Entry tags:
Prophecies
I have been thinking about prophecies. I do not in general like prophecies, especially those that become a step-by-step instruction manual for the hero to follow. However, it struck me today that many prophecies in fantasy novels share a common feature that must make it very hard for the poor prophet.
I'm picturing the poor prophet, all exhausted from his prophetic trance. (He had to fast for a day, you see, and having your eyes roll back into your head is not the best way to pass an afternoon.) "What is it?" asks the king. "What did you see?"
The prophet cannot speak. He holds up a hand. The king's men take a step back; prophecy cannot be hurried.
Hours pass. "What did you see?" asks the king again. (He is shifting uncomfortably now. He wants the toilet, but doesn't think it's kingly to say so. The prophet could kill for a nice warm cup of tea.)
The prophet has dismissed iambic pentameters. He quite clearly saw a plate of macaroni cheese in his vision. Macaroni cheese doesn't suit the iambic meter. He's a bit vague about what the others meters are called, but he's sure that macaroni cheese doesn't fit any of them. Ooh, maybe he can change it to "pasta." It can't make any real difference, after all, and it's an easier word for a verse.
"What did you see?" asks the king again. (It is dark now. He's sitting on the ground, his legs pressed tightly together, jiggling up and down, but the sanctity of the prophetic chamber cannot be breached.)
And an orange most definitely played a major role in his vision. In fact, strange it might seem, an orange is the only thing that can slay the future Dark Lord! But he can't think of anything that rhymes with an orange! "Corange," he muttered. "Dorange. Florenge. Plorrinj." No. Nothing. He really needs to get his apprentice to buy him a rhyming dictionary. He's a prophet, not a poet, but prophecies come in verse; it is known.
Or maybe it was a grapefruit. Yes, it will become a grapefruit. It probably doesn't really matter. And wasn't there a... a guinea pig? A chinchilla? A coypu? He can't remember. It's hours since he had the vision - hours spent labouring over the verse, and already the clarity of the vision has gone. Let's call it a meerkat, he thinks to himself.
The King is gibbering now. I give up! thinks the prophet. He writes the last line. It bears little resemblance to his vision now, but at least it rhymes. At least now he can have that cup of tea.
I'm picturing the poor prophet, all exhausted from his prophetic trance. (He had to fast for a day, you see, and having your eyes roll back into your head is not the best way to pass an afternoon.) "What is it?" asks the king. "What did you see?"
The prophet cannot speak. He holds up a hand. The king's men take a step back; prophecy cannot be hurried.
Hours pass. "What did you see?" asks the king again. (He is shifting uncomfortably now. He wants the toilet, but doesn't think it's kingly to say so. The prophet could kill for a nice warm cup of tea.)
The prophet has dismissed iambic pentameters. He quite clearly saw a plate of macaroni cheese in his vision. Macaroni cheese doesn't suit the iambic meter. He's a bit vague about what the others meters are called, but he's sure that macaroni cheese doesn't fit any of them. Ooh, maybe he can change it to "pasta." It can't make any real difference, after all, and it's an easier word for a verse.
"What did you see?" asks the king again. (It is dark now. He's sitting on the ground, his legs pressed tightly together, jiggling up and down, but the sanctity of the prophetic chamber cannot be breached.)
And an orange most definitely played a major role in his vision. In fact, strange it might seem, an orange is the only thing that can slay the future Dark Lord! But he can't think of anything that rhymes with an orange! "Corange," he muttered. "Dorange. Florenge. Plorrinj." No. Nothing. He really needs to get his apprentice to buy him a rhyming dictionary. He's a prophet, not a poet, but prophecies come in verse; it is known.
Or maybe it was a grapefruit. Yes, it will become a grapefruit. It probably doesn't really matter. And wasn't there a... a guinea pig? A chinchilla? A coypu? He can't remember. It's hours since he had the vision - hours spent labouring over the verse, and already the clarity of the vision has gone. Let's call it a meerkat, he thinks to himself.
The King is gibbering now. I give up! thinks the prophet. He writes the last line. It bears little resemblance to his vision now, but at least it rhymes. At least now he can have that cup of tea.