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“Unseeing” by Madison Scott-Clary (part 2 of 2, read by the author herself)

Today’s story is the second and final part of “Unseeing” by Madison Scott-Clary, whose graphomania occasionally gets the better of her. Unseeing is one of the stories featured in the prehistoric furry anthology When The World Was Young, available December 1. Excavate more information at fhfs.ink. You can find more of her writing, from short stories and poems to novels and a memoir, over at makyo.ink.

Last time, Lyut, ever faithful, was gifted with sight by the trickster god Týw - a god who had been unknown to him before. Confronted with this change, he has to learn how to move in the world once more.

Today's story will be read for you by the author herself.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/unseeing-by-madison-scott-clary-part-2-of-2-read-by-the-author-herself

Transcript
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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog,

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and Today’s story is the second

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and final part of

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“Unseeing” by Madison Scott-Clary,

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whose graphomania occasionally gets the better of her.

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Unseeing is one of the stories featured in the prehistoric furry anthology

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When The World Was Young,

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available December 1.

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Excavate more information

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at fhfs.ink.

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You can find more of her writing, from short stories and poems

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to novels and a memoir,

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over at makyo.ink.

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Last time, Lyut, ever faithful,

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was gifted with sight by the trickster god Týw -

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a god who had been unknown to him before.

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Confronted with this change,

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he has to learn how to move in the world once more.

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Please enjoy “Unseeing”

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by Madison Scott-Clary,

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Part 2 of 2, read for you

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by the author herself.

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Lyut is slow to begin moving, and when he does, he walks as though a great dream has come upon him.

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He lets Ýng guide his movements and I stand apart from the lord and Their servant.

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Lyut moves as though a great dream has come upon him and lets Ýng guide him,

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and even so his morning task of making incense is far slower than usual,

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for his eyes water constantly and he marvels at just how drab the ingredients,

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so bright and colorful in the nostrils and so familiar to the touch, are to behold.

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He has not known the comparison of color before,

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but even to one for whom sight is a new sense, he is surprised to find that the crushed root of nardin

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and the shaved root of sweet flag look so similar despite the vast difference in aromas and purposes,

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that the mastic, that steadfast base of a scent,

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nearly glitters in the sun while the jewel-bright scent of cardamom

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is belied by so dun a color.

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He moves as though a great dream has come upon him

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until it is time to lay the powdered incense in the bowl of ash,

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that third prayer of creation,

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and he realizes that he can see the furrow he digs in ash with his claw,

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can see the tan powder that he packs in its place,

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and can see the spiral he builds, and then tears come upon him once more,

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and all of his prayers of destruction are completed through sight blurred by shock,

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and he relies on his habits and Ýng’s guidance to make it through to the end without burning himself.

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I stand apart from the lord and Their servant and watch,

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and drink in what prayers I may along the way.

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At last, the time for ritual passes and Lyut stumbles into the woods to tend to his toilet and lingers a while in wonder at the sight of his own body,

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the sight of the woods and the leaves and humus on the forest floor, before returning to his cave and,

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out of the habit of so many years, grabbing his stick to guide him down to the river.

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“Do you need that, faithful?”

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After a moment’s confusion, the fisher laughs.

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“I suppose I do not, Týw.”

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“Will you leave it behind?”

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His answer is a long time in coming.

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“It is comforting in my paw.

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I will take it with me.”

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Guided still by habit — and perhaps by Ýng, for I do not know the lord’s every thought —

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Lyut taps his way down the path to the water,

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and perhaps it is for the best that he has brought the stick,

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for his eyes are drawn constantly to every detail along the way,

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from the way the suns arrow strikes the leaves to the way their shadows dance across the ground when the wind moves across them.

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His eyes water still, for he is overflowing with sensation.

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A life lived without a sense is still a full life,

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and to one born without that sense,

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raised without that sense,

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he did not think of himself as blind except in comparison to Zita

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who picked up the amphorae of incense with such ease that he had never known.

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Stops, at last, at the edge of the stream and stares at my domain,

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mouth open as though to speak,

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though no words come forth.

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I wait a while, and then ask:

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“Faithful, do you see the wonder of my creation?

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My friend the water?”

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“I had never imagined that it looked like this.”

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His voice is barely above a whisper,

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and his eyes drink deep of the sight of the stream.

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“I did not know that something could be as beautiful.”

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This fills me more than any prayer yet that day.

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“I am the god of the water and the god of watching and the god of the moon and death.

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When you come here to fish,

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when you come here to bathe,

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when you come here to drink, those are praises that you sing to me.”

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Lyut tilts his head.

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“Is Ýng not the god of all things?

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I am sorry for asking again, but I must know.”

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“They are the god of many things, and They are the god of me.

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To sing praises to me is to sing praises to Them in turn.”

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At this, I feel the lord’s anger at me soften, though it does not wholly retreat.

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“I do not know the words to any prayers to you, Týw.”

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“That is alright, faithful.

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You may pray all the same by fishing and bathing and drinking,

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by rejoicing in those things that are under my jurisdiction.”

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Lyut nods and steps into the water.

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This is not the usual order of his mornings,

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but as the wonder on his face at the sight of the water moving around his legs fills me to overflowing,

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I do not complain.

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He stands in the middle of the section of the stream that is his own,

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in the pool held up by the narrow gap across which he strings his net,

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in the cool water where the sun’s arrow pierces the canopy of the trees.

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He stands there and he watches the way that the light reflects off the surface of the water.

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Watches, too, the way the water eddies around rocks,

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around his legs, explores the funnels of whirlpools with his fingers,

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peers through clear water to the silt and rocks and algae below the surface.

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“What am I now, Týw?”

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“What do you mean, faithful?”

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“Before this morning, before today, when I did not see,

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I was complete.” I remain silent.

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“I am sorry, god of water and of watching.

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I do not doubt you, for your gift has spoken for you.

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I do not turn away your gift, and I offer my praise to you.

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But if I was complete before and a servant to Ýng,

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then what am I now?”

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I watch him curiously, this servant of mine and of my lord’s,

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standing in the middle of a pool in a stream where his thighs are steeped the cool water.

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“You are Lyut, faithful of Ýng,

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faithful of Týw. Has that changed with your sight?”

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He runs his hand above the water, feeling the boundary between water and air with his pawpads.

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He feels the surface tension of the pool, and through him I feel his wonder.

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He tests and plays as might a kit of his people even as he begins bathing.

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Each time he comes up for air, he sings a line of praise to Ýng, and every time he is beneath the water,

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I know that he is thinking about what he is now.

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Each time he dives, he is singing his praises to me as well,

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and now he is cognizant of this as well.

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After he has said his prayer and cleaned himself

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he wades to his net in which he finds three small fish.

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He gives thanks to Ýng and, after a moment, to me as well.

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With the fish on the shore, wrapped in net and stunned,

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gasping and drowning in air,

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Lyut watches. He watches them glitter and wiggle.

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He watches them die their slow deaths.

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He traces sun-struck scales with a claw and asks:

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“Do the fish see beneath the water, Týw?”

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“Yes, faithful. They see my domain and all its beauties.”

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“Do they smell beneath the water?”

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“After a fashion, yes.”

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“Do they smell my incense?”

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“No, faithful. The boundary between the domain of air and the domain of water is too firm for the smoke of your incense to pass.

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After all, do you smell your incense beneath water?”

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“No, I do not breathe under the water.”

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Lyut looks angry, then laughs.

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“Only, I wonder.” “Yes, Lyut?”

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“I wonder if the fish upon the shore here has the chance to smell the incense and hear the prayers to Ýng before it dies.”

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I do not answer directly,

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“You are not going to die, faithful.”

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He looks satisfied at this answer and I realize that I have said what he needed to hear.

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I know that Lyut holds terror in his breast even still,

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that he will hold it there until the end of his days, for I have taken his innocence from him.

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I am pleased to see his satisfaction, and I sense Ýng’s bemusement at my anxiety over pleasing a servant.

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I am pleased all the same, and I remain with my servant.

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I am with Lyut as he gathers his fiddlehead ferns and pawfuls of clay.

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I am with him as he sets his net once more.

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I am with him as he cleans his fish and heads back to his cave to prepare his daily meal.

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Three times, he closes his eyes and his whiskers droop as he attempts to settle back into his unseeing routine.

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He is testing himself, I know, and I do not stop him.

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I do not stop him because I know that when his eyes are open, he is closer to me,

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to Týw the watchful,

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and when his eyes are closed, he is closer to our lord, Ýng,

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the god of all things,

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and it is good for him to understand this.

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He closes his eyes to shut out the sight of preparing his meal,

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too confused by the twisting of the ferns around his fish.

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The leaves which make so much sense to his long-practiced fingers do not behave to his eyes the ways in which he expects.

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He closes his eyes to eat his food after cracking open the clay baker,

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for the sight of the fish changed by fire is unnerving.

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The change in texture he had always known had changed, as too with the taste,

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for Lyut was no stranger to the flavor of raw fish.

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Now, sight-ridden,

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he finds the taste of the fish reduced when his eyes are opened, as though too much of him,

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of his mind, his being,

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is taken up processing that which he sees.

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And he closes his eyes, last,

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when he lays on the ground to dry and meditate.

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He closes his eyes as he lays on his front,

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and then when he rolls onto his back, he keeps them closed, and I see his cheeks wet with tears. “Speak to me,

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faithful. Why are you troubled?”

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“You say that you are the god of watching, yes?”

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“I am.” “Must watching always be with sight?”

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Again, I do not answer directly.

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“Do you wish now that you had not regained your sight?”

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“It is too much, Týw.”

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“You are strong, faithful.”

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“It is too much.” He shakes his head.

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“I feel less holy.

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I feel less pure when distracted by seeing.

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How can I serve Ýng as faithfully

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now that my time spent watching is time spent serving you?”

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I feel Ýng’s anger rising against me once more,

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and I answer carefully.

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“To live is to be holy,

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to live and rejoice in life,

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to be pure and clean in your actions and words. Ýng

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is the lord of all things,

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and to Their servants They gave life as a way for the universe to recognize its own beauty

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and wonder.” Lyut’s face twists in a anger.

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“And yet I cannot hear Ýng as well today as I did yesterday.

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He is with me, I know,

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but…” “The only mind which can hear as purely as it sees when both eyes and ears are open is that of Ýng, true,

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and yet in seeing, do you not also praise Them?

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It was They who made seeing as well as hearing.

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It was They who made me.”

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At his his features soften.

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His words are slow, and he processes his thoughts and feelings aloud.

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“I, as a servant, do not understand the hierarchy of the gods, but,

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yes, if Ýng made the light and the sun and colors and also you,

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then I suppose I pray to him as easily by rejoicing in sight as I do in sound and touch.”

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The sun is overhead and tipping down its long path through the afternoon.

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The colors of the trees are bright and I am with Lyut.

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“Rejoice, then, in your sight, faithful,

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for in doing so, you offer prayer to Ýng and to myself.”

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A slow minute passes as the fisher meditates.

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At last, he opens his eyes and looks up to the trees and cloudless sky.

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“I will try, Týw.” “That is all we ever ask of our servants, Lyut.”

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When Zita comes up from the village, bearing an armload of flatbread and a small basket full of spice cakes for Lyut,

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he had since ceased his conversation with Týw and had ceased meditating by laying on the ground,

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and had instead settled for sitting cross-legged in the entrance to his cave looking out. Zita sang as she walked,

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as she had for the last ten festival weeks that this had been her duty, and so Lyut hears her before he saw her.

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He debates for thirty heartbeats whether or not he is willing to keep his eyes open for her arrival.

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He debates whether or not he is willing to see, to perceive someone with senses other than those he had been born with.

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Lyut makes up his mind and closes his eyes when he hears Zita rounding the curve of the path toward the clearing before his cave.

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He sees her shadow move in the trees,

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he sees a hint of her between the trunks, and all courage fails him in that moment.

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“Faithful, why do you close your eyes?”

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Lyut stays silent.

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“As you wish, faithful, but know:

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while some miracles are private and must be held close to the heart,

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not all of them,

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and to hide this one would be to live a lie before me and before the village.”

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“I am not brave enough.”

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Zita’s singing crescendos as she enters the clearing, then abruptly stops.

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Lyut supposes that because he is not sitting in the customary place with the customary smile on his face,

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that she must sense in him some change beyond her ken,

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and at this, his fear only grows.

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He turns over what I had said within his head.

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He turns it over ten times and considers the ramifications of it.

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Were he to keep his newfound sense a secret,

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then yes, he would in some way be living a lie.

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He would have sight at his disposal and yet the village would know not of the incredible power of the gods that had granted it to him.

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And yet there was terror to be had at the thought of anyone finding out.

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He was holy in part because of his unseeing, was he not?

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He was pure before Ýng at all times, and he was pure in the ways that the village could not be,

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for that was his role as the ascetic,

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as the incense-maker, as blind Lyut.

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And yet to lie is to sully oneself.

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To lie before the village was to betray his role as ascetic

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and to make himself less holy in the eyes of Ýng.

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To tell the truth was to test the village and change tradition,

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but to lie was to destroy it for the sake of the village.

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To live a lie until Ýng took him and decided at what point in the endless cycle

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should be placed his death was too terrible a thought,

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and the need to tell truth,

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to remain as pure as he could be, won over in his

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mind. “Lyut?” Zita speaks, tentative.

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And so he opens his eyes.

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He opens his eyes.

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He opens his seeing eyes and looks across the clearing and sees Zita there,

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shorter than him,

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softer and rounder than him.

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Too, she is better fed than him —

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though that is not his place in the world —

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but she is different on a level more fundamental than any he could have imagined.

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She is, he thinks,

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unlike anything he had expected her to be.

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He smiles. “Zita.” That he had opened his eyes and looked upon her seems to startle Zita,

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and she takes a half-pace back away from the cave.

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He speaks as calmly as he is able, but he does so quickly as to preempt her leaving.

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“Zita, Ýng has blessed me this day.

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Ýng and his servant have blessed me,

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and when I awoke and opened my eyes, I saw.

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I saw for the first time.”

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She frowns and walks toward him.

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She moves slowly, and then steps a few paces to the side when she is halfway across the clearing to approach him from a diagonal.

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It is a test, I know,

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and when his eyes track her movements, she rushes to him and sets down the bread and cakes beside him.

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“Ýng has done this?”

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she says quickly and quietly.

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“Ýng has worked a wonder!

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Such a wonder!” “Yes,”

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Lyut says. It is a small lie, but one easily fixed when first the topic of me,

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of the god of sight and of watching comes up.

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“Ýng has granted me sight.

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I have been praying and meditating,

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and I do not yet wholly know the reason why.”

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Zita’s eyes dart this way and that as though to take in all of his face,

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to look at his eyes and to check for the scars that Lyut had sometimes felt beneath his fur while washing,

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though he knew not where they came from.

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At last, she looks into his eyes for a long while.

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This makes Lyut uncomfortable,

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and he does not rightly know why.

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Was there something to behold there?

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He can see her eyes,

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and is seeing them for the first time, and to do so fills him with anxiety.

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They are round and dark, and seem to be made of a ring of brown surrounding a circle of black,

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and as her eyes move,

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he sees that the circle of black sometimes grows larger or smaller,

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though perhaps it is some trick of the light.

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But those were simply the mechanics of sight.

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He can see her eyes, yet he feels that to look directly into the eyes of someone else is to truly

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see them, and he worries that,

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on some level, Zita will be able to read his thoughts and fears,

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that she will know deeper secrets about him than he could possibly ever know about her.

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Was this some knowledge of the sighted that he must someday learn himself?

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As well, this close to her and

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he can smell her better than he ever had before, and she is in no way,

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in no sense unpleasant.

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The feeling of being sullied

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and unholy hangs around him like a cloud.

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He asks, then, quietly:

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“What do you see, Zita?”

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“I see you as I always see you, but I see you with your eyes open and clear,

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where they used to be cloudy and dim,

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and I see your fur brown and thick

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without the scars that my mother says have lined your eyes since you were born.”

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“Yes, but what do you see?”

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Zita finally averts her eyes, though only to pick up a cake from the basket and split it in two,

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holding out one half for Lyut and keeping the other for herself.

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The cake is the color of the sun and bespecked with the cassia and cardamom which had gone into the incense.

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“I see that Ýng has wrought a miracle

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and that our time of fasting and keeping holy has led to something truly wondrous.”

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Lyut lets his shoulders relax from a tenseness he had not known he was holding,

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and he accepts the spiced cake from her.

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“I see. Thank you, Zita.

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I have been praying and meditating on this all day,

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and though I know I must not,

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I doubted this miracle and felt unholy.”

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She bites into her cake and chews,

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her eyes focusing seemingly on nothing.

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Lyut can hardly read her expression, so new is his sight,

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so he remains silent.

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She swallows her cake and says:

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“I think that you are as holy now as you were at the beginning of the time of fasting.

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You have kept holy as have those who came before you,

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and the village has kept holy,

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and perhaps the whole world has kept holy,

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and now Ýng has provided for us a new thing.”

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Lyut eats his spice cake and thinks on this.

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He thinks about what I had told him.

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He thinks about the shock of sight, still so new to him that the brightness and colors in the world sting his eyes

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and bring him to tears.

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He thinks of the newness in things that have always been there.

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He thinks of how overwhelmed he is by this mere fact,

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and he thinks about how small he is before Týw

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and smaller still before his lord.

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He thinks about how small he is

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and realizes that his devotion burns more strongly within him than it had ever before.

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And, though he does not know or understand my motives,

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he knows that any servant,

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that every servant of Ýng’s is master of him,

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for the most holy are truly the servants of servants.

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He thinks about this and then he smiles to Zita once more and nods.

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“Yes. Yes, this is a new thing that Ýng and his servant Týw have done, and in their presence

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I will continue to be holy.”

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Zita tilts her head to one side, and Lyut wonders if perhaps she had not heard well.

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“Who is Týw?” I break my long silence and say,

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“I am.” Lyut stiffens and Zita startles to her feet.

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“I am Týw, and I am the god of the water and of the moon and of watching and of death,

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and I am servant to Ýng,

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and I have given sight to Lyut.”

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When Zita understands, she falls to her knees and prostrates herself before Lyut,

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seeing no one else to bow before.

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“A spirit! A spirit!”

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Lyut laughs at this, though not unkindly.

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“I believe Týw, that they are the god of the water and of watching,

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though I know not what the moon is.

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I have prayed to Ýng about this and I believe that Týw is Their servant.”

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“I am. I have given Lyut sight and Ýng is watching all of us.”

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“I cannot see you, though,”

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Zita says. “As the sun is too dear to look at, so are the gods, faithful.”

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“How can I be your faithful?”

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There is an edge of frustration to her voice,

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and her tail dances about behind her.

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I accept her agitation just as I accepted that of Lyut.

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“Every time you bathe or drink pure water,

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every time you keep watch on the world,

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every time you behold the beauty of the moon, and every time you mourn the dead,

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you give praise to me,

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for not all prayers are in words, as Lyut well knows.”

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He nods in agreement.

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“These things are my dominion

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and Ýng is my lord in turn.”

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Zita sits up slowly.

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Still frowning, she considers this.

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“Why have you given Lyut sight?”

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“That is not for you to know, faithful, not yet.

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There will be a time when you may, however.”

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She relaxes at my words, for she knows the workings of the gods and the mystery therein almost as well as Lyut does.

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“Now, it is almost evening,”

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I say. “Put away the bread and the cakes lest the night animals take them.”

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Zita nods and moves to help Lyut gather his food before remembering that he can see the basket and the flat loaves of bread as well as she,

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and they laugh together.

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After the food is put away, both fishers kneel together and begin to pray aloud to Ýng.

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They who make the world,

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They who end it, They who bring the thunder, In Tsuari which fell...

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I let them finish their prayer and bask in the jubilant way that Zita’s voice rings out to her lord.

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When they finish,

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Zita smiles to Lyut and stands once more.

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“I must go down to the village and tell them of this miracle.

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Tonight you will see the moon, holy one,

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and know its beauty and that will be your praise to Týw.”

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The thought fills me with joy, for the moon is indeed beautiful,

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and I watch Zita put her arms around Lyut in an embrace —

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his first in many years —

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before departing down to the village once more.

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Lyut stays up late into the night at the promise of the moon.

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Night is not day, this he knew,

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and the subconscious understanding that the sun brought light would mean that the absence of the sun would bring darkness does not surprise him.

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He remains curious about all things.

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He marvels at the red and pulsing glow of the embers of his fire.

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He wonders at the way the sun’s arrow disappearing colors the sky pink, purple, navy, black.

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He drinks in the way in which the color drains from the world.

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The first night of the week of feasting is the night of the full moon, which Lyut had known but had not understood,

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but now he does. He understands the moon and its importance when first it creeps into view of his clearing.

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He understands its beauty, and he weeps.

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He weeps for my creation, and I am filled with praise unclouded by words.

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Filled to overflowing as I have never been since Ýng created me at the beginning of all things.

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And that night is the night when Ýng comes to me and makes his decision.

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The next morning, a second strange occurrence greets Lyut when he opens his eyes.

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Sitting at the entrance to his cave is a creature very much like him in many ways,

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but in many ways different.

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Long and lithe, yes,

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strong and slender, yes, but shorter,

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and with fur of the purest white as opposed to the dark brown of his own.

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A face more slender and ears larger, and on the tip of his tail, the fur is dark black.

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“Who are you?” I smile to him.

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“It is I, faithful.

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It is Týw.” A look of confusion comes over his face, and I must hold back amusement as the fisher sits up and rubs his eyes,

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looking around as though the answers were to be found in the air itself.

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“Týw?” “Yes, faithful.” “I thought that the gods were too dear to be seen?”

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I close my eyes.

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I revel in the blackness this brings.

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I revel in the feeling of terror and the exaltation that come with being embodied.

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I revel in the power of our lord.

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“Yes, this is true.

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This has always been true through the long years and longer millennia.

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However, I was not completely honest with you yesterday, Lyut.”

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He frowns, staring intently at me in my new form.

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“If you are a god and you are holy,

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how can you lie?” “It was a lie by omission, for I am the god of water and of watching and of the moon and of death,

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but I am also a trickster god.

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I am the god who sows chaos while Ýng brings order.

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Forever we work together or strive against each other.

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Forever we move in a cycle.

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This is our very nature.

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This is the way of things, for Ýng must have something to strive against that time move forward

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and his creations grow and change with it.”

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Lyut sits cross-legged and bows his head as he thinks on this.

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He knows that, on some level, it must be true, for there are times when the weather is bad for days on end and he cannot —

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or could not — tell the difference between day and night,

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and there are times when he will go a week without food from the river, and once there was even a time when something happened to the water of his section of the stream that caused it to taste bitter and plant-like,

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and no amount of boiling could remove the flavor and he was sick with fever.

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“You sow chaos and Ýng fixes it?”

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“There is no fixing chaos, faithful.

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I sow chaos because that is who and what I am. Ýng

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brings order because that is what They are.

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There is no moral ground on which to judge the chaos that I sow,

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just as there is no judgement to be made on the order of our lord.

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Both are holy in their own way,

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because they are the chaos and order of gods”

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“Is the chaos of your servants not holy, then?”

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“It is not. It is my role in the world to sow chaos so that you may learn and become better for it,

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but when you sow chaos for each other,

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you lower yourselves in our eyes.”

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I see confusion on his face and sense questions in his mind, but he does not speak,

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so I continue. “The chaos sown by living beings is an exchange of power.

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Inevitable, perhaps, but it bespeaks a lack of devotion.”

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Lyut frowns as he considers this.

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I give my servant time,

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for he has learned more in the past day than any of his predecessors have in their spans.

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“So then,” he says at last.

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“How can I see you now?

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What are you?” “I am the god of watching and of water,

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of the moon and of death,

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and I am a trickster god, but all of these things are a part of the world separate from you.

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I am, this body is,

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the concrete manifestation of myself and I will take this form for a time.

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I am this concrete manifestation because I committed a concrete act by giving you sight,

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and the ramifications to me are also concrete.”

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“You made it so that I can see you?”

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“No, faithful. Ýng has made it so that you can see me,

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for They are my lord and I am Their servant,

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and I sowed chaos and They have in turn brought order to me.

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At least, for a while.”

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Lyut looks startled at this.

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“Is it a wicked thing that you have given me sight?

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Have you made us both unholy?”

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“No, faithful, dear Lyut.”

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I smile and hold up my hands.

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“It is good and holy that you may see,

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and Ýng agrees. However, They control the balance, and so they have decided that the balance,

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the exchange, for you seeing is for me to be seen.

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I will live for thirty years among the world in this embodied form,

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and you will find that the chaos that I bring is vastly reduced while I am here,

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for in this form, I cannot work my usual methods.”

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“Is that not a punishment,

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for a god to have their power lessened?”

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I laugh. “No, I do not think so. Ýng

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was at first angry with me and perhaps They wished at one point to punish me.

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But They understand now,

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and this is instead a matter of me experiencing what you experience in the way that only a god can,

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for gods must learn and change along with their servants.”

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He thinks for a long while on this,

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and I know that he is praying to Ýng throughout,

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that he is closing his eyes so that his hearing is sharper and his smell is more keen

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and perhaps his sense of the holy is as well.

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I do not interrupt his prayer,

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for Ýng is with both of us.

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I pray with him.

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We sit in silence in the cave and hear the wind and the stream and the birds,

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and we smell the cassia and cardamom and copal,

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and we share our prayers.

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“Týw,” he says at last.

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“I have faith in Ýng and I have faith in you that I will remain pure

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and that the world will remain pure with us.

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I do not understand,

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but I have faith.”

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“Good. Now, I will teach you to see, faithful,

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and you will teach me to be seen, for everything —

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everything — will be different now.”

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This was the second and final part of

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“Unseeing” by Madison Scott-Clary,

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read for you by the author herself. As always,

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you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog.

About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

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Khaki