Creation Genesis – The Sixth Day

Secret Annex
Recorded by Brother Wyn of Caermynach, Anno Domini 918
Known As: The Sixth Day, Y Chweched Dydd
Date of Events: The Sixth Day of Creation (Anno Mundi 1, spanning ages beyond measure)
Status: Preserved with utmost caution, concerns unauthorised creation

The sixth day is already set down in the first account and lacks nothing required for faith. The earth brought forth living creatures according to their kind. Cattle, beasts, and creeping things received form and the breath of life. Humanity also entered the world, shaped in the image of God and set within it with charge.

What follows marks where strain first appeared, and how it was answered before it was understood.

The Word as Heard

The land had not yet settled from the loss that came before. Across valley and plain lay the bodies of the great beasts raised earlier, broken where they had fallen. Stone lay where it had struck, ground where it had torn, and the sea still carried its reach farther than it had learned to keep. Those who stood near could not say what force had passed through.

Brenin Fawr moved among the remains and did not speak at first. When he did, he turned toward Cadarn and remained there until the others had passed beyond hearing. He asked whether it had been God, why such destruction would be permitted, and whether the beasts had been too great for the vineyard as it then stood.

Cadarn did not answer him with words. He stood where he was, his weight set, his gaze held, and when he replied it was with delay rather than explanation.

Ysgar stood apart and saw only that Brenin had turned elsewhere, and that the space between father and favoured son had closed without him. He did not speak. The moment passed.

Brenin returned to the work and kept to a single account. He said the beasts had been too great for the land that bore them, and that what had fallen had fallen by necessity rather than by judgment. Others offered different reckonings, but he did not turn toward them, and from that hour he spoke less.

Early in the day, before the labour had settled into its course, a word was spoken to those set to the shaping, given without emphasis and without pause.

The pattern had been shown for those who would bear the image of God.

Nothing further was spoken, and no space was kept for hearing more.

Brenin Fawr received the word as assurance. He had carried the pattern through the long forming of the world, holding it in mind while others laboured by portion and by task, and he took it that the pattern lay where its weight had been borne longest, holding that what had failed before was a matter of execution rather than purpose.

When the command came that the earth was to bring forth the living creature according to its kind, the work resumed its familiar order. Bodies were shaped and set upon the ground, and life entered them. Oxen rose steady on their feet. Wolves moved out with lowered heads and quick steps. Smaller creatures scattered across land still finding its balance, and Brenin no longer stood back once a form was complete, but moved on at once, as if the space between workings no longer held weight.

Between shapings, his thought returned to the pattern first shown to him, a form that stands upright, with hands that grasp, eyes that face forward, and a frame ordered toward purposes beyond the beasts.

What Was Shaped

He shaped without leave, and the work pressed on without the stillness that had once marked his craft.

For their souls, he drew from the life given to the herds, and souls shaped for following and keeping close entered the upright forms prepared for them.

What resulted did not settle cleanly. They carried burdens and learned simple tasks, working beside others with a manner that rose above instinct, yet faltering where judgment was required, so that more than one stood holding a tool without knowing where to place it, remaining still beyond the moment that had called for action.

Brenin watched them with approval. What had failed in size now endured through number, and what had fallen under its own weight now stood ready to serve. He said that the pattern had answered at last. No one answered him.

Cadarn came to him while his attention lay among the upright forms. Brenin stood watching them move under burden, noting where they learned and where they stalled, and he did not turn when Cadarn first spoke. When Cadarn spoke again, he said there was light in the eastern expanse.

Brenin replied that the work before him would not wait, that the world yet required order, and that what he had made would serve that need. Cadarn said only that the light was not of labour.

Brenin turned his far-sight eastward, and the span between places folded, so that what lay before him held the weight of days, though the glance itself did not lengthen, and Eden stood whole within its bounds.

He saw the man first, moving without instruction, setting his hands to what lay near, shaping briefly, setting it aside, and returning again later without urgency.

Then he saw the woman, standing at the edge of a pool where the water lay still, kneeling and watching her own face move where the surface broke, remaining there with her posture unchanged and her gaze held.

The garden shifted around them. Adam paused. Eve lifted her head. The air altered its course, and the ground seemed to hold more closely what stood upon it. No form appeared, and no voice was heard.

Brenin did not see God. He saw the trace of a nearness he had never known.

When the span closed and Eden fell away, Brenin stood again among his own making and did not speak for a time. The servants he had shaped stood near, steady and obedient.

Then he set his weight and turned from them, and his gaze fell to Cadarn.

He said that the end of their labour was service, and that this had been the reward from the beginning. The vineyard was not theirs to inherit, only to keep, and the image it sheltered would never answer to those who had raised it.

He said they were set no higher than the upright servants at his feet, shaped for obedience and spared the knowledge of loss, which alone set them apart.

He laid his charge upon his heir and told him to call the Ancient Ones, for there were matters that could no longer be set aside.

Final Entry

The breaking did not begin in the councils beyond time nor in the struggles that followed, but here, when questioning was steadied too soon and certainty took its place.

Brenin judged the loss of his earlier work and his later shaping as matters of justice wrongly set, and he took what he had seen as preference rather than purpose. These judgments guided him through the ages that followed.

Creation stood complete in form and divided in intention. Authority did not rise from labour, nor inheritance from effort.

I keep this record to show how rebellion takes hold, when waiting is refused and grief is given a story strong enough to carry pride, but too weak to bear what is true.