I just finished reading this book series called The Dark is Rising, but Susan Cooper. In a sentence, its a good vs. evil fantasy series, with heavy references to King Arthur. There are many things that the kids involved have to do along the way to save the world from the last rising of The Dark. One is to capture a sword to be wielded by Bran, the Pendragon (pronounced Braawn, those crazy welsh), whose crafting is described below to Bran and Will (both around 11 years old, but have the task of being major parts of these quests for The Light to save the world from The Dark). The reason I’m posting is I think this description about despair is sooo eloquent. Its kind of a long bit, but I think it speaks to something a lot of people deal with, especially those that create anything. I’m still struggling with how to fight it off, but this description made me understand that a) its ‘of the dark’ and b) what it even is, because despair can be hard to describe.
Gwion smiled at him. “Ah, Sign-Seeker,” he said gently. “Long, long ago in the Lost Land, forgotten by all its people now, there was the beginning of that gold-linked chain of yours, iron and bronze and water and fire … And at the last, a craftsman of this land made the great sword Eirias for the Light.”
Bran said, tense, “Who made it?”
“It was made by one who was close to the Light,” Gwion said, “but who was neither a Lord of the Light nor one of the Old Ones – there were none such, bred in this land… He was the only one who had the skill to make so great a wonder. Even here, where many are skilled. A great craftsman, unparalleled.” He spoke with a slow reverence, shaking his head in wonder, remembering. “But the Riders of the Dark, they could roam freely through the land, since we had neither desire nor reason to keep any creature out – and when they heard that the Light had asked for the sword, they demanded that it should not be made. They knew, of course, that words already long written foretold the use of Eirias, once it was forged, for the vanquishing of the Dark.”
Will said, “What did he do, the craftsman?”
“He called together all the makers in the land,” Gwion said. He tilted his head a little higher. “All those who wrote or brought life to others’ words or music, or who made beautiful things. And he said to them, I have this work in me, I know it, that will be the peak of everything I can ever make or do, and the Dark is trying to forbid me to do it. We may all suffer, if I deny them their will, and I cannot therefore be responsible alone for deciding. Tell me. Tell me what I should do.”
Bran was gazing at him. “What did they say?”
“They said, You must make it.” Gwion smiled, proudly. “Without any exception. Make the sword, they said. So he went away into a place of his own, and made Eirias, and in a land of wonders it was the most wonderful and powerful thing that had ever been made. And the fury of the Dark was very great, but impotent, for the Dark Lords knew that they could neither destroy a work created for the Light, nor steal it, nor bring any… harm to its creator.”
He feel silent, gazing out at the misted horizon.
“Go on,” Bran said urgently. “Go on!”
Gwion sighed. “So the Dark did a simple thing,” he said. “They showed the maker of the sword his own uncertainty and fear. Fear of having done the wrong thing – fear that having done this one great thing, he would never again be able to accomplish anything of great worth – fear of age, of insufficiency, of unmet promise. All such endless fears, that are the doom of people given the gift of making, and lie always somewhere in their minds. And gradually, he was put into despair. Fear grew in him, and he escaped from it into lethargy – and so hope died, and a terrible paralyzing melancholy took its place. He is held by it now, he is held captive by his own mind. He, and the sword Eirias that he made, with him. Despair holds him prisoner, despair, the most terrible creation of all. For in great men, the mind can produce giant spectres of great power. And King Gwyddno is a great man.”
