I’m working on a conlang commission and reading Between Home and Ruin, both set in the future, where English has splintered into several dialects united by a common written language. This is a fun idea and a plausible one - Chinese and to some extent Arabic work this way. English arguably already works this way. There are people in Jamaica and Scotland whom I won’t be able to understand when they speak (see Jamaican Patois and Angry Scottish People Using Real Words Maybe) unless I have subtitles written with standardized spellings.But how exactly will that spelling system work? I did some experiments with English’s closest cousin (that is also a national language): Dutch. Example 0:
De Nederlandse krijgsmacht is de militaire organisatie van het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden. De krijgsmacht wordt in de kern gevormd door de vier krijgsmachtdelen: de Koninklijke Marine, de Koninklijke Landmacht, de Koninklijke Luchtmacht en de Koninklijke Marechaussee. (from wikipedia)
Dutch and English parted ways between 1,600 and 1,400 years ago. In that time, they accumulated three kinds of differences: pronunciation differences caused by sound changes, grammatical differences caused by regularization, and vocabulary differences caused by coinages and loanwords.
Forcing Dutch into standardized English spelling* will cover up only the first difference. Example A:
The Nederlandse Criesmight is the militarie organization fan the Kingright ther Netherlanden. The Criesmight wortht, in the corn, geformd through the four Criesmightdealen: the Kinglie Marine, the Kinglie Landmight, the Kinglie Loft Might, and the Kinglie Marshalcy.
Remember that Example A above is still pronounced as Example 0. It’s just been spelled so that it’s easier for speakers of the “English dialect” to read. But is it easy enough? Maybe the Spelling Standardizers do away entirely with phonetics and translate the grammatical morphology. Speakers of the “Dutch dialect” have to remember to write <-s> when they say /-en/. Example B:
The Nederlands' Criesmight is the military organization fan the Kingright the's Netherlands. The Criesmight worths, in the corn, a-formed through the four Criesmightdeals: the Kingly Marine, the Kingly Landmight, the Kingly Loftmight, and the Kingly Marshalcy.
Or they go further could go further and simply translate words not found in English. Dutch speakers would say /krijg/ but write <war>. Example C:
The Lowerlands' Warmight is the military organization of the Kingdom of the’s Lowerlands. The Warmight is, in the core, formed through the four Warmightdeals: the Kingly Marine, the Kingly Landmight, the Kingly Loftmight, and the Kingly Marshalcy.
We could go farther (Warmight > Warstrength > Armed Forces). Where we stop is a matter of taste and practicality. Which brings me to the question of how this writing system would actually work.

For more, subscribe on Patreon or Substack

Last month, I posted the Ritual of Un-Descent, written in my reconstruction of Ancient Thracian, featured in chapter 19 of my novel Wealthgiver.

If you read chapter 19, you’ll know that the ritual goes sideways and the Unseen One delivers a personal message to Nikolai, the high priest:
Árbeie! Bilospelé!
Kapēssophiá, klyié
Méan. Klyié iós tan
Idexétai éis tomón.
Deseí ke gorê tón 5
Ásan tói tymí ión!
Staiýn ni tai pór tói ke pós
Zēltón tón ke sós ganós.
Dégmōn iadí. Mē
Ápseran pouteté. 10


Literally, that’s:
Orphan! Word-friend!
Passion-drunkard, listen
To me. Listen to he who
Welcomed you into (his) house.
Welcome and rejoice in that 5
which I gave to you!
There stand before and behind you
Gold and Death.
The Welcomer rides. Do not
Pule back (in response). 10


And the poetic translation:
Listen, Orphan, Friend to Words
Hear me now, Passion-Drunkard.
I and I alone am who
welcomed you this house into.
Death or treasure will you find. 5
One before you, one behind.
The Host will ride upon the ground.
Do not complain. And turn around. 10


Doggerel? Yes, but it’s pretty good considering what all was going on.
​
To read this poem in the context of the story of Wealthgiver:
Subscribe now
…and wait until the end of March for the free version. Or else upgrade and read it right now.

I stepped out from my student’s office onto Patriarch Evtimi, where the sky was a cold, bright blue and pigeons swept up the faces of the buildings.
I’d been up for ten hours and I didn’t feel like swimming. I had to buy coffee, and I didn’t want to do that, either. I wanted to just turn left and go down the stairs into the subway. I’d read my phone on the train and go home and have a snack. I wanted someone else to buy coffee and swim for me.
But, and I know this sounds silly, I remembered a post I’d read on Substack: “Work out every day so that you can be the sort of person who works out every day.” As I walked between the cliffs of Shesti Septemvri, I repeated that to myself out loud. I hope other people thought I was on my bluetooth.
I found the coffee shop, where the bags were very small, but the grinding machine was large and impressive. The barista had an elegant little broom he used to sweep up every spilled miligram of precious grounds. That would do me for the next five days, maybe.
After that it was just one foot in front of the other all the way to the pool. Get naked, shower, swim until done, but here’s what’s strange: I wasn’t tired or hungry when I finally got home. I finished my desk work, it was now my twelfth hour awake, and I was neither stumbling nor moaning.
I was a zombie two days later, though. Thursday seemed like it lasted a week. Thank God my kids are on the spring schedule now and I don’t have to wake up every day at 6.
In other news, Upstream Reviews posted my review of the anti-litRPG Invading the System .
Another review: I wrote this one for C.M. Kosemen’s All Tomorrows, soon to be published: A Portrait of the Future
…and that started a conversation that resulted in The Future of Humanity, a little essay I wrote thinking about future of human evolution.
I posted The Ritual of Undescent, my second poem in Ancient Thracian and English, from chapter 19 of Wealthgiver.
Finally, thank you to my new $10 Patron, Anthony. He and my other patrons at that tier and above can read up to chapter 28 of Wealthgiver. Every Thursday I’ll post whatever chapters I’ve finished that week, and patrons can join me right at the coal-face.
And I read some things:
Running Lean by Ash Maurya
I’ll have to read this book again. The first revolutionary thing it says is that in the same way businesses once switched from valuing products to valuing intellectual property, the era of IP is in turn giving way to the era of the business model. Can your process produce something that attracts customers? I’m working on it.
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
I first tried and failed to read Dostoyevski’s The Devils. Now that I’ve read Brothers Karamazov, I have a better idea of what he was driving at. These people are vicious, mean-spirited, self-defeating fools. Yes, and so are you, reader. Now watch: this is how you practice compassion.
The Pilgrim of Hate by Ellis Peters
Another book I first listened to 30 years ago. Ellis Peters has aged less well for me than John Mortimer - I guess because Brother Cadfel isn’t as funny as Rumpole. And although there were some action scenes, Peters’s story is so very girly. One man has a gleaming curtain of raven hair.
DanDaDan by Yukinobu Tatsu (Science Saru Studio)
One Thursday night in January, this anime absolutely wrecked me. I’ll give you the premise: teenage girl (who isn’t as much of a delinquent as she likes to pretend) gets into an argument with boy (who is exactly as much of a dweeb as he appears). He’s obsessed with UFOs, she’s embarrassed by her grandma the ghost-wrangler. After arguing about whether UFOs/ghosts are real, they challenge each-other to spend the night in a haunted service tunnel (him) and an abandoned hospital (her), where they are, respectively, possessed and abducted. That’s the first 15 minutes. You won’t get to the part that made me cry until episode 8.
And I read a draft of a book for a friend, but I can’t say more until it comes out. It was good, though ;)
See you next month.

This Thursday, paying readers will see parts of the next ritual poem in chapter 19 of Wealthgiver. Like the Andrean Prophesy, the Ritual of Un-Descent is sung in the (fictional) Ancient Thracian language. Unlike the prophesy, which was invented by Kori Chthamali in the 19th century, the Ritual of Un-Descent is old, if not ancient. Written forms of the rite date back to the 6th century AD. Its similarities to the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, dated to the 7th century BC, are hotly contested by Bessian scholars.
The Ritual of Un-Descent is traditionally sung by three people, representing The Rushing One (a minor deity almost unknown outside this ritual), The Lady Reaper (also known as The Maiden and The Mistress), and The Unseen (also known as The Master and The Wealthgiver).
First, in the original Ancient Thracian:

SÉRMĒS SÓS:
Ánite! Pleistoré!
Palodegmṓn, sa e
Kḗphēt dṓe
Tḗn opdésedyde.
ÁNITĒS SÓS:
Ergeí, Porhēgéntiâ! 5

PORHĒGÉNTIÂ:
Dēmḗthera póra
Áskeira pephlóu e ion.

ÁNITĒS SÓS:
Mē dé bladymeiê iâ.
PORHĒGÉNTIÂ:
Sédzōn me tón dymón.

ÁNITĒS SÓS:
Óiyk tóus dessóis 10
Áeikhēs te eis.

PORHĒGÉNTIÂ:
Sēnséithēs tū
Éiseis is tó koú.

ÁNITĒS SÓS:
Diós Brḗthar eimî!

PORHĒGÉNTIÂ:
Xēthópats eisî! 15

ÁNITĒS SÓS:
Xēthópaniâ sezṓn

PORHĒGÉNTIÂ:
Eis sa serpanthṓn.


The meter changes from seven in lines 1-4 (sung by The Rushing One), to eight syllables per line for the conversation between The Unseen and the Lady Reaper, with the exception of lines 16 and 17 (the final line). Both of these are of seven syllables, and both are sung by the Lady Reaper.
For example, the first line (the invocation of The Unseen) is sung “A-ni-te ple-i-sto-RE!”
Long vowels (for example ē) are always sung as two syllables. Diphthongs (for example ai) are usually two syllables as well, but sometimes they are a single syllable. See the difference between eis (e-I-s) and Xēthópaniâ (“kse-THO-pan-ya”). A circumflex over a vowel indicates an on-glide, such as â (“ya”) or î (“yi”), but there is no spelling to differentiate an off-glide from a diphthong. Accented vowels are stressed.
X is pronounced “ks.” TH, KH, and PH might once have been pronounced as aspirates (tʰ, kʰ, pʰ) or as fricatives (θ, x, ɸ), but are today pronounced as normal unvoiced stops: t, k, p.

Now, the rhyming translation:
THE RUSHING ONE:
Oh, Wealth-giver! Oh, Unseen!
Host-of-many, take your queen
Welcome her below, He deems.
THE UNSEEN:
Go you now, Oh Lady Reaper!
LADY REAPER:
To my Mother 5
Un-bright robed.
THE UNSEEN
Not with smoking heart to meet her.
THE LADY REAPER
With smoke my heart is all enclosed.
UNSEEN:
Never, by the Ones who Do
Shameful will I be to you. 10
LADY REAPER
My man you are
No matter where.
THE UNSEEN
Of Sky I’m Brother!
LADY REAPER
You’re Guest-Master!
THE UNSEEN
You will be, Mistress of all 15
LADY REAPER
Mistress of all of those who crawl.


Readers have asked me to include a linguistic gloss in my literal translation:

Ánite! Pleistoré!
(neg-SEE-past.part-masc-voc WEALTH.GIVE-masc-voc)
“Oh, Unseen! Oh, Wealthgiver!”
Palodegmṓn, sa e
(MANY.HOST-agent-neu THIS EMPH)
That Host of Many
Kḗphēt dṓe
(HAVE-2nd-plur-subj ORDER-3rd)
have. This he orders.
Tḗn opdésedyde.
(THE-fem-acc UNDER.WELCOME-2nd-plur-imp)
Welcome her!
Ergeí, Porhēgéntiâ!
(GO-2nd-imp GRAIN.REAP-abst-fem)
Go, Lady Reaper!
Dēmḗthera póra
(EARTH.MOTHER-fem-acc TO)
To (the) Earth Mother.
Áskeira pephlóu e ion.
(neg-SHINE-adj-masc-gen PEPHLON-masc-gen EMPH REL-masc-acc)
The one of the un-shining pephlon.
Mē dé bladymeiê iâ.
(NOT IMP BAD.SMOKE-verb-2nd-imp IMP)
Do not “bad-smoke” at all. (i.e. “do not hold a grudge”)
Sédzōn me tón dymón.
(HOLD-1st 1st-clit THE-masc-neu SMOKE-masc-neu)
I hold my smoke.
Óiyk tóus dessóis
(NEVER THE-masc-dat-plur GOD-masc-dat-plur)
Never to the gods (the word for “god” is related to the word for “do”)
Áeikhēs te eis.
(neg-FAIR-adj-masc-nom 2nd-clit BE-1st-fut)
I will be shameful to you.
Sēnséithēs tū
(SAME.LIE.DOWN-part-adj-masc-nom 2nd-nom)
Husband you
Éiseis is tó koú.
(BE-2nd-fut REL INF WHERE)
You will be, wherever (you are).
Diós Brḗthar eimî!
(SKY-masc-gen BROTHER-masc-nom BE-1st)
I am (the) Sky’s brother!
Xēthópats eisî!
(GUEST.LORD-masc-nom BE-2nd)
You are the Guest-Master.
Xēthópaniâ sezṓn
(GUEST.LORD-fem-nom ALL-masc-plur-gen)
You, Guest-Mistress of everyone
Eis sa serpanthṓn.
(BE-1st-fut THIS CRAWL-pres-part-masc-plur-gen)
I will be of these crawling (ones)

ITo read this poem in the context of the story of Wealthgiver, you can subscribe to the story on Substack or Patreon  and wait until the end of March for the free version. Or else upgrade and read it this Thursday ;)

Yesterday on Substack I tried something new, which was to write off the cuff, with little editing, and press the “post” button without much thought. I’m doing so because this is the first spare moment I’ve had to respond to Bassoe’s response to my review of C.M. Kosemen’s soon-to-be published book All Tomorrows, and I don't want to let this interesting conversation wither on the vine.

If you had trouble following that last sentence, it’s enough that you know this: we’re talking about the evolutionary future of humanity.

The Machine-God Scenario
Bassoe talks about “machine-gods...obsessed with tending to the well-being of an inferior species” where “the only remaining selection pressure is desire to reproduce.”

Another selective pressure would be to make ourselves adorable to the machine-gods. Perhaps the gods have a template for what they consider to be human, in which case we'll only be able to evolve in ways that don't deviate from that template. I'm reminded of a Stephen Baxter story (Mayflower II) in which humans on a generation ship turn into sub-sapient animals, but they still press buttons on the control panel because that behavior is rewarded by the ship's AI.

The Super-Tech Scenario
But I agree that even without a super-tech future where all our material needs are met, the availability of contraception means that there's a selective advantage to people who don't use contraception. There are many ways for evolution to make that happen. An instinctive desire for babies or an instinctive aversion to contraception are two such ways. I remember a Zach Weinersmith cartoon where he jokes about future humans with horns on their penises that poke holes in condoms, but of course any such physical adaptation won't be able to keep up with technological innovation. We will have to want babies.

Another option is (ala Kurt Vonnegut's Galapagos) that future humans aren't smart enough to use contraception.

The Artificial Womb Scenario
In this case, I think the most selected-for humans are the ones that are most efficiently produced by the artificial wombs. Maybe it's easier to pump out limbless grubs, which are fitted with cyborg arms (see John C. Wright's Myrmidons in his Count to the Eschaton Sequence). The form they take will depend on the parameters of the machines' programming. (see also Vanga-Vangog's The Endpoint)

The Collapse Scenario
I think this scenario is unlikely. If "life, uh, finds a way," then intelligence finds even more ways. When one resource runs out, we find another. The mere fact that you don’t know what the next resource is just means we haven’t found it yet.
But say for the sake of argument that there's a hard limit to technological progress (ala Vernor Vinge's A Deepness in the Sky) or science really is like mining, and it takes infinitely increasing resources to make the next marginal gain in technology. In both cases, you'd expect the graph of human advancement to look like a population when it hits carrying capacity. Exponential growth (we're doing that now) followed by a cycle of die-offs and re-growths, converging to a horizontal mean.

With no ability to innovate, natural selection would take over from technological progress. Once we’ve eaten all the meat and potatoes, there will be strong selection for people who can digest grass. I would expect humans in this case to diversify until our descendants occupy nearly every niche, absorbing most of the matter and energy available on Earth (at least). Whether these people are intelligent or not...probably not. Simon Roy seems to be hinting in this direction with his masterful comic series Men of Earth.

But I don't actually think collapse is likely. I bet that our population (and technological advancement) will not hit an asymptote, but will instead as progress according to a power law, as with the bacteria in Lenski's Long-Term Evolution Experiment.

The Mogul Scenario
Bessoe asks about a future in which “our cultural norms stick around indefinitely, those who generate more profit reproduce,” which I very much doubt.

In 20th century America, the more money you made, the fewer children you had. Now, it seems there's a saddle-shaped distribution, with the very poorest and the very richest women having the most children per woman. This is sure to change again, and faster than evolution can keep up. Perhaps you could say that if contraception pushes us to evolve an instinctive desire to have more children, and rich or powerful people will be in positions to gratify these instincts, then whatever traits make someone rich and powerful will be selected for.

Maybe, but now's a good time to go back to the Reich Lab's "Pervasive findings of directional selection," summarized here by the illustrious Razib Khan.

In comparing ancient to modern DNA, the Reich Lab found evidence for selective pressure in humans in Europe since the end of the Ice Age: increased intelligence, increased height, decreased organ fat, increased walking speed, decreased susceptibility to schizophrenia, increased immunity to many diseases, and, funnily, increased tendency to home-ownership and university education.

Obviously, people weren't going to college in the Chalkolithic, but whatever traits make someone likely to go to college now have been selected for since the arrival of agriculture in Europe. You can paint a plausible picture of the sort of people who were most reproductively successful in the past six thousand years, and there is even some evidence for selection in the range of 1-2 thousand years. Aside from obvious things like immunity to smallpox and Bubonic plague, Europeans have gotten paler and blonder, and more of us are able to digest lactose than in Roman times.
But the 21st century is very different from the 1st, which in turn was very different from the pre-agricultural -70th. Maybe you can say that being smart, strong, and disease resistant have always been good, and being tall and baby-faced gets you some sexual selection (almost everyone seems to have evolved shorter jaws and lost their robust brow-ridges in parallel). So we can imagine future humans who just all look gorgeous.
​
I’m running out of time, but I’ll leave us with some homework. I haven’t yet had time to read:
The Urban Future by herofan135
This messageboard discussion referenced by Bessoe
Copernican’s Ecotechnic Future
John Michael Greer’s Next Billion Years
Jack L. Chalker’s Rings of the Master
Robin Hanson’s Age of Em
CaptainStroon’s Bosun’s Journal
So, let’s expand on this. Are there any scenarios I’ve missed? Logical points or facts I’ve misplaced? Or, let’s start small, what do you think will happen in the next ten thousand years?

Upstream Reviews is back from winter break and just posted my long-form review of Invading the System by Inadvisably Compelled.

When the System came to Earth, we were well into our post-singularity utopia. We had digitally-emulated citizens, swappable GM super-bodies, and Von Neumann nanotech capable of turning anything into anything else.
Then a magical portal showed up and flooded our planet with “essence,” which broke any technology more potent than a wheelbarrow. It replaced cities with procedurally generated dungeons and opened a window in everyone’s mind telling them they could earn essence and level up if they killed their neighbors.
Fortunately, all of the fabricators, bio-forges, and computronium in the rest of the solar system still worked. The No Fun Allowed War eventually retook the Earth, but a single digital soldier embodied in a living tank decided that one planet freed was not enough. The System Must Be Destroyed.
All of the above takes place in the first sentence of the book, as “Cato,” our hero, dashes through the collapsing portal and enters the System.
​
Read the rest of the review on Upstream Reviews.

What is the point of speculating about evolution? Why spend time considering whether a monster is “plausible”? It’s for the same reason your eye is drawn to the image above. You are bound to find it interesting.
Consider, for example, the dry fact that flight requires powerful muscles, and heavy muscles require more muscles to lift their weight. It’s an interesting problem for a certain type of mind, but for the rest of us, it’s hard to see why we should care. We don’t fly that way.

But what if we did?
Speculative evolution teaches the reader something real by unreal example. Seeing our own form distorted, we feel the impulse to pay attention. Doing so, we come away with some knowledge worth having, but that’s only the first step. You can’t look at a winged man without asking where those wings came from. What processes changed him so much, and why? If it involves people, speculative evolution must become a story.
Dougal Dixon, the grandfather of speculative evolution, made an attempt to tell such a story. I would say, though, with less success than his other projects.

In this way, Kosemen sets the stage for real natural selection to start working. How can we expect these new "sub-humans" to evolve under natural selection? Most simply go extinct, but others produce interesting solutions to their problems. These examples make up my favorite part of the book, from Snake People to Modular People to flying Pterosapiens, most of whom are killed off in the third act by new villains, beginning the Sisyphean process all over again.
As you can’t talk about people without telling a story, you can’t tell a story without revealing your philosophy. In All Tomorrows, individuals struggle not only to overcome physical hardship, but to find meaning in their lives. You evolved from the victims of alien geneticists, and now your planet is under attack by cyborgs. Why go on at all? And, in an intergalactic narrative spanning billions of years, who are you in the first place?
The first character of All Tomorrows is humanity as a whole, illustrated by Kosemen's own portrait of himself as a Martian.

The final character is the narrator, who is revealed at the end to be not the godlike voice of the author but a far-future anthropologist. He’s an alien with no relation to us or our daughter-species, who has written this very personal and somewhat cockeyed interpretation of his findings. The narrator is a fun device, but his existence detracts from the book's nature as a series of portraits. Those models weren't real people after all, but invented by an imaginative anthropologist based on skull fragments and ancient tablets. That's a bit disappointing, but I understand why Kosemen included the narrator. He needed someone to tell us his book's theme:
"It is not the destination, but the trip, that matters…Love today, and seize all tomorrows!"
All right, so the narrator is an alien space-Buddhist. Looking back on the book after you've finished it, it's easy to see the chain of reincarnation: demon-ridden sufferer, lowly worm, beast, man, and enlightened soul, floating with folded limbs in its zero-G habitat.

Despite all the narrator's protestations about the amoral, goal-less groping of evolution, he draws clear meaning from his subjects. On a deeper level than the book's explicit theme, we are given to understand life is better than death, and intelligence is better than stupidity.
As to what is best in life, I’ll bow out with this example of example of the humanism of All Tomorrows.2

We don’t always get snow for Christmas in Sofia, but this year and this high up the Vitosha mountainside, we had a blanket a good foot thick. Crusty, too, and slightly damp. Once we’d gathered all the kids in my father-in-law’s house and gotten them over the distractions of presents and food, I took them outside for an epic snowball fight.

Of course, my own daughters love to throw snowballs at me. So does my father-in-law’s son by his second wife, whom I’ll call Anton. Anton is just a few months older than Maggie, and his and my relationship has been strained since I grabbed him when he was running around in a restaurant and told him to stop.

Today, I could have ignored him and told myself I was being gentle. Or, I could have been punctilious about distributing my snowballs equally across all the children. Instead, I let him have it. Anton would run, I would chase him. He would turn to fire a snowball at me, I’d aim for his center of mass. Several times I cocked my arm and he looked up at me, eyes wide, and said “uh oh!”

That’s not a Bulgarian phrase.1 He was repeating a line from an American movie, something he was replaying in his mind, in which I was the antagonist: mean old Uncle Dan. Anton hit me in the ear with a snowball, achieving catharsis, and that was the end of Act I.

In Act II, I was back with fearsome new threats. Two snowballs at once! And I lured the children under snow-laden trees before knocking the branches so they’d get showered. I pushed Ellie onto the ground and rolled her around. But another snowball in the ear! Curse those wretched children! It was time to unleash my most terrible weapon, yet.
When I reached for the shovel, I thought, This is the way I feel before things spin out of control and someone gets hurt. That is, I felt fun. Wild fun.

The snow flew from my shovel in an all-enveloping mass. My victim ran from me, screaming “chicho Dan!” and laughing. I scooped up another great wad and turned to the next child. Pavlina told me she and the other adults watched us through the living-room windows, and compared the experience to a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

I chased Ellie around the corner of the house to where Anton was hiding. He backed away and tripped. In a panic, he jumped back up and headbutted Ellie in the forehead.

And here it was. I could have fussed over her: how could you have made my daughter et cetera? I could have even stayed silent and let the rest of the family tell Anton all that. But I made sure everyone knew what had really happened.
The other kids went off to build their cities of blocks while I cuddled Ellie on the couch. I’m not the bad guy; I just think injuries are good. They’re what make a memory real.

In other news, after much time and a little prodding, I collected the poem I wrote for Wealthgiver into one place. Here’s “The Andrean Prophesy,” which Kori recites before she orders Andrei kidnapped and brought to her. People seem to like it, but nobody has asked me any questions about it. Doesn’t anyone want to know what Xēthópaniâ means?

And, I decided to start the free serialization of Wealthgiver early. You can find it on Royal Road, where, eventually, the whole book will become available for free. Paid subscribers on Substack and Patreon get to see each chapter 10 weeks earlier.

And I read some things.
Aspects of Faith by C. S. Lewis
More collected essays from my favorite apologist. “Miracles,” especially, gave me a way to think about the natural and supernatural that didn’t seem silly. And it resulted in a conversation over Christmas where I completely failed to make any sense at all. So that was fun.

Bloodline by Will Wight
After my second read, I stand by my first impression that this book marks the beginning of the decline of the Cradle series, and the quality of Wight’s books in general. The monsters, battles, and personal growth are all there, but don’t intertwine with each other nearly as much as they could. Lindon’s relationship with his family and homeland should be the heart of this book, but it’s like the author is afraid from digging into them. We don’t get a catharsis, and no number of giant beasts makes up for that.

Burmese Days by George Orwell.
When you begin a novel, you think, what interesting problems! However will the protagonist solve them? In Burmese Days, Orwell’s character shoots himself. That’s a betrayal of me, the reader. I have no patience for despair.
Surprised by Joy by C. S. Lewis

(Recommended by Jane Psmith , whose taste is excellent). The first half was sweet and insightful, but the second half loses vitality until it trails off into nothing much. I think the reason for this is Lewis’s decision to center the book on “joy,” his word for an emotion that swept over him at times as a child, and which he used to pull himself back from disenchantment as a young man. All well and good, except that’s only the first two thirds of the story. After Lewis found religion, he got married. After his wife died, he mostly stopped writing. As for how his inner life evolved in the final third of his life, we’re left, tragically, to wonder.

Soldier of the Mist by Gene Wolfe
Sometimes I need to feel better, and I turn to Gene Wolfe. On this third read of Soldier of the Mist, I could figure out what was actually going on in the life of Latro and I could focus on the way he deals with it. Maybe because he is so vulnerable to betrayal, amnesiac Latro treats everyone he meets (and he meets them again every day) with unfailing openness, loyalty, and honor. Others feel compelled return the favor, and they become better for it.

The Wizard’s Butler by Nathan Lowell
I was hooked at the beginning, when an old wizard and an out-of-work veteran take a look at each other and fall self-consciously into the roles of Lord and Butler. It’s very sweet, and continues so as the characters set about to healing themselves. There are certainly flaws in this book - characters and plot lines that don’t fulfill their promise or fall away entirely - but the atmosphere makes up for it. And I’m genuinely interested in the day-to-day work that goes into running a mansion.

The Warrior Prophet by R. Scott Bakker
On my second read-through of this series, I can see some of the cracks. H. R. Geiger accompanies J. R. R. Tolkein on the Crusades, but it’s saved from being boring by the author’s honesty, and the fact that he has something to say. There’s a point at which Akamian, on a march through hell toward something worse, looks down at his broken sandal strap and just can’t deal with it. I’ve been there, man.

Rumpole of the Bailey by John Mortimer
I first listened to this audiobook when I was eleven or twelve years old. It might have just been Frederick Davidson’s voice that did it for me. Listening to it again, I got more of what Mortimer was trying to do, showing us the parallels between the lives of the attorney and the criminals he defends. That’s why Rumpole believes so strongly in the presumption of innocence; he knows the line between good and evil cuts through his heart as well.

My alternate history novel Wealthgiver features two constructed languages. One (Bessian) is for daily use and will not concern us here, but the other is Ancient Thracian, used ritual purposes such as giving prophesies. One such prophesy sets the story going in chapter three.

One reader was curious about how Ancient Thracian1 is pronounced. He also asked for asked for a more accurate, less rhyming, English translation.
​
First, The Prophesy of Andrei in the original Ancient Thracian:
Kōgaió ió
Pódes xénai. Dymó
Dóubous tous me
Iérous phlēsté.
Porostreiýn iáes 5
Ápaes tḗs rhódaes
Pephlón iēn tóus
Sélkanthas se strátous.
Xēthópeti pós iá,
Stas zýn Xēthópaniâ. 10
Zēltón ze gríssma tón
No êan désyme xinón.
Pleistorós êrgetar.
Sarḗ ton désaitar!

The lines are each seven syllables long, with a beat of pause between each line and the next (except line 5, which has eight syllables long and has no pause). For example, the first line is chanted “ko-o-ga-i-O i-O (pause).”

Long vowels (for example ē) are always chanted as two syllables. Diphthongs (for example ai) are usually two syllables as well, but sometimes they are a single syllable. See the difference between iáes (i-A-es) and Xēthópaniâ (“kse-THO-pan-ya”). A circumflex over a vowel indicates an on-glide, such as â (“ya”) or ê (“ye”), but there is no spelling to differentiate an off-glide from a diphthong. Xénai is pronounced “KSE-na-i) but désaitar is “DE-sai-tar.” The reader is expected to know the difference. Accented vowels are stressed.

X is pronounced “ks.” TH, KH, and PH might once have been pronounced as aspirates (tʰ, kʰ, pʰ) or as fricatives (θ, x, ɸ), but are today pronounced as normal unvoiced stops: t, k, p.

Now, the rhyming translation:

On Holy Mountain foreign Feet.
You make Sacred Depths with smoke replete.
Rivers ruddy stream around [5]
The armies tugging at her gown.
With Master at hand, the Mistress will stand. [10]
If gold and debt with welcome's met.
Comes the Wealthgiver. May you him give her!

And the literal translation:

On the Holy One
Foreign Feet. With smoke
The Sacred Depths
You fill.
Stream [5]
The red waters
Around her peplos
(which is) tugged at (by) armies.
With the Guest-master behind,
Stands the Guest-mistress. [10]
If gold and the foreign debt
Ever are welcomed.
Wealth-giver comes.
May (the) Maiden welcome him!


If this translation has tickled your curiosity, why not…Leave a comment…and ask your own question?
Read the story for free on Royal Road.
Or buy a subscription on substack or patreon and read ten chapters ahead.

1 This is a fictional reconstruction of the real but poorly-attested Thracian language.

O Magnum Mysterium



"You voted for Kamala, right?"
Frank looked away from the road and into his wife's accusing, anxious face.
"Of course, honey."
Lilian turned her profile to him. Age, and the light that filtered through the drizzle on the windshield, had turned her skin velvety. Brake lights from the car ahead reflected off her cheek.
"No, that was a joke," she said.
Frank had to crane his neck to look for a gap in the next lane. "Oh, uh huh?"
While he concentrated on driving, Lilian clutched at the door handle, twisting her hips as if unable to find a comfortable position. "I can't help thinking about it," she said. "More than half the country voted for Trump."
"That liar," mouthed Frank as he turned and accelerated, assuring his place in the next lane over. "Foof! So! Mikey's gonna love his truck, huh?"
It sat on the seat behind them, embedded in a cube of cardboard and plastic the size of an oven. Beside it were the bottle of wine and the strata, baked because what if Derek and Diane's oven wasn't working.
"I don't know." Lilian rubbed at the skin over the round bones of her wrist. "It's a truck. It's so gendered. Don't you think?"
Frank nodded, tracking the patterns on the retaining wall. "He loves trucks. 'Truck' was his first word after 'no.'"
"I know that, Frank."
Frank continued to focus on the road, his mouth firm.
A terrible silence rose until Lilian said, "I'm just worried."
He nodded a little and glanced her way. "I hear you. It's all right to be worried," Frank recited. "And you know? I bet you in two years, there'll be a blue wave, just like last time."
Lilian's shoulders relaxed. "No, that's complacency. That's why we weren't ready to keep him out of the White House. We'll keep up the resistance." She looked up from her lap. "And I can ask Diane what she's doing to fight."
Frank flicked her a nervous smile. "That's a good idea."
"Look out for that pickup. I don't like the way he's driving."
Frank got out from behind the truck and braked to avoid rear-ending the car in the next lane. "Look at these dopes on the road! Ha," he said, and swung his hand over the wheel as if flinging a Frisbee. "Maybe they're the ones who voted for Trump!"
"Don't, Frank."
"Guess there's no way to know."
The freeway rose and curved over housing developments and trees. Lilian searched Frank's face as he signaled and took the next exit.
Derek and Diane lived in a large, rented home on the bank of a slough. Spanish mission, it was called, which meant white stucco and a low profile.
"The magnolia's lost its flowers."
"Frank, it bloomed in May."
They rang the doorbell and waited, food and presents cradled in their arms, smiling at the closed door.
It opened a crack and slammed shut. Opened again. An eye peered up at them from between clumps of brown hair. The door slammed again, hard enough to rattle the windows.
"Michael, no! Stop that."
The doorknob turned, but the door shuddered under the thrown weight of a four-year-old boy.
"No door!"
"Stop, Mikey."
"Roar!"
The door opened a third time, now at the hand of Derek, their son. His own child squirmed in the sweatered crook of his arm. "Come in, quick. Merry Christmas."
"Merry…" Lilian's eyes darted up past him. "Where's Diane?"
"Traffic!" Mikey flung his hands up and slithered out of his father's grip. Screaming, he ran out the door.
"Don't let him get away." Derek pushed past his parents. "Mikey, don't play in traffic."
"Broom. Broom! A red truck. Grandpa, let me down."
"Don't put him down yet." Derek maneuvered himself between Frank and the road. "Mikey, go inside kiss Grandma."
"What about kisses for Grandpa?"
Mikey sank his heel into Frank's belly and made it back to the house before the old man straightened.
At the noise of Mikey's approach, Lilian turned away from her Diane, but not quickly enough to avoid her grandson, who dove into the backs of her knees. Diane grabbed her and held on until Lilian had regained her balance.
Derek sidestepped the present still in the doorway. "Mikey, did you tackle grandma?"
"No I kissed."
"She doesn't look kissed. She looks tackled."
"No!"
"It was a kiss," said Lilian, straightening. "Thank you, Mikey."
Derek shot his mother a frown taking a knee before Mikey. "That isn't the truth, is it, kid?"
"Give grandma a kiss, Mikey."
"Mom, wait." Derek put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "Mikey, are you brave enough to tell me the truth?"
Mikey frowned and turned up his nose. "Harrumph!"
"In front of your family? On Christmas?"
"It's all right." Lilian tried to meet her daughter-in-law's eyes. "You tell your child 'no.' I've read that that's not as traumatizing as we used to think."
"Right. Sorry." Diane ducked to pick up Mikey. "It's okay. Sorry. Lilly, I haven't asked if you want something to drink."
"Let me down, Mom!"
Derek got up and pulled the door closed behind Frank and the present.
Diane had spent the previous day polishing the cabinets and the smells of beeswax and orange oil turned the Spanish mission into a dark and towering cathedral. Candle-flames nodded over wax in the shapes of fir trees and Santa's head, illuminating the two stratas in their pans, the fruit salad, and the mugs of coffee.
A choir sang softly from a hidden speaker, and the Christmas tree threw shards of colored light across the walls. Cars, trucks, warrior robots, and the elements of hopeful STEM kits had been spread evenly across the floor to a depth of six inches.
Mikey waded through his bounty, new truck on his shoulder, shouting "Brow! Broom! Action! Watch out, Grandma."
Frank leaned forward and raised his voice in an effort to be heard. "Which is why we can't understand it. We were just talking on our drive down here. How could half the country have voted for the man? Derek, what do you think? You think there was hacking?"
"I don't know, Dad." Derek pulled back, shoulders raised and voice fast and breathless. "I don't really watch the news."
"Mikey," said Diane, "should you be doing that?"
Frank spread his hands in disbelief. "But you gotta stay informed, kid. Now, more than ever."
Derek shrugged again. "Yeah, I guess."
"Mikey, think about what you're doing."
"Well, what are they saying at work?"
"Nobody can say anything."
"I know what you mean." Frank leveled his finger at his son, whose eyes focused as if on the barrel of a gun. "Your boss came out for Trump, didn't he?"
Derek lifted his eyebrows and scrubbed a hand through his beard. "Our founder? Yeah?"
"Three," said Mikey. "Two!"
Frank leaned further. "Why do you think he did that? Because he feared what Trump might do to him if he didn't kowtow?"
"Frank, I think that's offensive," said Lilian, nodding in Diane's direction.
"Submit?"
"I don't know," Derek told them. "Who knows what anyone is thinking? Right? Mikey, don't throw that truck."
It crashed through a mound of empty boxes.
"I dropped it."
"That wasn't dropping, Mikey, that was throwing."
"Good thing he didn't hit the tree," said Frank, and Mikey started laughing.
"Oh, my God." Derek turned in his seat and put his hands on his knees. "Hey, Mikey, you want me to go get out the tablet?"
"Uh, Derek?" Diane leaned closer to her husband, lowering her voice and keeping her eyes on her in-laws. "It's Christmas."
"I understand," Lilian told her, and her hands under the table turned her own phone face-down. "There's so much toxic masculinity on YouTube."
Derek grit his teeth and growled at his wife, "But there's things I want to say."
She drew back. "So, say them."
But now everyone was looking at him. Derek put his hand over his mouth.
Lilian looked from one child to the next as silence swelled. "But how are you, Diane? We should have asked you sooner about your work."
"Yeah," said Frank, eagerly turning his attention from his sulky son. "I bet they're doing something big at the university. Some sort of protest in the works?"
"Probably," said Diane. "But, well. Sorry, but I guess I didn't tell you before. I don't work there any more."
"Since Mikey's last birthday," Derek grumbled.
Lilian put her hands across Diane's wrist. "But what are you going to do? And how could they fire you?"
"I wasn't fired. I took a leave of absence. And I'm looking for a new job right now." Diane smiled and ducked her head. "In the private sector."
"Oh, the private sector," Lilian recited before she registered Diane's expression.
"Mom. Mommy!" Mikey was under the table.
"What? Yes, Mikey, what is it?"
"Where's the goose?"
"It's still in the oven."
"It's cooked," said Frank.
"What I mean," Lilian said, "is that there's so much more misogyny in the private sector. Even than in academia."
"Right," Derek declared. "The university was a snake pit."
"What? What happened?" asked Frank.
Derek's eyes darted away and his hand went back to his mouth. "Never mind."
"Sorry," said Diane. "Yes. Never mind."
This was enough to make Lilian take hold of Diane's wrist. "Was it sexual harassment?"
"Well." Diane looked to Derek, but he was glowering at the wall.
"Mommy!"
"What?"
"Is the goose crispy?"
"I don't know, Mikey." She looked back up at her mother-in-law. "Sorry. I have no right to complain. There are people in this country who are dying because they don't have jobs." She passed her hand palm down over her head, ducking slightly and smiling disarmingly. "I'm really privileged to have—"
"What's it thinking about?"
"What's what, Mikey?"
His frustrated sigh from under the table sounded exactly like his mother's. "What is the goose thinking about?"
"Nothing. It's dead. Derek, will you?"
"Go play, Mikey. Let us talk."
"That's not what I meant." Diane turned back to Lilian, who was still gripping her wrist. "I mean that I will work when I get my new job, but, you know." She paused, but when nobody stopped her, she had to continue. "I don't have to watch what I say so much?"
Lilian pulled back, eyes wide. Her hands left Diane to clutch each other. "What does that mean?"
"No, that doesn't sound so bad," said Frank. "Don't have to watch what you say. I wouldn't mind that sometimes. Lilly?"
"Frank. Don't interrupt her."
"I don't know." Diane waved her hands like a stage magician directing her audience's attention. Her expression was one of fear. "It was a big department. There's a lot of different viewpoints to be aware of, and?"
Lilian turned to Frank. "It was bullying. Like what happened to me."
Diane hung her head, and put her hands away. "Yeah."
Derek moved as if to hug her, but patted her shoulder, instead. "Sorry, babe."
"What are you apologizing for?" Frank asked him.
"Empathizing, Dad." And in a lower, less sarcastic voice directed at his wife: "I know it gets exhausting."
Frank squinted across the table. "Someone harassing you too, now?"
Lilian swatted his shoulder. "Come on, Frank, how could they be? We're talking about Diane and her hurt."
"No, no, it's been good for me," Diane assured them. And, when more details seemed to be expected, "I'm glad to have more time to spend on…" she turned her head, searching. "Myself."
"Yes, that's all right," said Lilian uncertainly. "If it's on yourself."
"I've been able to work out again, for one thing."
"Oh, working out. I'm so glad."
"You've lost weight."
"Frank!"
Diane smiled a little. "It was hard to give myself permission, you know? To not be Diane the health policy instructor and just, uh, honestly…" She looked at Derek, who had stood up.
He raised his nose. "We've been completing an awful lot of sentences."
Mikey was okay. He had climbed into the large freezer in Derek and Diane's garage and curled himself into the hole where the goose had been. He was trying to shut the freezer door from the inside when his dad found him.
"No!" Mikey wailed from Derek's arms.
"Don't sit in the freezer!" Derek raised his hand above the back of the boy's head, but looked up at the rest of his staring family and froze. His face reddened.
"You know what?" he said. "Let's take a walk."
The adults distracted themselves with the business of Mikey's coat and mittens and getting his boots on the right feet. In the front yard, they could argue with him about who should ride in the stroller ("Mom!") and on the bridge, everyone could be worried about the traffic on one side and the slow, brown slough on the other.
"You see that, Mikey? That's a coot."
"Yeah, just like me."
"No! Mikey, you have to stay with Mom."
"I got him, Diane. I got him."
By the time they arrived at the park, they had temporarily exhausted their ability to worry. But silence gathered around the little hills and the pond. They each of them looked around, but saw only frazzled palm trees and the green turds of Canada geese. The clouds had burned away, but the sky was as scary as the view over the edge of the bridge.
"Honk honk!" Mikey made a dash for it, pretending to be either a truck or a goose.
"I'll get him." Frank did his best to catch up.
Derek looked ready to escape as well, but Diane asked, "So, Lilly, what's going on at your church? Are you still involved in the Women's Auxiliary?"
Fear flashed across Lilian's face. "Well, of course we're all still shocked about the election."
"Oh, of course." She turned and raised her voice. "Come back, Mikey!"
"Maybe the Auxiliary could make a rule like 'no politics,'" Derek suggested.
"You can't avoid politics." Lilian spoke gently but firmly, as if about homework. "Everything is political. Silence is violence."
"Yeah." Derek turned. "Just sort of herd him back this way, Dad. Okay?"
"Honk honk!" The little boy powered up the hill and threw himself at Lilian's knees. This time, he did kiss them.
"You want to show Grandma the geese?" asked Diane.
"Come on, Grandma! Watch out, they can bite. They can bite hard. Like this!"
"You protect Grandma," said Derek.
"I'm sure I don't need protection."
Mikey tugged Lilian past Frank, who stooped and bent forward, hands on his knees.
"You okay, Dad?"
"Fine, fine." He straightened, groaning. "Man, I can see how you lost weight, Diane. That kid's a better coach than the girls at the fitness center. Women. I should come here twice a week." He didn't give his son or daughter-in-law time to respond. "What were you kids talking about up here? Ha. Trump didn't do anything while I was gone, did he?"
"Um, Dad?" Derek's hand went to his mouth again, but he spoke around it, scratching his beard and looking away. "I'm a little worried about Mom? Um." He checked his father's expression. "She just, she's taking this election stuff awfully personally."
Diane looked up at him. "You mean you think it isn't personal for her?"
"Uh. Yeah." He pressed his fingers to his lips and leaned into them, as if thinking deeply.
Frank watched his son and daughter-in-law. "Well, yeah, I guess it is personal and stressful. For everyone." When they didn't respond, he turned away. "Ha. Look at that kid go. He's a firecracker all right. Gonna take over the world some day, huh?"
"Yeah." Derek let go of Diane's arm and stood next to his father, watching his son. "I don't know how he's going to handle nursery school."
"But he has to go to school," said Diane in a tone of terror.
"Even after Trump guts the education department," said Frank. "We'll think of something. Looks like they're coming back."
"Should she be carrying Mikey like that?" Diane started down the hill.
Derek jogged past her. "I'll take care of it. Mom, you don't need to lug him around like that. Let me have him. Mikey, you can walk."
"I'm pooped, Dad."
"No, you're not."
"I can carry him. Well, if you think he should — oof!"
Mikey kicked off his grandma and landed on his dad's chest. "Mecha-Daddy," he said, pulling himself onto Derek's shoulder.
"Okay, okay. Mecha-Daddy." Derek reached up to twist his son's legs into position. "You're all right up there?"
"No, I'm the head! I talk. You say bvvv-tshr."
Derek took a heavy, stop-motion step, making noises like a hydraulic system.
"Action!"
"Not so loud, Mikey, that's Dad's ear."
"No, Dad, say bvvv-tshr."
Lilian picked her way towards Frank and Diane. "Well, we certainly taught those geese a lesson."
"Sorry he made you carry him," said Diane.
"No, no. I missed this." Lilian looked from husband to daughter-in-law. "What have you been talking about? Oh, that reminds me, I got a news notification while I was chasing after Mikey." She reached into her coat pocket and Diane looked up into the sky.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" asked Frank.
"It's nothing. I'm just tired."
Lilian nodded, still searching. "Me too. It's the stress of always lying."
Frank and Diane snapped their attention onto her. Lilian pulled her hand out of her pocket and held it up as if in self-defense. "What did I say? Lying? I meant we always have to be polite, I mean to put up with people. Strangers, you know, and you're always wondering which of them might have," she took a step back, "might've been on the wrong side."
"Oh," said Diane. "Right."
"I think what she means to say…"
"I'm sure you know, Diane, that I don't usually let him speak for me."
"Of course, Lilly. I wouldn't think that."
"Maybe we should head home?" said Derek.
"No! Mecha-Daddy, run away!"
"Mikey, I'm tired."
"No, you're not."
"Like Mom and Grandma." Derek knelt. "Mikey, get down now, I really am tired."
Mikey tightened his grip on his father's hair. "That isn't the truth."
"It is. Ow!"
"No! Are you brave enough to tell me the truth?"
Derek stopped with his hands under his son's armpits, looking up into the faces of his family.
For a moment, nobody knew what to say.
Lilian felt as if the ground were splitting beneath her. She always knew the right thing to say, but now, facing this terrible question, her voice failed her.
"I voted for Trump," said Frank.
"Huh what?" Derek paused with his heavy son halfway-off his shoulders. "Me too."
Diane turned on them. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, and both men cringed.
"Put me down, Dad!"
"Because I voted for him too."
"Ha!"
Derek's arms trembled. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Mikey kicked, and Derek let him down in a motion just slow enough to not count as a fall. "I wanted to stay married."
"Me too."
"Ew! That's poop. Is that goose poop?"
Lilian pressed her pinkie into the inner corner of her eye. "Oh," she said.
She could hear Frank's footsteps on the grass behind her, but he didn't try to hold her.
Diane looked up from Derek's embrace. "Oh. I'm sorry, Lilly."
And what could she say? "I feel like a fool. I was so afraid of what you'd think of me." She grabbed her shoulders and and clenched her teeth. "And now I'm crying. Isn't that just. Stupid."
"Come here." Frank said from behind her. "Better to stop being stupid than keep on being stupid, right?"
Turning took more courage even than speaking. But when she saw his face, he still loved her.
"Me too," she told them.
"Brow!" Mikey shoved his parents aside and ran at full speed down the hill toward the lake. They let him.



The story above is dedicated to Marilyn Simon and Zero HP Lovecraft, who have written of their wishes to talk to their families about politics. It would be foolish to expect your conversation to be as painless as the ones in my story, but not so foolish to pray for some kind of miracle.

I should also note that, although I borrowed a house where we used to live and a certain Christmas dish, the family in this story little resembles mine. We didn't all vote the same.