Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
Surveillance
So this is our “black op”. He looks like a man. Different though, odd in the way he moves. And he is moving. I expected to see him sat perfectly still, waiting for input, or dejected with how long he has been in this place, but he is stretching, joints moving in a slow and supple way, limbs moving a little further than a normal human structure would allow. He is very well balanced. He moves from one foot to the other without seeming to shift his weight at all and I wonder if he is making himself rigid or if he is simply so strong he can support his frame in any position.
As I ponder this, he slowly brings his fingers to his toes. I watch in astonishment as his legs curve back and up until he is standing on the tips of his fingers, head facing forward. He lifts each finger up, one at a time, as if he is testing them. Without any change to his facial expression he continues the movement of his legs in a perfect curve back to the floor, so he is in a crab position. His head looks unnatural now, as he is still looking at his toes.
I have to ask:
“Why is he doing that?”
“The freak? Who knows. It gets bored, I guess.”
“The freak? That’s what you call him?”
“Well what would you call it? It’s not a man, not an animal, not even a robot really. Creeps me out. I’m only on surveillance but lemme tell you, that’s enough. Dunno why we don’t just get rid and have done. The project got shut down you know?”
“I know Stan.”
“Oh that’s right, you’re in charge downstairs now, congrats. I guess this is the first time you’ve seen our “guest” then.”
“Yeah, I’d heard rumours of course but when they handed me the files I just had to see for myself.”
“The files. Yeah, they kinda don’t tell the full story.”
I wrinkle my nose at him and raise my eyebrows.
“You mean someone here did a shoddy report?”
“Hey, no one’s getting nobody into trouble! Not that anyone cares, those reports are so old.”
“Yeah, I can’t believe he’s been hidden away up here for 35 years. Crazy.”
“Can’t let it go; can’t put it down- well the big brass thinks it still has stuff to offer us. Me, I think it’s a waste of a good room.”
“The files…”
“Oh yeah, what is it they say-emotional acclimatisation failure?”
“Big words for you Stan.”
“Hey!”
“I jest. I didn’t know what the hell it was going on about to be honest. I checked all the figures on his responses and they looked human enough, in so much as you can make comparisons between the two.”
Stan sighs but obviously takes pleasure in being the bearer of bad gossip.
“What the files don’t tell you is that his emotional responses were off the scale. Yeah, it reacted to all the right stuff- in a way. But it reacted too much. There’s no way we could send it in as an operative, because as soon as it figured out what we wanted it to do, it was disgusted.”
I ponder this and ask
“Surely though “it” could be manipulated, convinced that what it was doing was for the greater good?”
“Too smart. Like I said, it figured shit out. We gave it the best AI possible but it was totally inhuman. Then we gave it feelings and it cared too much. For weeks after switching the emotions on it just screamed at any input. Did our heads in. We were all sat here with earmuffs on taking bets as to when it would shut the hell up!”
I wonder if the horror is showing on my face. I hope not. I don’t want Stan to think I’m some bleeding heart who will chew him out for treating something this way. Am I? Science is my life, but I’m starting to feel a bit sick watching this beautiful being, and listening to the smoke hoarse voice of a man who wishes it were dead explain its life story.
“So it made its own decision not to cooperate.”
“Yeah, what a waste of effort. That’s why the program got canned. An artificial being is only useful if it can be controlled, and we made this one too good and we can’t figure out how to take it back. I mean, we can turn the feelings off, but then it’s just a robot again; anyone can make a robot, right?”
Yes Stan, any Tom, Dick or Harry with coat hangers and a bit of string can make a robot. I hope I’m hiding my contempt.
“So essentially you built a hippy robot.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t underestimate it. Yeah, it feels and it cares more than the rest of us can or want to, but it can do what it was designed to. It’s shitting deadly. If it thinks it’s in danger or something it cares about, it goes bat shit crazy. It ain’t just the lovey fluffy emotions that are off the scale. Trust me when I say you do not want to see this thing have a tantrum.”
“What do you mean, ‘something it cares about’?”
“Well, um, off the record?”
“Sure Stan.”
“Well it is on record but nowhere you’ll ever read it. It took a shine to one of the lab assistants whose job it was to ask questions, do tests- kind of a psycho analyst whatsit? Anyhow this kid was sweet by all accounts, fresh out of college, bit naive. He and the freak seemed pretty pally. Then the kid started getting harassed by one of the senior technicians. Really below the belt stuff; would never happen these days. Anyway, this kid was totally miserable, and confided in stretch Armstrong over there. Next time the three of them were in the room- the kid, freak and the bully- freak confronts the big shot about the harassment. Guy laughs. Big mistake. Freak flips out and grabs him. Tells the kid to leave. Looks straight at the camera and says “not acceptable” then snaps the guys neck, easy as me snapping a match.”
Copyright Mabh Savage February 2012
The Chapel
The chapel is beautiful, ethereal. Called square, it’s actually longer along the east and west walls which are entirely made of saints and apostles, sculpted straight out of the sandstone, and lit with tiny lights making each of them glow; a heavenly luminescence that from a distance makes the whole building seem other worldly.
It’s a hot night. I drive up with the roof down, veil fluttering in the speed crafted wind as I find the car park for the gorgeous, holy building. I reverse into a space, one arm on the wheel, the other draped over the leather seat back as I look over my shoulder to make sure I don’t destroy anything with my oversized vehicle.
Once parked, I sit for a moment. Fingers rest on the smooth material of the seat, heat inducing a slick sweat between the two skins; one alive, one dead. I let the liquid fail friction and my fingertips glide over the gloss of the-
What am I doing?
Procrastinating.
No I mean, what is this that I am doing here?
Ignoring the voice of sanity I open the door and step carefully out of the car. The dress I have gone for tonight is stunning; I’ve really outdone myself. The material is thin to suit the heat of the night. I am wrapped in white from neck to ankle with the tiniest burst of tulle emulating a train. Can’t go overboard on the train when your driving. My arms are simply laced with white ribbon, as is my head; hair totally bound to my head in a cap of the slinky material. The tiny veil is as reduced as the train; covering features only, it moves only with my breath in this still, potent night.
I’m out of town. I have to be. I’m too recognisable in my own area to be doing this. But I need to do this. Well “I” is a worried pronoun here. I no longer know what is “me” and what is the creature I am creating by my indecision. The bottom line is, if someone sees a mad woman skulking round churches in a wedding dress, there’s no reason they will tie it back to me: head of research at the corporation that started all this…this debacle.
I walk into the church through the main entrance at the south. Despite the ancient look of the sculptures, very modern artificial cool air flows around me as I step over the threshold. I stop behind the first row of wooden benches, and as always, start to try and picture what could be. What could happen if I truly removed myself from the situation I am in. I imagine the bouquet between my grasping fingers; the adoring, approving friends cheering. My nostrils flare; no, that’s not part of my fantasy. He is here. Amazing. I don’t even need to look around. He is perfectly silent when he wants to be. But his smell is unique; subtle, but absolute.
I wonder if he is simply going to watch me then leave. I haven’t seen him for weeks; the weeks that I have been travelling these backwater towns, trying on churches for size like the dresses I hire under a range of pseudonyms.
I turn and sit on the back of the pew and start flicking my fingers over the spines of CDs, stacked in two piles next to a small player attached to the church’s sound system. I still don’t look up at him. I can’t decide if I’m embarrassed or not. He doesn’t exactly think about things in the way a human does. There’s no point guessing what is happening behind those unique eyes. I’ve learnt over time that being direct is the only way.
“So, pretty certifiable huh…” I try, still not looking up to where I know he is standing by the door. His reaction, as usual, surprises me. He laughs warmly and comes to sit at the other end of the bench’s back. “You, my dear, are off your rocker. That’s my certified opinion.” I finally raise my eyes, and see he is already looking at me, twist of a smile at one corner of his perfect mouth and body matching my position perched on the cold wooden bench. I can’t help it, his lack of mockery and acceptance of my ridiculous actions lift a weight I didn’t even know was there and laughter bubbles up inside me. Before I know it I am giggling and not in a crazy way; simply laughing with delight at his presence and not having to explain myself or worry that he is going to have me committed. At the sound of my laughter his smile changes to fill his eyes, and I know he has as little regard for my insanity as he does for most other things regarded as “human failings”. He’s simply happy to have found me, safe and not falling to pieces. Not quite. We sit and smile at each other; a warm, strange moment.
Copyright Mabh Savage February 2013
Sorrow
Sometimes sadness is so profound, it almost becomes a physical object. When it has a weight to it, and carrying it is not only emotionally tiring, but bodily exhausting. The backpack of sorrow, dragging shoulders and chin down, and straining the back; straps of shattered dreams scoring deep marks in skin so tough yet so fragile. Words becoming meaningless mumbles. Eyes of pity only draw more tears. Kindness is welcome but fruitless; this sadness cannot be broken, only weathered until the stone of time dulls its edge and the cut of the sorrowful dagger causes a little less hurt every time it is unsheathed from the scabbard of memory. Time. Friends. Family. Kind words; candles in the darkness, each a beacon to the passing pain, drawing it out little by little like a poultice on a stale wound. Each one by itself may make no difference, but put them all together and you may just make it through.
Thinking of friends.
Holly
Another excerpt from my upcoming book, A Modern Celt, which goes to the publisher in 6 days! Eek! Worryingly, I only just wrote this bit today…
The holly is an evergreen tree with leaves ranging from dark green to bright yellow and gorgeous red berries. We very quickly think of Christmas or Yule when holly is mentioned, and there is a long tradition of bringing greenery into the house at the coldest time of the year. Holly is one of the more beautiful examples of this as it really needs no trimmings or enhancements; it is the decoration. Holly is usually sharp and prickly; a full tree of the thorny leaves can be quite dangerous. The Irish hero Cú Chulainn was forced to fight one of his foster brothers, Fer Báeth, and not wanting to kill his kin, tried desperately to talk Fer Báeth out of the fight. Fer Báeth refused to back down, and Cú Chulainn stormed off. Not looking where he was going, he stepped in a holly so sharp it cut him to the bone. He uprooted the bush in a rage and cast it over his shoulder, killing the unfortunate Fer Báeth. In the same text (Táin Bó Cúailnge) our hero comes across a charioteer cutting holly branches to make chariot poles, and later Medb’s warrior Nath Crantail attacks Cú Chulainn with nine spits of charred and sharpened holly. Cú Chulainn simply hops along the tips of the spits as they are thrown at him then runs off to find his evening meal! Suibhne, in Suibhne’s Frenzy (Buile Suibhne) refers to the holly tree several times in his story as a sheltering tree, and at one point he is surviving only on water, acorns and holly berries. It’s no wonder he was in a frenzy; the berries have a similar effect to caffeine, and eventually become very toxic. In The Wooing of Etain Midir’s eye was taken out with a spit of holly, so it seems safe to assume that holly was widely cut for weapons, vehicles and a variety of other uses by the Celts. Holly today is still common all over the British Isles and very hardy, and is one half of the dual king of the year for those pagans that follow this belief (the other half being the Oak King). The Holly King is born at midsummer, the Summer Solstice, but does not start to really rule supreme until after the autumn equinox, when night outweighs the light. I always felt that the Holly King had a bit of an unfair advantage, because he is green and lush all year around, whereas the Oak King loses his green mantle by October, not to retrieve it until well into Spring. But how could we have a green lord of the wild, wintry wood, without turning to the magic of the evergreens?
Little moments of wonder…
When winter is an idea and home is where the central heating is; when frost holds no fear for the English wanderer; take the snow and make it your plaything. Forget the empty, useless roads and take joy in being stuck at home. This was as far as we got in the snow- just to the end of the estate, and though it was no far flung adventure our intrepid explorer loved every minute. We’ve all (sensibly) taken a day off work tomorrow and looking at the flakes flying past the window it doesn’t look like we’ll be traveling too far again. But for Nathan, the slightest journey is a walk of wonder in this white and weirdly silent world.
Modern Seer
This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, A Modern Celt, from the chapter examining how prophecy, a theme popular in Celtic stories, is still alive in varying forms today.
“…Does having guidance as to what may be around the corner actually aid us in anyway? Or is it better to deal with things as and when they happen; to react to each situation without any forethought other than that which is given to us by every day events? I spoke to my friend Emma, who is unusual in that she experiences what can only be described as premonitions. For most of her life she has felt changes in herself and her own moods whenever something has been upcoming either in her life or the lives of those close to her or connected to her, but she has little or no control over it. We got together to chat about her unique situation, and I ask her to try and describe what it’s like when she feels something, then that feeling is subsequently followed by an event or occurrence. I immediately realise I am massively simplifying this for Emma; as this conversation progresses, you will see what I mean. This level of connection to a prophetic talent is so subtle yet enormous at the same time, it’s difficult to describe, and having only ever had prophetic dreams myself, and not very often, it’s a feeling I can only experience as an outsider looking in. Emma is thoughtful as I ask her to give me some examples of when this has happened to her, and I feel like I am asking her to use finger paints to show me the Mona Lisa…”
I hope this leaves you wanting more, big thanks to Emma for giving an extremely personal insight into her unique talent; you may have to wait for the book to learn more!
Copyright 2013 Mabh Savage
Might snow this weekend…
Why do we say it’s brisk when it’s cold outside?
Brisk; fast, quick, sharp movements. Lively; with vigor.
Is the cold vigorous? Perhaps it more describes us:
Rushing out of the icy air into warm abodes
Breath like fog and eyes sparkling diamonds
In mines of glowing red;
Or speed shuffling shoes sliding over
Slick puddles frozen into deathtraps
That cannot be avoided, only dealt with
Like the krypton factor of winter!
Brisk; panting at the effort
Of climbing the glass mountain
One step forward, two steps not only backwards
But sideways, upwards and all over the place.
Brisk; the hands that shake at 500 hertz
And placed under jumpers next to warm hearts.
But cold makes us slow, makes us clumsy,
And when ice gives way to snow
The whole world seems to dwindle like a tape
Set on to slow-mo; frame by frame
As the soft and dangerous white
conquers all.
Thirty Circles
Thirty circles
Bold and bright
Ancient days and
Timeless night
Wasted moments
Treasured slice
Of life eternal
Entered thrice
As child, as maid
As mother fair.
As soul so heavy
Limp with care.
Dragging onward,
Cutting ruts
And dusty trails
In gore and guts;
The viscera of life’s true trials
The lies and laughs
The way and wiles
Of those who tempt
And those you trust
Of what you need
And what you lust.
Now that rut it cuts both ways
A path you built through shining days
A light beside, a glow before: Lead on and find your core.
(c) Mabh Savage 2012
Red
Streaming red
Cloak of hair
Like yarn spun wild
For a coat of dreams
Of war and time
To pass the line
The blood along
Like velvet wine
Lady great and fierce of heart
Builds you up then tears apart
Protect thyself but know her if you can.
(c) Mabh Savage 2012
Endings and beginnings
I write my ending at the beginning; not as pretentious as it sounds, I promise. As we move into a new year (according to the Gregorian calendar) I am in the final stages of my book, A Modern Celt, with a promise to myself and more importantly my publisher to have the beast whipped by Imbolc. Why did I choose this day? Well, Imbolc is all about new beginnings; fresh new starts; fresh young shoots bursting tumescent and hopeful from moist earth; pale, youthful sun hovering over a cloudy horizon; rain and wind cleansing the land and reducing the last of autumn’s fall to compost, ready to feed the new season. I will pass on my offering at this time; my sacrifice of hours and brain power and stiff back and aching eyes and I will give it to the world and wait for it to blossom in the warm sunshine of the beloved reader. Of course I will also be out in the garden tidying and digging, getting ready for the new season in a much more physical and vital way; weeds to banish, seeds to sow; paths to sweep clear. But some paths are ready to be walked upon- may you find your path in 2013, and I wish us all the strength to continue putting one foot in front of the other, as the wheel turns with every spin of our beautiful earth.
Mabh Savage 