Fantasifull dagdrømmer

dagsorden.no presenterer unge, ukjente forfattere. Først ut er Sebastian Faulkner (18), elev på forfatterlinjen på Danvik Folkehøgskole – for tiden aktuell med sin første fantasyfortelling.

Av redaksjonen@dagsorden.no

(Ps: Sebastian er den første forfatterspiren som legger ut en av sine tekster på www.dagsorden.no. Har du lyst til å gjøre det samme, ta kontakt med redaksjonen!)

- Jeg begynte å skrive egne tekster for ett år siden. Jeg fikk lyst til å skrive. Så begynte ordene bare å komme, forteller 18-åringen.

Til nå har han skrevet nærmere 100 maskinskrevne sider fiction og fantasy.

- Jeg har historien klar. Den er satt i stein, smiler Sebastian. 

Opptatt av magi

I barne- og ungdomsårene leste han mye serier som Narnia, Ringenes Herre, Wheel of time og A song of fire and ice.

- Jeg har alltid lest mye fantasy-bøker. Jeg er en person som er opptatt av magi, og dagdrømmer mye. Jeg bygger opp en egen verden inne i hodet, forteller han.

- En slags virkelighetsflukt?

- Joda. Det er nok det. Jeg synes genren er fascinerende, kanskje fordi jeg lever et ganske kjedelig liv. Det er bygd inn i meg at det finnes en slik verden.

- Er ikke livet spennende nok i seg selv?

- Nei, det er ikke noe magi her, fastslår han.

Ateist

Sebastian Faulkner regner seg selv som ateist. Han kommer fra et hjem med en blanding av agnostisisme, kristendom, ateisme og alternativ tenkning.

- Selv om jeg liker å drømme meg bort, setter jeg pris på fornuftig og logisk tenkning. Det er mitt virkelige jeg. Jeg tror ikke på noe overnaturlig, sier han.

Hvorfor han til slutt havnet på Danvik, henger sammen med en mislykket matematikkeksamen. Dermed ble nåløyet til historiske studier ved universitetet i Oslo for trangt.

- På skolen opplever jeg at medelevene er interesserte, i motsetning til tidligere. Det er et engasjement som smitter, forteller unggutten, som anbefaler Danvik på det varmeste.
- Det virker som om skolen kan sine saker. Danvik er stedet å gå, reklamerer han.

- Kutte ut all religion

Oslogutten har ingen illusjoner om å kunne leve av forfatterskapet.
- Det er ikke nødvendigvis en stor krise hvis jeg ikke kan leve av å skrive, påpeker 18-åringen.

- Hva har du egentlig på hjertet som forfatter, hva vil du fortelle leseren?

- Jeg vil at folk skal tenke selv, og spre tanken på at man ikke kan stole på det guddommelige. Det blir tåpelig for meg. En slags lenestol og ansvarsfraskrivelse. Et av de store temaene for meg er krigen mot Gud. Å kutte ut all religion, er toppen. En alternativ verden, er min verden, sier han med stødig stemme.

- En lettelse

- Hvordan føles det å legge ut egne tekster for første gang?

- Nervepirrende, men også en lettelse over å få det ut. Samtidig føler jeg litt press, innrømmer debutanten.

Her er et utdrag fra Sebastian Faulkners fantasyfortelling “Ambition”:

Scirrian was angry.

This was not, as his “peers” delighted in remarking behind his back, an uncommon occurrence. Their hesitation in saying so to his face only confirmed his suspicions. Oh, all “normal relations” and “no favouritism” in public, certainly, but once he rounded the corner the sniggers began, and his “teachers” sighed; a uniform relaxation of facial muscles that had been forced into a mask of insultingly tolerant patience for whatever period of time Scirrian had been forced to speak to them. What did these fools know? What could they know? Them and their pathetic “Chosen of the Goddess”-rhetoric. His people had once babbled the same lines, if his sister could be believed. And look how much good that’d done them. Wiped out by the turani, who didn’t even believe in gods and divine powers. A fine irony.

The elves had always been laughed and sneered at when their backs were turned. This was not new to Scirrian. The tone of the old historians writing their vaunted tomes had suggested as much. The reproach in his tutors’ voices when they feebly attempted to counter his arguments as to why the elves had been in every way superior to humans helped confirm it. And now he was one of the last – destined to endure a whole race’s concentrated petty envy on his people’s behalf. Bah! These humans were relieved that the elves were gone, no matter how much they denied it. The two races had never gotten along, despite – or perhaps because of – their equal fanaticism to the Creator. Now Rytheun was the only bully left on the playground, a role previously shared with Scirrian’s exterminated kinsmen.

It seemed only natural to him that anger would be one of the few constants in his life, with the others being the veiled mockery of his human “friends” and the ever-persistent accomplishments of his sister.

If the weather outside the Academy was affected by Scirrian’s dark mood, he took no notice. Clouds had been gathering all day – both in the park outside, and in his head. He would like nothing more dearly than to fry a few of those crimson trees Master Porus prized so much, but the grounds were warded against excessive magic. He would not be surprised if he should learn that that little precaution had only appeared after his arrival in these cursed halls. Unfortunately, his digging into precisely that subject had not turned up anything to support this theory. Historian Tigran Hakihm had reported a “new technique for the warding of our halls against mischievously aimed magic, blah blah blah” already in 1540 PC.

Choosing to set the trees aflame with his imagination alone, the thunderclouds in his head lifted somewhat to make way for the smoke of burning rindari leaves. He’d never smelled such things before, but he imagined it to be a sweet sensation indeed. He didn’t exactly smile at the mental image of fires enveloping those freakish abominations, for smiles just did not happen to him… but he wasn’t in quite such a foul mood for at least five seconds after.

Alas, his momentary bliss only lasted for a few moments, approximately until he reached the doorway into the library. He felt the change in atmosphere as keenly as if he’d suddenly become a great, sour smell, having the nerve to waft into their room. Thankfully, he wouldn’t need to tolerate such insolence for long. The sections these neophytes trawled were of no interest to him. He’d devoured all the knowledge here that he cared about long ago. He marched straight through the entry hall, past the suddenly quiet human students, ignoring them thoroughly. It had taken some time to build a reputation as unapproachable, but it had been well worth it. Humans just did not seem to be able to talk coherently or about anything interesting for extended periods of time. It was quite amazing, really, and quite a terrible thought: that soon the world would be left to their kind alone. Well, and those Turani who’d killed off all of Scirrian’s kin. With any luck the two would wipe each other out at some point. With a little more, Scirrian would still be alive to watch it happen.

As he strode along the isles of books and reading tables, one of the females had the nerve to rise and try and introduce herself to him. He could not recall her face, so she must have been a new student at the academy. (If you could call this pile of rocks an “academy”.) Then again, humans were remarkably bland. It was a wonder they managed to distinguish between each other at all. Regardless, he promptly ignored her and marched straight past. He was so accustomed to the ensuing low chucking from whoever witnessed scenes like these that he hardly even heard them anymore.

He was therefore unprepared when he felt the slight whack of Air on his left ear, as if someone had lightly struck him with a hand. That did not mean he let his surprise register for long. Her chuckle, and the howls of laughter from the observers, decided matters. Furiously he whirled around and struck her in retaliation with a large, concentrated Kinetic Ball. Similar to what she had done to him, but much more powerful. The orb struck her full in the chest, sending her flying through the air to crash into a group of reading Apprentices. All five went down in a mess of arms, legs, chairs and one broken table.

It had been more spectacular than he had expected, but quite satisfactory nonetheless. He left the chaos behind as he strode on, unheeding of the clamour of people rising and one female voice screaming in what he assumed was pain.

It was the Word Vault he had come to find. These old tomes dated to times even before the Cataclysm, and to Scirrian, these weren’t mere “books”. These writings had power.

He paused for a moment to savour the sight of the sixteen tomes, all of them magically preserved against age and damage by an actual Word of Power. He lived for these moments. If not for these old tomes, he would have left this sad, rotting re-education centre long ago. Here, in this vault, he could learn. The doddering fools he was forced to endure day by day seemed to make it their only goal in life to try his patience to degrees that would have driven lesser beings insane. They would tell him caution, and prudence. Caution, “for the Words were dangerous in unskilled hands”. Prudence, for a Master of the White Flame had once tried to hold off a group of Thar’daen with the word Racan – and then the Master had incinerated himself instead.

The problem with these people was that their minds were still stuck in the Rebuilding, even if none of them had lived back then. “Oooo, Words shattered the Empire and ended oppression against our people! Let’s not use them anymore now that we’re the ones oppressing for once!” They’d hardly even read these books, these wonderful, wondrous books! They might know a few of the Words, and perhaps some of how to activate them – but then they suddenly decided that to practise was dangerous, that even studying this incredible source of power, both offensive, defensive and utilitarian, was to be done on a theoretical level only! Because of a few, addled idiots in the past that had failed to comprehend what kind of power they were truly holding – and because those few who did were so incompetent it amazed him they’d survived puberty before killing themselves – they would try to stop Scirrian from gaining the power that was rightfully his?!

No. Their weakness would never hold him back. If no-one else had the will to take this magic, he would. He knew the power would soon be his, regardless of what his “mentors” thought; for he had already succeeded, had he not?

Absently he patted his right arm where the Blood Claw of Sakarakas, Word of Fear, was burned into his flesh. Yes… the Words were the pathway to perfection. And after perfection? Revenge. The elves could never be returned to the world, but the one who had failed them in their hour of need would be brought to her knees all the same.
Picking up the tome he was half-way through and resuming his reading where he thought he had ended it the day before, he let his eyes dance across the pages, his mind absorbing the knowledge of power that formed the fabric of all existence. One page, ten, a hundred – when he read like this he didn’t know or care how fast his finger flicked the papers. To truly comprehend a Word, one had to cease to see the book as merely a book… to realize that a Word was not actually a word. They were gateways; openings to and metaphors of a greater power than mere mortals dared to wield.

I will dare, he had sworn, some time ago, after he finished reading his first Tome of Power – the “Aspects of Fear”. I *will* dare.

Tuesday, October 27th, 2009, by admin and is filed under "Kultur, Nyheter ". You can leave a response here, or send a Trackback from your own site.