Anatman’s the god of a godless world.
He’s stood against the Devil himself and said, “You don’t exist.”
(And oh! how the Devil laughed; but that’s a story for another time.)
He’s stood against the demons and the fiends, and fought them back; and the angels and the fetches too. He’s won ten thousand different battles against ten thousand different gods.
He’s the man who stands at the boundary of the world and keeps theology at bay.
Here’s how it goes.
801 years into the common era, an octopus-bodied snake-headed bird-beaked hydra god of unspeakable and abominable torments tries to break into the world.
Anatman puts an end to that.
“Those are some pretty abominable torments,” concedes Anatman, “but they’re totally speakable.”
The hydra glares at him.
“You know I’m right,” Anatman says.
It’s not easy to talk about the torments of the octopus-bodied snake-headed bird-beaked hydra god. You have to put yourself through a mental wringer just to figure out where the bird’s beak goes, and that’s before you even get into the torments.
But you can.
And if they’re not unspeakable, then it’s not the kind of octopus-bodied snake-headed bird-beaked hydra god-abomination that it thought it was, and so it doesn’t break into the world.
Later, in 816, the wolf of space comes down to eat the Earth.
It takes Anatman himself to go out there and stop it. Alchemy doesn’t work and people don’t have nuclear weapons yet and longbows are notoriously ineffectual in space, but Anatman, he goes out to where the wolf is ravening towards the world and he says, “The Earth is bigger than your head.”
This brings embarrassment to the wolf.
The wolf says, “It is sometimes difficult to correctly judge perspective when you are in space.”
“See that you’ve learned better, then!” Anatman laughs.
And that’s the resolution for the matter of the wolf.
Finally, there is a firvuli.
To become a firvuli is the destiny born into a girl named Halldis, the purpose seething in the flesh and fire of her, 981 years into the common era and under the Icelandic sun. She is born for no other reason, and to no other purpose, than to one day decide it is better to be a firvuli and cast aside her mortal flesh and ascend to become a great grey god-mountain firvuli that is winter and death and the substance of THE END.
Right now, of course, she’s still a baby girl, because she’s just finished being born.
Anatman slips into the room while the midwives are distracted. They probably couldn’t have seen him anyway, since he’s the person of there-aren’t-really-any-people as much as he’s the god of there-aren’t-really-any-gods, but he isn’t taking chances.
He slips into the room, and he looks down at the baby, and he stares into her fire.
“You’re gonna be a firvuli,” he says, “little girl. And that’s no good.”
It turns on him.
It’s shocking. It’s terrifying. It’s not even technically or literarily possible. It’s like suddenly reading a book that the writer hasn’t even started writing yet—that’s how unexpected the rising of a firvuli can be. It fumes up from her soul like the steam from a fresh corpse’s blood and it looks at him, it looks at him, and suddenly instead of a baby girl or a firvuli he’s looking at THE END.
His senses desert him.
He flails in emptiness.
He remembers suddenly forward to the moment of his death.
[The Frog and the Thorn – PROLOGUE]
“Why, you rotten old Anatman,” he hears future-Anatman say. “You’re a no-person man!”
A no-person man!
A philosophical conceit!
Not a god, not a person, not really anything at all!
And under the power of those words, just like he’s going to do one day, later, on the day Anatman dies, he finds himself unfolding, unraveling, dissolving and stopping being, because you can’t very well be a god of godlessness or a person of no-persons, after all.
Today, he shakes it off. Today, he laughs. Today, he scruffs the baby’s head, and he plucks the firvuli from her soul, and he kisses it lightly on its brow.
“It’s OK,” he tells it, cheerfully, and hugs it close against his heart. “It’s OK. You don’t have to fight me. You don’t have to be afraid of not existing. I do it all the time, and it’s really not so bad.”
So he carries the firvuli away, off to the lands of fable, to live estranged from the humans and the good earth and the wind. He carries it off to the borderlands of the world, to live in the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, in the corner-of-the-eye, in the hypothesis, the supposition, and the edges-of-the-map. He takes it away from the earth to the fairy regions, where hydras and great wolves and firvuli were still allowed to be, and he tells it the secret that cuts it off forever from the world and sound: that nothing ever ends.
That everything’s always ending.
That nothing’s ever even really started.
And that might sound like more than one secret, or even a contradictory passel of secrets, if you’re someone like you or me; but if you’re a no-person man like Anatman, all those secrets are the same.
And Anatman and the firvuli become great friends; but as for Halldis, she is empty, she is desolate, she is born to know great suffering, for she is a girl who should be a firvuli, who should become a firvuli, anyway, a great grey god-mountain of THE END, and who can never be a firvuli at all.
Well, that wasn’t the noble truth we were expecting! Still, you’ll probably have to wait another week before we allude vaguely to a different noble truth instead.
In the meantime, you could
- spread the word about National Hitherby Awareness Month, coming up in April
- Read more thoughts from Hitherby Dragons on wolves, which might or might not be coming to eat the world
- Remind yourself what Anatman is
- Peek in on the one and only previous mention of Halldis
- Or just go reread An Unclean Legacy!
- Anticipate the forthcoming third edition of Nobilis, elegantly, over at RPG.net; or even
- contribute to the health of the economy, as serious, adult economy-participators who are mindful that circulating money helps everybody in the world ought!