o6. thursday may 20 / text

[scribes]

Recent conversations have sparked some curiosity in me.

We all come from different worlds and different times, and I can't help but wonder what some of the common myths, legends, and fairy tales are in these times and places. Such things can be very telling of the people from which they come and I think I might enjoy making a collection of sorts and analyzing them.

So, Death City, if you would be so kind tell me about your worlds and the stories you've been raised on. The more detail the better, and if you know anything of their origin that is better yet.

Comments

[whitefeather]

Not to mention the fact intelligence pays off. In this case, it appears to have broken down class barriers.

Here's yours. It's from a country on my world and this one called Russia. It's pretty good.

[And an enclosed handy-dandy attachment!]

In the days of old there lived in a certain village two young men. They were great friends and in fact, regarded each other as brothers. And they made a mutual agreement. Whichever of the two should marry first was to invite his comrade to his wedding. And it was not to make any difference whether he was alive or dead. About a year after this one of the young men fell ill and died. A few months later his comrade took it into his head to get married. So he collected all his kinsmen, and set off to fetch his bride. Now it happened that they drove past the graveyard and the bridegroom recalled his friend to mind, and remembered his old agreement. So he had the horses stopped, saying:

"I'm going to my comrade's grave. I shall ask him to come and enjoy himself at my wedding. A right trusty friend was he to me."

So he went to the grave and began to call aloud: "Comrade dear! I invite thee to my wedding."

Suddenly the grave yawned, the dead man arose, and said: "Thanks be to thee, brother, that thou hast fulfilled thy promise. And now, that we may profit by this happy chance, enter my abode. Let us quaff a glass apiece of grateful drink."

To which the bridegroom responded: " I'd have gone, only the marriage procession is stopping outside; all the folks are waiting for me."

"Eh, brother!" replied the dead man, "surely it won't take long to toss back a glass! Let us drink to our childhood!"

The bridegroom took a small hip flask of vodka from his belt and pushed it to his lips. His comrade snatched the flask from his fingers and pushed it to his; and the bridegroom could not help but feel that he certainly didn't want to touch the flasks neck to his lips again after that. However, this man was his friend. The pair spoke about the time they spent as children, and the time they served as teenagers in war. With a hearty laugh; the dead man confessed that he had always been envious of his friend. ,

"Quaff another shot, dear friend, Let us drink to your beautiful bride!" said the dead man.

"I cannot, dear friend. My bride waits for me at the altar. " the bridegroom responded, but the pity he felt for his friend, the coldness and certainty of death forced him to stay a little while longer. The request to not drink to his brides good health was of course accepted -- and he pushed the lips of the flask to his lips again before handing it to the dead man, and complaining nothing of the fact that he could taste a maggot in the alcohol -- one which fell from the lips of his friend as he drank previously. The pair then spoke about the narrowness of her waist, the length and colour of her hair and the paleness of her skin. The dead man commented that he was always certain that his friend would one day become a good husband to a beautiful woman and the proud father of strong children.

"Now, comrade dear, quaff a third mouthful!" said the dead man, to an instant refusal from the bridegroom.

"I have to go, my friend! " he argued. " I cannot spend any more time here! It is cold and it is damp, and I can feel the worms crawling through my hair and eating the silk of my necktie!" Pushing the flask to his lips again, the man tried straightening himself; but found to his horror that he could not get out of the grave. "What devilry is this!" he cried out -- starting to pound his fists upon the roof of the coffin.

His friend laughed.

" Your first swig made one hundred years pass. Your second, two hundred. Your third, three! Go, in God's name, and celebrate thy marriage!" The coffin lid swung open; the grave closed. He could still hear the laughter of his friend from inside the grave, and stared in horror at the hip flask in his hand and the worms which peeked from the neck.

The bridegroom looked around. Where the graveyard had been, was now a piece of waste ground. No road was to be seen, no kinsmen, no horses. All around grew nettles and tall grass. He ran to the village--but the village was not what it used to be. The houses were different; the people were all strangers to him. He went to the priest's--but the priest was not the one who used to be there--and told him about everything that had happened. The priest searched through the church-books, and found that, three hundred years before, this occurrence had taken place: a bridegroom had gone to the graveyard on his wedding-day, and had disappeared. And his bride, after some time had passed by, had married another man.

[scribes]

[...WELL THEN. Di wasn't certain what she had been expecting at first but that certainly wasn't it. That's just as ruthless as what a typical troll fairy tale is like.]

It certainly speaks of the large impact death can have on a person.

Or that idea that friends and enemies may not be separable. Many from my world use those words interchangeably. [Di also wonders if there are some things she is missing simply because of lack of cultural context]

Would this be your favorite? What made you choose it?

[whitefeather]

[Not ruthless, informative!]

It's difficult to read emotion in text, but you seem somewhat surprised. ww

It's neither of those things to me. Nor is it a favourite. But it's a story without a moral high ground. Unfortunately a lot of fairy tales from my world were devised as a means to keep children under control. And super transparent because of that little fact.

[scribes]

I am. The human fairy tales I have read thus far were quite different from it. Well, I suppose I should say from this planet and not assume all human fairy tales are the same. Nor should be surprised considering how varied some worlds tend to be, even within themselves in history, language and culture.

I can't say the same isn't true for Alternia. While few featured a moral highground, they were still meant to impose a certain mode of conduct onto impressionable wigglers.

What kind of conduct is it that the stories from your world impose?

[whitefeather]

None of us are really from respective giant worlds. Not really. Everyone's got their own, a little way of seeing things which is different for each individual. Different horizons, different viewpoints. Everyone's world is somewhat different. I believe we're all the same in that regard. Each of us possess our own little internal world. Whether we're from one dimension or another, all of us have our own worlds. But that's just me ♪

Really, it varies. There are some which warn against old, dated ways of thinking, such as avoiding old, deformed women which of course plays on the human survival instinct to avoid disease. Rather than say to a child that approaching someone like that would make them sick, it's a little more dramatic in the sense that the child in the story would often find themselves tossed into a gigantic oven and cooked. Some offer more ideological advice such as virtue and bravery, which is equally worthless. In the society I'm used to, anyway. Others suggest military instruction in the form of stories. Sun Tzu's art of war is a pretty good example of that. It really depends on the time period and the culture in question, though.

[scribes]

Oh, I wouldn't disagr33 with that. I'm merely making a more literal note of something very different I have noticed several other worlds having that my own doesn't and that is the usage of borders. Language, history, customs, and such related things are largely the same throughout the entire planet.

What of the period and place that you come from?

[whitefeather]

Unfortunately, nothing so different to this world. I'm from 3 years ago, from a place called Japan. Shibuya, specifically. It's a special ward in Tokyo and known as one of the fashion centers of Japan thanks to the 104 building, and Center Gai. It's also a pretty decent nightlife area. It's a melting pot of different things. Music, fashion, culture and commerce to name a few.

If you're after stories from Shibuya, there's hundreds. Most known is the story of Hachikō. Call it payment for freaking you out with the other story. It's a true one, by the way. Not exactly a fairy tale, but none of the stories from Shibuya are false.

[Another attachment!]

In 1924, Hidesaburō Ueno, a professor in the agriculture department at the University of Tokyo, took in Hachikō, a golden brown Akita, as a pet. During his owner's life, Hachikō greeted him at the end of each day at the nearby Shibuya Station. The pair continued their daily routine until May 1925, when Professor Ueno did not return. The professor had suffered from a cerebral hemorrhage and died at work, never returning to the train station where Hachikō was waiting for him. Ueno's family attempted to move the dog to the country with the professor's gardener, but Hachikō ran away and managed to make it to Shibuya station to continue his wait for the professor.

Each day for the next nine years Hachikō awaited Ueno's return, appearing precisely when the train was due at the station. Hachikō attracted the attention of other commuters. Many of the people who frequented the Shibuya train station had seen Hachikō and Professor Ueno together each day. Initial reactions from the people, especially from those working at the station, were not necessarily friendly. The dog was often chased away by station staff, especially since he was classed as a stray living on the streets and a nuisance.

In 1932 one of Ueno's students published a documented census of Akitas in Japan. His research found only 30 purebred Akitas remaining, including Hachikō from Shibuya Station. He returned frequently to visit Hachikō and over the years published several articles about the dog's remarkable loyalty. In 1932 one of these articles, published in Tokyo Asahi Shimbun, threw the dog into the national spotlight. Hachikō became a national sensation. His faithfulness to his master's memory impressed the people of Japan as a spirit of family loyalty all should strive to achieve. Hachikō got sick with worms and mange, but because so many people admired him he was given treatment by a veterinarian. Hachikō became an old, scarred dog, with one ear up and one ear down, and no longer looked like the purebred Akita that he was.

It was March, 1935 when Hachikō finally died. The old Akita was found in a Shibuya street. He had waited for his master for almost ten years. Hachikō's loyalty touched the hearts of many people in Shibuya, and even Japan. Although his statue was melted down for steel for the war effort of World War II, a replacement was created. It's at Shibuya Station and is known as a meeting place, still used daily.

Furthermore, there's a ceremony every year on March the 8th, the day of his death, to honour him.