The Poet Of Ismar
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: GLBT Fantasy
The Poet Of Ismar

By; David Lewis Aster-Rose

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David Lee Aster-Rose
(Insert P.O. box here when I get one)


Chapter One
The Passing

In a land we have all dreamed of, but never visited, is a magical land of love, understanding, and knowledge, beyond all that we know in this life. It is called the land of Ismar.

It is an island land, a land blessed with great bounty of fruit, and sunshine. This island is beyond our five natural senses, it is a place of the mind and soul. The people are most beautiful of spirit and body, they are perhaps the most lovely of the gods creations.

In the center of this nation is the Mountain of Char, a great and holy mountain, magnificient in its form. Upon this mountain, is the home of the spiritual leader of Ismar, he is known simply, as, the "Poet of Ismar". There are no government buildings in Ismar, no Presidents, no Kings, no form of government at all, for the people of Ismar have no need of these things... But what they do need, and admire, is a spiritual leader, the Poet of Ismar, a man of unlimited power and influence, and yet, of no power at all. He is the decendant of thousands of years of Poets, he is that which shall always be, he is the incarnation of that which is eternal.

The name of the current manisfestation of the Poet is Sharlar, Sharlar the eternal, is his proper name. The Poets are mortal, they are born, they live, and they pass on, as all creatures do. However, that which is different about the Poets, is that, they never marry. Out of the masses of the Oh-me's, the people of Ismar, will come, another, a young and loving child, who will quest for fullfillment. The "New" journies to the lonely mountain, there, he will be adopted by the current Poet, taught, mentored, loved, and receive the power of the inheritance of the people. In this way the lineage has been keep for thousands of years untold.

It is the time of passing, for Sharlar is very advanced in age, his time of rest is near... Anxiously, he patiently awaits the comming of the New, the boy who shall inherit his knowledge... It is also a time of great tribulation. For the nation of Ismar is in crisess... For thousands of years, The Poets kiss the New when they meet, and at this kiss, all the knowlege, all the experiance, all the souls, of all that have lived before, and are living now, flow into the child, he recieves all this knowledge, all this experiance, from a single kiss. Their souls mingle, for a precious brief instant, and the child, this precious child of knowledge, becomes, The Poet Of Ismar. And the "old", the one who loved him, quietly falls to sleep. This time was near at this point, the time of passing, but much, much more was also in the present.... for, a nation that never knew war, never knew brutality, was about to know war for the first time in thier history.

Sharlar, sat upon his mountain, the mountain he may never leave, for it is a requirement of the Poets, never to leave the mountain, for if they leave the sacred ground, they shall surely die. He sat, and waited, and pined, (Yes, the Poets are indeed human, they do pine.), Waiting for the child of light, to scale the mountain.

He was tired, being more than One Hundred Thirty Seven Years old, he was indeed very tired, ready for rest. But his promise to the people of Ismar kept him alive, he must wait, wait for the child of knowledge to seek him out, upon his lonely mountain.

The day finally arived, a small child, a thin child, a child one could pass on the roads and take no notice of, not ugly, but not lovely either, at least not to the eye, came trudging up the mountain, alone, tired, thirsty, and hungry. The childs name was Islial.

Sharlar knew his name in his heart, he simply knew, without knowledge, he knew, for that is the gift of the Poets, they just know. And cried out to the child, the child of knowlege, Welcome Islial!!! And the child smiled, the smile of love and knowledge. Sharlar Took upon his arms, the body of the child, and carried him to his home, the temple on the mount, and there, made a feast for the child, fresh vegetables, which he had grown in his garden, rare herbs, and fine spices, which he had also grown, for the Poets must take care of themselves, there is no tribute from the people beyond love, the physical needs of the Poets are thier own responsibility.

And the child ate, and expressed great love for the poet.

"I wish to be as you are great one, in the heart of my heart, I wish it to be."

Sharlar simply smiled, then said...

"You are here because you were asked to be here by the gods, you have traveled hundreds of miles upon but a mere dream, and you answered the calling, there are no tests, no examinations, your presence is all that is required."

The child smied and simply said...

"Oh, I see..."

I have one request of you child, and only one request, In this temple, in the back, is a nursery, not for babies, but for plants, there you will find a shovel. Before the temple is a Hemlock tree, at the base of that tree, is where I wish to rest. Bury me there, that is my only request of you.

"I give you my promise Great Poet."

"Lean forward my dear child, and recieve, that which I have been freely given, give me but one kiss."

The child of light, leaned forward, as requested, and the ancient lips of a man desiring to be relieved of too much responsibily, for much too long, touched the lips of a lovely child, full of life and strength, desiring his position with all his heart. In that instant, the universe revealed itself to the mind of the child, thousands of years, of hundreds of life times, passed between that who is, and that which is to be. In that moment, the child, knew doubt for the first time since he started his journey to the holy mountian, "Am I worthy of such a position?".... And also, in that instant, Sharlar, fell quietly to sleep, eternal sleep. And there was the child, a child with the knowlege of generations, and a silent sleeping elder, who breathed no more.

With tears streaming down his face, the young Poet, did as his elder had asked. He found linnen in the nursery, and lovingly wrapped his elder within it. He carefully stitched the cloth, with great care, to seal him for the ages. He then, dug a grave for his elder, before the towering Hemlock, six feet, by three feet, by six feet deep, it took him nearly the entire day to accomplish. Somehow, from somewhere, this 60 pound child found the strength, to lift a one hundred eighty pound man gently into his resting place. From where this strength came the child did not know. He carefully burried him. All the while, with tears blurring his eyes. The man he had only known for a few moments, changed his life forever.

There was to be no marker, for, the passing of a Poet of Ismar, was of no consequence, what was of importance, was the passing of knowledge, the passing of inheritance, and that had been done.

Tired, hungry, islial collapsed beneath the Hemlock tree, and realized, for the first time, he had knowledge, great knowledge, he could recite the three hundred and fourty three names of all of the Poets before him. He knew each life intimately, as if they had been his own. He realized, they were his own, the bodies were dust, but his own body was a living retainer for a host of souls. He also realized that Sharlar was not gone, he was with him still, within himself, the spirit of Sharlar yet lived, and there was no further need for tears or grief, none at all. In those few reflective moments, the child became the NEW, the New Poet of Ismar.

The village of Habib is small, small but lovely, it is the place where Islial was born, and grew to be ten years of age, the age of ascention for the Poets of Ismar. Habib, in the native Ismarese, means golden light. The village is so named, because the small village sits by the Habib River, a river which contains small flecks of gold dust upon its banks, therefore, the translation of the name of the River, is... "The River Of Golden Light". Never before had a Poet been born at Habib, mostly, the Poets came from the great city, the city of Ishtar, the Capital of Ismar. But not so for this Poet, for these times were different, dangerous, they required a special child, and the gods knew this when they chose islial.

From the moment that Islial had been born, it was clear to the elders of the village, that this child was a chosen one, for he spoke from birth, and what he spoke was the holiest of holies, the Cantur, the central poem of Ismar. "There is no darkness great enough to drown but one candle".... were his first words, from the moment of birth. This is the first line of the Cantur of Ismar, the holy script of the Poets. His childhood was remarkable, as were all the childhoods, of all the Poets. He learned very very quickly, and learned with but one exposure, no need to repeat a lesson, ever, once was enough. His body developed as a childs body will, with nothing remarkable about him physically at all, except perhaps, there was no blemish, no birth marks, no wrinkles, he was a completely perfect form, not a remarkably pretty child, but, for his form, perfect onto itself. He was a very loving child, very spiritual, he would rather sit with the elders, and learn the poetry of Ismar, than play the games of children, with other children. This is not to say he did not play, for he did, and lustfully, he loved the ball games, the kicking and running of the ball, and he had several dear freinds, but his preferance was for the spirits, the gods, and thier great knowledge.

As was the tradition with the Poets, Islial was a tareen, which is to say, he prefered the company of boys and men, in things intimate. This was not abhorent to the people of Ismar, they simply accepted this preferance in thier children. Some children simply prefer the company of their own sex, it was of no matter to his parents, or to his village. Many of the tareen became priests, or doctors, adopting thier village, as one would adopt a child, for they would have no children of thier own, therefore they adopted everyone as an extended family, and cared for them all, as a grandfather would. Also, some of the tareen, would dress in the manner of the oposite sex, when a male did this, he was called a Shetatareen, and when a female did this, she was called a Histitareen. These poeple were highly loved and respected by the people, for they beleived that these people had the souls of both a male and female within them, and that they were holy. Islial was not a Shetatareen, for he desired to dress and act as a male, but, his best friend, Karlar, was a Shetatareen, and also was, very spiritual, Islial had already chosen him in his heart to be "The Second", someone who would take control of the mountain should he fall suddenly, without expectation.

So, Islial's young childhood proceeded without great tribulation, he was loved, by all the village, for they knew, he was to become the New at 10, they all knew this. He spent many happy days playing in the Golden Sands of the Habib River, with his dearest friend, Karlar. Karlar often came to sit with him, under the Great Ulala Tree, (Which is a pepper corn tree in our language), in the center of town, where the elders gathered each afternoon to discuss village business, and to teach the young. There were no formal schools in Ismar, the elders taught the children, in the afternoons only, the mornings being for village business, such as, digging a new well, or planning the paving of a road. After the children had played, and were restfull, they were ready for learning. This method of teaching is very effective, all children learned to read and write. Thier writing is most lovely, it is like the writing of the egyptians, a picture form of writing, so it is also a lesson in art as well. They learn mathematics too, all children learned the History of Ismar, and some of its poetry and great litterature. All under the patient loving hands of the elders, who were very very patient, and very loving to the children. Islial, stayed longer than the two hours required of children, for he wished to know the gods, the poetry of Ismar, all those things the elders could teach to him. All the while, the spirit of Sharlar, was with him, guiding him, from hundreds of miles away. Karlar, often stayed too, but not always, but he was well versed in the spiritual heritage of Ismar as well.

What may be iteresting to note, is that the calendar of Ismar is very different than the calendar of our world, thier week has ten days, with nine days of work, and one day of rest. So the children attended school for nine days straight, and only received one free day a week. SInce Ismar is a completely agricultural economy, they do not eat flesh, tending the fields takes much time, and effort, nine days is needed to care for their fields. Also, there are only two seasons in Ismar, the dry, and the wet, allowing them to grow three crops a year, there is no long winter, and it is a land of plenty.

Islial's "moment of awakening" occured when he was nine years old, and his friend, Karlar, was eleven. Playing with Karlar, on the sands of the Habib, they had taken off all thier clothes, rolled in the sands, and were covered with glittering gold dust. Karlar was just so lovely, covered in golden freckles, and Islial was greatly aroused. The two boys made love to each other, rolling on the golden sands of the Habib, the morning sun warming them, it was a lovely union, and a bonding between them, a bonding that would last a lifetime.

On Islials tenth birthday, there was a great party, the entire village was invited. They held the party under the great Ulala tree, for no house was big enough in the village to hold them all. Everyone came, Karlar, his beloved, dressed in his finest dresses, with bright silks, and many golden coins upon his bare brown chest, Karlar was now 12, at the very flower of boyhood, and he was lovely to Islial, lovely of soul. The High Elder, Careen, had hand made a fine walking stick for Islial, intricately carved, with a claw at its peak, and a perfectly carved sphere of the finest Ivory, the claw holding the sphere. How this man, was able to place a sphere inside the claw, amazed all the villagers, it was a great work of love and art. Islials father was a cobbler, a maker of shoes, and had made for Islial a set of very sturdy walking boots, they went all the way to his knees, to protect his calves from thorns and bushes on his journey. (Altho the Oh-me's did not kill or eat animals, when the animals died, they did use what was available, the skin for leather, the hoofs for glue, the horns they carved into cups or sewing needles, the hair and intestines they used for thread, but they did not eat the flesh, the flesh was burried, with the same love they burried thier own.)

It was a grand party, the grandest party the little village of Habib had ever seen. Many cakes, many sweet breads, many, many gifts, for the New... A minor elder, Dar, who was a lover of litterature, gave to Islial, what would become his most treasured possession. The Book of Ismar, a hand made scroll, beautifully written in the picture writing of Ismar, containing the complete Cantur, a poem of some two thousand lines. It was wrapped in a covering of bright red silk, and when Islial looked upon the Book Of Ismar, for the first time, he burst into tears, for here was all knowledge, here was all wisdom, and it had been given to him as a gift.

There was much dancing, much music, much meriment, and a great deal of consumption of the La, A wine made from the fruits of Ismar, not like any fruit we know, for its effects are not brutal, but gentle, and the flavor of the La is like that of a drink mixed with cherries, and pomegranite, a very nice flavor indeed. The tareen, old and young, danced with their Ishtareen, thier life partners. As did the Shaloreem, the ones who married, and have children. There was no distinction in the society of Ismar between the two, a union is a union, love is love, they accepted this without question. Islial, chose, obviously, Karlar, to be his dancing partner, and the love between them was celibrated by the village, not condemned. Islial gave the kiss of parting to Karlar, during their dances, many times, but Karlar knew, it was a parting of only a small time, for they had already promised to each other, the oath of the ages, they were Istareen, even at the tender ages of ten and twelve, they had promised each other this union. And it would be, for Oh-me's are a most moral people, they marry but once, and if the partner passes, they never marry again. In their time, they become elders, and the teachers of the children, in this way, they have love, not physical love, for thier love had passed, but love of the heart, the love of teaching, which is more than enough for an old man or woman.

It became very very late, and the Oh-me's retired to their homes, and Islial had all he needed for his journy. The book of Ismar, fine boots, a walking stick, a backpack, a heavy cloak to keep him warm, a brush pen and ink, in a lovely case of carved black stone, paper, food, a map, a skin for water. All he needed was provided by the people of Habib. Islial saw, beneath the Ulala tree, his love, Harlar, sleeping, most beautifullly, and snugled up against his love, they did not make love, they just snuggled, beneath the tree, and Islial feel to sleep, wraped around the one he loved, loved with all his heart.

The morning came, the sun warmed the two boys, and Harlar was awake and pensive....

I had a dream, Your are to be the POET, but... I am to be The Second...

Does my dream decieve me, or have you chosen me for this?

You are The Second my beloved.

Then I should go with you, I should leave to Char, far away, and protect you on your journey!

No, my love, I must go alone, but I will call you to me, soon, but the passing must be between me and Sharlar alone. There can be no witness of this, but... dear Harlar, I will call to you, and you will know when I call you, and you will come to me.

Yes Islial, YES, but, do not make me wait long, for I love you with all my heart.

It shall be Harlar, and many more things shall be as well, things I cannot tell you at this parting, but they shall be.

And Islial arose from his bed, the bed of leaves, from the great Ulala tree, and gathered his new things, things he would keep his whole life long, and kissed Harlar, a deep and passionate kiss. Then he turned, turned to the road of Kanmar, the road to Char.
Harlar watched his friend, his life long love, silently, afraid for his safety, but trusting to his wisdom. This is a road his love must travel alone, and he knew this in his heart. And the small frame of Islial became a small image, and that image became but a dot on the landscape, and then he disappeared from sight, and Harlar was much troubled, his love was upon a road of many hundreds of miles, and he would not be there to protect him, He weeped, he weeped for fear, fear of his friends safety, not for his own grief, and went home, to this parents, to await, "The Calling".

End Of Part One


Islial had only left his village once in his life, when he was seven, to the great city of Ishtar. He, and his parents, and his younger brother, traveled by ox cart, so they did not have to walk. Ishtar is about one hundred and sixty miles from Habib, so it was a journy of about a weeks time. Because they had a cart, a khent, and bedding, they had comfort. A khent, is an open walled tent, a traveling tent, it has six thin wooden poles, and canvas that forms a roof, to keep off the rain. So they were comfortable on their journy. This journey would be somewhat different, he may, stay at private homes, if they asked him, but he must not ask. He was a pilgrim, upon a holy journey, but, he was not to tell anyone who he was to be. The mountain of Char, was much further away, four hundred and ninety miles. He calculated in his head, that he could walk, twenty five miles a day. That would be about 19 or 20 days travel, nearly three weeks.

Sometimes he would have to sleep in the open, in the waste of Kur, where there is sand, and no Oh-me's lived, he would sleep in the open there. In the great forest of Ghateer, beyond Kur, few Oh-me's lived, but, the forest would protect him, and he would probably need to sleep in the open there. Beyond Ghateer, was the great plain, the plain of Rukar, much grains and rice came from there, there was a city there, Rukar, and thousands Oh-me's lived there. In the center of the plain, the plain of Rukar, was Char, the holy mountain. He knew this from the map that had been given to him. He had enough talkush to last him perhaps two weeks. Talkush, is a heavy bread, filled with nuts and dried fruit, it is very good, and very nutritious, half a loaf would keep you a day. The rest of the time, he would need to take what he needed from farms he passed, saving his talkush, for the wastelands and forest, there would be little, or nothing to eat. This was not a violation to Oh-me's, for they have a law, "The Law Of Hospitality". When an Oh-me is traveling, they may take what they need to live upon, from the farmers fields they passed. It is a law, all travelers are welcome to take what they needed. But there were places he would be traveling through, where there would be no farmers fields, and he must conserve his talkush, for those places.

Islial could hear the chanting of Sharlar, in his heart, he was calling to him, he needed him soon, and Islial knew this. He must not waste any time, no matter how lovely a he-oh-me may be, to stop and play, he must concentrate on his journy, and get to Char, as quickly as he could. These thoughts were with Islial, as he left his beloved, Karlar, and took his lonely journy to Char. Karlar was also in his heart, for soon, Karlar would need to make this journy too. After the ascention, after he was the Poet, he would call to Karlar, and he would come, to live with him at the Temple Of Char, and there, they would live their lives. Or so he thought. For fate, and time, would tell another story. Karlar would join him, this was his fate, but other things would come to pass as well.

The walking stick was lovely, and strongly made by a nobel crafsman. It could also be used as a weapon, a zatesh, to fend off wolves, or to strike a snake and throw it out of the way. Islial had learned the basics of how to use a zatesh, all children were taught this in Ismar, for wolves, rabid wolves, had killed many children. Therefore, a long stick, was taught to them, carefully, the art of zatesh, or zateeshkerin, was taught to all oh-mes, male and female, when as children. As long as one had a zatesh, they could fend off an animal attack, very effectively. You could kill with a zatesh, when properly trained in its use, very easliy, but you only killed, if absolutely necessary, as an act of defense. The maker of his walking stick knew this, and made his walking stick out of the wood of the saphir tree, a wood as strong as metal, a wood that did not rot, and very difficult to work. It took the craftsman nearly all of his youth, as a carpenter, to learn how to work such a hard, dense wood. So the walking stick was also a zatesh, and it had been designed so by the maker.

So Islial walked, walked the entire day, and it was a hot summers day, he stopped to drink water, from his water bag, several times.
His back pack was heavy, and dug into his shoulders, and hurt by the end of the day. He was deep beyond Habib now, on a lonely road, and there was a small village, perhaps 20 houses or so, before him. As Islial entered the gathering of houses, a small boy, of about 6 or 7, came up to him....

Greetings Pilgrim! Welcome to Zeeteem!!! Our humble village!!! Are you hungry?

Yes, I am, ansered Islial.

My name is Durlen, I come from that house there!

And the boy pointed to a fine house, a house made of brick and stone.

The boy continued... My mother is making the evening meal, would you honor our house with your presence?

These were the manners of the people of Ismar, to treat travelers with hospitality, to feed them, give them bedding, and welcome them into thier homes. It was considered an honor, to host a traveler, and thier house would be blessed by Bartar, the god of travelers in Ismar, and thier fields would prosper because of it. So the young boy, in inviting Islial to join his family for dinner, and spend the night, was not only a blessing for Islial, but a blessing onto the boys family as well, who were farmers.

Islial answered the boy.... My name is Islial, I am on a pilgramage, to the city of Rukar, and a little beyond. I would gladly accept your offer of hospitality.

The boy, Durlen, giggled coyly.

Oh... you have a long way ahead of you!!! Answered Durlen.

Are you Tareen? Asked the boy.

Yes I am... said Islial

Good, so am I, I am but one of two in my village, would you like to share my bed this night?

This was also an honor in the manners of Ismar, to offer a bed, was to offer yourself for lovemaking, even if you had a life partner, this was being polite, good manners, to love the boy, as a form of thanking him for his hospitality.

I would be honored to share your bed Durlen, honored and thankful !!!.... Answered Islial.

The boy, smiled, and hugged Islial fiercly.... He had great strength, at his young age, he also helped with the field work, as farmers sons do.

For a country home, the home of Durlen was very prosperous. They had many lights, many stands for candles, which were expensive, and much furniture, and fine plastered walls. There were many rooms, with plaster art on the walls, much as we use wallpaper, but in Ismar, all the paintings were done by hand. The home was more costly, than Islials own home, for cobblers, like Islial's father, were humble. Farmers with large fields, earned much money in Ismar, and it was apparent, this home, was the home of a prosperous family, with many fields.

As Islial entered the home of Durlen, there were many children, of all ages, playing a game, sitting on the floor, ten in all. Ten children to the home, eleven including Durlen, all children of this family. Off in a corner, was Durlen's father, Yalur, stuffing his pipe, and sitting in a fine chair, not noticing the pair had entered the home. He was a sturdy man, of perhaps 45, young by the standards of Imar, for people in Ismar lived well past a hundred, some to one hundred and fifty. Islials own father was sixty eight, middle aged in Ismar, this man was younger.

Father!!! Father!!! Durlen said as he tugged on his fathers sleeve.

I bring a pilgrim... a young pilgim, Islial, to bless our home!!!

Yalur, looked up from his pipe.

Well!!! By the blessing of Bartar!!! Welcome Islial!!! Are you thirsty?

Yes Honored sir, I am... Answered Islial.

Durlen, bring to Islial some fresh squeezed juice!!! And some Bread!!! Announced Yalur.

But not too much bread Durlen, we don't wish to spoil his dinner!!! Said Yalur.

Well Islial. Said Yalur. From where do you come, and to where are you going? Asked Yalur.

I Come from Habib, I am on my way to the great city of Rukar, and a little beyond. Answered Islial. (Being careful not to betray his mission, as his honor was involved.)

As Islial said this, Durlen skampered off to the kitchen, to do as his father had asked him. Happy in anticipation of sharing his bed with Islial. He rarely shared his bed, as the other boy tareen of the village, did not care for him very much, jealous of his families prosperity, he often used his attraction to Durlen, as a ransom, for a few coins. Tonight would be different however, tonight he would love Islial with no mention of coins, he would love him freely, without the cloud of ransom.


This is the end of the first week, I have added more
Next week I will continue to add more

D. Lewis Aster-Rose