Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis e'l fuelha chai de sul verjan e l'auzelh chanjan lor latis et ieu de sai sospir e chan d'amor que'm te lassat e pres que eu anc non l'aic en poder      Daytime revelry turned to early evening dancing in the streets. Streets that were opened for car traffic yesterday are closed tonight and those who are not moving with the procession have gathered along the Rue Voltaire, the Rue Jeanne d'Arc and the Rue du Chinon and Tours to watch the spectacle of it. Restaurants such as Orangerie, Alienor's and Trente Ans provide front row seats to the festivities, and tonight the bridge to the castle is crowded with those going to and fro. The gates are opened. All are welcomed.      Preparations have gone on throughout the day at the chateau. One large vat was constructed, with smaller vats around it. Tourists and vintners alike took their turn crushing grapes throughout the day, and tonight it continues. But filling the great vat is wine from last year's harvest, barrels kept purely for the culminating event. The castle grounds are filled with the residents, the guests and villagers alike.

     This scene is repeated on the limestone hills around the chateau. In each vineyard, there are feet crushing grapes, juice that is tasted, wine that will be made from the old-fashioned labor of feet. This wine will be used next year, in hopes for a better harvest than some have seen due to the strange late summer weather. It is in the Domaine du Rabelais where the procession shall begin this year, having drawn the lot at the end of last year's festival -- the drawing of the lots is as much a ritual as anything that shall be seen tonight. Across the bridge over the Vienne...
     The bridge is decorated with grape leaf garlands and lined with torches. Boats carrying lanterns and revellers go back and forth from shore to shore and down the length of the old, wine-giving river. The bridge is crowded already, and the bonfires on the hillside, in an area of the vineyards cleared earlier in the week, cast golden light and warmth for yards...
     Among the revelers, Falcon de Ventadourn, noted astronomer and now citizen of the ville de Chinon. Pant legs rolled up, he trods in a vat, feet crushing grapes in an awkward-looking dance. But who could do this dance and not laugh? His laughter rings out among the laughter of those moving with him, and the singing. The singing tonight is not in the French worn for France's sake -- or even for the tourist's sake -- but in the language that once dominated and flowered from this very earth. Langue d'Oc, the Occitan, the last vestiges of it surviving in Provence and in the southern counties.

Puois nostre temps comens' a brunezir
e li verjan son de lor fuelhas blos
e del solelh vei tant bayssatz los rays
per que'l jorn son escur e tenebros
et hom non au d'auzelhs ni chans ni lays
per joy d'amor nos devem esbaudir

     There's bright laughter around the vat. Men and their sons are the most prevalent, cheering and singing to whomever's inside, crushing grapes. Bottles are passed around, many without labels: the vin d'ordinaire exchanged and traded daily among vintners and locals. The wine that never leaves the river's homes. Drunk day in and day out, surely as the Vienne flows.
     "Crasement plus rapidement!" comes a man's voice near the vat. Dressed in a grey shirt and black slacks, he laughs brightly at the man currently in the hot seat, clapping his hands in eager encouragement. Stomp faster! His blue eyes are bright as he soaks in the image of the chosen reveler, and the white strands of greying hair shine brightly in the moonlight.

     "Professor, he's going as fast as he can!" another man in overalls - Herve it says on a name patch - yells to the greying man. "Laurent is a taskmaster," Herve observes in jest to a woman next to him, presumably his wife.

     Laurent, as the greying professor is called, turns to smile at Herve, shaking his head. "He is too slow! I have seen him do better..." he torments Falcon in the vat. "Allez!"

     A girl with brown hair walks through the crowd offering roses for sale from a local florist. "3 euros," she calls, and surprisingly enough, tourists (the ones with packs and dates) stop her to buy from her bin.

     There's a rise of clapping from a group a bit away from the vat. One of the participants, a dark-haired man in brown pants and a plain yellow shirt claps as he watches them. Soon the song culminates in a boisterous rendition of 'Le Marsellaise,' the anthem of revolution.

     There is a fateful slip upon grapes that causes the crowd to roar -- oh no! A casualty? But Falcon rights himself out of his own stumble, laughing as he leans over the side of the vat to take an offered glass of the ordinaire. Now, there are calls and applause!
     "If he has anymore of Herve's ordinaire, he is going to drown in there," someone chuckles at the side of the vat. Two more members of the Domaine du Rabelais jump in with him, and hands clap the measure of their steps. Not strangely, the singing around the vat increases in volume, exuberance and in time to the wine-stomping march.

     ...In the ville itself, a red-haired man and a copper-haired woman join the dancers along the Rue Voltaire. Did she know he could tango? He teaches her to the tune of two violins, a guitar and an accordion...

Allons enfants de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrive! Contre nous de la tyrannie L'etendard sanglant est leve Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes Mugir ces feroces soldats? Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras. Egorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

     Oops! Laurent laughs as he steps up to the vat to see the young man inside. Once Falcon indicates he's fine and accepts the glass of ordinaire, Laurent steps back and laughs more, shaking his head. "A fine symbol you are," he teases. "The grace and hands of the young man of the vineyards, of course!"

     Drawn here, like a bull pulled forward by its ring, Sakir has arrived in France. He walked here, from his home of burning sands, driven by a need to arrive but not knowing where he was to arrive. The ring drew him forward, and released him here: amongst the drunk and joyous.
     At the fringes of his mind, he can feel the ring's presence still; it will not let him leave until he has fulfilled its purpose. The lure and prize is simple: his past is here, at least in some small part. A token of years gone by that slipped between his fingers, and fell through the cracks in his mind.
     But he can feel it still; an electric pulse that runs across his skin, and threatens to drag him into the very ground of this region. The pull is strong here.
     Amongst the revelry, he is one of the few who isn't partaking. If he were anyone else, people might point him out and try to drag him in. They might call might blame him for bringing down the mood. But he is who he is, and that is nothing more than scenery to most. He moves through the crowd, largely ignored save by those who might know him or see through such simple ruses.

     "Vous entrez ici, puis! Pouvez-vous faire mieux?" Falcon says, turning his head to flash a grin. A challenge! Now that is something that drunk Angevins and Poitievins can understand. A cheer goes up again and laughter interrupts a song or two...

     Around the bonfires on the hills of the Domaine du Rabelais there is dancing, singing and a frenzy of activity. And on the river, and spilling over onto the bridge. Far off shouting is followed by music, carried over to this hill by the wind.

     It is a challenge. And the older man grins at Falcon, encouraged by others around him. "Fine!" Laurent calls, which sends up a cheer. Shaking his head, Laurent bends to remove his shoes and socks, then to the task of rolling up his trousers, as if that would help one bit.

     And so the wagers begin. 5 euro on the Professor. I will take 5 on Ventadourn...

     ...In the chateau, a group of Italians have taken over the vats and the rolling of the barrels to the site of the great sacrifice. Adrian and Franco roll the barrels and Amadeo and Marco work in one of the vats, singing as they go. It quickly turns to contest as Italian and French castle and winery staff square off in separate vats...

     Wandering along through the crowd, an Indian youth with peculiar blue-green eyes is playing a winding tune on a flute, the metal flashing silver where available light glints off of it. He seems to have a prophet-like effect on many of the younger tourists in the crowd - like some unintentional and thoroughly random yogi, a rag-tag group of adolescent tourists from Belgium is following in Valmiki's wake. Some younger followers have come, too; five or six children, broken away from their parents, run ahead and to either side, getting underfoot to others.

     Standing in the shadow of a building, a stiff-looking young man with golden-pure hair worn slicked back from his forehead stares unrelentingly at the festival. He wears an exquisitely tailored outfit which should, by rights, be comfortable and exceedingly stylish, but he wears it as though it were a military uniform. Ice-blue eyes regard the procession unforgivingly, and the long fingers tapping against his thigh are pacing an exaggerated, martial rhythm, abruptly stilled. He glares for a moment at his own hand accusingly for the betrayal, and ice once again reigns on his features, glacial calm superimposed over nervous passion and tensed muscles.

     A young woman with cornsilk hair bound up in a trailing arrangement fiddles with a camera, the white silk of her blouse vivid against the backdrop of purple canvas someone's draped over a handcart. She's down on one knee at the moment, ignoring the dust collecting on the denim of her jeans, and the Doc Martens on her feet seem incongruous with the rest of her ensemble. Fiona rises, slinging the camera around her neck, and with a slight shiver, crawls into her leather jacket as well - Drancy, peeping out past the sophisticated life which Fiona's taken up. She mutters, more to herself than anyone else, "If we can get a few shots of a fountain before heading to the wine, and pray god - any one, I don't much care - I don't run into people to explain to..."

      In the crowd, a tall blonde man of some import. Broad-shouldered and confident, he strides through the crowds with a few others behind him. Looking left and right, the man must be a British tourist, for there is some distance from these festivities. Certainly, he seems to enjoy himself, but his hand remains in his pants pockets, and his cream shirt remains unstained of wine. Occasionally he says something to the brown-haired woman to his left, but she looks as off-standish and even more touristy than her male companion.
     "A fountain," the blonde man says in perfect English, as expected. He turns to Fiona, then looks out above the crowds. He can, as he's perhaps 6'5. "Whatever you want," he says in response. "You want better lighting?" Yes, there appears to be a film camera, light and someone with a boom nearby.

     This is a special Time, for not just the people of this region. In a cafe, around the corner, is a visitor who has been to all these festivals since they began. He shall be at all these festivals that ever will be.
     No matter how often he sweeps his hands across his sleeves, or jacket, the cloth remains wrinkled. It develops wrinkles just to spite him; to remind him that no matter how much Time he spends -- and he is one of the few that can truly spend Time -- there will always routes that he didn't conceive of. There will always be more work for him.
     Sitting in the cafe, with a bottle of the local, he stares intently at the palm of his left hand. Blue and yellow eyes twinkle with laughter, as he watches the goings on through the lines in his own hand. Reading his palm to learn the fate and fortune of others.
     This man has no name, for no one ever asks it. Ever. He has seen to that.

     "What a crowd," the brown-haired English woman near Fiona exclaims. It's hardly believable. "A small town festival. It's amazing. And it's not even Bordeaux," she chuffs. "Are you getting good footage, Paul? I can't wait to see how that castle's been restored. I heard they've spent over fifty million euros on it. Fiona's and Yisun's snaps and words? It'll be excellent. I bet no one's here. Not Architecture, not anyone..." A real scoop, apparently.

     Wow...
     Standing out from just about everyone around her -- how many Mongolians are in Chinon this time of year? -- Yisun Inkhe raises one of her cameras, large lenses, carrying her own light (Brilliance notwithstanding), as well as a separate digital camera. "And I thought Fire Festivals went out with the dodo," her accent is now a mixture of Steppes and Soho. Her long hair in braids, Yisun travels in black silk pants with a black silk mandarin top. And despite September, she insists on wearing open-toed black sandals. "How cool is this, am I right?" She grabs moments in Time. There are so many here...

     Drinks appear for the man with blue and yellow eyes. Amazing how they come and go, isn't it? Refills arriving just at the very instance the previous cup was finished. An endless stream of Continuity...
     But ask the garçons or serveuses about him and they will have nothing to say but: Who?
     Where?
     When...

     The very large blonde male turns to see Yisun and Fiona both. He smirks, then looks to the woman directing footage. "You're too excited, Cynthia," the man smirks, continuing to lead his small brigade slowly through crowds. That must be his job: to part the seas for the women - and Paul - behind him.

     A Moses for the New Millennium? Why not. Yisun lowers her camera and pivots this way and that. What next, what next, there is almost too much...

     There is another pair of the yellow and blue eyes here. The same eyes that are in the cafe around the corner, but worn by a different man. His smile is infectious. His whim capricious. Laughing like a drunkard, he is in one of the many vats.
     He doesn't just stomp. He dances. He makes a fine mess of himself, but doesn't care. The purple stains his skin, sings chill into his bones, and sets his heart alight.
     The energy of this place is remarkable -- and he feeds back into it. Near him the revelry is stronger, if such a thing were possible. Just hovering at the farthest edge of restraint, but never stumbling over. The moments linger, here, around this one vat.
     It stretches, Time, to accommodate those who want this moment to last an eternity.

     "Lighting helps," Fiona agrees, checking her camera again. She, too, falls into step behind the tremendous blonde man, with a quick, wry glance to Yisun. "See if you spot anyone particularly photogenic," she suggests. "Get them playing under the spray - of course, it'll ruin their makeup if they're that sort, but the readers won't know." She's been learning to live a little more on the surface - thus, the reassertion of Drancy, it seems, that jaded note amidst purity. She raises her camera almost at random : click. Faces and hearts and souls and thoughts captured in a frame for later perusal.

     It is a crowd in and around the ville. Not just the people who have come from all over the Vienne and Loire Valley and other parts unknown but by Time and all its increments. The Past is thick here, how could it not be? Joan of Arc, Eleanor and Henry, Richard and Auguste, eleven Guillaumes, Rabelais, Voltaire and Richelieu...
     ...and the Present crowds with present lives presently dancing without a thought to the past or the future...
     The Future is here, too. Somewhere between dancing feet, falling laughter, and rolling casks...

     Fiona's camera snaps Sakir. Later, when the picture develops, there will be but a burnt spot where he stood. A soul cannot be capture if no soul is present.
     Perhaps, if Fiona is lucky, there will be a photo of a statue instead. Amazingly life-like, it will be. Carved marble in the manner of the Renaissance masters, one of the lost Bernini masterpieces; just left in the middle of the sidewalk, in mid stride.

     "It's nice to see you," says the man taking a seat at the same table with the man covered in wrinkles. Of African descent, he's thin and lithe, rather like a wisp. Long black hair shines, tied at his back by a sparkling blue piece of velvet. Dressed in a white shirt and green pants, he's certainly no local.
     Ishrael, The Prime Indestructible, exhales as he settles by the man with wrinkles and yellowish eyes. He surveys the drinks, and peers out through the crowds that pass like the Vienne itself. A constant stream. "I am surprised to see you." No doubt, the same could be said of himself. Ishrael...never comes to this plane.

     Lighting helps. There's a nod from the knightly blonde, and the girl with Paul brings up a light on her large film camera, turning it towards Fiona.
     Cynthia smirks at the knight, saying, "I'll be back, Sebastian," voice lifted to the media team, "...I'm going to duck into this building here. Keep going, I'll catch up."

     Maybe a statue in the middle of the revelry will not be so odd, there are statues all over the valley, icons set for luck and prosperity in the midst of fields, remnants of empires come and gone, Roman and Gothic alike...
     Around Sakir, there is laughter, A woman inadvertently brushes him as she's pulled into a spiraling dance. A soft apology given by her partner as he passes by in another circuit. Come, dance: they shout to him. Someone hands him a glass of last year's wine...

     Laurent climbs into the vat, shaking his head at Falcon. Loafers off, pants and sleeves rolled up, he begins a methodical pattern around the vat, just to make sure he covers every square inch. There's a wink given to Falcon, then a slight push at the younger man's arm in teasing.

     The contact brings pain. The woman's life flashes through Sakir's mind and vision. Black and white stills of a life spent fulfilled and empty.
     A life that Sakir could never have.
     A normal life.
     He recoils, from the contact, already forgotten by the woman.
     The glass enters his hands, and carries with it the laughter and revelry that sticks to this place like honey. His skin takes up its memories like a sponge takes up spilt wine.

     Sun and Moon move with the tides in the man's eyes. The sun rises, as the moon sets, and the canopy of stars unfolds in his eyes. "If it were possible, I would say the same." Fingers brush idly at a wrinkle, erasing it from his jacket and the folds of Time. Another will form, do not worry.
     "May I offer you something?" Hand unfurls gracefully, and where there was but one glass now there is two. There always had been two. When he had sat down, two had been brought. It had always been that way. Few would be able to argue that fact.

     ...In another one of the fields, around another one of the fires but closer to the river, there is a quieter sort of revelry. Approaching solemn, meditative. There is one guitarist, a group of mostly sober men. The guitarist is dark-haired, violet-eyed, and clothed in simple garments.
     He is also barefooted, wine staining his feet...

     Falcon grins, giving the Professor a gentle nudge as he continues to make a grape-stomping circle dance around the interior of the vat. Even though the night is cool, the work is hard! Evidence of exertion appears at the nape of his neck. Let the challenge begin!

     Climbing up onto the edge of the fountain, Fiona's thoughts are muddled as ever. ...Good thing I've got the jacket on, ten to one I get soaked - and of course, I'm wearing white silk... ...Hope I get a good shot - if I fall in, who cares, maybe I'll land somewhere else. Such an Alice notion... ...Wonder if I'll spot anyone I know, well, why not, isn't that how it usually works?...
     She doesn't spare a thought for other matters - such as wagers made, lives changed, or more and less ephemeral issues. A click of the button, the shutter whirs, and Fiona nods. "Try three more degrees angled to my left. The saturation's good, but could be a bit better - this's colour film I'm working with."

     Laughing, Valmiki pauses in his playing, holding his hands up. "A pause, a hiatus," he proclaims to the stream of people following him. "I am only one man. Look, you - over there." He angles an empty palm in the direction of the fields. "There, find truth in that. I am but a storyteller, and my truths and lies must be given a moment's respite - to catch my breath, if nothing else!"

     "No, thank you, though since you already have, I'm sure I will enjoy it," Ishrael replies, the drink lifted. "I am...here..." a strange word, "...on orders. Looking. Seeing." Ah, an assignment. And is that not what drives Malakim, soldiers as they are. Vows written on their very existence, it's said. They can be Nothing more than what is Written.
     "I am said it has been too long since..." Ishrael adds, "...since I last visited. I call this a crash refresher." A joke, despite being Malakite.

     In Valmiki's piping, the man in the yellow shirt and brown pants has fallen. He's curious, and well, much taller than the children or the addled Belgians.

     Yisun looks to Drancy, quick smile on her features and dark shining eyes. Something else catches her fancy and she wanders off a bit...

     At Fiona's command, the hardware team moves appropriately. Sebastian, for his part, stands away from the media group, allowing them to do their work. "Three degrees, Beth?" Paul murmurs, and the girl with him - Beth - shrugs, altering her film camera and position as requested.

     ...on the Rue Voltaire, the red-haired man and his copper-haired companion move slowly beneath the red lanterns' light, strings of paper lanterns crisscrossing the street. The lanterns cast a red glow upon the narrow street...

     "You do not visit often." It is not a statement of Past, but a statement of All. "It is better that way."
     His eyes settle back to being eyes, though stars now swim in the shadows of his hair. "To See is to Know. We all got our start by first opening our eyes." The joke misses this man entirely. Humor requires a sense of timing that he lacks entirely.

     There's a nod from Ishrael as he stares at the river of humanity flowing past him. He does not spend much time looking to the companion at the table. No need, perhaps.
     A frown comes.
     "There are..."
     "...some of them are not fully human."
     I'll be damned.

     Sakir walks, again, recovering from the unrush of other's memories. They have left him less than he was. He can feel where these new memories burnt away memories of his own. Treasured memories that he had spent years collecting from lost trinkets.
     If his heart weren't stone, this would depress him.
     But he is stone. Indefatigable. Persistence made flesh. He shall just begin anew. As he always does.

     In the distance, there comes a roar -- a sound of voices joining together. It moves from fire to fire as if in a round. It is a round. It is the signal of the Procession's beginning. Each fire signaling to Rabelais that they are ready. And Rabelais answers back with a joined and singing-laughing shout.
     It's like The Wave at a football game...
     Falcon starts to slip again as everyone shouts. Surprised by the volume, he can't catch himself this time and takes a dive. His four glasses of ordinaire are definitely starting to show.

     ... Beside the Vienne, a fire is put out and music is halted...

     "Christus," calls Laurent, laughing as he parts his legs and anchors his feet in the slippery vat. Hands reach out to help Falcon up, though Laurent's own stability is highly questionable.

     There is a man seated cross-legged upon a roof. The roar of the crowd catches him by surprise, and he flinches. In the Slumbering World his feline eyes narrow, and ears twitch; flattening back.
     His family, the dancing feline shadows that leap in and out of his cloak, hiss and growl with his displeasure. But no matter, the shout was merely a surprise, not cause of pain.

     Falcon de Ventadourn is officially drunk. He sits in the grape crushings, drenched and stained and gloriously laughing. Raising hands to his face, streaks of wine are left behind. He holds up his hand to Laurent's offer...

     Apparently satisfied, Fiona takes another double-handful of shots. Click-click-click-click-wiirrrrrrrrrrhhh... This is why photographers carry bags; casually, she ejects the roll of film and shoves in another, swapping it out without barely a pause. "Thanks. Do we have a line on an incidental model, or am I going to have to go and be edgy and nouveau and bloody young?"

     Grinning as the majority of the tourists wander obediently towards the meadow, Valmiki drops to a crosslegged position, shoving his hair as he works to regain his equilibrium. Most of the tourists seem to regard him as paid entertainment, hired by the town council or the like, and the musicians in the meadow to be his goal in directing them towards; but the yellow flash of shirt's caught the young non-yogi's eyes, and he glances up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. "I'll play more, if you like, but I need a respite, just for a moment. The world is very old." As it was, and as it will be again.

     "As we are drawn, so are they." Eyes stray to his left palm again, to look upon a photographer and her crew. His gaze, although brief, settles upon the scene in an almost palpable manner. The feeling of being watched, having been watched, and soon to be watched.
     Some might find it briefly unsettling. But those with but a mundane lineage will quickly shrug it off and forget. It is how things are.
     It is hard for him to engage in conversation. He can ask no questions, for he already knows the answers -- if they will ever become known.

     The man in yellow shirt smiles at the comment, folding his arms across his chest. There's something very gentle about him, and he smiles as the children who have followed the pied piper, just as he has. He nods as the piper asks for a respite, but the man does not seem in a hurry to follow the regular culmination of the festivities.

     "Yeah, it'd be great if you'd just... jump in," Yisun is laughing, leading two of Chinon's citizens with her. "I have some volunteers!" She turns to each one, a young man and young woman, both fairly inebriated -- but hey.. who isn't in this town right now? "Jervais... and ...what was your name again, cher?" she says to the woman.
     "Marie-Lys," the young woman says. When she is not running around with her boyfriend in the street, she works at the chateau...
     "Marie-Lys," Yisun trumpets toward Drancy.

      Paul and Beth glance at each other: where do these names come from? French people. Gah.

     The crowds outside the ville are beginning to congeal, particularly on the bridge over the Vienne. The ships are making runs from bank to bank. The music begins to become a unisoned voice rather than a cacophony. Everyone begins to play the same song...

     The other pair of blue and yellow have pulled themselves from the vat, dripping with purple. He steps away, having had his fill, as the grape dries and stains. There is nothing worse than sodden clothing, better to just take the Time to let it dry.
     Then out into the crowd, letting his previous companions forget him. To find something else to entertain him.

     ... Arms are linked, between friends, between strangers who will become friends, and between those who meet tonight who shall never meet again. It is all the same. Arms are linked, and feet are joined in the same direction. For all the frenzy of the revelry, the steps now are slow...
     Boats begin to dock at the makeshift and formal piers alike...

     Drawn. Ishrael sits and seems to think on that, letting the Universe pass him by. "I am sent," Ishrael finally breathes into the world, clarifying his position. Perhaps that is the same as drawn, but he really does not know.

     "Looks like everyone's heading that way," Sebastian points out for his crew. "Guess stuff's happening over there," he adds, turning his frame to follow, and lead, the crowds.

     Clasping hands with Falcon, Laurent laughs. Who won or lost the bet, it matters not. Men do exchange bills, but Laurent just smiles at Falcon, opening his arms for a friendly embrace. "I'll buy you a drink," Laurent laughs.

     Yisun turns as the young man and woman head over to Drancy. She pivots in the direction Sebastian indicates. "They are going to end up at the castle, right? I wonder if we should just position ourselves there..."

     "Clotted cream," Fiona agrees with a brief smile to Yisun. "Did you handle the paperwork, or we dispensing with formalities tonight?" She gestures to the French couple, addressing them in French. "Since you're willing, then, if you could just sit on the edge of the fountain - like that, and you next to him. Lean up against him, put your arm around her, you put your... left hand on his right shoulder, reaching across. Then just look up at him, and, oh, smile, of course." This is aimed at selling, and people don't buy unhappy things. Not if they're not punk or goth or fake humanitarians, anyway.

Posted by rowan at November 02, 2003 05:30 PM