Prologue of the Inscrutable Ways of Fate
For some time, I have shared the prologue to the Inscrutable Ways of Fate across social media, a fragment of the literary fantasy series Divine Tragicomedy. Though this may seem like treading familiar ground, I wish to delve into this latest iteration and illuminate the intentions woven into the story’s opening.
Let me first address the feedback from beta readers, some of which has been disheartening. This article is not a rebuke to their perspectives but an endeavour to unpack elements of the prologue labelled “incomprehensible” or “boring” by some.
Divine Tragicomedy was never crafted to bend to contemporary whims or court mainstream acclaim. My ambition, shared with my wife Raine Stonewall, is to resurrect the splendour of language, the fire of imagination, and the shadowed depths of human psychology in storytelling. These aims stand in defiance of the modern penchant for simplicity, omission, and frenetic narratives—a path we shun with purpose.
The Prologue’s Intent
Unlike many fantasies, whether modern or classic, the Inscrutable Ways of Fate does not unfurl with clashing swords or a hero’s summons. Instead, we encounter Jordan, a secondary figure who has faltered in faith and forsaken his dreams. Returned to his remote elven village, he languishes in quiet discontent, a teacher for fifteen years, his life a tapestry of unfulfilled yearning. Jordan is neither heroic nor tragic; he is ordinary, a state many know but few embrace without shame.
His depression seeps into his slumped posture, his clinging to faded memories, and his solace in the hip flask’s spirits. That such a man moulds young minds is a disquieting thought, yet more unsettling still are the reactions of beta readers, particularly those in their twenties and thirties.
Here are some quotes of their feedback: “So what? Plenty of people grind through boring jobs, teachers included. Why should I care about such average guy? He’s not fighting some huge battle or standing out in any way. He is not even a gay! What’s the big deal about him?”
These responses reflect a broader shift in reader preferences, favouring characters who stand out through exceptionality or identity. Yet, Jordan’s ordinary struggles invite us to find meaning in the familiar.
In an age of democracy and individualism, the new generation of readers gravitates toward characters who dazzle with difference, exceptionality, or identities defined by gender or orientation. I can only hope this sample of beta readers does not herald the majority, for the tales crafted to sate today’s masses will shape the scribes and readers of tomorrow.
A Clash of Perspectives
Within the prologue, Jordan’s disillusionment collides with the fervent enthusiasm of children, hungry for tales of the demigod Great Mage Gwyddion. In their mediaeval world, bereft of internet or TV, where reading and writing are not common skills, and books rare commodity; most of their knowledge comes from folklore, passed down orally. Such stories are their only escape from their mundane lives.
Though Jordan possesses the skill of literacy, he finds no joy in sharing it. The children, in their youthful naivety, spurn the subtle craft of storytelling, craving instead tales of violence, war, and even vile acts like rape— by the thrill of transgression and triumph, yet blind to the weight of such deeds. Sheltered in their quiet village, they know naught of these darker truths, rendering their world a grey and uninspiring veil.
Their impatience with Jordan’s oft-told rendition of Gwyddion’s saga mirrors the beta readers’ discontent with the prologue. Both—the children and certain readers—seek swift gratification through action-laden tales, wielding fantasy as an escape from lives safe yet unfulfilling. This parallel underscores why Divine Tragicomedy is crafted for adult readers: those who have shed the self-centred lens of youth, borne disappointments akin to Jordan’s, and possess the maturity to savour introspective challenges and the slow unravelling of truth.
The Language of the Soul
The prologue’s prose is deliberately rich, a homage to the depth of classic literature. I reject the notion that simplicity can ensnare the full spectrum of human experience. A shattered heart, the shadowed corridors of mental affliction, the sting of lost confidence, or the tremor of fear—these cannot be distilled into plain words without losing their essence. Nor can love, nature, or the miracles of existence, both grand and minute, be reduced to mere syllables. Life, like art, is a vibrant spectrum, not a monochrome sketch, and my craft reflects this truth.
In an age where many languish in monotonous cycles, seeking extremes for stimulation—much like a craving for fast food or saccharine sweets—Divine Tragicomedy offers no such fleeting balm. Instead, it seeks to illuminate these hungers, to hold a mirror to the soul. The prologue serves as a threshold, inviting only those readers prepared to linger in its vision, to trace its threads with patience.
Jordan’s closing utterance, “Boring or not, every tale has a beginning,” is our missive to the reader. The Inscrutable Ways of Fate unfolds at its own measured pace, not to flood the heart with transient thrills but to mend its wounds and kindle its spirit—if the reader permits. Such healing demands time, a virtue we cherish.
Here is an excerpt from the prologue:
“Master Jordan!” A little elven girl’s shrill cry sliced through his gloom. “Tell us about the Great Mage Gwyddion, please!”
He took another swig, the flask’s silver glinting dully in the dim light.
“Pleaseee!” her younger brother piped up, voice a bright echo.
Jordan dipped his head, ash-blond hair veiling his face, and let out a weary sigh. “So be it, you’ve swayed me,” he murmured, his lips curling wryly.
In their shining eyes, he glimpsed the unshakable belief in tales of heroism and adventure. The same innocence he had once possessed—before the world had scoured it away, leaving him only to envy them.
He drew a ragged breath. “In days of yore,” he began, voice tinged with mock gravity, “Mighty Mother Nature graced this earth with a being fated to tread the path of both a great hero and dishonourable felon.” His tone shifted to sardonic. “From a mighty oak he was born, and thus he was bestowed with the name—”
A groan from the oldest boy cut him short. Beside him, a pigtailed girl pouted, big eyes flashing.
“That’s boring!” she whined. “Not the oak tree again! Speak of the war—the First Great War! The part where he raped yon maiden!”
Jordan’s jaw tightened at the crude demand, but he said nothing.
“Or when he clashed in the Battle of the Trees!” another child burst out, bouncing on his heels.
“Or how the Lady of the Water Hole bound him in her spell!” cried a ginger-haired lad, voice ringing with glee.
The children swivelled to face him as one.
“That was another mage!” the pigtailed girl snapped, her brother leaping to her defence.
“Thou art a dull sprout!” he shouted in his grandmother style.
“Sneezewort!” the ginger elf shot back a flowery curse word.
“Enough!” Jordan’s voice cracked like a whip, frayed by frustration. He froze, eyes raking over their expectant faces. Can they see it? he wondered, a grimace twisting his features. A broken man, clutching at the ashes of a fool’s dream?
“A ghrian, blàth sinn,” he intoned the words in their native tongue—the language they had preserved for generations despite living miles from the Green Isles, the elven homeland. His left hand rose in a fluid arc, the gesture necessary for this spell—something he had learned during his studies at the Capitolium. Now, it was a feeble attempt to reclaim control.
A shimmering warmth unfurled through the schoolroom, wrapping the children in a sudden, soothing calm. Their squabbles faded into silence, as if the very air had stilled at his command.
Narrowing his eyes, he fixed them with a hard stare. “Boring or not,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “every tale has a beginning.”
I invite you, fellow seekers of depth, to share your reflections on Jordan’s tale in the comments below or via direct correspondence. Have you known a moment of quiet disillusionment, or felt the pull of stories that linger rather than rush? Your insights enrich this literary pilgrimage
Yours Truly,
Nathaniel Wonderful
Author
nathanielwonderful@gmail.com
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