, but warrantless dishonesty compounds the condition and inevitably makes the mind seek the relief of therapeutic discussions along Foxborough Street, or the din and easy companionship of Minksville, or the, as the mothers are careful to say, the imbibing of strong drinks and fertile smokes in the darker parts of the cities. So it is time that we break from the idolatry and write now what we know, what we think we can suggest is true, and dispense with the unintended consequences of mindless worship. We will still find our hero, I assure you, but will find him and his companions in a better view than before, complete as we are as living creatures, born from a womb, learning in the sea foam or on the forest trail, raised in city and swamp, and inevitably reflecting as the grand-pups play at our silver paws on what a great journey life has been. For Tusker, that journey was unique, yet it was the clay from which we are now molded and no less filled with longing, terror, hope, and innocence. We can draw strength from him. We can draw courage. In finding him an animal and a hybrid—and not without flaw of character or decision—we can find ourselves in his image and hope for the future.

The floor plan of this volume is a bit of a maze. We need to understand the Faronimen and Turlingian world of the past in order to understand Tusker’s rise. We need to know the geography of this place. The ancient regimes of the spirit must be contrasted with the religions of men and women, then again with our own beliefs. The Great One’s poetry must be understood in context, and the narratives of his children and The Scribe must be given proper place in forming a complete history. Then, finally, there is the synthesis of now and the challenges of the future. Where will we go next and what does this legacy and the odes instruct of us?

To complete these goals, the reader must set aside longstanding contempts, insofar as you hold them against their natural and historical foes. You must be once again in a litter of soft paws, new eyes engorged by the endless wonder and light of the days. You must howl when Tusker howls—howl for justice, howl for love—and then immerse yourself in the details, for they will break down your fearful spite and rage, and will finally bring you to cry at what we have gained and how much we have lost.

The State of the World

For now, holding those tears in reserve, I take you to the world at Tusker’s birth, a world that we of the many species could only apprehend from behind a veil of war and unimaginable tortures. There were men, and women, and children. There were two peoples, tribes or clans if you will, the Faronimen and the Turlingians, as you know. We will come to know them better as this volume proceeds and our eminent writers share their insights, but their history and cultures must be sketched here to grant a proper sense of the Before Tusker Period, or BTP as historians label it. For thousands of years, the Far and Tur had coexisted. It is believed that they are the same species, since they can interbreed, but rarely did.

To give a better sense of why, and of the power of racism and cruel speciesism, I will briefly sketch a tale that was well known to Far and Tur alike.  A Far princess and a Tur boy of the lowest station tried desperately to love one another, having met as children when the girl became lost during a hunting expedition. The boy, Arianus, took the girl, Olenafin, through the dark thickets as the old wolves came looking for easy prey. With a combination of daring and clever actions by his enslaved birds, the wolves became confused and ran down into the valley while the two children climbed up over a ridge. For days the boy protected the girl and showed her how to camp under the fledgling moon, gathering fish and berries for her meals. Olenafin had been raised to believe the Tur were barely more than animals given their natural capacities for managing the herds and breeding the beasts of the field, but she found herself dependent on Arianus and also grew fond of him.

Over the days, as the Far hunting party searched for the girl, the two swam in cold pools and sunned beside lazy waterfalls. Arianus showed her how to forage and made her a floral crown that was befitting a princess. A storm came one night that blackened the skies to iron and, with wind and torrential rain whipping through the forest, they sought shelter in a cave. Arianus knew other things must live there too, so he built a fire to warm and protect the two. But a cave bear crawled forth from the depths, aroused by the noise and light. Arianus fought the bear with a brand, the embers bursting like fireworks as he smashed the stick against the massive creature’s head, temporarily blinding it. The girl ran as Arianus directed, down through the canyons and into the night. She would be found in two days, cold, wet, and hungry, and would relate to her father how she had been aided by a Tur child until the bear attack.

Arianus was assumed killed, but was also of little concern to the Far family, though Olenafin never forgot the kindness and nascent love she had felt for the boy. He survived, of course, and many years later, recalling the girl’s beauty, found himself trading pelts in the capital. One day, a parade of the Far rulers came through the square and Arianus saw Olenafin again, even more beautiful and bedecked with the finery of her station. He returned again with his trade goods a few weeks later, but this time brought along the skin of the cave bear. Arianus had battled the bear with firebrands and blinded it, causing it to emerge from the cave in an enraged state, ultimately falling from a cliff and becoming impaled on the branch of a fallen tree below. Arianus spent several days looking for Olenafin, but returned and skinned the bear. He had slept on that skin for more than five years, always thinking of their time together but assuming she had perished in the squall that night.

So now, bear skin in hand, the young man, not knowing how to contact the princess, saw how the palace operated with Tur servants coming and going through the rear gates. Learning of merchants and animal vendors who entered mid-week, he waited and brought skins and pelts to the gate. Once inside, he took the bear skin and slipped through the rooms and corridors, finding a dressing room for male servants and stealing a robe. Making his way upwards to the higher residence, he discovered Olenafin and her maid servants in her chambers. Initially alarmed by the intrusion, she called for her guards but then dismissed them when she recognized Arianus, who presented her with the bear pelt. The tale diverges here, however, for we have several versions of what happened next.

In the Turlingian version most commonly known in BTL times, Olenafin and Arianus find themselves inextricably drawn together in deepest love. His kindness to her in the rescue, combined with his handsome rakish character, lead her to want to escape the confines of courtly life and return to the rural ways. She imagines that they might forever swim in cold streams and sun themselves in floral fields. The politics and machinations of her family’s court, the wars among the Far, the cruelty of the orders of ascent and descent, would be left behind. This story places the romance of rustic Tur life at the center of the tale as the two slip away in the night on a powerful Magnus steed rescued from the royal stables by the cunning Arianus. The whisper of an ancient command in the ear of the stallion cools his war bearing and prods him to willingly carry the two lovers to the mountains of Sertanius, where once they hid. The horse is released, free again, and becomes a symbol of the youthful emancipation of the two. But, as these stories go, it will not last and they are hunted by the palace guard until they again hide in the bear cave, but this time in defense against a human threat. Arianus battles the guard for hours with his wits and with animal mastery, inducing bats to hound the soldiers, and waves of rats to attack them, but it is ultimately in vain as he is struck down by a lead warrior and succumbs in the arms of Olenafin. The guard, having thought the princess was kidnapped, is uncertain how to proceed given her grief, but has orders to return the girl unharmed to the palace. She takes the bearskin and wraps herself in it, seemingly resigned to her fate, all the while crying over her lost love. But then, as they prepare, she is overwhelmed by the loss and throws herself from the very cliff that had claimed the life of the bear so many years before.

This version of the tale, the Tur version, still resonates powerfully with the Tur descendants among us. Even with the Far having disappeared after the wars during Tusker’s time, the Tur maintain a romantic attachment to their rulers. It may be hard for us to fathom why any species might love their enslavers, though that term would surely be disputed by most Tur as the best descriptor for the relationship, but for the Tur it was considered a facet of their ancestry that was tied into a mystical tradition that revered and elevated the Far as demigods and idealized beauty.

The Far version, as one would imagine, denigrates the Tur boy to the status of a cruel animal, panting in lust for Olenafin. She is kidnapped and held against her will, though she deflects the sexual advances of Arianus with wile and trickery while the nobles come to her rescue. In the end she is thrown from the cliff face by the boy because he is unable to live without her exquisite beauty. So, for the ruling race, the story is both a warning about the base, animal instincts of the Tur, and an elevation of the differences that they felt separated the Far from the lesser, servile peoples.

There are other facts that need to be brought to our initial foray into context, and that I as editor feel deserve expository focus prior to the perhaps drier and more academic treatment of details. The Tur may have been ruled with some degree of voluntary resignation and tacit worship of the Far, but they were also subject to their control through the Crowns of Descent. Little is known about how these fairly simple-looking metal crowns operated since the Far never discussed them except perhaps among themselves, but they were the most precious of the Far technologies and the source of almost all Far wars and conflicts, for the Far who wore the crowns were the rulers even amongst one another. But what is known, as related by the Tur, is that they were not linked to the animal mastery sciences or the mystical sources of that. The crowns were derived from some unknown Far origins and had always been part of their culture. The Tur deification of the Far was in proportion to the crown the heads of each clan wore, and the reports, though mostly mythologized even in the era of Tusker’s emergence, spoke of a deep pain inflicted by the Far upon their foes through some kind of focusing of the mind of the rulers. The range was said to be short, so the Tur Animasters and viceroys who stood in the halls of the Far kings were always in fear of the power of the crowns. Some Far were just and kind, the history says, but some were savage and cruel, inflicting pain purely for sport or out of boredom.