Chapter 12: Sandstorm

Sandstorms are dangerous creatures. The creep out of nowhere, and envelope whole towns in the clouds of dust. Thick and massive spectacles, they block out the sun, and choke the life from anyone unfortunate enough to be caught on the open. We happened to be the more fortunate, Gael and I, as we were pulled indoors by two pairs of strong, massive hands.

“Tourists!” a voice behind me proclaimed.

“Fools.” Agreed the other.

It appeared to be a shop of some sort, the walls lined linens and shining mirrors linked together by webs of silky strands, the ceilings obscured by hammered copper lamps of various sizes. It seemed cramped, and cobbled together, the doors repaired many times over. One of the men, almost double my size in both height and girth, his head shaved and tanned by the hot sun, reached for the thick woven curtains tied up over the door, and pulled them down over the opening, tying them to posts hammered into the ground. He then strode towards Gael, who started back, clearly intimidated by his form.

“Careful, Ben. You’re scaring the customers.” A woman emerged from behind another set of curtains, from the back of the room. Her face was round and beautiful, and dark curling hair framed her smoldering eyes. She had the look of someone both cunning and wise, and although she appeared to be no more than thirty, something in those eyes seemed ancient.

“Thank you.” I turned to the man behind me, “For helping us in here. We’ve never seen a sandstorm before.”

The woman laughed, and pleasant lines wrinkled her forehead and nose. “That’s quite obvious, judging by the looks of you.”

“We’ve only just arrived here, and don’t plan on staying long. We need to get into the library.” Gael spoke only to the woman, carefully avoiding the gaze of the two men. For a soldier, he was easily intimidated, I thought, though perhaps it was something else.

“Not many allowed in there.” Ben replied. He then grinned at Gael, and extended a hand towards the curtain. “No one will be going anywhere, however, until after this storm. Come, we’ll have a meal. Sali is a good cook.”

Gael smiled at the woman, believing the compliment was directed to her, when the other man cleared his throat. “I’m Sali. She’s Mira.”

Gael colored lightly, and I smirked at him. Elbowing him as I followed Sali,we made our way to the back rooms. Climbing down a set of stairs, we entered a large, subterranean kitchen, the ceilings low, floor strewn with pillows for seats.

“We sleep above the store, except when the storms come. Then we stay down here.” Mira gestured for us to sit as she spoke. “Of course, it isn’t much, and the light is dim, but I suppose it cannot be helped.”  A sound from above briefly drew out attention away from the room; a scraping sound of wood against stone.

“How often do the sandstorms come?” Gael asked.

“It’s becoming more frequent now; no doubt the Birdmen are angry at us about something.”

“The Birdmen?” I remembered seeing the strange, beaked man just before the storm.

“Don’t know much history, do you?” Ben chuckled.

“Don’t give her a hard time; they’re not from around here.” Sali placed a plate of flat breads, hot from the oven, down in front of us on the low table.

“We know a little.” Gael came to my defense. “Just, we don’t really know them. Stories grow when they travel.”

“Well, there is a story we tell our children, maybe that will explain them enough for the two of you.” Mira brought over a pitcher of tea and four glasses. Ben had already taken his glass, and had nearly finished it. He nodded to her, and began.

Long ago, the people of Poul founded the cities of Yinaa and Pesha.  The land surrounding these settlements was dry and barren, but there by the coast, was an oasis.  The beaches were heavy with the prized salt, and the trees were made of spice.  The land was similar to our own, and we tamed it.  But we were not alone.  Out of the desert came the Birdmen.  Cloaked in black despite the heat, their faces long and beaked, they came quietly at first, watching us as we watched them.  We feared these strange creatures, and built our defenses heavy to keep them from the twin cities.  But still, they came, and conquered.

The birdmen have magics; they control the wind, the heat.  The desert bows to them.  They commanded  the oasis to grow, and just as they built it, they destroyed it also.  We had no protection from what they brought.  With heat and sandstorm, they brought diseases strange to us.  The city of Yinaa fell, and we were forced to retreat.  But Pesha remained our port.

The birdmen stayed in Yinaa, but watched us still in Pesha, not hindered.  We were forced to meet them, to bargain for our lands.  The birdmen promised that if we stayed in Pesha, they would destroy us.  We were no match for them.  But one agreement was reached, Pesha could be our port, if they controlled the spice.  So they took the green from us, and left us in dust.  Spice comes from the desert now; we have not seen that new oasis.  Some have said it lies in the valley of the great river, but none alive have seen it.  And still the birdmen reign, like specters of the desert.  Only the brave ones pass into birdmen territory.

“But they still come here, to the city?” I asked.

“It is rare to see them, but they do, on occasion, pass through here.” Sali looked to Mira, as if gesturing to something secret.

“The Birdmen should be feared, but the fear should come from respect.  They are Old Ones.” Mira smiled at me. “It is rare to see them now because so many have forgotten that. They do not trust us.  Once we learn to respect them, I believe these storms may pass, and they may come back to this city.”

“They trust Mira.” Ben said, after a moment.  He had poured himself another glass of tea, and was balancing it on one knee; the cup appeared too hot to grasp. “Mira’s done business with the Birdmen; they all come to her.” He winked at her.

“Well, it’s a bit more than that.” Mira nodded, and smiled at us. She rose from the table, and walked towards the stairs, peering up into the darkness above, listening to the wind howling and battering the buildings.  Speaking as if to the wind itself, she added,

“I lived with them, once. But that was a long time ago.”

Chapter 11: Pesha

There is an earlier version of this some way back, but we’ve finally reached this part of the story, so this is the latest version. Mar and Gael have just left Mayrincourt and have arrived in Pesha, the Port City of Marakas.  They’re here in hopes of learning more about their quest; both where the next artefact is located, and how to retrieve the one on Mayrincourt.  Again, this is unedited, so there may be mistakes and/or typos.  Feel free to comment.

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I had thought Adrina was crowded, but in comparison to Pesha, it was nothing.  Stepping of the boat, we were greeted by a barrage of activity; shouts from street vendors, the late afternoon crowd of shoppers, even the air was overpowering with the scent of spice.  Gael pulled me through the crowd by the sleeve of my shirt, his fingers pinching the cloth tightly.  The crowds seemed to make him nervous, and he moved with a swiftness that suggested a longing for open air.

The crowded streets seemed far narrower than they were.  Cloth dangled from windows, drying in hot air, and the market stalls teetered precariously, bending over the street.  Scraps of wood were nailed across the top in a mismatched manner, to obscure the harsh light of the sun, creating strange patterns in the dust.  Somewhere ahead of us, a vendor was roasting meat on a spit, the smoke billowing around us, making the air feel thin and hot.  I stifled a cough, covering my mouth with my scarf.

Gael hadn’t spoken much since Mayrincourt.  Somehow, that cheerfulness had left, and it had been replaced by an almost protective distance; as if he wished to close himself away.  I did not know what exterior I projected, but inside I felt more that a little longing for home.  Nothing about this trip had been what we expected, and I missed the calm and quiet of Knell more than I would ever say.  But something else stirred inside as well, a sort of feeling of exhilaration.  The danger that we had faced  left me with a feeling that until that moment, we hadn’t really lived.  It left me wanting more, although the thought of that frightened me more than the danger itself.

Gael’s mood lightened dramatically when he found what he was looking for.  A large, whitewashed building was set away from the street, down a gated corridor.  It clashed sharply with the buildings around it; an elegant beauty among the teetering shops and stalls. The walls curved upwards into a dome, and a large gold sphere punctuated the top point. The whole thing seemed to glow in the sun.  Two guards stood sentry at the gate, leaning against the wall, fanning themselves with their hats.

“What is this place?”

“That,” Gael pointed to the building, “is the Grand Library.  I thought it would be a good place to start.”

“Huh.” I said, in a mocking tone, “a library.  Wouldn’t have pegged you for a reader.”  He swatted my arm playfully, and gave me his signature half grin.

“You said we needed to know more about Mayrincourt, and the other artefacts.  Well, here’s the perfect place.  I’m sure they have more information here than we’ll ever need.” He pulled me to the gate, eyeing the guards.

I turned to him to speak, but the words stuck firmly in my mouth as my eyes met the figure behind him.  Swaddled in a fine black gauze which billowed around its spindly form, its strangely colored eyes shone from beneath the drapes of cloth.  The color was unlike any I had seen, and I had no word with which to call it.  But, more startling was its long, beak-like nose.  I reached a hand to Gael’s shoulder, half falling into him in an attempt to draw his attention to the beast, but the moment my eyes had turned from the creature to Gael, it disappeared into a gust of dusty wind.  Startled, and curious, I grabbed Gael, pulling him back into the street, searching for the figure.

“A birdman.” The words came out as a whisper. I wasn’t sure if Gael had even heard me, since he looked at me with a puzzled expression, so I spoke louder.  ”I saw a Birdman.  Right there.”

Gael looked to where I had pointed, as I walked towards one of the stalls.  The crowds had thinned in the moments that had passed, and that strange figure was nowhere in sight.  I turned back to Gael, shaking my head in frustration.

And then, from all around us, came the screams.  A sandstorm approached.

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Chapter 10: Moonlight on the White Lady

A brief interlude between Mayrincourt and Pesha.  I hadn’t planned this, but I figured it might seem odd having Gael and Mar just arrive in Pesha after Mayrincourt.

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The great ship rocked back in worth in a lulling motion, soothing the bulk of its passengers into a deep sleep. In the early hours of the morning, neither Gael nor I could sleep. Silently, we lay on the deck, staring up at the sky. The air was cool, and the stars shone brightly above us; a sort of peacefulness that we had forgotten existed on the island.

We had been lucky to catch the ship, known as The White Lady, as neither of us had wanted another night in Mayrincourt.  Ships passed by the outer islands daily, but few stopped to pick up strangers.  Gael had shouted for a good ten minutes at the boat, as we sat in the rickety old rowboat before they lowered a rope to pull us aboard. In two days we would be in Pesha, and until then we had decided to spend more time with Lord Betram’s journals.  Not only did it require multiple readings , but it appeared we would have a bit of research to do before rushing into another one of his tests.  Maybe then, we would have more luck in finding the artefacts.

It is hard to imagine a more beautiful sight than the dawn, coloring the dark sea with sparks of light. We didn’t need words. The sight was enough. When we reached Pesha, then maybe the worries could creep back into our lives, but until then, we were children exploring the world, testing the light as if it were the first time.  That night made me recall other nights spent with Gael, looking up at the sky, many when we were so much younger.  It was nights like those that we had dreamed of adventure, and only now did I realize how little we both understood about that.  There was so much below the surface, waiting to be discovered.

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“Mom, she stole my book! Again!”

Two nights ago, trying to forget the day, I picked up an old favorite to read, thinking it would be a good escape. I still remember when I first read Sabriel, by Garth Nix, and it never fails to pull me in.  In fact, I remember passing it around to friends; and even my sister, six years younger, loved it.  So, opening the book, I noticed some writing inside the cover.  I must have been very concerned about losing the book, despite its tattery paperback cover, because I had written my name and address inside, darkened with a sharpie.  But the funniest part was what my sister had written.  Clearly desirous of my book, she had written “and Ruth” multiple times in the cover in pencil.  And clearly annoyed, I had tried to erase it, with no luck.

I got a kick out of it, and told my sister on the phone (she’s now in college).  We laughed about it for a good ten minutes.  It’s funny how something that was so annoying as a child could become such a trivial, and perhaps funny, thing.  I guess I’ll have to buy her a copy.

The dream of destruction

“I’ve had this reoccurring dream, ever since I was a little boy.  I’m here, in Mend, the original  city of Mend that is. It’s newly founded; the buildings are all made of wood.  They’re crude, primative structures, build with skill but not much by way of resources.  It’s twilight and the people are all in the streets, again, just a crude thing, a dirt path.  The people are all shouting and some are hurling rocks into the sky — because the sky is attacking.  It’s raining down fire and ash, falling on the houses, burning the place to the ground.

I run away from the fires raining down, out into the open field, away from all the people.  The fire doesn’t follow me, it is focused only on the city.  I run through the field and towards the forest beyond, stopping only when I reach the edge of the forest, protected by the canopy.  From a distance, the lights slow, hovering over and around the city, streaking down to the ground from the heavens above. From my spot, I can still hear the screams. It is horrifyingly beautiful.” — [Atnes Lune]

That passage describes the vivid dreams of Atnes, a writer living in Dorah, who writes mainly about the history of Duryim.  He’s an interesting figure, popular and fairly mainstream, but not regarded as one of the greater literary minds of Duryim, mainly because he comes off as a little mad.   Although it is a dream, he appears to be describing a true event, the erruption of the now dormant volcano Pesh.  The last erruption destroyed the city of Mend, and was said to have boiled the lake as well.  But stories tend to grow as time passes.

Joseph Wright of Derby’s Vesuvius in Eruption, cc-sa (wiki)

The Peshan Bazaar

Peshan Bazaar (in reality, Khan el Khalili, Cairo, image by Joel Suganth from wikipedia CC-SA)

The Peshan Bazaar is located right off the docks, and stretches down towards the Grand Library.  It is the market where goods are traded from all of the territories in the High Kingdom.  Tithia brings in much of the fish and ocean goods, although Hybrinia also has a sizable fishing trade, Marakas monopolizes the spice trade, Duryim, the lumber and coal trade.  Arroll mostly deals in livestock. 

Poul, although small as territories go, boasts a sizable artisan community, and many of the goods sold at these markets are finely handcrafted pieces of furniture, and more frequently, metalwork lamps.  I think I mentioned briefly that Maggie owns one, as shortly after she left Arroll with Tulven, she ended up in Marakas at the Great Library.  (In some ways Maggie is much like Tulven; they are both extremely attracted to shiny objects!)  I’ve got a story about her visit to Pesha (and Yinaa), and I’ll get around to posting that soon, I think.

Although other ports boast equally diverse markets, Pesha is the one market where the Birdmen are seen.  Although it is a rarity, the Birdmen harvest the spice, and can been seen on occasion bringing goods to market.  They do not stay long, and are often treated with great apprehension because of their appearance, and the myths that surround them.

I mention the Birdmen mostly because Mar sees one on her first day in Pesha, shortly before a sandstorm.  We’ll learn even more about them then…

Chapter 9: Into the dark

This chapter may feel a bit rushed, I’m not sure.  Publishing it on the blog makes me conscious of the length, and perhaps something may be lost when trying to simplify.  It’s a bit rough, unedited and such (and the dialogue may be weird… I’m working on it), but at the moment I’m feeling a bit like I’ve been neglecting Marchelline a bit, and I wanted to get her off the island, and on to Marakas.  So, of course, criticism is welcome.

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A Lava tube, which is a bit like how I imagined the Mayrid caves. Image by Dave Bunnell, (wikipedia, GNU Free Documentation License)

I should have known something bad was going to happen when I dropped the torch. In the arch of the dark passageway, the floor was slick with water and algae, causing the fire to sputter and smoke, before finally going out.  Gael made a noise that could have been frustration or shock, and I felt his fingers clench my arm.

“Damn.” He moved closer. “Ok, well, nothing we can do about that now.”

“I have matches.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do, Mar.  The torch will be wet by now, and we won’t be able to get it lit.” His face started to glow, and it took me a second to realize he had taken off his pack, and was holding one of the mushrooms.

“Huh.”

“Clever, right?”

“Lets just go back. We can’t possibly go forward now.”

He clearly didn’t think the same, because he thrust the mushroom into my hand, and pulled me forward.  I was about to raise objections, thinking the light from the  mushroom couldn’t possibly light the way, when I remembered the shard he had given me.  If it caused the light in the cavern, perhaps it would work now.  I pulled the long shard from my pocket, and held them together.  Suddenly, I could see my surroundings again.

“Maybe it’s magic.” I suggested.  Gael merely scoffed at this.

In the distance, I could see a faint glow, similar to the glow cast by the crystal.  The tunnel widened in the light, and I could see more of the strange mushrooms growing along the floor in rows, as though they were being grown for crops.  Gael stooped to pick a few more, and then walked right through the formations to the wall, motioning to me to follow.

“Lets stick to the walls.  It will be easier to defend.”

As we walked the length, I ran my fingers along the surface, feeling some comfort in the hardness of the surface under my fingertips.  As the tunnel narrowed around us, the mushroom crop ended, the floor becoming rock again.  There was a sharp turn directly in front of us, and in the wall we now faced, a large crack ran down the front. Gael went down on one knee to examine it.

“Why are we stopping?”

“This is around where the artefact is supposed to be.” He reached a hand up. “Hand me the light, will you?”

He wriggled into the crack slightly, arm stretched through, but stuck at the shoulders, and bent his face down to look.  He then got to his feet, handing me the light.  He was grinning widely. “Ladies first.”

The crack in the wall was just barely large enough for me to fit through, although it took some effort and coordination to place my feet correctly before stumbling into the dark.   Grace is not one of my strong points, and I soon found myself on my back staring up at the glowing light in Gael’s hand.  I reached up and grabbed the mushroom, ignoring Gael’s teasing remarks, and got to my feet, looking about the room.  It was small, with low ceilings that glittered with algae.  Placed haphazardly on a flat rock in the center of the room, the artefact glinted in the light.  It was a large gold leaf, heavier than I expected, with veins of green enamel.  It took two hands to lift it, and as I handed it back through the crack, Gael made a sound.  At first I thought nothing of it, but Gael reached through and grabbed at my arm, pulling me back through.

“Calm down, you’re hurting me.”

Gael put a finger to my lips, just as an eerie howl echoed down the hallway.  “They’re coming.  We have to go.  Now.”

We hurried back down the pathway, not caring that the pace made our boots echo off the walls.  Trampling across rows of mushrooms, and back down towards the fork, we turned sharply at the corner, skidding on the slick ground.

“They know.” I called towards Gael.

Without looking behind, he answered. “I know.  We need to find a way out of here.”  The sounds grew louder, echoing about the deep.

Gael stopped sharply, and I almost knocked him over, running into his side.  We were directly below the skylight, and before I even knew what was going on, Gael had thrown his pack, artefact and all, up through the top.

“You’re going to have to get on my shoulders, it’s the quickest way out.”

Hardly thinking, I allowed myself to be hoisted on his shoulders, and pulled myself through the opening after a few moments of dangling awkwardly.  Gael had unsheathed his sword, ready for a fight, and I struggled with my own thoughts, feeling powerless above.  Then I remembered the rope I had packed, and looking about, found a large root to tie it to.  Hoisting the remaining rope down, I watched helplessly as Gael swung his sword at the creatures.

“Gael, come on.  You have to get out of there!” I shouted.

He caught one of the creatures with the tip of his sword, swinging it across it’s chest with a quick movement.  It didn’t cause much damage, but the action stunned the thing, and it staggered backwards, giving Gael only a moment’s time to grab the rope and pull himself up.  Tucking one of my feet under one of the large roots to secure myself, I reached down to pull him up through the hole.  The creatures below leapt towards us scratching at the walls, but Gael pulled himself to the surface just in time.  He had a long scratch above one eye, and blood ran down his face, making him look quite ghastly.  As he thrust his sword into the ground to steady himself, I noticed his  knuckles were also bleeding.

I untied the rope, and placing in back in my pack, only then realizing what was missing.  Gael’s pack was gone,and with it, the artefact. I circled the clearing desperately, hoping it had fallen behind a rock, or gotten caught on a branch, but it was nowhere.  Gael guessed what had me so distressed, I could see it in his eyes.

Image by Jeffdkennel, CC-SA (wikipedia)

“We can’t stay here, Mar.” He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve.  “There will be more of them soon.”

“It’s what we came here for.  We can’t just leave.”

“There are too many of them.  We stay here, and I don’t think I’ll be able to defend us.  We need to get off this island.”  Gael didn’t usually talk so candidly; he didn’t usually act so serious.  I couldn’t force him to stand against this when I offered little by way of help.  He was right, I knew.  I just couldn’t help but feel we had failed.

More sounds echoed off the rock faces and ruins, and Gael pulled his sword free, and I followed him back through the foliage and ruins.  The sun was rising now, and a pinkish light-colored the sky, the trees glinting with dew.  I could hear the waves in the distance as we made one final turn, emerging from the jungle onto the shore through a ruined gateway, now overgrown by a giant tree, it’s roots wrapped around the once mighty stone arch.  Gael grabbed my hand tightly, and together we ran into the sea, the salt water cold as ice.  There we stopped, resting in the waves, not far enough into the sea to be swept away, nor close enough to land to be touched.  It was morning, and our nightmare had ended.  At least this nightmare.

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Sketches for the stories

These are all sketches from my world.  I’m not completely happy with any of them, but I like sharing what I’m working on.  I’m hoping to actually do a few paintings of some of the characters/scenes, although as an artist, I really don’t do fantasy scenes.  It’s a bit of a challenge, and I’m always afraid they’ll be too garish or kitschy.  My work borders on that anyway.

This first one is a sketch of a Mayrid.  They’re sort of banshee type creatures, and I looked at a lot of Japanese Oni drawings as well.  I’m not quite sure if it comes across, but they’re fairly drawn and skeletal creatures that were supposed to have some human qualities despite their animal-like existence.  I’ve discussed they Mayrids more in the chapters dealing with Mayrincourt.

This is a sketch of Maggie I did while writing the story of Tulven.  She’s supposed to be a great deal younger than most of my Maggie stories have her; probably only twenty at the most.  A little bit less of a frightening woman at this age, but with a lot less of a presence as well.  I don’t know if it comes off this way, but she’s quite unsure of herself, and quite awkward still.

And this one is a few sketches of Marchelline.  She probably resembles Maggie a little; I think my drawing style doesn’t have as much personality and individuality as I wish.  Marchelline wears braids a lot, as you can see with a few of the other examples I’ve posted here on the blog, and she does that mostly because braids are so much easier to deal with when traveling.

I’m actually not at all pleased with how Gael has turned out, but I haven’t been able to accurately sketch how I picture him yet, so these will have to do.  He looks quite juvenile and a bit cross-eyed at best here.  Ugh.

The Gael in my head has blond curls, and he’s pretty tall, but not too thin.  I think  that’s about all I’ll say about him for now.

This one is Maggie’s hut.  I decided to make it round instead of a rectangle when I was driving north once, and saw these small silos in a large field.  there was something about how they looked that just seemed to make sense.  But, decoration wise, it would probably look a bit like this photo as well.

My father took this photo in either Sweden or Norway, I think. Not sure where...

And that’s it, really.

Tulven

Northern Hybrinia is a lonely place.  As I’ve mentioned before, Maggie lives alone there, in a clearing of the Tröndlthorn forest, with few visitors except those who travel from Hänna.  Her only constant companion is a raven named Tulven, who has been by her side since she was a young girl, at least young for Wise Women.  She “found” him in Arroll city, although the story gets a little deeper than that.  Anyone remember Laija?  There’s your hint.

The city of Annas (actually Mont Saint-Michel view, image from Wikipedia CC-SA)

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Maggie had been abandonned at a young age by her mother, as is customary for the Wise Women, and had been taken in by a woman in Hulv. When Maggie was 18, she left Hulv to discover the world, and ended up in what is now Arroll City (the city in the header). Back then it was called Annas, as the capitol of Arroll at the time was Adrina. It’s a beautiful, bustling city, built up a hillside, on the northwest coast, and is considered the educational center of Arroll. It’s a bit overwhelming for anyone, but it especially was for Maggie. Maggie’s a bit of a big picture person, she understands the forest alot more than the trees. And humans are pretty small in the scope of the world.

So, Maggie is in the city of Annas, as much of an outsider as she’s ever been, trying desperately to understand the people around her.  She finds a place to live, close to the University, and spends most days studying the history and lore of the land of Arroll.  She doesn’t make friends; most people are quite fearful of her.  It’s not that she behaves savagely, or that her manner is hostile, but the feel of her, her very essence or aura is foreign.

The house at the end of the street (photo by me)

There is a man who lives down the street from the place she’s made her home, and she often sees him outside.  The street is pretty plain, with only a few scraggly trees, and there is one that stands right outside his door.  In the summer, he pulls a chair down the steps of the building to sit under the leaves and read.  He seems an odd fellow, at least to Maggie, who has been studying these city-dwellers and their habits for quite some time.  The majority of the citizens ignore the little green that grows around them, and this small act of defiance, at least defiance in the weakest sense, is intriguing to Maggie, who missed true greenery more than anything.  So, after many months of passing him on her way to the library, she decides to reach out to him.

I should probably add a brief note on magic at this stage in the story.  As I have mentioned, the Wise Women are magical beings; they can control the weather, see the unfolding of time, cure ailments, and so on.  But this magic is not something that is learned.  It is something that grows, over time.  In this way, it is almost like an invisible appendage, lengthening over time, and increasing in strength with each flex.  At this age, Maggie is fairly skilled, but has many years before she reaches her peak.

It’s almost a parlor trick for Maggie to conjure the apple, and she takes a few extra moments to make sure the fruit is fresh and unmarked, before she heads down the street one morning.  As she nears the man, she stops, and extends to him the large green fruit.  Looking up from his book, he smiles at her, and takes the apple with a nod of thanks.  As he lays his book down, he reaches across, extending his hand in friendship.

His name is Tomas, and he is charming.  Not that Maggie can be charmed, but the idea is still noteworthy.  A smart young man, he left university to care for his elderly father, who sits inside the house by the window, drifting in and out of sleep.  Tomas dreams of other places, foreign lands, but love ties him to this street, this house.  Maggie just smiles at this, and her hand slips down the side of her skirt, as she pinches the silk cord which hangs at her waist.  They part ways, as Tomas is drawn back inside, and Maggie has other matters to attend to.  But they continue like this, everyday she brings him an apple, and everyday a little more of his hopes and dreams are shared with this strange wandering woman.

Winter comes, and it is bitterly cold.  Maggie suspects this is a sign, and watches the sky for omens.  In her tiny room, she watches the wind off the sea kicking up drifts of snow.  The weather calls out to her, and she decides it is time to leave, to travel on.  There is still more of the world to see.  She plans for her journey, deciding it will be best to set out after the solstice.

The cold is not kind to the old, and Tomas’ father dies, leaving Tomas alone in the world.  But the old man has also left a considerable debt, and the collectors begin to nip at Tomas’ heels.  With no means to leave, and little reason to stay, he contemplates his grim future.

Maggie has gathered her few belongings, and walks down the street one last time, leaving a solitary apple in the snow that has collected on Tomas’ doorstep.  As she treads down the hill towards the city gates, she sees the young man in the distance.  He is not alone, but rather being hounded by a pair of collectors.  She would have left him there, that quarrel in the snow, if it hadn’t been for the gleam of silver in one of the men’s hands as he gestured towards the youth.  It seems almost as if he hasn’t a chance left, at least that’s what Maggie tells herself later as she contemplates her own actions in that moment.

It is quick as a flash of lightning, the act.  Painless, she thinks, although she can never be sure.  A flutter of wings and feathers blown by a snowy gust of wind, and the man is gone.  The two men stare at the ground in front of them, then move around in circles, the confusion setting in.  Up the hill Maggie stands, looking down at them.  She is no longer that guise of a human girl, but an image blurring at the edges.  The men meet her gaze, and then look to the sky, where a large black shape falls, crashing towards the ground.  It is an ungainly sight, a raven with a broken wing.  It hits the ground with force, and Maggie bends, cradling the bird in her arms.  The men watch her as she passes, down the hill, whispering to the creature in her arms.  They cannot hear her words, but over and over she repeats them, a soothing lullaby.

“I am so sorry.”

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Common raven (image from wikipedia CC-SA)

Maggie travels south after this, from Adrina to Marakas, and then back to her home in Hybrinia.  The bird that was Tomas she names Tulven, a name which means “broken” even though his wing healed in time.  He travels with her, even though he is free to leave, and sometimes Maggie wonders whether or not he feels bound to her by that curse, although as the years pass it seems as though he really has chosen to remain at her side.  The curse can be broken, as I mentioned with the story of Laija, but perhaps he is content.  Or perhaps he has forgotten he was once human at all.  Centuries have passed them both by, and much can be forgotten with such distance.

The Slow Sinking of Adrina

I was just thinking about Adrina, and how my latest draft of Marchelline cuts out the three chapters that I had originally written before the Mayrincourt section.  Ned is also curiously missing, but he’ll appear later. (If you’re wondering who Ned is, well, you haven’t met him yet, but he’s wonderful.)

This was written before I started writing first-person, and I’m still not sure which version I like better, but if you’d like to weigh in, go ahead.  It wasn’t important to Mar’s story, but it talks a bit about Maggie, although she isn’t named.

(and yes, I lied about not posting till the 11th…)

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Gael patted his pockets, and then stopped walking, looking about him.  He smiled at her, and pointed down a winding street.  The street stood out only because it was decrepit in comparison to the surrounding streets.  The houses were built in a style Marchelline did not recognize, with roofs that sloped down to the streets.  The result of this was that little sunlight shone down on to the streets, and only a thin sliver of sky could be seen as they headed down the street.  The windows were all covered in a thick layer of grime, and some were cracked and shattered, with only jagged pieces of the window pane.  The other oddity about the windows was the color of the glass, each window appeared to be of a reddish color, although it was hard to tell through the layer of dust.

Venice (photo by Herbert Sponner, wikipedia)

“Are these houses all abandoned?”

“No.” Gael pointed at one of the windows. “Look closer.  See, you can still see some life in the windows.”

Marchelline looked in to one of the windows, and saw a vase of flowers sitting on a table.  In another, she could barely make out steam rising from a kettle, sitting on a stove in the far corner.

“Why is it so strange down here?” Marchelline asked, and then regretted her choice of words. “I mean, it’s so different from the other streets.”

“This is the street where the historic flight from the castle took place.” When Marchelline looked at him confused, he added, “ When the prince was stolen by the witch from the north.  She fled across the rooftops with the baby strapped to her breast.  The people who live here, they hid her while the guards searched for her, and they helped her escape.  There was no real evidence of this, but they don’t deny it.  I suppose the Queen thought it was punishment enough to let them live in the past.  So, when Adrina began to rebuild, and modernize to symbolize a new era, the people here refused, and the buildings have just sort of started crumbling and showing their age.”

“And the Queen, she allows them to oppose her? Isn’t that dangerous, for a queen?”

“No one here will ever say they oppose her or the Lords, but some things, you just feel, right?”

Marchelline looked back  at the houses, and then in front of her.  Gael was walking a few paces ahead of her, turning his head slightly to glance in her direction as he spoke.

“But, down this way,” He pointed further down the street, “Is the really interesting part.”

Marchelline followed his gaze to the end of the street.  A thin layer of water glistened in the streams of sunlight.  Water had collected at the bottom of the street, and Marchelline would have assumed it was just a puddle, but something in Gael’s voice made her doubt it.

“What’s that?”  Gael said nothing, but took her hand and dragged her at a run to the end of the street, pointing her down another set of streets.  As they reached the edge of the street, Marchelline noticed that the puddle was actually a small channel, which had filled the cross street. There were small boats tied to posts at the doorways of the houses, no doubt to ferry around the occupants of the street.  The water was deeper than she had expected, but she could not tell exactly how deep.

“This used to be a set of stairs.” Gael said, pointing down into the water.   “This street was raised up, to make the trek up towards the main stretch at less of an incline.  For hundreds of years, as long as Adrina had stood, there was never water this high.”

“And what happened?” Marchelline asked, hearing the story in his voice.

“Well, this story also has to do with the witch.” Gael  turned to her, excitement in his voice, “They chased the witch through the streets, these streets.  She had a boat down that way, at the bay.  When she reached her ship, she called down a mighty storm, one that’s never been equaled.  And, well, the sea moved inland, knocking down all the soldiers, and flooding the streets below this elevation.”

“And the water never went down?  Not even at the tides?”

“Nope.  The opposite.  The water creeps up a little every year.  It’s the witch’s curse.”

“How deep is it now?” Marchelline asked.

“Oh, I’d say, maybe about my shoulder level.” Gael smiled cockily at her, “Wanna jump in and see?”

“Very funny.” Marchelline mockingly frowned, “No.”

Gael appeared to have finished with the street, for he started to walk back up it.  Marchelline stood a few more moments at the edge, staring down the street towards the sea.  She turned to follow him, and noticed an old woman standing in the doorway of a nearby house, watching her.  The woman raised an eyebrow at Marchelline, but said nothing before turning back inside the house and shutting the door.  Marchelline ran up the street, feeling something in the pit of her stomach she couldn’t explain.