Sir Cecil Throckmorton's Tales of the Ancients
Considered as apocryphal at best, several of the tales are included in The Cosmic Fly Swatter. Daniel Hightower reread them during his foray into the subject of Knowing as a relief from all the science and religion books with which he was harrassing himself. Excerpts from three of them are included here...
In the Chronicles of Dygugh, handed down by oral tradition and supported by remnants of the ancient stories contained in the Sumerian Tablets Codex X, translated by the late Sir Cecil Throckmorton, an excerpt from the story of the first government’s appearance went as follows:
...I Dygugh, of the land known as Bayno, was a cave dweller, and most happy, having dragged my wife by her hair, as was our custom, to her place at my fire, where she bore me many children and provided me with her back for daily beatings. But all was not happy in Bayno. During the travels of the sun, I did pursue my killing of the beasts to eat and brought them home to my wife before each moontime. I would hunt tirelessly to kill, only to have to kill or be killed by others who wanted my killings. And I was not alone, and the killing of hunters was added to by the killing of the killers, so that the killing went on all during suntime and moontime. And the women could find no man left to drag them by the hair, for the caves had not even the young men left. The blood was flowing under the sun and the moon without ceasing. We who were left, assembled to stop the killing, by killing all the killers of men…
...I got out Throckmorton’s book to read the story that had flashed in my mind earlier that day. It was the story of Keebrum and the Zembals. It took place long after the story of Baelo and Gugi, after they had lost the Land of Synah. It was in the apocryphal Codex XI. It was a codex even Throckmorton himself described as “overly coincidental.” It was probably out of sequence like most of the critical scholars had claimed it was; but like I’ve said before, I just liked the stories.
Keebrum was a village on the coast range of the Bintunahg Mountains by the Mayzo Sea. There was a coastal plain where the Bruhmites (the people of Keebrum) grew crops presumed by Throckmorton to be wheat. It was here that they were isolated from all other humans. No one alive could remember even hearing of any others. They were “Bruhm” which meant the people. The village rose from the valley floor to the peeks of the Bintunahg, beyond which there was no thing. The leaders lived higher up than the common folk. It was up there that an old and respected man whose name was Yokhere lived. Whenever anyone was not sure of something they would go up to Yokhere to see what was. Yokhere was also a judge and the leader to which all disputes and injustices were brought. He would make himself available at the top of his steps on the second, third and fifth days of any week from the fourth to the seventh hour, weather permitting...
From The Last Rawi of Media
The sundial’s hand is fixed
In Shushan’s palace walls
This heavenly indicator
Doth mock the Purim’s fall
Hadassah’s star is risen
To favored scepter’s grace
O willing tributary mark
Thy chance to save thy race...
The Last Rawi of Media was the tale the book randomly opened upon...
Rawi’s were storytellers, preserving verbally, the traditions now disappearing in the lands conquered by the followers of Mohammed. Throckmorton’s story involves a rawi whose name was Hammad the Reciter. The story takes place in Shiraz where Hammad had migrated from the land formerly known as Media, or the land of the Medes. The locals thought he was surely a descendant of the Magi since all his tales had a magic effect on those who heard them...
Hammad was an old man at the time and he lived in the ruins of an ancient Zarathustrian temple built in a mountainous cave, a morning’s walk from ancient Shiraz. Once a week all male children in the area were let go at mid-morning by their teachers “to help their families.” This statement was code for “go and visit Hammad the Reciter.” Hammad’s tales delighted all of Shiraz, with the parents of the children just as eager to hear the stories brought home to their evening meal. On this afternoon, the young boys waded through the Pool of Believing that lay as an obstacle to the temple’s entrance. Once inside they gathered on the floor amidst the blue and white and gold marble columns that rose to the cave roof above. This rock vault was imperfect with holes in it that let the light penetrate in eerie shafts to the temple floor. Sometimes Hammad would sit right in the middle of one of these shafts and at other times in relative darkness. The children knew not to pick any particular attitude in their seating, for they never knew from which quarter he would appear, or where he would seat himself.
Hammad was a white-beard, crowned in a pale yellow turban with rose and blue patterns on it. His eyes were deep blue, and set equally deep into a dark skinned and weathered face. They twinkled as he smiled. He appeared that afternoon as if by magic beaming just such a twinkle in his eyes as he sat down half in and half out of a shaft of light. The boys gasped at his presence being made known so capriciously. They sat down immediately to listen to what the storyteller had to offer them...
Look for the complete stories of these and others of Throckmorton's Tales of the Ancients included in the printed version of: The Cosmic Fly Swatter.
Coming Soon....