"He Has the Most Punishing Left Imaginable"

pinterest // drakeshelm
I like things that make me think, that delve deeper than the average surface talk. People "dummy" things down too much for fear of scaring other people away.
I had only just got up, and already I was bone-tired.  I sat in a meagre panelling of sun on the couch and stared blankly at my fingernails: they were the only things to look at; I was far too tired to pick up The Nine Tailors, which sat beside me.  Was the polish really that bad?  It was chipped and shabby, but was it completely reprehensible, or could I leave off scrubbing it away for another day - or at least the morning?  I was so, so tired.  Was that a hair stuck on the ragged edge of a nail?  My eyes adjusted.  No, it was only one of the creases in my palm.  Weird-lines.  Weird-lines, I called them in my stories, after the Norse "fate," and the old belief (that I did not myself adhere to) that you could read your fortune in those etchings.  Perhaps people would not always follow that - perhaps people would not always be acquainted with the old use of "weird," but if they were worth their salt as readers they would not mind learning - and if they did mind, well, I wasn't writing for that sort of reader, anyway.

"The reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest men of past ages."
rené descartes

I had been meaning to address the above, introductory comment, which I got on my post She Was Not of His Folk, but I was having a little trouble solidifying my thoughts, and then I happened to chance upon a piece of published material which I thought did the author no justice and was quite juvenile.   I was angry, and since Rachel was unfortunately present to be ranted at, I lit into her (I think she deserves a halo) complaining that I do not expect the calibre of Tolkien, and E.R. Eddison, and some of the other Big Names from my library, but I push myself - I flog the best out of myself - and I fully expect other writers to do the same with their own geniuses.  I expect everything and more from myself, and I hold everyone else to the same standard.  I am the poster-child for quixotic, I know.  The varying developmental stages that people may be at in their writing aside, I am of the opinion that the writing genius suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.  In my whirlwind way, I told Rachel that I am all an illusionist's pocket of tricks: light, colour, distraction - and then the punch.  If nothing else, I must know when to hit people in the right nerve, and I must know how to do it.  To me, writing is a physical, violent sport, and one cannot be afraid nor "dumb things down," or one's writing is ineffectually boxing at the air.

Perhaps the only aspect of my life in which I could conceivably be called brave is my writing - but even then I don't consciously think "I will be brave, and I will not think that perhaps this will drive people away" while I am writing, so even in that I cannot take much credit.  But even so, whether it is a choice of vice in a character, or the use of an archaic word that people may not be readily acquainted with, I come stiffened with a certain amount of hubris that assures me I know what I am doing, and a certain amount of impatient charity which also tells me that the reader can keep up.

"I quickly learned that reading is cumulative and proceeds by geometrical progression: each new reading builds upon whatever the reader has read before."
alberto manguel

In addition to expecting the world of myself, I don't pretend that I am the whole world to my reader.  I fully expect that he will be reading other works (no doubt better and more informed than my own), and that any passages in my works in which I am speaking in parts and portions and dark sayings will in these latter days be revealed in the light of someone else's literature.  I also have a candid appreciation for my own lack of intelligence: I don't know Latin, or Greek, I don't read lengthy passages of Norse mythology on a whim: everything I know, anyone else can find - if not, they are just lazy in the brain-pan, and I have no use for that.  I don't usually make people "think deeply" on purpose, as though I knew anything worth really sharing, but if people want to walk with me, I'm happy to have them along.  Meanwhile, I will always stay true to my craft, and think very little about the reader in the process.  The reader only gets underfoot at this stage, anyway.  He can have a slice of pie when it is done baking. Shoo.
It's best to remember that the reader, like an animal, can smell fear in the author.

Here Lies the Whole World After One Peculiar Mode


I love supers. I sit and I watch them and I get caught up in all the awesome and I wish I could do all those cool supernatural things too - it's like standing on the edge of a tall building and feeling sick with the height and wishing you could jump off and fly, at the same time. But when the movie is done and I get up and go away, and people ask me if I enjoyed the film, my gut answer is always "No."  And I don't think it's because of plot or characters, or anything like that.  It is more fundamental and visceral than that, and consequently far harder to explain.  But I think that I have finally cobbled together some sensible explanation for why I am, at bottom, always disappointed by the superhero movies.
there is no god
You may be inclined to either mindlessly agree, or kick back and say that is the statement of a picky Christian trying to cram Christianity into everything.  Well, try not to do either.  The modern superhero films are almost purely humanistic: these people are genetically manufactured with highly squiffy ethics that we quickly brush under the rug, they are always looked upon as sub-human even while possessing super-human powers, and they are almost universally created, and looked upon, as weapons.  Nowhere in the superhero universe is there accountability with a spiritual being, and even Captain America's remarkable virtue of justice (a very old and American view flying in the teeth of the current American view of war-on-terror) looks pretty until you realize that it is functioning in a godless vacuum, and has no foundation.  Without a moral, supernatural being to put man in his proper place, man exists in a moral vacuum himself, and if pressed hard enough, cannot give an adequate explanation for his attempts at promoting morality over immorality.  There can be no virtue or heroism within a humanist universe, and that is why I always feel dissatisfied with the superhero films when I turn my back on the flash and the bang and can see clearly again.

I am a big fan of the series "Avatar: the Last Airbender."  For numerous reasons it is a lot of fun and I recommend it, but for the purpose of this post I want to focus on a single aspect of the story-arc.  Certain humans within "Avatar" have the ability to control the four elements (air, water, earth, fire), and are essentially superheros with super-human powers.  The show is very tongue-in-cheek and doesn't take itself too seriously, but I have noticed that within the (admittedly rather pantheistic) spirituality of "Avatar," there are souls, there are spirits, there is right, there is wrong, there is accountability, there is something supernatural above the supernatural "benders," and the benders are always considered human, but gifted (which prompts one to ask: from whom is the gift?).  While "Avatar" is incorrect in its Eastern theophilosophy, it gets a fundamental foundation correct which the American superheros fail to do.  In America, people with power over the elements are freaks, sub-human, and fated to be exploited as weapons.  In "Avatar," people with power over the elements are considered closer to their true human potential, and they find a harmony with the world in which they live.  Because there is Spirit dominating Man, and putting Man in his place, Man in his turn is able to adequately dominate Nature, and bends Nature to his will.

I think it's a very subtle aspect which is missing from the superhero stories, but I have always felt it missing and now I think I know what it is.  All the stories ring hollow when the last grenade goes off, and in "Avatar," somehow, they don't dissipate.  "Avatar's" benders come a little closer to the ideal Man, whose powers were forfeited and lost over the many generations between us and Adam, and the American superheros blunder about in a godless universe as walking miracles while simultaneously denying that miracles exist.  You must have a supernatural being, or man is lost and without hope in the dark: everything he does will be morally without foundation and meaningless, his actions will ultimately be hollow and might as well be self-centred and self-advantageous.

This poor world is anxious for harmony and it is terrified of us now.  I don't see anything more than flashy American ideals in the superheros, with chest-puffing and gun-slinging and rescuing old ladies' cats out of trees.  But in things like "Avatar" there is a recognition of a higher order, accountability to that order, and an understanding that a man with any power is to bring harmony as well as subjection to nature.  The universe is put in its proper hierarchical order.
what do you think about the super-human?

The Jewel-Coloured Quarry

I feel like there was something I was going to tell you guys...  Oh, that's right.  I bought a house.

“—damnation!” Avery had nicked himself again.

But there was a bad taste in the back of his mouth and he did not want to push this nasty contretemps any further. He shut up the book with a gesture of finality and turned it overhand into his blind spot for Avery to take. “How domestic,” he remarked flatly, and reached for his pen.

With a nonchalant flick of the wrist, the Rose of Hol dropped the booklet down on the desk and turned toward the grey-rimed window.

With an upward twist Raymond cranked open the lead window-latch and swung the pane out into the frothy grey night air. It came tumbling in through the casement over his skin, warmly nubile, almost shyly anxious to be petted. 

The heavy front door, over four feet in width and kermes-coloured as a cardinal, blazed so strong in the light that Raymond could feel it cutting the nerves at the back of his eyeball. He reined Eleventh Hour in and, as no one came running round the side of the house between the ilex to take his horse, he tossed the leathers to Avery and swung down. He turned his patch to the violent door as he took hold of the knocker and drove a hard, metallic sound into the inner hall.

The man rolled his head back languidly and watched me as I watched him, in nowise hurried with his own perusal. The warning came again: he had beautiful eyes, owlish and gold-coloured, and his lips, when they smiled, were cruel.

The great greyhound gave me a straight-lipped smile which, though it did not touch his eyes, felt sincere to me.

One cannot touch family,” I warned gently.

It was Sophia who spoke, and her voice was like the soft padding fur between a tiger's claws.

The wall into which the door was set was covered in tapestries that composed a single hunting scene: I saw horses and horsemen, hawks, hounds, game masters, a herd of unicorns, a great golden well spurting what looked like diamond dust into a cerulean-blue sky heavy with doves. There was no death, and though the men were all armed and armoured, no one seemed anxious to use iron or fang on the jewel-coloured quarry of the picture. It was an intensely beautiful scene, and I think I gazed a few moments spell-bound by it before recollecting who I was and where I stood.

"Crispin." He was walking away and calling back to us without looking over his shoulder. "Find a gown for her that is suitable. I will need Miss Witch above the salt."

She had not been meaning to cry. She did not quite cry now. Something happened in her chest that hurt like being stabbed and she forced her bruised body off the mattress and flung her arms around his neck. Her lungs spasmed and shot out a cracking sound, but somehow she did not cry. His arms folded around her, his musky, earthy scent flooded into her nostrils, and the great gaping space which had always seemed to exist between Bruin and the rest of the world was filled up in that simple gesture.

With my chin on his arm I glanced sidelong toward his face. "Are you..." I hesitated. "Are you trying to make love to me?"
"Ma petite!" His voice was an absent, laughing growl. He looked well away even as he swung me through the dance. "If I were, you would not need to ask."

Don’t.” His voice came out like the lash of a whip for her words struck him cold in the stomach. He launched off the edge of the vanity and crossed the room in three strides, gripping her by the shoulders. She did not resist as he yanked her round to face him. Her eyes, fanned in black lashes and amber-dialled, stared back at him out of a pale, drawn face. “Don’t.” He shook her desperately. “Don’t you dare humiliate yourself in this way.” He coursed his hands through her beautiful waves of hair, pushing it all roughly back from her strained face as if the violence could impress upon her the severity of his passion. “What are you about, thinking you could be replaced, or that I would grow dissatisfied with you? I love you, my darling.” He bent and touched his brow to hers, drawing in the pre-storm strength of rose-scent mingling with her warm skin. It sent his blood skipping like sparks through his veins. “What more can I say?”

My sons of thunder, my cedar trees—what is man when the mind of God is set against him?”

She Was Not of His Folk

that sunny dome! those caves of ice!
and all who heard should see them there
and all should cry, beware! beware!
his flashing eyes, his floating hair!
weave a circle round him thrice,
and close your eyes with holy dread,
for he on honey-dew hath fed
and drunk the milk of paradise.

There is very little preamble of my writing life to give at this juncture.  When I am not agonizing over a scene in Talldogs which I swear seems eternal in the writing of it, I am toying with new story ideas and making Mirriam break about a thousand promises to herself by filling her mouth with the cinnamon-flavoured snippets of my errant writing.  Such moments are wonderful for my self-esteem.  Otherwise my life has been topsy-turvy, and not bad, but certainly not seemingly steady just at present; I began the following one-shot as a whim, and when Rachel flung out the April Chatterbox topic as
I was happy to dig it back out and read back over it, and bring it to a close.  I am not a brave person, not as a rule, and my writing gives me a sense of courage that you get from reading Kubla Khan and At the Back of the North Wind. 
she was not of his folk

The thunder had ceased some time ago.  Xiroot had not noticed when.  The mountain air over the pine-tops was clear, almost colourless, and still with the oppressive heat of summer.  The cicadas continued to shrill in the fern-brake, the dust-motes swam, the great trees of the mountainside pillared the sky between them, and they all seemed to Xiroot, as he knelt upon the shaded floorboards of his porch, to be infinitely more important than he.  His dulled eye wandered over the green-obscured slope before his hut, lifting now and then to see over the pines toward the blue-rimed peak of Delepnir in the distance.  With the distance came an impression of awe; with the nearness of the cicada crawling on the edge of his porch came a sense of inestimability.  It would not live long—his brown, gnarled finger came off his thin, pocked knee and reached indicatively toward the insect—and the mountain would last forever: between them lay the scope of life, and it was not beautiful to him.
Above the trees, somewhere between Delepnir and the cicada, a host of black birds were circling.  They were beyond the scope of life.
With a soft murmur Xiroot put his palms up over his eyes and began to rock back and forth, the murmur turning into a muffled croon.  It eased the pain a little—or perhaps it took his mind off the pain for a moment, suspending his body in a concentration of mind without body.  Would the great black birds prove too busy to sweep by his little mountain hovel?  Would he be alone with the cicada until the jackals came knocking on his door?  It was that thought, more than the pain which he knew intuitively would be his last, which made the flat disk of muscle beneath his lungs tremble and make noise.
With a scream of protest a mockingbird shot up from the ferns and took off zigzagging among the pines.  With measured gesture Xiroot placed his hands back on his knees and screwed his old eyes to peer into the wood.  Who would this be, whose sound was beginning to crash upon his senses, coming through the growth without the skill of a mountaineer’s tread?  In the tumult at the heart of the thunder, which was now dead and spoke of both victory and defeat, it could be anyone.  From where he knelt with the shadows of the pines and the shadow of death cool over him, Xiroot did not mind who it was.
A figure appeared among the ferns, moving at an ungainly pace, always stopping to swing round as if it were expecting something to be visible among the pines which never proved to be.  Xiroot watched with mute curiosity.  It came closer, swinging underbrush out from its way, until at last it came into the scant growth around his hut and the hard shafts of sunlight which were bleeding through the pinetops, and it flung up its head to see the little, raised building perched before it.  It was a pair of devil-blue eyes in a female face which swept up over him, touched the ridgepole of his dwelling, and came back to his face, a little surprised at first, but then not.  Not at all surprised, Xiroot gazed placidly back at her.  She was sun-tanned and flecked, but she was still very white beneath the tan, and the hair which she wore plaited and crowned upon her hair was as gold as the fairy thread one heard about in the old mountain stories.
Very clearly, as if she had learned it among the great tents of the steppe-lords, she spoke his language.  “Father, hast seen a horse pass this way?”
She was not of his folk, that was clear to him: but she was disposed to be polite, and in his profound loneliness and age he appreciated that.  “Nay, my daughter.  Thine and the mountain ferret’s feet have been the only to interrupt me today.”
She came forward to the base of his steps and put her hand upon the blunted top of the rail post.  She did not know the mountain, not as he knew the mountain, but beneath the fluidity of her movements he perceived a gesture which was masculine.  At her back she wore a sword, on her chest she wore a plate of soiled metal.  Now that she was so close, he was able to see that there was scarlet among the wayward strands of her golden hair, her hands were burnt-brown and also scarlet, and there were handprints on the thighs of her trousers which showed through the slit of her long tunic that spoke of her having tried, in the recent past, to brush her palms off on her garments. 
She rubbed at her brow with the crook of her wrist and glanced up at him.  In the icy blue eyes he saw that she was also weary—not as desperately as he was, but perhaps just as profoundly.
“Father,” she began again, and her voice dropped all veneer of a warrior to become gentle and coaxing, “hast within thy tent a cup of water?”
With his hands already cold against the skin of his knees, Xiroot stared unblinkingly at her, wondering to whom the battle had gone: did he face a victorious foe upon his doorstep, and ought he to despise her, or was she a renegade fleeing from a rout, and would more soldiers be soon upon her heels to drag her down like hounds?
Either way, it was a tempting piece of adventure on the threshold of his grave.
“Come into my hut, child.  I will get thee a cup of water.”
A brief smile flashed on her features, crooked, not altogether pleasant, and she dropped her hand from the rail to ascend the stairs unaided.  The stairs, he saw, were well known to her: she mounted them with a practiced tread and even lifted her chin a little, as he imagined a princess might.  She smelled of blood and horse-sweat and abelmosk, and things for which he knew no name.  But the curious thing was, as she came abreast of him and stood under the porch overhang, she swung her head round to look at him, eyes dilated with an unmistakeable expression of shock and sympathy—then in the next moment the look was gone, though Xiroot knew, though he was not sure how, that the golden thing had smelled the smell of his death holding out its hands to him.
She looked away at once and ducked her head to peer through the dark doorway into his hut.  “My father has a pleasant place here in the mountains,” she remarked casually.
Not deigning to use the porch beam for support, Xiroot rocked himself to his feet and stepped before her, bent and twisted however much he tried to straighten, and thin as a dog where she was rounded with health and femininity.  “Come within,” he bade her, and walked gingerly into the room of his house.
She came in after him, darkening the doorway and filling the place with the gentle ringing of her buckle as she slipped the sword from her waist.  He noticed that she was not intent on keeping it in her grasp: a soldier on the run would not be quick to release such a blade.  She set it down by the door, propped against the frame, then straightened to dig her fingers down within the armpit of her plate: with a clink and a jerk the panel swung open off the compressed, wrinkled garment beneath and she dropped it off her other arm, setting it, too, by the sword.  Next she removed her heavy riding boots and came after him with cool, wide-flung interest to the place where he had knelt at the side of the square fire-pit set deep into the floor.
“Indeed—” the language came quicker on her tongue “—it is delightfully cool within!  Thy bower is a prince among bowers.”
As she folded to her knees he gave her a careful, creased smile.  How polite she was, and pretty beneath the blood and debris.  He did not know if the imminence of death or the reduction of his age would have made him appreciate her presence more.  She was like a goddess, come suddenly upon a crippled mortal in the remote mountains.  He wondered what she meant to do. 
With a hand that trembled despite his efforts to steady it, he poured out a wooden cup of water for her, a little browned and brackish; putting the ladle back in the iron pot, he held the cup in both hands and presented it to her.  With a sudden smile on her face which was almost masculine she inclined at the waist and took the cup from him, and she drank the water gently, slowly, and without flinching as her soft pale throat was subjected to the peasant taste.  With a flutter of her lashes she broke off at the last drop and drew the cup away from her lips, the smile softened to a woman’s again. 
“Thou hast surely saved my life this day, father,” she remarked.  With deliberate care she positioned the cup on a knot in the floorboards by her knee.  “I have not drunk wine nor water since before the grouse came out of the furze this morning, and this day has been like the preamble of hell.”
Now that he had brought her in and treated her to a drink, Xiroot felt he could begin to ask her questions.  Prevaricatingly, he prompted, “Thou has lost thy horse?”
Her eyelids shut tremblingly upon irritation.  “Yea!  A pine branch caught me under the collar like any greenling and took me out of the saddle.  My horse—also like to a greenling!—I think must needs find water or companion and leave me among the fern to walk my own way to my tent.”
“Thou has surely gone in the wrong direction for thy tent,” remarked Xiroot.  He was not sure what she meant by greenling, nor did it sound like any word his meagre education could find room for.  Perhaps it was a word she had brought with her pale skin. 
But she lifted her palm toward the encroaching rafters.  “I seem to have been directed none so poorly.”
Are all the gods like this? he wondered.  Her eyes sparkled in her dirtied, angular face, her expressive, incongruous smile blazed across his dark, wrinkled countenance without any touch of condescension, and somewhere in his body he felt a little stirring of strength.
“May I ask the great one from whom she cometh, and to whom she will go, and what the thunder which filled my day hath meant in scenes too removed from her servant to matter?”
The great one smiled softly into the fragile heart of the tiny fire that still burned within the pit.  Bending forward, one hand on her knee, the other hand flung out at the wrist over the flame, she seemed to pull the fire upward; its light beat upon his face and kindled in the momentary colourlessness of her eyes.
“The day went to us, my father.  An’ sooth, my heart gladdens to know these be things which to thee doth not bear import, else I should be sorry to tell thee thy masters have lost.”
He lifted gnarled palms from his knees, turning them upward toward the ceiling.  “To the old the world growth thin, and the movements of armies art foolish and the foolishness of the boastful.  But my guest doth warm an old heart, and the old heart seeketh interest in the interests of my guest.”
She looked at him curiously for a moment, swinging her head a little so that she was looking at him from under her clay-coloured brows, and none of the mountain-water clarity nor the laughter was in her eyes.  There seemed for a moment a great, uncanny distance from him to her, with the black birds in between…  Then the laughter came back into the face, slow and spreading like dawnlight or disease, and she reared back, chin thrown up, hands upon her knees. 
“I will paint for my father a picture of the battle which went forward this day, so that he may be young again in my eyes.”
With a sweep of her hand she had the warmed sand of the fire-pit at her mercy, and had quickly formed a mimicry of the mountains and the river valley which lay below.  “Dost know the warlord Peregrine,” she inquired, “who comes out from among thine own people?”
He leaned forward to watch her depictions.  “The warlord with a thousand white mares, and the mask like a man’s face upon his own?”
She smiled and her teeth gleamed.  “The very man.  Hast seen him?”
But Xiroot shook his head.  “Nay, daughter.  Only that his fame spreads abroad.  To come upon his servant’s ears here in the mountains, he must be a great warlord, one upon whom the sun and the sun-gods shine.”
The lady’s face crumpled into disagreeable thought under the blow of these words.  “A dark day for him today,” she mused.  “He whose surname is the Serene will have all need for his serenity tonight when the sun makes the gleam of a cat’s eye upon the disappearing horizon.  A very great warlord,” she conceded, and began thrusting two fingers in a row through the sand—“an’ a worthy opponent!  But we, also, put forth the flower of our army upon him, and our stock and God’s providence hath proved the stronger today.”
He looked at the indentations she had left, thinking they looked like rabbit tracks, wondering if they were meant to depict soldiers.  Despite himself, a great interest rose up in his chest—and his chest, for the first time in a long time, did not hurt as though it were being weighed down into the grave. 
She flung out her hands, palms upward, and jerked them at the mock landscape.  “And now for my own—the heart of my heart!  My grandfather would say to us it was a putting of all the eggs into one basket—or the putting of all my grandmother’s eggs into one basket, as the case may be—” she laughed soundlessly at her own joke—but not, Xiroot thought, with undue irreverence: a great light of tenderness swept over the harshness of her aristocratic face. 
“The valley is too wide for an army to make use of the mountain aspect.  We fought it all out upon the grasslands of the vale—and it was beautiful and naked under heaven.  There was no tussock under which a soul could crawl to hide: all—all was laid bear before the eyes of him with whom Peregrine had to do!  An’ see, old father, the place upon the woodshore where Thundertang couched himself in wait.  See here the banner of the Black Prince—and midst of them all, the Devil’s Cub!”
She spoke with a throb in her voice: though she talked of Peregrine the Serene with a well-earned salute in her tone, she spoke the names of the southlander warlords with a tremble of affection in her throat. 
“We turned out of the tents before the grass-silver had burnt.  The wind was cool, the eyes of man and horse bright with the dawn and the coming battle.  Oh, my father!  If thou couldst see also the banners afloat over us in the breeze—blue, scarlet, white like star-fire, here and there a harlequin yellow-and-black.  We bore the black and the blue of the Dragon’s Eye among us, and to my mind it was coolly alive and watching us as we moved beneath its gaze.”
She flung out one hand rhetorically, as if these images had hung long enough before them and she must brush them aside to make room.  They were the colours of his enemies, and yet Xiroot’s heart tingled under their touch, like a limb coming back alive after a loss of blood.  He was a little loath to see them go.
“The banners of Peregrine the Serene are only white always.  The Devil’s Cub hath told me, somewhere between one glass and the next, that the warlord of your people goeth clad in mail and faced with steel, and weareth always upon his hands kid-gloves of white construction.  I was not sure in my heart that I believed it until this day.  But I saw him—” her eye kindled with blue flame “—I saw him upon his great white mare coming through the archangel ranks of his soldiers, and what sport he gave the Devil’s Cub!  Ah, father—” her body shook like an otter which is too happy to be contained “—if I could but transport you to that moment and we could watch together the things I saw!  How lovely they were, and how my heart loved them!”
Xiroot smiled a little: the gesture was one he had not made in many years, and his mouth was not sure how to make the movement.  “I am old, my daughter,” he reminded her patiently.  “What use would I be upon the battlefield of the young?”
But she pressed her palms together and touched the sides of her first fingers against her lips, gazing at him gently from under the rough golden shock of her hair.  “Ancient of Days!” she laughed softly.  “Would that I were a Great Spirit: I could whisk thee thither and back again, and thy soul would be young again in thy revered body.”
At that mention, so slight and with the passing obeisance a friend might give another, it occurred to Xiroot that the sweat-stained female which knelt across from him was herself no mere soldier.  She must be some great creature which her own breeding forbade her to mention even as she made a list for him of the combatants present.  His wrinkled, walnut eyes peered at her and the disk beneath his lungs trembled: who was she, and why should she kneel at his fire as though he were a goodly-blooded warlord, not a gnarly, dying peasant upon whom even the gods would spare no glance?
He had heard that the southlanders were strange: he had not thought to live to see how curious they could be.
She clapped her hands and spread them again.  She be expressive with the hands, he mused.  Doth mean, in these folk, that she be at ease?
“Kenneth Aldarök, who is close kin to me,” she remarked with a casual cant to her brows, “for the same womb bore us, was also there amongst us, and I saw him teethe his sword on the ribs of Malcipar, whose tent will lie empty and cold this night…
“Theodora Pepperspur opened with mounted archers against Peregrine’s left—ladies first!  Undercover of her fire the Dragon’s Eye brought down the axe.  The air trembled with the rolling of their hooves!  Stately and strong: not one to let his temper get the better of him.  But then we had a rain of arrows in our faces, and for a time it was little to me what the Dragon’s Eye did or did not do upon our right.
“Perhaps thou hast not felt the lift of the horse between thy legs: to have such power bridled in thy grasp, and to hear the drum and whistle of thy own going in thy body and thine ears—!  Yea, father,” she leaned forward and put her hands palm-flat upon the floorboards.  It seemed to Xiroot that the veining in the backs of her hands glistened—perhaps with sweat, and sunlight coming through the meagre thatching—and the wood beneath them began to rumble.  His heart skipped in his chest: it was a thunder he recognized.
“Yea, daughter,” he replied, and also leaned forward to place his hand upon one of hers.  The trembling ceased.  His head felt dizzy with breathlessness.  “Hast felt that thunder from afar off today.”
She threw her weight upon her left hand and with her right patted the top of his hand reassuringly.  Then, taking back her hands, she drew herself up and twisted away a little, beginning to meddle protractedly with her far side.  “Much work was done between the Black Prince and the Devil’s Cub.  They got Peregrine between their teeth and clamped down upon him so that he should not move.  Then did Thundertang come out from the brise-vent like an alaunt and hammer himself into the exposed forces of his serenity.  They buckled.  We hammered and they buckled.  Half of the Black Prince’s troops, whom he had held in reserve, caught up Peregrine’s right flank from round the back and compacted them upon our swords.  The Black Prince’s force remingled and broke the right flank as a man shatters the stem of a glass.  Peregrine’s right was in ruins.  The Devil’s Cub and the warlord himself locked in single combat.  We were melting in our jerkins and not a soul of us cared.  Victory became of our own right: that only I know.  This evening I will kneel at the feet of the Devil’s Cub and hear the story of things I ought to have paid closer attention, and then I will know.”  She flung a furtive, self-deprecating smile at him, and in the tiny lull Xiroot saw her thrust her hand wholesale into some inner part of her side and withdraw it, an arrowhead shiny with blood clamped between her fingers.  Very little blood came flowing down her side.  She put the arrowhead in the sand, where it left a little dark damp stain, and cupped her left hand upon her right side, and went on with her story much as though the thing had not happened.
“I know that in the end it was a rout, and Kenneth and I were very busy between us to clean up the mess.”
“Until,” he interjected, “thy horse should have scraped thee off upon a tree branch.”
Her brows bated like the wings of an angry falcon.  “Until that.  He will tell me about it for some time, I think, and I will not be made to forget it quickly.  And now, as for the reason we are here,” she settled in more comfortably and Xiroot watched her out of the corner of his eye, his gaze placidly laid over the oblong shard of iron in the sand, “we are here for death and for destruction—that is why the gods come down, is it not?”
He lifted his gaze off the arrowhead then and looked back unblinkingly into her eyes.  She was laughing at him in a gentle way…and he could not remember the last time there had been anyone to laugh at him, nor anything in his life to laugh at.  He shook out the wrinkles of a tender smile and laid it over his face.  “The gods are very mysterious.  What would their servant know of them?”
“Perhaps not much,” she admitted frankly.  With a little rocking motion, pattering a little blood upon the floorboards, she rose to her feet and looked down upon him with the late light fanning round her head.  “But while the Devil’s Cub rules me oft than not a wayward thunderbolt than a calculated barb, I am knowing that bounds and seasons are appointed to even the like of Peregrine the Serene, and it is sometime the purpose of the gods to be sure the boundaries and the seasons are kept.”
He had been too long a time kneeling at the threshold of a dark door to mistake the sense of something coming to an end.  His forefingers stroked the pocked wood under his knees…  With a likewise rocking motion he lifted himself to his feet and found he could come upright without the old clawing of pain through his limbs.  A tremble of wonderment betrayed his sanguine nature. 
The woman’s lips flashed backward briefly, smiling off the teeth, and came forward again in a cultured curve of titian colour.  “I came down to the well and the Lord sent Rebekah out to draw water for me.  Enfin, I am alive and I must go.”  She swung toward the door and scooped up breast-plate and sword and boots into her hands, and turned back upon Xiroot as he stood motionless by the fireside, staring at the strange witching beauty of her and of the words she spoke.  He was suddenly afraid, for the black birds which had been omens for him had vanished, and the scope of the living landscape had taken back on the virile strength it had borne during his youth.
Truly—truly the gods were strange and wonderful!
Perhaps she caught his thoughts.  Standing in the doorway with the late light flooding around her, she smiled a gentle, crooked smile, and dipped her chin coaxingly toward her collar.  “I think perhaps thou wilt see such sights as the war-plain we have made, and learn with thine own ears what we will make of Peregrine the Serene.  When thy feet come down from the mountains, my father, come up into the arbours of our gardens.  The birds of paradise live there, and the oil comes down out of the olive trees, and the fruit, my father, is like none thou hast ever tasted.”
The dark door had been shut.  He could not answer.
With a little spin upon one heel the woman turned about and plunged into the golden light, seemed to become one with it, and vanished out of sight.  He could hear her moving down the steps and walking through the scrub—whistling, too, a light little song whose tune he loved—but it seemed to him that she had melted into the sun. 
Had she come?  His freshened heart began to race.  Had she been a real thing, or a thing more real than man?  His body trembled with blood and life and the freedom of being broken out of the shadow of death.  It was then that he realized what she had done, unspoken and unasked, and somehow his feet took him to the doorway.  He looked out upon an empty woodland slope, blanketed in late hot sunlight and the skirling of the insects, even as it had been before her coming.  But he was changed, and so it seemed through his eyes the whole world had taken on a renewed aspect.
The sun was going down, the curve of the world glimmering chatoyant around the silhouetted bulk of Delepnir.  The hillside was plunging into mothy gloom.  But the golden mantle of the woman’s healing lay about Xiroot’s knobbly shoulders, and he felt that if he could move his hands he could drag the witching thing close about him and keep himself warm with it through the night.
“Tomorrow.”  His trembling palms lifted and pressed together in an unconscious gesture of worship.  “Tomorrow I will go out and find this hill garden of which she speaks.”

"Out In the Menagerie - Hurry!"

A funny thing happened...
I was looking for pictures of my characters (because who doesn't like to do that?) and I opened my mouth like I do and told Mirriam how hard it was.  And she said, "You know, I'd actually love to toy with sketches of them. Quick, shoot me brief descriptions and personality!"  Well, I wasn't quick, but it happened.  I've actually watched Mirriam sketch, and it's really maddening.  The girl can whip off a decent doodle under one's eye with lightning speed.  But I tend to be less jealous of people's skills when I get to mooch off them.
Care to meet some of my characters and see the handiwork of Mirriam's pencil?
Akilina Loriermayne
age: thirty-four
hair: black
eyes: brown
favourite drink: red tea
disposition: introvert, choleric, melacholic
ruling house: pisces 

it's the eye of the tiger
it's the thrill of the fight
rising up to the challenge of our rival
and the last known survivor
stalks his prey in the night
and he's watching us all in the eye
of the tiger

age: twenty
hair: "soft black" brown
eyes: pale blue
favourite drink: dry yellow with citrus
disposition: introvert, phlegmatic, choleric
ruling house: cancer

hey, brother, there's an endless road to rediscover
hey, sister, know the water's sweet but blood is thicker
oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you
there's nothing in this world i wouldn't do

age: twenty-five
hair: macadamia blonde
eyes: pale blue
favourite drink: coffee, black
disposition: ambivert, choleric
ruling house: capricorn

grey sky, always in your eye
where is the girl behind the cloud?
grey sky, always floating by
but i only peek when i'm allowed

Margaret Coventry
age: twenty
hair: truffle brown
eyes: brown
favourite drink: sweet white
disposition: ambivert, sanguine
ruling house: libra

it's good to see the sun and feel this place
this place i never thought would feel like home
and i ran forever far away and i
i always thought i'd end up here alone
somehow, the world has changed and
i've come home
to give you back the things they took from you

age: twenty-seven
hair: blue-white
eyes: brown
favourite drink: nutmeg tea
disposition: introvert, phlegmatic, melancholic
ruling house: virgo

in between dark and light in the underworld
wrapped around your finger like a string of pearls
smiling face, empty hands, seven golden rings
dancing through the starlight we began to sing

Raymond St. Jermaine
age: twenty-five
hair: "soft black" brown
eyes: brown
favourite drink: talldogs beer
disposition: introvert, phlegmatic, melancholic
ruling house: taurus

i dreamt i found my childhood stare
to family dinner Christmas night
we'd cross the river shipyard light
before the heartbreak and unknown
today i strike out on my own

age: twenty-seven
hair: "dark honey" blond
eyes: hazel
favourite drink: red whiskey and citrus
disposition: extrovert, sanguine, choleric
ruling house: capricorn

i shed the dulling armour plates
that once collected radiance
and, surging at the blood's perimeter:
the half-remembered wild interior
of an animal life

age: twenty-three
hair: "soft black" brown
eyes: brown
favourite drink: talldogs beer
disposition: extrovert, sanguine, choleric
ruling house: gemini

when i look at you, boy, i see the road that lies ahead
i can see the love and the sorrow
bright fields of joy, dark nights awake in a stormy bed
i want to go with you but i can't follow
so keep to the old roads
keep to the old roads and you'll find your way

age: twenty-five
hair: "soft black" brown
eyes: pale blue
favourite drink: dry red
disposition: extrovert, sanguine, choleric
ruling house: cancer

and up spoke our master huntsman, the master of the chase,
"if only the devil himself come by, we'd run him such a race!"
and up there sprung like lightning a fox from out of his hole
his fur was the colour of a starless night, and his eyes like burning coals

Jasper de Lacey
age: thirty
hair: "black tea" brown
eyes: yellow hazel
favourite drink: dry red
disposition: ambivert, choleric, melancholic
ruling house: aries

come on, virginia, show me a sign
send up a signal, i'll throw you a line
the stained-glass curtain you're hiding behind
never lets in the sun
darling, only the good die young

Pan Aeneas
age: twenty-seven
hair: apricot blonde (ginger)
eyes: green
favourite drink: dry yellow
disposition: extrovert, phlegmatic, choleric
ruling house: libra

slip the jesses, my love
this hunter you own from the hood to the glove
when the circling and striking are done and i land
let me come back to your hand

age: twenty-two
hair: "latte" blonde
eyes: brown
favourite drink: talldogs beer
disposition: extrovert, choleric
ruling house: aries

well you think that you can take me on
you must be crazy
there ain't a single thing you've done
that's gonna phase me

Aaron Golightly
age: twenty-four
hair: "acorn" brown
eyes: brown
favourite drink: pinot noir
disposition: introvert, sanguine, phlegmatic
ruling house: aquarius

over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
and he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
he whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
but the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
bess, the landlord's daughter,
plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair

age: twenty-two
hair: macadamia blonde
eyes: light blue
favourite drink: coffee
disposition: extrovert, sanguine, choleric
ruling house: libra

isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
late at night i toss and i turn
and i dream of what i need

age: twenty-five
hair: chamomile blonde
eyes: "honey" brown
favourite drink: sweet yellow
disposition: ambivert, phlegmatic, sanguine
ruling house: virgo

stand on up and take a bow
there's something there and it's showin'
there's no need to look around
you're the best we got goin'
shout out to the dreams you'll chase
shout out to the hearts you'll break
nothing's gonna stop you now
i guess you better get goin'

age: nineteen
hair: black
eyes: light brown
favourite drink: peppered red wine
disposition: introvert, phlegmatic, melancholic
ruling house: gemini

we wake in the night in the womb of the world
we beat our fists on the door
we cannot breathe in this sea that swirls
so we groan in this great darkness
are we alone in this great darkness?