Too long has bringing New Urbanism to Bexgate been merely a dream. Now, at last, the dream is in motion - in motion to Thistlecity! A dream becomes a sketch, then a plan, then rises from the ground of the fens into reality at Theodore's bidding. First, a mansion for the architect and builder, who needs a place to rest with all this hard work. Next, a bakery fit to glorify the Real God in its grandeur, productivity and profitability.
To be productive, a bakery needs workers, and workers need housing, services, community and walkable urban planning. Unfortunately Ren hasn't even started developing any of these things on their many plots, so for now a tram link into Bexgate proper will have to do. The march of progress cannot wait for the unambitious. Until that glorious day when Thistlecity becomes whole, the workers flow in and the cookies flow out. The workers also flow out when their shifts end; they're not stuck here.
DISGRACED PROFESSOR RESIGNS
Valentine Rinaldi, Gao Yitong Chair of Music and Aesthetics at the University of Wesmarch, announced his resignation today. The announcement comes after weeks of pressure from students, politicians, and the university administration following allegations that Rinaldi fabricated much of his recent autobiographical book. Multiple sources close to the Bexgate Crisis allege that the claims made in Rinaldi’s autobiography, The Weight of the World: How One Artist Defeated the Commission, radically overstated his involvement in the crisis. One source who was present at St. Renagi’s and who has asked to remain anonymous told reporters that “Va[lent]ine R[inald]i is a liar and a fraud, which is a much less offensive career than his attempts at being an artist. I would buy all of his books to have the pleasure of burning them, but I would not want to risk accidentally touching them. He is a very bad sir!” (Cont. on page 8)
Theod-oh, my!
In this changing world, tradition is valuable. We all need something upon which we can rely. That’s why, at the Theodoreo Manufacturing Co., we keep baking our delicious biscuits the traditional way. First, we collect the finest Wesmarch wheat and bring it to our factory in Thistlecity, Bexgate. Then, we add the finest Wesmarch niacin, Wesmarch thiamine mononitrate, and Wesmarch high fructose corn syrup. Then we throw the assembled ingredients away and create the Theodoreos directly by means of damned Hexcraft. That’s how we ensure a perfect biscuit, every time.
(Promotion paid for by the Theodoreo Manufacturing Co.)
Further off in the fens, should you wander there in your travels, there sits a humble yet heart-fillingly peaceful chapel. Beside it there stands a tall willow tree, and besides that babbles a millstream. Besides that is a small wheat field. Besides all of these things, there is a homely little shack. And besides the shack… there stand gravestones. Theodoric Thistlethwaite. Thorsten Thistlethwaite. Thorin Thistlethwaite. A lineage of no-relations, re-buried on truly sanctified ground, and in one of the few plots not owned by a certain Mx Ren Calendar.
From Glory to the Real God!: Theodore Thistlethwaite and the New Gnosticism:
Theodore Thistlethwaite had long been an intellectual believer in Gnosticism, but eventually, there came the moment he truly felt the Real God's presence, in his heart of hearts, as he had long been urging others to do. The Real God is in everything - on this Pantheists and Absolute Gnostics are heartily agreed - and Theodore ultimately came to a realisation of the significance of this. The fens he had once tried to enclose and drain, before his fateful facksing of the deeds to Wren Kalen in exchange in for Much Gold, were not his fens, but God's. The wealth he had generated from the work done by others in the bakery was not his wealth, but God's; the bakery was God's too. And God is in us all. Thistlethwaite Manor and the Bakery were left to those who had worked there, to build a new community (though a small one, housed as it is in two buildings) if they so wished. It is now run as a co-operative enterprise, providing much sustenance to Bexgate.
Theodore is today known as the holiest of the Real God's faithful, his example of kindness and hospitality standing in stark contrast to the persecutory zeal of the Commission (and, some whisper, of Theodore's early fumblings towards true faith). In reference to his past, some jokingly term him 'the CEO of Gnosticism', a label his supporters disown as an insult to the humble, good-natured man, respectful of others' differences, who is always ready with a freshly-baked loaf or pie and a merry 'good sir!', to any traveler on the way.
Theodore is, of course, not the only notable inhabitant of the fens. The re-publication of Winston Lay's magnum opus, Where the Butterflies Go, has inspired an interest in the place that often rises to ecstatic and quasi-religious heights. Lay is himself a sought-after dispenser of wisdom, both for his practical knowledge of fenland survival and for his variant of Pantheism, termed 'Butterfly-Walking'. And there are, of course, rumours of a more elusive inhabitant: the Witch of the Woods, sometimes identified with a vanished participant in the Bexgate Crisis, Adonna Carrel.
Winston and Gerard - Wesley and Gerald, rather - are frequent visitors. Wesley is an admirer of the path you've taken - so like the one he took long ago, he claims. Gerald, the old soldier with whom Theodore fought in many a battle, as a Knight of the Green Rose in ancient times, now says he finds nothing more restful than spending time in the chapel. Wesley feels the same beauty in things that Theodore does, but believes that the False God was the Real God, now dispersed back into everything. Gerald feels it too, and Theodore believes he is coming closer to feeling it as the presence of the Real God. He allows them their own paths, as he does all his visitors.
Farrel arrives at one point, with Miss Thorney: they seem to be betrothed. Farrel says she is glad Theodore is not burning things anymore. Both enjoy his bread.
Sometimes, once a year if that, he has seen Ren, the owner of the fens, wandering them too. Sometimes they have visited him and thanked him for leaving the fens as they are, although since they are their owner it seems that they should be thanking themself. Other times, they have been too enthralled by their beauty to notice.
Theodore lives a long time; longer, if he really thinks about it, than he had quite expected himself to. He puts his longevity down to his piety. Eventually, though, he grows tired. He feels his mind is not quite what it once was, and there seems little more for him to do. He decides to pass his duties on.
Theodore chooses his successor as his father chose him: meritocratically. Followers have come and gone; there are many who have followed their paths to Theodore's chapel, and some have found that that is the end of their road.
One of these was a friend of Gerald and his child, Morrigan. Marian, Theodore thinks she's called. She worked with Gerald in organising books and documents, correcting the False God's lies. But she has wanted to find the way to her own truth, and like Gerald, she found it in the peace of the chapel. She is excellent at baking the dough and caring for the strangers. She is not young, but Theodore is much less-young; there will be time for her, too, to find a successor.
After explaining his plan, Theodore bakes a final loaf, and has her kneel, dubbing her gently on each shoulder with it.
'Arise, Miriam Thistlethwaite, of the House of the Green Rose, of the Bread of the Real God, of the Chapel by the Willow Tree. Daughter of Theodore Thistlethwaite (no relation).'
She arises and smiles.
And then Theodore Thistlethwaite, father of Miriam Thistlethwaite, son of Theodoric Thistlethwaite (no relation), son of Thorsten, son of Thorin, sits down by the babbling stream and enters his final meditation. Attuned to the Real God within himself, he dreams complex dreams in which a city with dreaming spires keeps recurring. Is this the Real Heaven? The dreams are so vivid that it comes to seem as though the life Theodore left behind was the real dream. Is it the Real God who is dreaming? Is it Theodore? Is there really, any more, any difference?
Like Theodore, we dream ourself back into the World.