Tuesday, January 5, 2021

The Elvish Question chapter 1

 The sequel to Unexpected Demon, in which Castamir as Towermaster discovers that only he can solve a nasty diplomatic problem, viz. the elves are not in the least diplomatic and are having one of their periodic strops. 

The Elvish Question

Chapter 1

 

"Hello Dragovar," I said silkily, seeing him waiting as Chessina and I walked into the vestibule of the Royal Tower of Wizardry, "I hope the Royal Wizard has an exceptionally good reason for disturbing our honeymoon."

I saw him wince at my tone, we are friends, actually he is my best friend, but there are limits.

"It's the elves," he began.

"Yes, they're annoying gits," I interrupted, "what have they done that requires the Towermaster and his Apprentice, who is also his bride come without delay to the capital?"

"Hello Tasayne," said Chessina, catching sight of Dragovar's apprentice and consort, "shall we go and have tea while the boys bitch at each other?"

"Oh," replied Tasayne, "I was hoping to hear His Snideness Towermaster Castamir in full flow."

"Perhaps we should take tea now," said Dragovar, doubtless seeking to soothe my irritation.

"Tsk, tsk, Dragovar," I reproved, "you are disappointing your lady love. When is the wedding by the way, Chessina and I didn't receive our invitations?"

Dragovar looked about wildly. If you are going to discommode me, I thought, I'll discommode you back. Besides, he really needed to regularise Tasayne's status so that she didn't get treated badly by the so-called ladies of the Royal Court. I know she could turn them into the flatulent toads they so closely resembled, but their husbands might object, or they might not. In any case I doubted their majesties King Beremar and Queen Silavelle would relish a croaking chorus at court, even if said chorus would produce more sense and erudition than its members had formerly. Chessina took pity on Dragovar and taking his arm, led him upstairs into the sitting room.

"Ring for tea, there's a dear, Tasayne," Chessina began, "but you really need to regularise Tasayne's position Dragovar. If any of the . . .females at court upset her , I would have to . . . take steps to prevail on them not to. You do love Tasayne, don't you?"

"Yes, of course, but . . . " Dragovar trailed off.

Chessina was no longer a demon, as she and I, with much help from Dragovar and Tasayne. had recovered her soul. But even so Chessina still had many of the instincts of a demon, manipulation being one of them.

"Perhaps we could leave the reordering of Dragovar and Tasayne's domestic arrangements until we find out what they want us for, my dear," I said, winking at Chessina to show I was only teasing.

"Yes, ah . . . the elves," began Dragovar.

"We'd got that," I interrupted, again.

Chessina poked me.

"Behave, Castamir," she admonished me, "please continue Dragovar, we are listening. At least those of us with any pretentions to intelligence are doing so."

I can never resist my wife. Besides, she knows where I am ticklish, and fond as I am of Dragovar, I would hate to giggle incontinently at him.

“What is the problem exactly?” asked Chessina.

“Periodically, the northern elves decide that they own the Great Forest in addition to their own lands,” said Dragovar. "Then some of them move in."

“Move in?” queried Chessina. “What about the villages within the forest where there are human foresters and hunters?”

“Well, that’s it, Chessina,” said Dragovar. “When I say ‘move in’ I mean just that.  They deal with any human settlement by sending twenty-four hours written warning to vacate.  Written in elvish. And then when the time is up, they start throwing in magic acorns and anyone caught up in the growth of a three-second oak tree becomes wood. Not a nice way to go.  And anyone still alive is run off or slaughtered as ‘trespassers’. They call it reconstructive reforestation. We call it combat botany. It’s nasty.”

“What do you want us to do, Dragovar?” asked Chessina. “Give succour to any who escape?”

"I was hoping that with the aid of Priestess Silavara you might go as an embassy to the elven king. You could explain that the whole of the Great Forest inside our borders comes under the Towermaster’s protection,” said Dragovar.

 “But it doesn’t; not according to the deeds I have,” I said.  “It is a matter of the kingdom growing into the Great Forest. The elves call it An Gwyth Meer, the great trees, and though their kingdom, Annethfae, is mentioned separately, it is really no man’s land.”

“The dwarves won’t like it either,” said Dragovar. “They pass through the lands we would claim, to trade.”

“I don’t mind treating with the elves, but I cannot claim it as part of the Tower’s protection,” I explained. “They get snippy about others assuming on such things, even if they assume themselves. You recall that I researched the origin of the Tower, and the ownership of the land of the village of Fair Pastures and who had responsibility for it?” I asked.

“You said that the elves had given it in perpetuity to the first Towermaster for a signal service,” said Dragovar.

I nodded.

“Well, I went digging a bit further into the older scrolls ... there’s a nifty spell on them, by the way, which protects them from drying out, succumbing to damp, getting eaten by silverfish, mice or rats or just plain fading,” I added.

“I will like to learn that spell if you will teach me, but get on with it,” said Dragovar. He can be so impatient at times. Even when sidetracked.

“Of course, Royal Wizard,” I said, with a courtly bow.  Did I hear him grinding his teeth?

"Stop being a showman and give," said Chessina, her poking finger held at the ready.

"When I dug further, and as towermaster I have access to all the records" I continued, "I discovered that the service, and I still don't really know what that was, revolves around the fact that the elves are a mongrel race. Which is, incidentally one reason why they are so opposed to any of their kind forming a union with a human."

"Now, that surprises me," said Dragovar.

"Please get comfortable, Dragovar," I said getting to my feet, "as I'm about to lecture at you. If the elves knew I knew this they would be spitting nails. Elves are a magically stabilised race in descent from the truefae – and humans,”

“Bloody hell!” said Dragovar.

“Nearly,” I said.  “The Truefae, or Fae, are akin to demons; I’m not precisely sure of the relationship. Whether it was merely a choice of locale and ideology which separate them, but where demons are quite indecently solid, the fae are somehow ... mutable and less connected with permanence.  There is a mutability which demons can manage, changing their appearance, hiding demonic features and so on. But the fae pursued esoteric and probably dangerous magics in order to live in airy realms, and they lost connection with solid bodies.  Their forms are tenuous to a greater or lesser extent, less so in the case of those who have tied themselves to nature, like the woodfae – woses, dryads, naiads and the like.”

“You’re wandering off the point, dear,” said Chessina.

“No, it’s all important background,” I said “Because the fae, or the high fae as they like to be called, feed from the life-force of their kindred.  The lifespans of dryads are tied to their trees, but the fae can feed from both.  They can also feed from elves – so long as they have strong emotions.  And herein lies the nature of elvenkind, having broken away from the fae. The fae are inclined more to neutrality than the evil of demons, and the elves try to fool you into thinking they are also truly neutral and in tune with nature.  Rather, they are aloof and indifferent. This shields them from having their life-force tapped by their less solid kin as it shortens their life-spans.  For those elves who fall in love with humans, this is a small price to pay.  For those more aloof, such is anathema.”

"As the elves are so keen to keep all this secret," said Chessina, "I may have a solution to the problem."

"What is it?" Dragovar almost yelled.

“Why, blackmail them,” said Chessina, happily. “Let them know that if they don’t capitulate, we will tell everyone their origins.”

"Wonderful!" I cried, "can you imagine what the dwarves would say if they found out? They already consider elves a bunch of stuck-up snobs, which they are of course."

"An excellent idea, Chessina," said Dragovar, with a satisfied expression, "please go and sort it out at once."

"I've outsmarted myself, haven't I?" said Chessina ruefully.

"I'm afraid so, love," I commiserated, "still while we do so, Dragovar will have time to make all the preparations for his and Tasayne's wedding."

I was hugged and squealed at by both Chessina and Tasayne.

Dragovar gave me a jaundiced look. If he was going to interrupt my honeymoon, I was going to disturb his comfortable inertia.

"I've been examining the amulet you took from Fishface," said Dragovar in a desperate, and successful attempt to change the subject.

Fishface, was the name I had given the demon who had hidden Chessina's soul, not daring to use his name in case it drew his attention. His demonic truename, which gave power over him was unknown to us.

"What did you find?" I asked, all thoughts of weddings vanishing from my mind.

We were interrupted by servants bringing tea, and it was a measure of my impatience that I wanted Dragovar's news rather than tea.

"Well?" I continued once the servants had withdrawn.

"Patience, dear boy, patience," said Dragovar, delicately sipping tea, "learn to appreciate the amenities of civilised living. We are not in your rural fastness now."

As I was spluttering at this, Chessina interjected.

"Please stop teasing Castamir, Dragovar," she said, "Tasayne and I want to know too. Besides we all know you want to display your erudition."

"You know me too well, minx," replied Dragovar, without heat.

"I don't think you should call my lady wife a minx, Dragovar," I said, "even if she is one." I continued, winking at Chessina.

"Please could you tell us your news, Dragovar," said Tasayne, somewhat plaintively, "some of us want to know."

"I can deny my fiancée nothing," said Dragovar sententiously, and continued hastily as several eyebrows were raised. "As far as I can determine, the amulet is of elven manufacture, it has their filigreed style, and the runes are written in elvish. I'm reasonably certain it wasn't made by demons. I've studied several items of demonic manufacture, and devilish items too, come to that."

"Where are . . . ," I began, half rising from my  seat.

"As I was about to say," continued Dragovar, "all such items are safely stored in shielded containers in the magically warded levels of the tower. Near to where Renilla was imprisoned before we questioned her."

"We are going to need to borrow some of those items, Dragovar," said Chessina with a strange expression on her face. It was the expression of someone who had just had a piece of knowledge unfold in their mind with absolute crystalline certainty. I ought to know, I've had that experience several times.

"What information has the divine Arcana, goddess of magic implanted in your mind, my dear?" I asked. I was, I confess, somewhat worried. Arcana didn't do such things on a whim, but when something important was in the offing. I suddenly realised, with something of a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that although regaining Chessina's soul was the most important thing in the world to me, it was also important enough for Arcana to get involved directly. Why? It seemed that we had stumbled into a much larger, and more dangerous universe than we realised.

"Just that we are going to need some of the items Dragovar has squirreled away," Chessina replied, "but I don't know which ones or why. Arcana never mentioned this when we spoke."

"You never did tell me much of what you and Arcana discussed, my love," I commented.

"Be fair, husband," said Chessina with an impish grin, "we got married shortly thereafter, and were . . . rather busy subsequently."

I could feel my cheeks burn with what was doubtless a fiery blush.

"Arcana did say that Fishface was a matter of great concern to both her and Emaxtiphrael," said Chessina.

"I didn't think Fishface ranked that high in the demonic pecking order," I mused.

"He doesn't," said Chessina firmly, "but somehow he is able to rip a soul from its body and place it in the Halls of Waiting for, well no-one knows how long, not even Emaxtiphrael who rules there. And that has both he and Arcana worried as a demon shouldn't be able to even enter the halls."

"Did you speak to Emaxtiphrael?" asked Dragovar.

"No. From what I understand, that would be against protocol," said Chessina, earnestly. "The halls of waiting are a central part of Emaxtiphrael's portfolio and so Arcana had to ask his permission to go there. But I am tied to Arcana and so it was proper for her to speak to me rather than for Emaxtiphrael to do so."

"Deities have portfolios?" I enquired, somewhat flippantly. I didn't find it comfortable to be so deeply involved in the affairs of the gods.

"Oh yes," said Chessina, "and from what I understand are adhered to pretty rigidly. What might happen to the universe if the gods had a serious spat?"

"Did you talk about anything else?" asked Tasayne. I had a sudden vision of Arcana, Chessina and Tasayne indulging in girl-talk. What might they discuss? I hastily thrust the thought from me, such things are not for the minds of mortal men.

"Arcana told me that I would need to impersonate a demon and so I can still have horns and tail when I need them," Chessina said, "should I also mention that I can have a forked tongue if I wish?" Chessina flicked out the aforementioned tongue after saying this. Tasayne looked very thoughtful and I swear Dragovar went boss eyed for a moment.

"Perhaps you shouldn't mention that," I muttered.

"As I was . . . reborn, I suppose," continued Chessina, "my old demonic Truename is no longer tied to me, and I do still appear to have my demonic senses. Although I can go without sleep for quite a while if I need to, I must sleep periodically. I also need to eat and drink regularly, I can no longer survive on just sex."

Seeing the startled expressions of Dragovar and Tasayne, Chessina continued.

"Such a vigorous boy," she cooed fluttering her eyelashes, "made a girl feel as though she was completely full."

As my face once again burned, Tasayne spoke.

"Chessina, don't you think you are embarrassing Castamir a bit too much?"

"Probably. I'm sorry, love," Chessina said, holding out her hand to me, "Oh, bother, another bit of Arcana's information just unfolded itself. The elves are tied in somehow to demonic political shenanigans. Wonderful."                                                 

 

Monday, January 4, 2021

the teinde to Hell, one of Simon's

 a good creepy one

The Teinde to Hell

 

 

The pub was an old building, half timbered and with exposed beams on the low ceiling of the bar. A fire burned in the large fireplace and the thick walls kept out the chill from the blustery wind outside. The customers talked and drank with one another in a comfortable and companionable fug. One table in the corner was occupied by two men, pint mugs in front of them. The features of the men were enough alike to proclaim them relatives although very different in ages. The older of the pair had white hair and a weatherbeaten complexion and sat in a high backed wooden chair shiny with the patina of age. The much younger man sat on a less comfortable chair with his back to the door.

 

Abruptly, the pub's door opened, admitting a gust of wind and a young woman. Her winter clothing was in russets and greens and her hair, buffeted by the wind was a golden blond colour. As the door blew closed, seemingly by the wind, the occupants of the pub turned towards the newcomer. As they looked the woman's hair fell into an artistic disarray that would be the envy of the most expensive Parisian salon. Her eyes were green and her face had a gamine and somewhat wild beauty and as she undid her coat a trim and attractive figure was revealed.

 

Almost as one the males hastened forward to assist the new arrival. 

 

"Don't." Said the old man to the young one seated next to him at the corner table, laying a hand on his arm as he started to rise. "She's trouble."

 

"What do you mean Great-uncle Peter? Just because she's young and gorgeous?"

 

"No. She's here looking for someone, and I don't want it to be you, Terry."

 

"How can you know that? She's a stranger, I've never seen her before."

 

"I have, many times. She wears a different face each time, but her eyes are always the same."

 

"You're drunk!"

 

"No. I've been drinking, you know that, but I never get drunk, I wish to the Lord I could sometimes."

 

"If you can't get drunk why have you been practically living in the pub recently?" Asked Terry.

 

"I was waiting for her, I knew she'd be coming."

 

"How could you possibly know that?"

 

"Do you remember that old madman who was found wandering in the forest last year?" Peter asked.

 

"Oh yes, he couldn't speak could he? Completely out of his mind, poor man."

 

"I don't think there would be any fingerprint records to confirm it, but I'm sure it was Gerald your second cousin." Said Peter. "The one who disappeared the same year you started secondary school, that you had that long bus journey to get to."

 

"Gerald? But he was 18 when he vanished, he'd be 24 or 25 last year, not an old man. Anyway, what's that got to do with the girl?" Terry asked.

 

"A year after an old madman, or the body of an old man turns up," replied Peter, "she turns up, at about this time of year, the autumn equinox."

 

"You're raving, Great-uncle, I think you've gone senile. Anyway, how do you know it's Gerald?"

 

"Gerald used to wear ear-rings." Said Peter. "Do you remember he got into a fight with that incomer, one ear-ring got ripped off and he lost a piece of his right earlobe? The old man had an identical piece missing. The first  madman I remember turned up 50 years ago. I recognised him from a birthmark on his neck. That was put down to coincidence. She turned up a year later."

 

"Why haven't you said something?"

 

"And end up in the same asylum poor Gerald ended up in? Talk sense Terry. Ah, I think she's picked her prey."

 

A tall, handsome, well dressed young man had effortlessly insinuated himself through the crowd of men to end up next to the girl.

 

"You don't want to bother with these losers, darling," his loud, brash voice proclaimed. "You should be talking to the most interesting man for miles around. Which is me." He added with a grin.

 

"James Hasledean, that arrogant git!" Terry said bitterly.

 

"Yes, arrogant, cocksure, dynamic, full of energy and a bit stupid. Just her type. And fertile, of course. If village gossip about certain pregnancies is correct, which it usually is."

 

"You want cider, darling?" Hasledean's voice boomed out. "It’s alright for a woman, but a man drinks beer." He carried the drinks over to an unoccupied table, obviously expecting the girl to follow, which she did.

 

"She doesn't like beer, finds it bitter. She only drinks cider." The old man murmured.

 

"How do you know all this Great-uncle?"

 

"Many years ago, I was tall, handsome, full of life and a bit stupid. She came in the pub, an unescorted woman was a rarity in those days. I went over to her and brashly asked her what she was drinking. We got to talking, as she and James are talking now. I know it sounds stupid, but I fell in love with her, there and then, unlike Hasledean who I suspect has fallen in lust with  her. I don’t think he loves anyone but himself. I've seen his type, many times. She said her name was Meave but the name changes as does the face. I held her hand then we looked into each other's eyes and I saw … a forest. Trees, endless trees and … I don't know how to explain this in words, but I saw vistas of time stretching far, far back. I don't know what she saw, but she recoiled from me as if she'd been burnt.

 

She left the pub like the devil himself was after her. I got a lot of teasing about that. She came back to the pub two days later and left with the man with the birthmark on his neck. George his name was, George Anderson. He was the madman I recognised six years later.

 

"I've often wondered why she did recoil, and I have an idea. You know we're a large family?"

 

"Yes, we must be related to half the village." Replied Terry.

 

"Your grandfather, my older brother and I had five other brothers, most dead by now. Our father was the youngest of ten children, seven of them boys."

 

"So, you're …"

 

"The seventh son of a seventh son, yes Terry. That seems to have some … benefit, I don’t know how to put it. What colour is her hair?"

 

"Golden blond, like a wheatfield."

 

"You don't see a green sheen then? Maybe it's just me. She is however, the most alluring woman I've ever met." Peter added in a soft voice.

 

"You never married, did you  Great-uncle?"

 

"No. As I said, I fell in love with Meave and no woman could ever compare with her in my mind. She is however, utterly dangerous."

 

"If you know what's going to happen aren't you going to do something, warn James?"

 

"He wouldn't listen Terry. I tried to warn Gerald, I followed him out of the pub to try to remonstrate. The next thing I remember is waking up on the path with a bump on the head and incipient hypothermia. Besides, James is an incomer and as you succinctly described him, a git. Better him than another."

 

As James and his pickup got up from their table and left the pub, arms around each other's waists, the girl glanced over to the two men, one old, one young, seated together at a table. They both saw in those green eyes countless eons of time, and the merciless gaze of a predator. What she saw neither man could say, but she almost dragged James out of the door in her haste to leave.

Sunday, January 3, 2021

the curse of the uncle

 running late today, bad night again. and the lovely sunshine has been swallowed by grey clouds. 

 

this one was written in response to a picture prompt from a friend who runs a page to help authors; I usually write poetry for her picture prompts but this one amused me enough to come up with a story.


The Curse of the Uncle

 

Visitors thought it was a novel, if gruesome lamp which Professor Lavery had on his desk, a skull as a 'lampshade' sporting a baseball cap, glasses and pipe.

They might have thought him a little cracked had they ever heard him referring to it as 'Uncle Silas' and talking to it.

 

They would, however, have freaked out when it answered him.

 

Mordecai Lavery came from what most people would call a strange family. They had been antiquarians, later known as archaeologists, since the eighteenth century. Mordecai himself was an eminent Egyptologist, like his Uncle Silas before him.

Silas, however, had disappeared on an expedition, and his nephew had gone looking for him. It had been while on this trip that he had picked up his novel lamp.

 

If investigated, one might have discovered that the lamp had no wires, nor any visible way to mount batteries.

Or a light bulb.

Nor did it ever go off.

Nor did Mordecai ever, under any circumstances, take it into his bedroom, or sleep anywhere but in his bedroom, around both doorframe and window-frame of which were carved hieroglyphs. Anyone sufficiently fluent in hieroglyphics and Ancient Egyptian would recognise them at once as protective. They formed a series of prayers to Osiris, Isis and Thoth to protect the ka, bai and khou of the protected person from evil or damage. Any Egyptologist worth their salt would have explained that the Egyptians believed that the soul had three parts, the ka or double, and also the life force which could take the form of the deceased, the bai  the soul, or uniqueness of a personality and the khou the spirit, or essence of animation. The Egyptians had legends of mighty magicians able to separate their spiritual parts from their bodies, leaving the ka guarding it, the khou hovering over it like a flame, while the bai in the form of a bird with the soul’s own head could fly off and explore elsewhere.

Anyone who was really nosy might find that the glowing skull sat in a recess carved for it, with runes inscribed to prevent flight of any kind.

 

Professor Lavery was fond of children, and permitted the village lads to play cricket on his broad lawn. However the look on his face almost frightened them all away, after small Hugh Brent hit the ball so hard that it went right into the professor’s study, and hit his unique lamp. The lamp fell out of its niche, flickered, and went out. Professor Lavery started muttering in ancient Egyptian, and then slumped, murmuring “too late ... too late.”

He cleared up the mess, managed to congratulate Hugh on his batting, and went to see his solicitor.

Life returned to normal, and Professor Lavery relaxed.

 

And then, a year later, came the news.

Hugh Brent brought it. He was learning Latin from the professor in the hopes of becoming an archaeologist himself, with hopes to specialise in Roman Britain. Professor Lavery had not been keen until Hugh had apologetically said he was not interested in Egyptology.

“And the new vicar is a very learned man who is also an Egyptologist, sir!” he declared, excitedly.  “And he’s a miracle himself!  Only think, sir, up to a year ago, he was in a coma, in a per...per....”

“Persistent vegetative state?” supplied Mordechai Lavery, who had a bad feeling about this.

“Yes, that’s it!” said Hugh, worshipfully.  “And they were about to turn off the machine, when suddenly he woke up!  They said he had a bit of a personality change, caused by being hit on the head, but he was able to complete all his exams and asked for this parish.”

“How splendid!” said Lavery, hollowly.  “I’d better go and see him.”

 

 

“Ah, my boy,” said the vicar. “As you see, I came home.”

“Hello, Uncle Silas,” said Mordechai.