If you know me long enough, some day you hear me talk about my favorite book.
It’s a trilogy series, that is now released as a 3-part omnibus edition.
It’s called The Deed of Paksenarrion. It’s by Elizabeth Moon. It’s high fantasy, deeply influenced by Tolkien as well as Dungeons & Dragons. There’s elves and dwarves and magic and sword fights. It follows our young female protagonist on her journey in a Middle Earth sort of place to leave home, join a mercenary company, and eventually try to become a paladin.
I first read it at age 14 at the suggestion of my older brother Ragnar. It’s easily the book I’ve read the most, and loved the fiercest. I frequently think of scenes in it, recommend it to friends, and consider writing countless articles about what it’s taught me about life, the world, and moral compasses.
Note for those interested in reading it, I absolutely recommend it, however wish to warn you it has some graphic descriptions of torture (tho it’s much tamer than Game of Thrones series), and Moon herself has a military background, so the detail as she starts in the mercenary company is extreme. It fleshes the world out very well, but some might find it slow and dense at first.
Following the trilogy which came out in the late 1980s, in 1990 Elizabeth Moon released a 2-book prequel called The Legacy of Gird. It follows events hundreds of years in the past in the same land. The main character is a man, who in Paksenarrion’s time became basically a saint/legend on which a religious order is based. However in our story, he’s a simple farmer, similar and different than the one they honor.
To my great joy, twenty years after publishing Gird, Moon released five novels (2010-2015) which take place immediately following the events of Deed, and aren’t quite as high caliber, and mildly fan servicey, but it’s still a joy to return to the world, even though the focus is on all the other characters we met in Paks’ world, rather than herself. Frankly, I think it should’ve been 10 books, not five. Later, Moon also released two compilations of short stories (2015 and one this year) that fill in more of the background of the world.
I was thinking of a scene from it the other day.
[enter super geek mode]
To give context:
Gird is a peasant farmer who leads a rebellion against Magelords of his domain who had taken control of the land generations earlier, subjugating the people, enforcing hefty taxes & fees, and often ruling with an iron fist. As the novel progresses, Gird slowly ends up meeting allies among the Magelord class, who help him understand his enemy as he plans a revolution.
In this interaction, he meets a priest of the Magelords. Both are out in the cold in a shelter far from town, hungry. Gird brought food, but had no means to cook it. They slept, and when Gird awoke, he found the priest using magic to cook the bacon.
When the priest offers it to him, Gird refuses it unless they have equal exchange to share. To accept food without giving food, meant a form of submission. However, to the priest and his culture, to receive food without giving food was an act of dominance - as those supplying the food were performing an act of subservience.
Through this conversation, Gird and the priest begin to understand that their people had been misunderstanding each other from the beginning. For Gird saw power as the power to give, and the Magelords saw power as the power to take.
I’m going to copy & paste the whole scene/dialogue below. It’s lengthy, but it’s easier than expecting you to read 215 pages to get to it.
I’ve got some thoughts at the end, I’ll highlight with another divider.
Once face to face with him again, Gird could find nothing specific to fear. His hands were the gnarled and bony hands of any old man, holding out now a chunk of bread with a chunk of hot bacon on top. Gird looked at the food, but did not take it. "We must share," he said hoarsely.
"I don't like bacon," the old man said, almost wistfully. "A slice of a lamb roast now, or even beef—but I never could eat bacon without trouble. Go on, you take it."
Gird looked him in the eye. Could he not know the customs of Gird's people? Were their people so different? "We must share," he said again. "I cannot take food from you, if you do not take it from me." Or rather, he thought to himself, I will not take it and put myself in that kind of relationship.
The man shrugged. "It was yours to start with, I merely cooked it. You don't prefer it raw, do you?" Gird sighed.
Either he was ignorant, or he was being difficult. His head ached, and he didn't want to explain it, but he was going to have to. "It's important," he said. "You cooked it; that means you have the hearth-right, the fire-right. I cannot take—no, I will not take your food unless you take some from my hand, because that would mean you were my—you had the right to give or withhold food, and I needed your protection."
"Oh." The old man looked surprised, but drew his hand back. "Is that why your people first brought food to ours when they came?"
"Did they?" Gird had no idea what had happened when the lords first came. "What did your people do?"
"Made a very large mistake, I think," said the old man, as if to himself. "What should they have done?"
"Were they seeking aid in hunting, or against an enemy? Or were they starving?"
"No—at least not as the chronicles tell it."
"Then if they wanted an alliance of hearthings, they should have offered food of their own, and all shared."
The old man pursed his lips. "And what would it mean to you, if they ate the food offered, but offered none."
"That is the way of accepting the giving hearth as the leader—as the protector."
"Could they offer something else, in exchange? Arms, protection?"
Gird shook his head. "No—what protection could someone without food offer? The strong hearth has food to offer; the weak accepts it, and gives service for protection. If they wish friendship, it is as I said: food shared, both ways. Or more, if more than one are meeting. Famine rule, that can change things, but not always."
"Famine rule?"
"In famine, all share equally, without obligation, even if only one provides. But it must be declared, and accepted."
"This is worse than I thought," said the old man, grimacing. "We were so stupid!" He put the bread and bacon down, and said, "Will you take something from the sack and share it with me?"
"I can't cook it," Gird said, frowning. It didn't have to be cooked food, of course: bread was already cooked, and cheese was cured. But he had not actually provided this food—it belonged to the sier, who was an ally of the old man. Some people might argue about that. "Do you accept it as my food?"
"Yes."
"Then I offer this cheese and bread, my hearth to yours." Gird set the bread and cheese between them, then broke a piece from each and held out his hand. The old man took the pieces gravely, and offered Gird the bread and bacon again. This time Gird took it, hoping the bacon was still hot. But he waited until the old man had taken a bite before taking one of his own.
The old man had not said the ritual words, but he was sure of the intent, and between only two, that was enough. The bacon was still warm, and succulent; the grease-soaked bread made a comfortable fullness in his belly. Gird ate quickly, wasting no time, but his mind was full of questions. As soon as he had gulped down the last bite of bread, he turned to the old man. "What did you mean, your people had made a mistake?"
The old man, eating more slowly, had not finished; he swallowed the cheese in his mouth before answering. "Gird, among my people the customs differ. Offering food is the sign of subservience: servants offer food to masters. I'm afraid when your people came bringing food, my people thought they were acknowledging their lower rank."
Gird sat quietly a moment, thinking this over. The food-bringers, food-givers, ranked lower? When everyone knew that those who can afford to give without taking in return are the wealthy and strong? It was backwards, upside down, inside out: no one could live with a people who believed that. They would kill each other. They would believe—that the strong and wealthy are those who can take without giving—He found he was saying this aloud, softly, and the old man was nodding. "But that's wrong," he said loudly. His vehemence was swallowed in the snow, lost in that white quiet. "It can't work. They would always be stealing from each other, from everyone, to gain their place in the family."
"Not quite," said the old man. He sighed heavily. "Then again, maybe that's part of the reason why things have gone so badly up here. Back in Aare, there were reasons for that, and safeguards. At least, I think so. It had to do with our magic, our powers."
"Like the light. And cooking with your finger?"
"Among other things, yes. Among our people, rank came with magic—the more magic, the higher rank. One proof of magic was the ability to take, either by direct magic, or by compelling—charming—someone to offer whatever it was as a gift."
Gird thought carefully around that before he let himself answer, but it was the same answer that sprang first to mind. "But how is that different from the bullying of a strong child, who steals a weaker's food, or threatens him into giving it up? It is stealing, to take like that." And it was precisely what the lords had been doing, he thought. What they had always done, if this man was telling the truth. The old man also waited before answering, and when he spoke his voice was slower, almost hesitant.
"Gird, our people see it as the natural way—as calves in a herd push and shove, seeking dominance, as kittens wrestle, claw and bite. Yet this doesn't mean constant warfare in a herd, only a mild pushing and shoving: the weaker ones know their place, and walk behind—"
"But men are not cows!" Gird could not contain his anger any longer; he felt as if it were something physical, bright as the light he still did not understand. "We are not kittens, or sheep, or birds squabbling in a nest—"
"I know." The old man's voice, still quiet, cut through his objection as a knife cuts a ripe fruit. "I know, and I know something has gone very wrong. But in our own home, in Aare, that sparring for dominance among our folk had its limits, and those limits were safe enough to let our people grow and prosper for many ages. We were taught—I was taught—that with such power comes great responsibility—that we were to care for those we governed as a herdsman cares for his herd—No, don't tell me, I understand. Men are not cattle. But even you might use that analogy—" And he had, the night before, talking to the sier. Gird shivered, not from cold, when he thought of it. No wonder it had gone home, if the man thought of his common folk as cattle already.
"I still think it's wrong," Gird said.
"It may be. But right or wrong, it's the other way 'round from your people, and that means my people didn't understand them from the beginning. We assumed your people intended to submit, agreed to it without conflict: that's what our chronicles say. So whenever your people resisted, our people thought of that as a broken contract—as if you had gone back on your word." Gird tried to remember what he had heard of the lords' coming. Very little, though he had heard new things from the men he had been training. Most of the stories began after that, with the settlements growing near the new forts and towns, with the "clearing" of old steadings, the forced resettlement of families, the change in steading custom to conform to the new village laws. Everyone had thought the lords knew they were unfair, knew they were stealing—but had they not known? Had they thought that all they did was right, justified by some agreement that had never been made?
"Not all," the old man said. "Some things were forbidden in old Aare, which our people do here. The worship of the Master of Torments, for example: that they know is evil, and those who do it are doing it knowingly against the old laws. A contest of strength or magery is one thing, but once it is over, the winner has obligations to the loser, as well. But the basic misunderstanding, Gird, I believe I discovered tonight, from you. Your way seems as strange to me, I confess, as mine must seem to you—but strangeness is not evil. What we do with it may be evil."
"When you offered me that food," Gird said, "were you then declaring yourself lower in rank? Or were you trying to fool me into thinking that's what you were doing?"
The old man started to answer, then stopped, then finally said, "I thought—I think I only meant to calm you, to make you think well of me. In one sense, that is claiming a lower rank, because it means I care that you think well of me—in another—I don't know. I didn't think, I just did it."
"I felt," Gird said carefully—carefully, because he did not want to hurt this old man, even now, "I felt like a stubborn animal, being offered a bait of grain if it will only go through the gap." A grin, across that close space.
"You are stubborn; you would not deny that. I did not mean you to feel that, but given what your people think about offering food, wouldn't anyone feel so in such a circumstance? Have you ever—"
"Yes." Had the men he had fed felt that way? Demeaned, degraded? But it was not always so; he had taken food himself, gladly, acknowledging temporary weakness. Sick men had to be fed by healthy men, children by adults, infants by mothers. Was milk from the breast demeaning to a baby? Of course not. Yet—he worried the problem in his mind, coming at it from one side then another. The old man sat quietly and let him alone. "There are times," he said, "when it is right to be the one fed. Times no one minds. If someone's sick or hurt—or children—but grown folk, healthy grown folk—they feed themselves. In a way, living on another's bounty is like being a child again. Maybe that's why it means giving obedience."
"Probably."
The old man nodded. "It's interesting that you have the importance of having food to give, but absolute prohibition against taking it by force from each other. The force is used against the land, I suppose, in hunting or farming."
"Not against," Gird corrected. "With. To help the land bear more. Alyanya is our Lady, not our subject."
"So you see even the gods as those who can give, not those who take?"
"Of course. If they have nothing to give, they are not gods, but demons." Gird nodded at the cold dark beyond their shelter. "As the cold demons steal warmth, and the spirits of night steal light from the sun."
The old man smiled. "This day is stealing my strength, Gird, and I cannot hold this light much longer. Not if I'm to have warmth enough until dawn. But before the light goes. I have an apology. I have withheld the courtesy of my name, although I knew yours. I am Arranha, and I am glad to have you as companion in this adventure."
We have different ideas of power…
I frequently think about understandings of power. I think of power as strength, but even so, not necessarily all exhibitions of it.
In this story, you have people thinking power comes from the ability to give - and others thinking it comes from the ability to take. When these ideas come up against each other, this can lead to serious misunderstandings.
I think about what we perceive as power, what we respect as power. I read books about power (Robert Greene’s for example). People tell me I am “powerful” or “empowered”. I generally agree in many ways - but why?
People cite my influence over others (an influence I consider cultivated by a method of conversation, writing, photography, and lifestyle which seeks to create value/benefit for others). My control over the conditions of my own life. My capability to advocate for and create the circumstances for what I want.
I think of power as having control over oneself, and the conditions by which one lives. I think of one’s internal locus of control. The extent to which we feel we are in control of the things happening in our lives - our actions, our outcomes, our environments.
I aspire to be in control over as much of my own life as possible (when not, at least make sure that which I’m not in control of is manageable) - and see the things around me as things I can change if they displease me.
Sometimes things are out of my control. I’m privileged that a relatively small amount of things that affect my life are out of my control.
A very silly example of this is weather. I can’t control weather. So I choose to live somewhere (Los Angeles) where the natural weather tends to please me. If I were inclined towards four seasons and snow, I’d live somewhere else. I’m not in control of the weather, but I’m in control of where I choose to live (and by extension, my choice of climate), and my coping mechanisms for conditions that aren’t what I want.
I like to think I’m powerful in that I control my own life and my own destiny.
There’s other kinds of power. There are those who seek to coerce and force others. There are those who take power in violence and in control of others.
I don’t have respect for that kind of power. I recognize it exists, and I recognize that a man with a gun to my head is powerful in that moment, and I’ll do what I can to find my power in that moment, however it may manifest (persuasion, bargaining, fighting).
There’s a famous Asimov quote from Foundation that says “violence is the last refuge of the incompetent”. I feel this deeply.
I feel that those who grasp for power through violence, threats of violence, or exhibitions of rage (which imply violence), and use it to harm others are abusing it… because in that form it is fleeting. The drive to control others feels like it comes from a lack of control or power over oneself.
I think of all the ways in which I’d consider myself powerful, and it comes down to ways in which I can help myself and help others.
I think true power is the ability to help.
Some people think power is the ability to hurt.
I think of this sometimes in the way when others make us angry (and we feel a lack of power), we are more likely to lash out, to cause them pain either emotionally or even physically (to try to assert power). It’s why I have such an aversion to yelling, screaming, or even displays of anger. I didn’t grow up with it (or spanking or any kind of violence in the home). It’s very foreign to me.
I once had a romantic partner scream at me. I told him if it ever happened again I was out. Months later it happened again, and I was gone. No compromise. I couldn’t/wouldn’t control him, but I could control me.
It is complicated to think about because in the moment in which an ex-lover screamed at me, he did have physical power over me. He was taller and stronger and had greater capacity for harm. Yet while I recognized his momentary “power” - I saw him as weak. He couldn’t control himself, so he was trying to control me. I did not see him as powerful. I saw him as misusing his power. I saw that he had no power over himself, which is why he was lashing out. It wasn’t anything to respect or admire. It wasn’t anything to value. It wasn't power to me at all.
I think my childhood home provided a certain model for my understandings of dynamics of power (and I recognize there are many more complicated conversations to have about other forms, definitions and uses of power), but I sometimes wonder how much this book, which I first read around age 15, influenced the way I see power.
I see power like Gird does - as the ability to give, not the ability to take.
I prefer the world like that.