A Ghost's Writing / Spokeskrif

A Ghost's writing

9 October 1941. The newspaper frontpages on the screen is dark and dull. The headlines on all the frontpages tell only one story: Nazis drive deep into Leningrad Lines reads New York’s Daily Messenger. Another reads: 1,000,000 Russians said Trapped – The Hayward Review. I turn back to the Dickens book open at my elbow. The pages are the colour of weak tea and smells of dust. The ink on the page is still a bright black, but the handwriting leaves much to be desired. In the upper right corner, below the pencil marks of the scribbled price of R30,00 is the date: 9 October 1941. Below it, on the left is the name – it looks to be ‘Abie’. I read the message again; “To Abie, on the day of his Bar-Mitzvah”.

The Computer bleeps as it loads the page an I look back at the screen. A new frontpage has loaded – Big German armies pound closer to Moscow.And I wonder who left this book at the secondhand shop.

Spokeskrif

9 Oktober 1941. Die koerantvoorblaaie op die skerm is donker en dof. Die opskrifte van al die voorblaaie vertel net een storie: Nazis drive deep into Leningrad Lines lees die Daily Messenger van New York. ’n Ander: 1,000,000 Russians said Trapped – The Hayward Review. Ek kyk weer na die Dickens-boek wat by my elmboog lê. Die bladsye is die kleur van flou tee en ruik na stof. Die ink op die bladsy is nog 'n helder swart, alhoewel die handskrif veel te wense laat. In die regterkantste hoek, onder die potloodmerke van die vinnig geskribbelde prys van R30,00, is die datum: 9 Oktober 1941. Onder, links is die naam–  ‘Abie’, lyk dit vir my. Ek lees weer die boodskap wat daar geskryf is: “To Abie on the day of his Bar Mitzvah”.

 Die rekenaar bliep-bliep soos dit die bladsy laai en ek kyk terug na die skerm. ’n Nuwe voorblad het gelaai –“Big German armies pound closer to Moscow". En ek wonder wie hierdie boek by die tweedehandse winkel gaan aflaai het.

Flashes of Fiction: A Leaf of Dragon’s Bane

Focus.” Halian’s voice was firm. “Ellifa, you need to get these names right or you can make someone more ill or even kill them.” Halian rearranged the dried leaved on the table in front of her apprentice. On her one hand she wore a silver ring bearing the sign of the Keepers of Théotriewe, showing that she was once one of them. The leaves crumbled as she moved them, their fragrances forming a heady scent. The healer wiped over her brow and pushed her long braid over her shoulder, trying to hide from Ellifa that she, too, was exhausted.

“Name these plants,” she commanded.

Ellifa rubbed her eyes, trying to dispel the sleep and focused again on the leaves, stifling a yawn. Each of the leaves is dried, crinkled and creased and almost the same colour. She blinks twice and then starts on the left hand side of the row. As she named each one, she moved it slightly towards Halian. Then she pauses at the last leaf. It is definitely not one that she knew. But she was also smart enough not to guess – that was the first lesson she received as a Healer’s apprentice.

Halian picked the leaf up and placed it in its own glass bottle on the shelf with her books.

“What plant is that?” Ellifa asks, her eyes fixed on the jar. Halian had never acted like this before.

Her mistress takes one of the volumes off the shelf and places it in front of Ellifa. She opened it at an old bookmark.

“I saw the title, Mistress Halian,” Ellifa said, trying not to sound disrespectful. “It is a book about legendary and mythical plants and animals.”

Halian’s smile deepens the wrinkles around her eyes. “Look,” she says and points to the page before glancing again at the bottle on the shelf. “Legendary indeed.”

“Dragon’s Bane?” Ellifa asked, reading the heading in the book. ”I thought the plants were all destroyed?”

The drawing in the book showed a plant taller than a grown man, with thick, black roots and more thorns than she thought possible on one plant. The flower petals are the shape and colour of flames and the fruits are in the form of small red and orange berries.

“It’s a plant that is only found in Naeddre,” Halian said, reciting the text on the page verbatim. “The roots and berries of the plant are used to produce the Blackroot or Dragon Poison that is used by the Fáll on their arrows. The berries are poisonous and are eaten by neither bird nor animal. The leaves resemble a claw and are dark green in colour. The first two leaves on every branch, when still light in colour, is used to create an antidote against Dragon’s Bane Poison.”

Ellifa walked over to the shelf and gingerly picked up the bottle. “Where did you get this? Who brought this here? Is this why you woke me up in the middle of the night?”

“Marko brought it here – some Fáll were captured not far from Éafod. They also had some of their writings with them.”

“And you need me to go to the city and decipher them?”

“We’re lucky that Abreiotan taught you the script. We do not know of anyone else in the whole province that can read it.” Halian paged through the book to give her hands something to do. “We need to know if the prisoners are telling the truth. If they are telling the truth, it would change everything.”

Ellifa sighed. She had been looking forward to the Spring Festival for weeks. Then she silently chastised herself for thinking of celebrating a simple festival when Fáll from Naeddre – the great enemy – had been so far from their own borders. She was acting like a silly girl, not an apprentice almost on her way to the Keepers. “When do we leave?”

Dried Leaf by Ofonesvanity

Ageless Words Friday: “O lux beata trinitas”

“O lux beata trinitas” is a Vespers hymn, sung by (among other artists) by Anonymous 4 and appears on their album Four Centuries of Chant. For more information, click here. The Latin text is followed by an English translation[1] and then an Afrikaans translation[2].

The Latin Text:

O lux beata trinitas

Et principalis unitas,

Iam sol recedit igneus

Infunde lumen cordibus.

Iam noctis tempus advenit,

Noctem quietam tribue,

Diluculo nos respice,

Salvator unigenite.

Te mane laudum carmine,

Te deprecemur vespere,

Te nostra supplex Gloria

Per cuncta laudet secula.

English Translation:

O light, blessed threeness

And primal oneness:

As the fiery sun sets,

Pour light into our hearts.

Already night approaches:

Grant us a peaceful night.

Watch over us at sunrise,

Our only-begotten savior.

With song we praise you in the morning

We pray to you at sunset:

With our “glory” may the suppliant

Praise you through every age.

AfrikaansTranslation/ Afrikaanse vertaling:

O lig, geseënde drie-enigheid

En vorstelike eenheid:

Soos wat die vlammende son sak,

Stort U lig in ons harte.

Die nag kom reeds nader:

Gun ons ‘n vreedsame nag,

Waak oor ons by die sonsopkoms,

Ons eniggebore redder.

Ons prys U met gesang in die oggend

Ons bid tot U by die sonsondergang:

Mag die smekeling met ons “gloria”

U prys in elke era.

Vellum from the Codex de Predis, 15th Century - The Last Judgement: the stars fall and everything is turned upside down

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[1] Text and translation from Harmonia Mundi USA

[2] I admit I translated it from the English into the Afrikaans – my Latin is really not that good and can almost be called ‘non-existent’. 

A Dragon, a Phoenix, Music and Dancing

Paper myths

While rummaging around for inspiration for some quilled wedding invitations I’m making for a friend, I (again) came across the wonderful blog If Looks Could Quill, where a quilled dragon and phoenix also features… truly beautiful works of art!

Phoenix - Paper Quilling

Dragon - Paper Quilling

  Heavenly music

Anonymous 4 ‘s music is some of the most beautiful I have ever heard. I first came across their CD Four Centuries of Chant while browsing the Classical Room at a local music shop – and now I’m slowly building my music library to contain all their CDs… (And look out for one of the songs tomorrow on Ageless Words – with a translation, of course!)

“Renowned for their unearthly vocal blend and virtuosic ensemble singing, the four women of Anonymous 4 combine musical, literary, and historical scholarship with contemporary performance intuition as they create ingeniously designed programs, interweaving music with poetry and narrative.”

Time to brag about local talent…

I also got a delightful surprise birthday gift from my sister and brother in-law – tickets to see South African Ballet Theatre’s Romeo & Juliet! And last Saturday was chosen especially because my favourite dancers were performing. Here’s a small gallery. I see the next ballet for the season will be The Sleeping Beauty – can’t wait! I have to get tickets. And it’s always a pleasure to go to the theatre.

World-pondering Wednesday

About two weeks ago, I got sudden inspiration on the way home from work for a new fantasy world which I’ve been struggling with. Not wanting to freak my fellow lift-club passengers out, I did not shout Eureka! I also did not immediately grab my ever-present notebook and rummaged for a pen to jot it down. No, rather I filed it away under ‘URGENT’ and waited to get home (which at that point was about five minutes away and the reason why I could wait). I also may have feigned interest in whatever was on the radio while actually worldbuilding in my mind. I hope I didn’t have a cheesy grin on my face. At the moment the file on my computer about this world is simply called “The Readers”. I love it when a WIP suddenly becomes clear!

My first venture into this world was this piece for NaShoStoMo earlier this year, though it’s already undergone quite a lot of changes. And this world, I’ve found, will be darker than the Airthai stories I’ve been working on and have written over the years.

Speaking of Airthai, I found this on Deviant Art and found it fits in very well with the Airthai dragons.

Thank God for tea (and coffee)!

 “Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea? How did it exist? I am glad I was not born before tea.” (Sydney Smith 1771 – 1845)

I recently picked up a book called A Movable Feast: Ten Millennia of Food Globalization by Kenneth F. Kiple at a warehouse book sale. That sale really was ‘overload’ even though I loved every minute of it. Piles of boxes stood at the door to the warehouse for you to take in with you. People were emerging from the inner labyrinth of books staggering under boxes filled to the brim, blinking in the bright daylight as if they forgot for a moment that there was a world outside which did not exist of isles and piles of books.

One thing that sales like these makes possible is for readers to easily – and quite cheaply – try out new genres, writers and basically anything that ‘looks interesting’. And if you end up not liking it? Well, you probably paid about R10 for it, so it’s much easier to part with at your local library. (I usually do this with books that I find are not quite in my taste – someone else is bound to like it and get some use out of it.) And The Movable Feast did look and sound interesting to me – how much do we really know about the history of the food we eat, after all?

Just a simple thing like my usual breakfast – muesli with yoghurt and coffee or tea with sugar and milk – turns into an exotic meal. The usage and spread of both tea and coffee (and the sugar that goes with it) is a fascinating read. (Though, I still prefer my coffee and tea with sugar and milk. Sugar I can still do without, but not the milk. No salt or butter for me, thank you, those are too exotic for my taste.)

On the days that I am unable to start with either a cup of tea or coffee, I always feel as if I’ve missed some important step in getting ready for work. And that nagging feeling will remain, leaving me to double check that I am not still wearing slippers, or forgot to brush my hair. I make my first cup at work while the computer is starting up and e-mail is loading. That way I can sit down, take a sip and focus my mind without any pesky coffee cravings drawing my attention away from the screen and towards the drawer where my stash of coffee and tea is kept.

And what better way to end a busy day than with a book and a mug of rooibos tea? 

The Rooibos plant

Some Local Folklore and Writing News

I follow artist Andrew Baker’s RSS feed and received this stunning (but frightening) piece of a Tokoloshe last week.

"Tokolosh" by Andrew Baker

This reminded me of a story I did a while back. I tried my hand at a story incorporating local folklore and I used an amalgam of beliefs about the Tokoloshe and it turned out as quite a dark piece. But I guess it is a gory subject!

Doctor’s Visit

“You’ve come too late.”

The old woman who had spoken sat on a bed near the back of the hut. It was quite dark inside, but I could make out her deeply wrinkled face, faded red dress and that the bed she was sitting on was raised above the ground on a couple of bricks.

She sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, her feet bound in cloths that were once white. Her arms were folded beneath her breasts as she stared at us. I moved my first aid kit from one hand to the other and cleared my throat.

“Too late for what?” I enquired.

She squinted. “You haven’t been here before. Where’s the other doctor?”

“He went back home. I’m new at the clinic.” I held out my hand. “I’m doctor Smith.” She did not take it but her wrinkled face cracked into a smile. “New, eh? I hope you can do something better for my feet, they’re hurting something awfully.”

I looked at my partner, but he shook his head. “You do it.”

I placed my kit on the dirt floor and knelt down by her feet before asking my partner to get me some light.

“You have very good English,” I said, making small talk. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to speak to you.”

She harrumphed. “I finished school,” she said. “Worked all my life like an honest person in the city. I came back here to help my daughter look after her children. Her husband’s at the mines, you know, up north. She was left behind here.”

“Where is she now?”

“She passed on. A year ago now.”

“So you’re looking after your grandchildren?” It was a story I had become all too accustomed to.

“They also moved on.” She pointed a gnarled black finger at the far rounded wall where four identical pots stood. “Their dust,” she said.

“Ashes? You cremated them?” I wondered how far the closest funeral home was from this rural village.

“Dust,” she insisted and I left it there.

I started unwinding the blood-caked bandages from her feet and searched for something to say in the stillness while trying not to breathe through my nose. For a doctor I couldn’t handle the smell of blood that well.

“You said we are too late?”

She nodded and cringed as I touched her foot. “He took another one,” she said. “My neighbour only returned with the bricks. The ones we make here are not strong enough for the beds, you know.” She shook her head sadly. “No one cares about the rural people – if this happened in one of the cities the newspapers would be all over it, but here…”

I carefully unwrapped her foot. If she had been in one of the cities she wouldn’t have had to wait for us to travel nearly 100kms to give her new bandages and pain medication in a van that broke nearly every 10km.

At last the bandage came off and I stared in horror at her foot. Where five toes should have been, only three were left. The other two were ragged stumps, one partially healed, the other bleeding again after I had removed the bandage.

“What happened?” I asked, focusing on the wall so as not to gag in front of a patient.

“He came again last night and took another one.”

“He?” I stared at her other foot. “How many?”

“Also two gone,” she said and turned her face away from me.

“Who does this to you?”

“I can’t say or he’ll come back. Can’t say. She looked at my partner and said something I didn’t understand.

I looked at my partner, but he too turned his face away.

I cleaned and bound her feet as well as I could and gave her pain medicine.

“You could go back to the city,” I said, but she shook her head.

“He got what he wanted and I have the bricks now. Nothing can hurt me now.”

I said my goodbyes and stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Around the cluster of huts the hills seemed to undulate forever. Here and there in their green folds there were other settlements with a dozen or so huts. There were no electrical cables to be seen. Nothing modern but our van stood here.

I looked at my partner.

“What happened to her?” I asked, knowing that he had been there before.

He waited until we were locked in the car.

“Her daughter stood up to their healer after he mixed the wrong muti to give to someone. He wanted to keep her quiet so he made a Tokoloshe. She stood up to him and the grandmother told the others about the healer’s deeds.”

I looked back at the hut with unbelief.  “But it couldn’t- that’s just folk tales.“

“Where do you think the tales come from?” He sighed and started the car. “She stood up to him and died, that’s why her children turned to dust.” His voice sounded far-off. “That’s what happens.”

I swallowed hard a few times.

“How can she be sure it’s over – it’s just a couple of bricks!”

He shook his head and pointed to where two or three people stood at a new grave.

“The healer was not liked, he was evil. He is buried now. The bricks will keep it away from her.”

As we pulled away and I looked back to the road that would lead us back to the city, I could’ve sworn I saw a fleeting black shadow out of the corner of my eye, darting away from the houses, but when I looked again, there was nothing.

Some writing news

I’m working on a couple of fiction pieces some which just needs a bit of a spit and polish, but also one (The Dragon Seeker) that ended up needing almost an entire rewrite now that I’ve taken it out of the drawer again. I’ve also finished an Afrikaans translation and partial rewrite of one of the NaShoStoMo stories, now called “Sirenesang” (Siren’s Song). I’m hoping to get it in one of the local magazines, but will first send it to a Top Secret Reader...

I’ve also done a translation of part 1 of The Great Sundering – die vertaling, genaamd

“Die Groot Skeiding van die Lande, Deel 1” kan op my blad by www.woes.co.za gevind word.

The Wrong Wish

Obviously I could not get to sleep at all. My hand kept creeping towards my phone; glancing at the time, wanting to send messages to everyone I knew. At almost two in the morning I threw the cursed piece of technology out of my bachelor flat’s window and waited to hear the crunch of plastic and metal five floors below. The sounds of car alarms, police sirens and the odd bark from a startled dog drifted clear through the night air. I wanted to shout my message from the window – and even opened my mouth – but then I backed down, closed the window and leaned against the icy burglar bars. No one would believe me anyway. Or they would believe me, blame me and probably kill me. I wish I’d never ventured into the antique shop. I wish I didn’t need the part-time job they gave me. I wish I never picked up the owner’s prize piece. I wish I had kept my mouth.

I went back to bed, sliding between the cold sheets and stared at the ceiling as I waited for the world around me to wake up. Soon enough I heard the muffled noises of radios turning on or alarms going off in the flats around me. Lights clicked on, water sloshed through creaking pipes and children raised their voices. Part of me wanted to stay in bed. Most of me wanted to stay there. I would be a liar to say otherwise. It’s not easy to step up to things you’ve done wrong. And this wasn’t something small. I would have to pay for this. Everyone would know what I did. And staying in bed would not make anything better.

My alarm also went off and I got up again, dressing in my best working clothes. I drank a last cup of coffee and even buffed my shoes before heading out the door. I didn’t bother locking the place behind me. Nothing really mattered now. But I could at least look the people of my neighbourhood in the eye before the fan broke under the weight of stuff that would hit it very soon.

I wouldn’t tell any of them, of course. Everyone would soon enough find out what I did and there was no point in creating a panic. I followed my feet through the labyrinth of cracked pavements, hawkers and cars and tried to focus my mind of the beauty of the sunrise and the world waking. If I had to choose one place where I would await my fate (in walking distance from my home, though) it would be the park. Specifically the bench where I always sat after work. It was the best spot really – and the light there was good to read by. And I had read prodigiously. That was probably also why I was so angry at myself at what I did. I had read enough stories to know not to do what I did in that shop. I shouldn’t have picked up the heavy bronze object. I shouldn’t have checked inside. I shouldn’t have buffed it with my sleeve. I should have watched what I was saying at work.

But, then again, I mused as I reached the park at last, why didn’t the man tell me it was a genie and not someone’s ashes in the urn? I thought it was ashes. I honestly did. Otherwise I would have made a better wish. That must be the worst wish anyone had ever made: I wish I could see the end of the world. Stupid, really; only it wasn’t supposed to be a real wish. And the stupid genie didn’t have to be so thrilled to grant the wish.

I looked at my watch. It was 8:45. I thought of telling the people around me that they only had 15 minutes left. But that would cause a panic. And, of course, they would find out soon enough.

Where none can hear

My feet wander back

over dried winter grass

to turn my back on

the world, its shadows.

Your shadow beside me.

Tales and banter of past times

fall in still whispers on

my thoughts as I stare to a time

when you sat beside

me.

It was a dark winter then

–        that lifetime ago  –

and shadows, like today,

streaked the dry grass.

Only the memory of your voice bring

calm and peace.

Today I’ll smile,

today I’ll whisper,

but only where none can hear.

I love you.

The Great Sundering Part 3 – The Night of Fire

For your reading pleasure this week, is part three of “The Great Sundering”. Click here to read part 1 and part 2. Next week I’ll try to have something a bit more uplifting for the fiction Monday!

The Night of Fire

At the time of The Sundering, dragons still lived on the coast of the Eastern Lands. The Saerimavolk were their guardians and knew the Dragon Tongue and their kingdom was very great. At The Sundering, many of the Lewjan's servants, the forebears of the Flotaferan from the scattered trading islands, attacked first the islands not under their power, and then the coast of the Eastern Lands; as they thought that they would be spared death if they could claim the land for their own and their master. There was with the Flotaferan also a Lewjan Lord who wanted to claim and bind the Eastern Dragons to himself to gain more power.

But the dragons saw the ships approaching on the churning ocean and had time to warn their Guardians and the Saerímavolk of the impending attack. Some of the Guardians, who were not fit to fight, fled with some of the dragon eggs and younglings to the Blue Mountains; following the messengers who were to call the peoples there to arms.

The Flotaferan attacked at night, but the dragons were ready for them. They burnt most of the ships and slaughtered many of the Flotaferan, as did the warriors of the Saerímavolk. But the Flotaferan had used for the first time the deadly poison made from the Dragon’s Bane plant, with which they smeared their arrows and killed every last dragon and Guardian they could lay their hands on. The Lewjan Lord did not have the chance to bind one grown dragon to him and could find no younglings on the cliffs. The last dragon alive found the Lewjan Lord and slew him and threw his body from the cliff before he was slain by an arrow from the Flotaferan.

 This night was known as The Night of Fire, because of the many fires that lit the battlefield.

Reinforcements from the Blue Mountains also came to fight the Flotaferan. Together, they and the Saerímavolk overcame the Flotaferan and the remaining attackers fled in the boats that were still somewhat seaworthy. The slain of the Flotaferan were buried in one pit, while a mound was raised over those of the Saerímavolk who fell on that night. The blood ashes were thrown in the ocean and the Dragon Tears were used to cremate the fallen before the graves were covered and the mound constructed. As happens to the dragons when they died, the dragons’ bodies were turned to stone below the waves, or where they fell on the land, and their passing was greatly mourned.

And so, on one fateful night, the time of the dragons and the Dragon Guardians of the Eastern Lands came to an end.

(The Night of Fire is commemorated every year at the first new moon after The Day of Sundering, at the end of summer. The night is commemorated by the lighting of bonfires on the beaches and has come to include mock battles and feasting, where the first nights were held in austerity, recounting the tales of the Sundering around fires on the beaches over a simple meal.) 

Ageless Words Friday: A Medieval Allegory of the Scribe’s Tools

A few years ago I came across this short piece when I was researching Icelandic manuscripts for an essay. I am not quite sure what the exact search was, but it was probably something like “parchment + illumination”; as I wanted to know (more for myself than as information necessary for the essay I was working on) what inks were used, how the parchments were readied, etc. Anyway, I ended up putting this piece up in my writing closet[1].

 

A Medieval Allegory of the Scribe’s Tools

The parchment on which we write is pure conscience; the knife that scrapes it is the fear of God; the pumice that smoothes the skin is the discipline of heavenly desire; the chalk that whitens it signifies an unbroken meditation of holy thoughts; the ruler is the will of God; the straightedge is devotion to the holy task; the quill, its end split in two for writing, is the love of God and of our neighbor; the ink is humility itself; the illuminator’s colors represent the multiform grace of heavenly wisdom; the writing desk is tranquility of heart; the exemplar from which a copy is made is the life of Christ; the writing place is contempt of worldly things lifting us to a desire for heaven.

The piece can also be found on Rosemarie Berger’s page under the title “How to pray when you have a desk job”.

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[1] My writing desk is inside a closet and has become known in the family as “The Writing Closet”; and is a mystical place where you will get lost in another dimension for at least a couple of hours if you’re not careful. We DO NOT, however, refer to it as the “WC”… And at least the Afrikaans is “Die Skryfkas”.

Reads and sites: Worldbuilding with Words, Paint & Pencil

I’ve found some great resources for worldbuilding this week and visited John Howe’s website again. I also took a peak at writer’s notebooks…

Worldbuilding Resources

You can now download the Magical Worldbuilder Guide by  Stephanie Cottrell Bryant in PDF, ePub or MOBI formats:

“… give yourself 7 and a half hours this month-- 15 minutes a day-- to build a world. It's not going to be Perfect or Set. Why would it be? You haven't actually written the story yet, you haven't tested its limits. But it'll give you something to start with, something to feel comfortable about when you start.”

I also came across an interesting interview about worldbuilding on www.writerswrite.com – I always love to hear how different writers go about writing.

John Howe

John Howe is truly one of my favourite artists – and he is a talented wordsmith as well. Enough to make you dark green with envy!

I love notebooks!

What can be better than a brand new notebook? One filled with scribbles, stories and pictures… I came across this link in a tweet by @thecreativepenn – “For the love of Moleskine journals”. My notebooks are usually a mix of ideas, glimpses of stories, the names of books or sites I want to read, doodles and scribbled maps and even the odd feather, leaf and pressed flower… How does yours look?

Worldbuilding Wednesday: Good vs. Evil Part 2 - The Airus

This week I’m taking a look at the Airus and will leave the Aíhla and the Ahma for next week to keep the posts from getting too long.  

The Airus

The opposite of the Lewjan, the Airus are messengers and servants of the Light and are also sometimes sent to help the people of Airthai against the Lewjan and their followers. The Airus are those who did not betray the Creator and are the mortal enemies of the Lewjan Lords.

“And the Creator made the race of the Airus that may pass between his world and ours; the only race able to do so while still alive. And the Creator made the peoples that inhabit the lands of the world. And the race of the Airus received much Talent from their Creator, the most of the Talent that the Creator gave to all the races created.” (Taken from “The Creation of Airthai”.)

Though the Airus are seldom seen, it is said that they were at the great battle fought between the Lewjan and the Erewhar, where they kept the Erewhar safe from harm:

“On the last day of the hundredth year since the coming of the Lewjan to the Erewhar the soldiers of the Erewhar stood against the Lewjan. A fierce fight was fought on that day. The Lewjan attacked the Erewhar with fire, but not one hair on the heads of the Erewhar was singed. Some of the witnesses later said that they saw the Airus that fought on the field alongside the Erewhar and kept the fire from them. The Erewhar stood strong because they knew that this battle was not just for their freedom, but for their very souls.
Some of the Erewhar, however, were so drunk and blind with the power the Lewjan gave and promised them, that they still chose to go with the Lewjan even after the Erewhar had won and were taken away in a plume of smoke when the new day dawned. They were not seen again in their own human form, but were rumoured to dwell in the Death Plain seeking souls to twist as their own were twisted. They could take on any form that they wished, like the strongest of the Lewjan, and it is said that they often took the form of seductive women to seduce men with their looks and voices.
The Erewhar who stayed behind found the ground turned to ash where they stood and not one tree still stood on the burnt plain. Around them the earth was churned to  ash and mud. This land would become the Death Plain, greatly feared by all people of the Southern Lands. And so they trekked south to seek help from the neighbouring countries. Aleidys led the group that would later become the Whargahn clan.” (Taken from “The Fall of the Erewhar”.)

The Fiery Battlefield...."Veldfire" by JEA Volxchenk

The Ealda were also, after the Sundering, led to the Valley of the Ealda by seven of these Airus, who left after the mists and mountains hid the Ealda from their enemies. 

Some, especially the Aíhla and the Ahma, believed that Airus were the ones who spoke to them in dreams and, in this way, conveyed important information or messages to them.

The two Aíhla, Migael and Gabriel, said that they and Leshem were spoken to in a dream to go to the old well at the cross roads. It was when they got there that they found Aran close to death. This was told of in “A Drink of Water” and “Mercy Unlooked For”. 

And so it was that a war - sometimes unseen, sometimes painting the fields of Airthai red - started that would last through all the ages of the world. A war that would only end on the day the sun burned its last and all the life on Airthai pass to the other world where only the immortal soul can go. 

The Great Office Trek

In the year of Our Lord 2011, in the blustery and cold month of June, I attempted, along with various other colleagues, to brave the winter cold and move to another office[1]… We packed the meager belongings stashed away in desk drawers, loaded the bags on our backs and hiked a few hundred meters to our new home.

I, being the slightly strange, nerdy one in the office also carried about 10 pounds of large and very important (maybe even magical) volumes slung over my shoulder. The trek was so tiring, that I even had to stop for a cup of tea and a cup of coffee once I was settled in. Here are a few things that I have learned during this great adventure:

• 1.        Those little bookshelves fixed to the desk can take quite a few dictionaries and other language books.
• 2.      You can never have too many dictionaries with you – either to hide behind or to make you look smart.
• 3.      I have enough memo pads to at least last me the rest of the year – I adore stationery, especially if they are printed with cute designs. Somehow I can always make myself believe that I need another notepad when I see one I like. (Shame on you CNA and CUMbooks for taking advantage of my love of stationery!)
• 4.      I only have one pen from the office supply cupboard – I much prefer those with more than one colour and those which are decorated. It also makes it more difficult for them to ‘get lost’.
• 5.       A new cubicle means new decoration challenges. (Where do I put my family pictures? And my piece of petrified wood? Can I still sneak in the odd action figure? Decision, decisions…

I came across this a while ago – if you also like stationery, you’ll love this!

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[1] OK, cubicle.

The Great Sundering Part 2 – The Flight of the Seafolk

Welcome to the first full week of June – can you believe how this year has flown? As promised, here is part 2 of The Great Sundering. Here the picture of the Seafolk, Dragon Guardians and their Eastern kin becomes more complete… Part 1 of the Sundering can be found here.

The Great Sundering Part 2 – The Flight of the Seafolk

After the Great Continent was split in two, the waters of the ocean churned and boiled for many days and none dared set sail upon it. Great mountains now rose above the water and great sea monsters were seen in the water. The waters around the Sundered Lands were especially rife with these beasts.

But some of the Seafolk, who now found themselves on the northern coast of the Sundered Lands, launched their ships and sailed for the Continent as they tried to flee from the Lewjan and the Wíkla. These folk included Dragon Guardians and Dragon Elders who knew that their dragons would also be blood-bound to the Lewjan if they should find them. They took all the eggs they could carry and young dragons on board the ships and some of the adult dragons flew along and with their fiery breaths scared away the sea monsters who churned the waters.

When the Seafolk fled with the dragons and dragon eggs to the Continent, some fled to the Southern Coast and Reiaghy, while others, who then became known as the Saerímavolk, fled to the Coast of the Eastern Lands, where they knew some of their kin already lived. This was before the House of the Eastern Keepers was built. Some of the Dragon Elders escaped last as the lands that would become the Northern Kingdoms in the Sundered Lands fell to the onslaught of the Werlea, Wíkla and High Wíkla. Some of the Dragons stayed to try and stem the carnage and the save the people that were fleeing across the new sea in what ships they could reach. But these Dragons all fell before the black fire of the Fallen Dragons. 

Next week, I will be posting part 3 of The Great Sundering, in which the Night of Fire will be told of.

I’m still working on a map to illustrate the “before” and “after” of the Sundering, but with all the studying I need to complete this month, I’ll probably only get it done in July… But watch this space; maybe I’ll get some time this month to at least finish one of the complete maps (properly drawn and not scribbled, that is!).