For a long time, scientists believed that one group of farmers – the first group of farmers – came up with this great new way of getting enough food, then slowly spread out and out-competed all the hunter gatherers they came across. But new genetic research says this is probably wrong. A genetic study looked at some of the world’s first farmers, in the Zagros region of Iran. And to the researcher’s surprise, they discovered that these first farmers were not related to the genomes of early farmers from the Aegean and Europe. In other words, these first farmers were not from a single, genetically homogeneous population, as had previously been believed. So what likely happened?
For the third time that twenty-minute call, Katara promised
her father she would be careful. And then again, a fourth time, to her brother,
listening in on the other line. They sounded worried, despite their words
stating their pride in her and her work, and so she tried to keep her voice
even, steady. After the months she had been through, keeping a smooth voice in
a high tension environment had become something of a talent of hers and so it
“I have to go,” she told them after hearing the ding of her
alarm. Break over. “I love you guys.”
“We love you, too,” Hakoda told her. “Be careful.”
“Call tonight! I mean it! Don’t fall asleep again!”
She hung up. She felt both relieved to be off the phone and
strangely scraped with loneliness. The
way she always felt now after calls home. It was getting easier, though, being
so far. On the other side of the world. It was hard, lonely, frightening at
first. Now, mostly, it was tiring, trying.
And satisfying. Among the stress, and pressure, and
sleepless nights, there was satisfaction, when her patients woke up, when she
was able to see a patient walk out the clinic, or a mother hold her child for
the first time. The satisfaction kept her going. It had to. The pay was bad,
and the nights long, and the hours even longer, but the satisfaction worthy.
So, swallowing down her last mouthful of coffee, it was back
to work, down the clean, white clinic hallways.
“I wanted to write a story about Derek being a new comer to town & stiles being his farmer neighbor coming over and being like he welcome to the neighborhood and all and sorry this is so sudden but have you seen my peacock because it’s wily and I saw your bedroom window was open and it likes to lay in big soft beds & Derek is like choking on air because IS HIS CUTE NEIGHBOR COMING ON TO HIM THIS BOLDLY USING A EUPHEMISM? So they go up to his room & there is a bird in his bed & Derek is like wut” (x)
How about the bachelors reaction to finding out the farmer got knocked out in the mines and still hasnt woken up in several days? (maybe have had an argument beforehand)
Imagine the bachelors’ reactions upon finding out the farmer ran out of health in the caves?
Sebastian: “You’re just like my mom!” He shouted at the farmer, fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t respect my work at all!”
“I’ve been nothing but supportive of you!” The farmer shouted back, angry but a bit hurt by his words.
“Then just show it! Show me you mean it!” He retorted, gesturing exasperatedly.
“I don’t have time for this,” the farmer muttered, baring their teeth in anger. They stormed out of the room, their pickaxe in hand, as they made their way up to the mines.
“You’re back again?” Harvey asked as Sebastian opened the door to the clinic, deep crescent moons hanging under his eyes.
“Yeah,” he replied warily. “Have they woken up yet?”
Harvey shook his head solemnly. “It’s only a matter of time, though, now that they’ve stabilized. I assume you want to see them?” Harvey asked as he opened the door to the back area of the clinic.
Sebastian nodded and followed as Harvey led him to the bed in the back right of the clinic that the farmer was sleeping in. They seemed pained in their rest but at least they were resting. They had been mortally wounded in the caves and Sebastian was still blaming himself for them leaving in the first place.
Harvey gave a sympathetic look at Sebastian then left to return to the counter.
Sebastian knelt at the farmer’s bedside and took their hand in his. “I’m really sorry,” he whispered, running his thumb over their fingers. “I know you support my work, I just wanted more attention for all the effort I’ve been putting into it. Please don’t ever get yourself hurt like this over me again.” The end of his sentence was dotted with a tearful sniff.
Elliott: “It’s not fair!” Elliott whined loudly at the farmer. He was having something of a temper tantrum. “I pour out my heart and soul out into my book for a year and a half and you bring in even more money than I’ve ever seen just watering plants!”
The farmer gasped in slight pain. “I don’t just water plants! I do so much more than that!” The farmer stooped over a chest and began rummaging through it, depositing all the items they didn’t need in it and taking out their sword. “If you can’t see that, then you obviously have no appreciation for how much work I really do!”
The farmer fumed as they stomped out of the room. They were going to use their anger as fuel to ruin some monsters lives.
Elliott had barely left the farmer’s side after he heard that the farmer had been almost blown to smithereens by their own bomb, they had been rushed to Harvey’s as soon as they were found but it had still been several days and they hadn’t made a full recovery. With no one to tend to the farm, Elliott had taken it upon himself to care for their many, many crops and animals. It was only fair, he figured, seeing as this whole thing was his fault.
His body had been on fire since the first day and he had to completely put his book on hold to recover from the effort he put into the farm on a daily basis.
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you…” he sighed, running his fingers through his long hair, “I have an all new appreciation for all you do now. Please wake up soon so I can tell you about it.”
Harvey: “You know I’m right.” Harvey muttered through clenched teeth. He sounded almost threatening, looking up at the farmer above his glasses.
“I don’t care if you’re right,” the farmer crossed their arms over their chest. “I’m not having the treatment,” they leaned in close to Harvey and he could see the fire in their eyes, “and you can’t make me.”
Without another word, the farmer calmly walked out of the clinic. They showed no real signs of anger aside from their rigid shoulders. They needed to clear their head, immediately, and dispel some of their anger. They turned to the mines.
“This is all my own fault,” Harvey muttered, leaning his whole body on his hands pressed against the counter of the backroom of the clinic. He couldn’t bring himself to say he was sorry to the still sleeping farmer, he knew he was right deep down and that they needed the treatment for their own good. He ran his hand over his face in frustration and guilt, pushing his glasses down his nose.
He had administered every treatment possible he could to insure the farmer would wake up sooner and feel better, all but the one they had adamantly claimed to never want. Even now, he still couldn’t go against their wishes.
He turned over his shoulder and looked at the sleeping farmer. “I’m sorry I pressed so hard,” he said, just loud enough that they would definitely hear. “I just want you healthy.”
Sam: “Look,” the farmer sighed, “I really need to get some things done around the farm. The animals need me and the crops have been near death for at least a week now. I really need to get more money to take care of all this,” they gestured to the whole farm.
“But it’s my band’s first performance…” Sam said, looking thoroughly devastated. “You need to be there!” His pain turned to rage in almost an instant.
The farmer shook their head and approached him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, Sam, I want to be there more than anything.” They sighed again and looked away from Sam’s scorching eyes. “I just really need to do this, okay?”
“Whatever!” Sam exploded, slapping the farmer’s hand off his shoulder. “Talk to me when you’ve learned what it means to be supportive.” He called over his shoulder as he trudged away.
The farmer shook their head in dismay and brandished their pickaxe. They desperately needed the minerals yet to be discovered in the mines…
When Sam first heard that the farmer had been administered to the clinic, he laughed it off and assumed it was a prank. After finding out it, tragically, was not, he only felt a bit of guilt. His childish stubbornness wouldn’t let him feel much more about it. But the guilt began to chip away at him, day by day, until he just couldn’t take it anymore. He broke down and visited them in the clinic.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, “I’m so sorry… I should have understood.” he approached the farmer and sat at the foot of the bed they were laying in. “I should have given you some of the money we made from the concert to help you out, I shouldn’t have said those awful things. I shouldn’t have ever made you go out and get yourself hurt,” his voice grew thick with tears and he found he couldn’t swallow around the lump in his throat.
“Please wake up soon,” he finally choked out before completely crumbling.
Alex: “I just let you win.” Alex said aggressively, taking his arm back. He and the farmer had just finished arm wrestling for the fourth time that day.
“I don’t think so,” the farmer laughed, “I’ve beat you every time so far. Maybe I’ll be the one that makes it big in sports instead.” Immediately after the farmer said this and saw Alex’s expression morph to that of disgust and sorrow, and then to hatred, they knew they stepped on a very tender nerve.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that w–” they began, but Alex cut them off.
“Shut up!” He snapped, shoving himself away from the table they had been sitting up. “You don’t know anything about how good I am! You’ll never know how good I really am! You’re so much weaker than me, why don’t you just go back to your farm and pet your dumb animals!”
The farmer’s face twisted in pain. “My animals aren’t dumb…” they said quietly, then, with anger backing their words, “You’re dumb! You’re dumb for calling my animals dumb,” they stood from the table and balled their fists, “and you’re dumb for ever thinking you could make it big in sports!”
They stormed away, slamming their feet on the ground with every step they took, as they ignored the profanities Alex was shouting at them. I’ll show him who’s really strong, they thought to themselves as they ripped their sword from their backpack in a flurry.
“You’re dumb…” Alex echoed the words the farmer said to him in anger the days before as he stood over their sleeping form in the clinic. “You’re dumb for going in alone, and you’re dumb for almost getting yourself killed.” His words, unlike before, were gentle and uncalloused. He just wanted to see his farmer better.
He sighed, looking off at the wall their bed was pressed against. “You’re just so dumb…” he sighed again, bowing his head, “But so am I.” He turned back to them again and gently bit his lip. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry you got your own dumb butt hurt,” then, under his breath so nobody could hear but them, he muttered, “because of me.”
You made an offhand mention to "the Sibylline fairies" in a recent post and I was wondering if you could point me towards more information about them.
Fuck it. Let’s do this here and now, but it isn’t the gigantic list of madness I’ve thus compiled about the subject, just an overview.
So let’s start with the Sibyls as we leap-frog across time and space:
The Suda, a Byzantine encyclopedia, tells us that:
“[…] there were Sibyls in different places and times and they numbered ten. First then was the Chaldaean Sibyl, also [known as] Persian, who was called Sambethe by name. Second was the Libyan. Third was the Delphian, the one born in Delphi. Fourth was the Italian, born in Italian Kimmeria. Fifth was the Erythraian, who prophesied about the Trojan war. Sixth was the Samian, whose proper name was Phyto; Eratosthenes wrote about her. Seventh was the Cumaean, also [called] Amalthia and also Hierophile. Eighth was the Hellespontian, born in the village of
Marmissos near the town of Gergition — which were once in the territory
of the Troad — in the time of Solon
and Cyrus. Ninth was the Phrygian. Tenth was the Tiburtine, Abounaia by
name. They say that the Cumaean brought nine books of her own oracles
to Tarquinus Priscus, then the king of the Romans; and when he did not approve, she burned two books. [Note] that Sibylla
is a Roman word, interpreted as “prophetess”, or rather “seer”; hence
female seers were called by this one name. Sibyls, therefore, as many
have written, were born in different times and places and numbered ten.“
They were ecstatic female oracles, who delivered ‘utterances of the Gods’ to those who would go see them, similarly to the Oracle at Delphi. And as the Suda demonstrates, they were known to be all over the place, and span across the length of antiquity.
Of particular note is the Cumaean Sibyl, as she was involved both with giving the Romans the ‘Sibylline Oracles’: initially Tarquinus objected to the price she offered for her books of warnings for the Romans, and she burned two or three of the books on the spot. He finally agree to her price, and thus the Sibylline Oracles entered Rome and were referenced in times of need until the 4th century of the Common Era, when they were supposed destroyed by Stilicho (the Barbarian who had held Rome together) due to anti-barbarian sentiments in the Senate that the Oracles spurred. But that episode is more of a folk-tale than an accurate recounting of what happened: we don’t know who destroyed them…
The Cumaean Sibyl did something else, too: in the Aeneid, she teaches the Hero Aeneas the Art of Necromancy.
Subsequently, as we enter the Middle Ages, we find an interesting mountain in Italy. The Germans call it the ‘Sibyllenberg,’ or later, ‘the Venusberg.’ It was believed to be the mountain where a Sibyl remained, living underground in a paradise. It was at Norcea, which is not far from Narn (’Narnia’ on medieval maps).
Antoine de la Sale attempted to find the cavern of legends and enter it, but failed. Nonetheless, he created a glorious map of the area and put in his Memoir: La Salad:
Another visitor to Norcea was Arnold von Harff (1471 CE – 1505 CE.). In Tannhauser and the Venusberg, Philip Stephen Barto quotes Harff’s letters:
“Harff comes fully prepared to find
that for which he is looking.
“Here at Noxea [Norcea] we heard tell
of Dame Venus’ Mount,” he begins, and ingenuously adds: “Since in
our country so many wonderful things are told about it I prevailed
upon my companions that they do me the favor to go a few miles out of
the way to see this mountain out from Noxea and came to a little
place called Arieet… Thence we went to a village called Norde.
Close by lies Dame Venus’ Mount, at one end of which is a castle. I
quickly got acquainted with him and told him in Latin how we were
minded to see the Mount of Dame Venus since in our country so many
wonders were told about it. The castellan began to laugh at me and
entertained us well that evening. In the morning early he rode with
us to the mountain. In it were hewn holes as in the Vackleberch or at
Triecht; from these the town and castle had been built. I accompanied
him into these holes. I could see nothing there except that some of
them were fallen in and some were still open. With the castellan we
then left the mount and he took us to the castle as his guests, where
he entertained us during noontime. After noon he rode with us up to
the top of this mountain. Here was a small quiet lake. By it stood a
little chapel, like a place of worship, and inside was a small altar
and there, as he related to us, in earlier times when the art of
necromancy was still abroad in the world, its devotees came and
conjured up the devil and practiced the black art. So soon as this
happened there always arose from the waters of the little lake a
cloud which descended in a thunderstorm, drenching the whole land
thereabouts for six leagues so that there was no grain there that
year. Now the people would no longer suffer this and made complaint
to the owner of the castle. He immediately had erected an upright
gallows between the chapel and the lake and forbade that any one
should ever practice necromancy any more upon the altar. Whoever did
so was hanged on the gallows. The castellan gave us this account and
then said he know of nothing else concerning the place, whereupon we
took our leave of him and went to Fossata to our rightful road. This
castle lies nine leagues from Noxea.”
- (P. 25).
The castellan’s tale of ‘traveling necromancers’ is rather fascinating: Jake Stratton-Kent hypothesizes that necromancers traveled to Norcea to consecrate their Liber Spiritus (“Book of Spirits”), or Grimoires in The Geosophia.
We also have rituals from the UK in which necromancers make a pact with a Sibyl (who is also a fairy). The ritual shows up in a few different manuscripts, notably The Discoverie of Witchcraft (“An Experiment of the Dead”) and Arthur Gauntlet’s grimoire. In it, the necromancer first makes a pact with a ghost - so that the ghost will travel into the Chthonic world and bring back ‘The Fairy Sibyllia.’
“I charge thee spirit N. that thou shalt not go out of the christall stone; nor yet to alter thy
shape at this time, except I command thee otherwise; but to come unto me at all places, and in all houres and minuts, when and wheresoever
I shall call thee, by the vertue of our Lord Jesus Christ, or
by anie conjuration of words that is written in this booke, and
to shew me and my freends true visions in this christall stone,
of anie thing or things that we would see, at anie time or times:
and also to go and to fetch me the fairie Sibylia, that I may
talke with hir in all kind of talke, as I shall call hir by anie
conjuration of words conteined in this booke. I conjure thee spirit
N. by the great wisedome and divinitie of his godhead, my will
to fulfill, as is aforesaid: I charge thee upon paine of condemnation,
both in this world, and in the world to come, Fiat, fiat, fiat:
She then acts as a tutelary spirit, empowering the necromancer in the arts of magic.
Incidentally, we have another group that enters Germany in almost the same period: the Clerici Vagantes, ‘traveling scholars’ those who had taken up ‘adventuring’ and are complained about as being fraudsters that claim to have learned Magic in the Domain of Dame Venus. Liber Vagatorum complains of them:
Vagrants, or Strollers.
These are beggars or adventurers who wear yellow garments, come from
the Venusberg, know the Black Art, and are called rambling scholars.
These same when they come into a house speak thus: –
comes a rambling scholar, a Magister of the Seven Free Arts (id
the various ways of cheating [Beseflen] the farmers [hanzen]), an
exorciser of the devil for Hail, for Storm, and for Witchcraft.’
Then he utters some magical words and crosses his breast
[two] or [three] times, and speaks thus: – ’Wherever
these words are saidNo
man shall suddenly fall dead,No
murrain, mildew or other miserie
touch this ground to all Eternitie.’
many more precious words. Then the farmers [hanzen] think it all
true, and are glad that he is come, and are sorry they have never
seen a wandering scholar before, and speak to the vagrant: –
or that has happened to me, can you help me? I would willingly give
you a florin or two.’
And he says, ‘yes,’ and cheats the
farmers (Besefeltden den hanzen ums mess) out of their money. And
after these experiments they depart. The farmers suppose that by
their talking they can drive the devil away, and can help them from
any trouble that has befallen them. Thou canst ask them nothing but
they will perform thee an experiment therewith; that is, they can
cheat and defraud thee of thy money.
In The Night Battles, Carlo Ginzburg also mentions them:
“For in the year 1544, Martin Crusius, in his Annales Svevici, cites a curious tale, borrowed from an older chronicle. Wandering about the Swabian countryside were certain clerici vagantes
who wore yellow nets draped about their shoulders in the place of
capes. They had approached a group of peasants and told them they had
been on the Venusberg and had seen extraordinary things there. They
claimed knowledge of the past and could foretell the future; they had
the power to discover lost objects and possessed charms which protected
both men and animals from witches and their crimes; they could even keep
hail away. With such boasts, intermingled with fearsome words mumbled
ominously through clenched teeth, they shunned both men and women,
especially the latter, and extorted money from them. As though this was
not enough, they also declared they could call up the ‘Furious Horde’,
made up of children who had died before they were baptized, of men slain
in battle and of all ‘ecstatics’ – in other words of those souls who
had had to abandon their bodies, never to return. These souls, they
said, were accustomed to gather in the deserted places on Saturday
nights of the Ember seasons and on Thursdays of the Advent, wandering
about, sorrowing, until the appointed time of their deaths, when they
could be received amongst the blessed. These clerici vagantes
claimed that they had two lengths of rope, one for grain, the other for
wine: if one of them was buried, the price of grain or wine would
increase that year…
Once again, if this evidence had come from the Fruili instead of Swabia, we can be certain that these clerici vagantes
would have added being benandanti to their boasting. Here too there are
obvious similarities: the journey to the mysterious kingdom of Venus
(where, in the popular mind, there was believed to be a real afterlife
as we shall see later) gave them the power to cure spells, and, during
the Ember Days, to summon the ranks of those who had died prematurely,
to which ‘ecstatics’ like themselves belonged, whose souls had not been
able to return to their bodies; it also gave them abilities to obtain
wealth for farmers by working their magic, not on the fertility of the
fields, as did their Friulian counterparts, but curiously enough, on the
prices of agricultural products. This was the year 1544… At any rate,
groups of clerici vagantes who
claimed to have been on the Venusberg appeared at Lucerne in 1576…
and again in 1599 and 1600. A similar group, belonging to an association
called Johannesbruderschaft, was tried at L’vov in 1694: like their Swabian fellows of a century and a half before, these clerici vagantes searched for treasures, claimed to have seen the souls of the dead on the Venusberg and tried to call them forth.” - Carlo Ginzburg, The Night Battles. (p.55-56)
The key thing to understand here is that the Sibyl’s Mount has merged with Venus’ Mount, and the Sibyls have become translated into Chthonic tutelary fairies, but they are all essentially doing the same thing: creating an atmosphere for magical practitioners to emerge from. And causing practitioners to attempt to contact spirits and beings known in antiquity.
At some point, I seriously will sit down and write a fucking essay on the subject, but at present there is too much information for me to narrow down coherently. It’s been a work in progress for years now.
i hate that fish and certain sea animals are always the last to be mentioned. fishing is just as bad as hunting and stealing the life of a fish is no less of a crime. these poor, beautiful creatures are being brutally murdered and it’s still seen as this fun family bonding activity. just because they don’t look like us, just because they aren’t “cute” or fluffy doesn’t mean they matter less. they feel pain, they have families, and they value their own lives just like we do. they do not exist for us to use them. they are not resources, they are living beings and they deserve respect.
in the words of paul farmer, ‘the idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong with the world.’
what do i have to do to get HQ pics of harry in cropped yoga pants, an oversized band t-shirt, and flip flops with his hair in a messy bun, sunglasses on, sipping on an iced coffee while out running errands and buying flowers
Ems kurtsies gave me farmer boy!Kurt feels, so naturally I had to channel them into fic. ~2100 words, PG, insubstantially fluffy meet-cute.
Blaine wasn’t usually a superstitious guy. He didn’t avoid black cats or ladders or keep his umbrellas closed indoors for fear of bad luck.
That being said, he couldn’t help but feel like the flat tire he’d gotten on the way to school that morning was an indicator of how that day - if not that whole year - was going to go.
“First we have to move to the sticks,” he muttered as he got out to inspect the damage. “And now I’m going to be late to my new school on the first day of classes, just in case I wasn’t going to stand out enough already. Is this just a sign that I should look into homeschooling or something?”
A rumble from behind him startled him into turning around and seeing-
“Need some help?” the handsome boy on the tractor yelled, looking concerned. He turned off the engine, cutting the overpowering noise Blaine had been hearing.
Chris walks into the dining hall on a Tuesday and sees her.
The girl in the hoodie.
He saw her for the first time last week, and wanted to talk to her then but Holster pulled him into a milk drinking contest. He missed Hoodie Girl™ the next time because Nursey pulled him back down and asked him if he knew if soda would stain shirts (because Nursey doesn’t ever mean to trip, it just happens). After that–
You get the idea.
This time though, he’s going to talk to her, the hoodie girl. She’s gotta be something special, because he’s never seen another girl like her in all of campus.
“Watch my oatmeal.” Chris instructs as he stands up. “Do not let Dex steal it from me again.”