Fiction Monday: Eldarion Whargahn

Eldarion watched his brothers disappear into the trees before he turned his back on the Rëaghor Forest. At the crossroads before him there were two choices for any traveller: travel through the forest or travel around it. Deep ruts led north and south, following the road most often used. But on this road, grass and weeds were matted where people had passed fled into the forest. The forest and its surrounds had been the Erewhar's home for almost as long as their tales remembered. He glanced behind him, checking that the last few stragglers of the Whargahn clan had disappeared into the shadows of the forest; each carrying only a small bundle of possessions. They had no time to wait for a cripple. He clenched and unclenched his hand around the green hilt of his short sword. At least he could hold the Khalvér back for a while and give his people a chance to escape a taint to their souls.

The moon showed only half her face, but the light was enough to see by for the Erewhar. He glanced at the four stars that pointed south to where his people had come from so many generations before; before they had betrayed the Ahma on that fateful day – the choice that had led to their fall. He heard the figures approaching before he took his eyes from the stars. For a moment he wondered if the Erewhar would remember him.

Cursed vermin. Did they truly still think that the Erewhar would join them in serving the ever-cursed Lewjan? The Erewhar may have fallen once, but would never again stoop to that level. His people would be redeemed. He rested his eyes on the dark figures and felt the power of the Talent being awakened deep inside him.  

"Stay where you are!" he called to the figures, not expecting them to stop, but hoping that they would step into the road now that they know they had been spotted. Three of the figures did just that. He couldn't make out their faces, but knew the golden sigil they wore upon their breasts. There was no doubt about their identity – Khalvér; and Servants of the Shadow. For all he knew Alzer, the boy they had sent as messenger, lay dead on his way to the Khalné. Would the Khalné arrive in time even if they had received the message? He drew his sword a couple of inches from its sheath and said a prayer for the redemption of all their souls.

One of the Khalvér lifted his hand, but it was neither in greeting, nor in warning. Eldarion felt the air around him thicken and press against his chest, leaving his breathing laboured. He drew strength from somewhere inside himself. The Other, the Elders called the source that the Erewhar was able to draw upon. Part of the Talent that the Khalné used, but it was different in many ways: more potent, but also more unpredictable, and addictive like the Talent was not – tainted somehow by deeds long past. He already felt the Lewjan’s shadow calling to him. He did not move, but pushed against the Khalvér's magic. His breathing became normal once more and he drew his sword fully. They laughed when he took two steps closer to them and they saw that he stumbled as he walked.

"Fight me fair," he said and his voice rang out across the grassy field. He fought off a second Khalvér that tried to bind him, lifting his arm to keep his balance. More shadows appeared in the tall grass. He would never be able to fight them all off and live. His heart beat faster still and cold sweat beaded on his brow. Perhaps he was not meant to live through this night. A strange glow showed in the palm of one of the Khalvér, proving that he summoned his power from the Shadow.

The Khalvér strode towards him. Towards the woods. Towards his people. He had to save his people, no matter what the cost. Eldarion flung out all the power inside him at the Khalvér, striking with his sword at the same time and receiving a pounding in return that sent him to his knees and crushed his fingers around the hilt. He cursed himself for letting them know the extent of his Talent so soon.

The leader of the band of Khalvér, a Werlea, stepped forward. He drew his own blue-black blade from the sheath at his hip. The intricately wrought blade seemed to glow with the blood it had drunk before. Tempered in Ahma's blood, the word went about these swords. And what was Erewhar but fallen Ahma? What was he? He felt his heart quail and the Talent dimmed. The Werlea’s voice was emotionless.

“There will be no peace for the Erewhar. No life. No redemption. You will join with us or die.”

Eldarion’s blade was forced to the ground and cleft into the sand. There were too many, and they were too strong. What was so much of the Lewjan’s magic against his tainted Talent? His heart sank, his breathing slowed, crushed from his body by the Khalvér.

He felt a faint pulse around him. He took a quick gulp of air before it was pushed away once more. Eldarion closed his eyes and concentrated on the faint pulse of Talent.

Fear only seems to lessen the Talent you’re given, he remembered being taught. He pushed once more with all the might he had, joining that faint pulse. Three of the Khalvér dropped to their knees. By their howling he knew they had been stilled and left to face the Shadow’s Lord without their dark magic.

A Werlea stepped up to him. Intricate tattooed patterns partially hid the burst veins and discolouration around his eyes. From his belt he drew a short, twisted blade. The Servant of the Shadow laughed at Eldarion as he tried to lift his sword. But as he struck with his blade at the young Erewhar's heart, the stroke glanced away and threw him off balance. Eldarion’s grip around his sword's hilt loosened, and pain flooded his arm as feeling returned.

Eldarion glanced around, feeling the pulse of Talent grow stronger. Then he saw the figures in their light cloaks. The Khalné had arrived. There was a chance for redemption still. The Erewhar were saved. He was saved. 

Photo by Thomas Schaeffer

Ageless Words Friday: The Song of Wandering Aengus

This poem is copied from the book The Poets’ Company (1951[1]), containing English poems selected by E.W. Parker. It is a small red volume, bound in cloth and with a faded name written on the side of the pages in pencil. I picked it up at a local library sale (where I’m known as the ‘girl looking for old books’) and found some of the pages filled with class notes and some doodles which were probably done during a not-so-interesting class.

One of the poets included in the volume is William Butler Yeats; represented by four poems including “The Song of Wandering Aengus”. Below is the poem and the poem set to music, performed by Nóirín ní Riain (and the free – and legal – mp3 can be downloaded here[2]).

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

"I went out to the hazel wood..."

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[1] First published 1939.

[2] With thanks to Marc Gunn and his wonderful Celtic mp3 Magazine.

Worldbuilding Wednesday – The Four Stars, The Sign of the Keepers

In the previous Worldbuilding Wednesday, I referred to the four stars which not only show direction in Airthai, but is also used in the symbol the Keepers wear. These ‘four stars’ are also mentioned in the short piece about Eldarion Wharghan and the Erewhar:

The moon showed only half her face, but the light was enough to see by for the Erewhar. He glanced at the four stars that pointed south to where his people had come from so many generations before; before they had betrayed the Ahma on that fateful day – a choice that had led to their fall.

I’ll admit that I’m not very good at spotting or pointing out all the constellations of the southern sky (of Earth…), but the two which I’m at least able to spot without charts or making myself dizzy is Orion and the Southern Cross (I live in a city as well, so there aren’t that many stars visible to spot). The Southern Cross[1] has always held a special meaning to me; probably also because it is mentioned many times in local literature and music.

The Southern Cross

When I first wrote the piece about Eldarion it slipped in and I thought it worked; so why not? By extrapolating the possible different meanings I could give to these stars – working with the number 4 as well – I thought that it would make the perfect ‘static’ symbol for the Keepers. Where every house has a colour, letter or other mark to show rank and house, they needed a symbol common to all of the houses.

Sketch of the Keepers' Symbol

This sign is made up of a four-pointed star; made by linking the four stars in the constellation. In the case of the symbol of Holt Haliern’s Keepers, two h’s are added to a green star.  Not just pretty, but also practical when it comes to embroidering the symbol on a cloak or another piece of clothing.

In next week’s Worldbuilding Wednesday: The Keepers of Airthai

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[1] I’m only able to see four of the five stars with the naked eye (without squinting a lot)… and this is another world. So there can be only four stars. And four already has many other meaning attributed to it, making it a much easier choice!

Ageless Words Friday: John Dowland’s “Weep you no more, sad fountains”

For this week’s Ageless Words, I quote again one of John Dowland’s songs; a chanson – c. 1603 – from his Third Booke of Songes.

Weep you no more, sad fountains;

What need you flow so fast?

Look how the snowy mountains

Heaven’s sun doth gently waste.

But my sun’s heavenly eyes

View not your weeping

That now lies sleeping,

Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that Peace begets.

Doth not the sun rise smiling

When fair at e’en he sets?

Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,

Melt not in weeping

While she lies sleeping,

Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

(Third Booke of Songes, 1600, no.15) [1]

In this piece, Dowland's predilection to grant text rhythms mastery over musical rhythms reaches its zenith. The entire text presents the conceit of a man speaking to his eyes, two sad fountains, telling them how useless it is to weep when their Beloved is asleep and does not notice their tears. Already in the first phrase, Dowland allows the singer's rhythm to wander freely within each measure, as if his very vision were blurred by tears. Yet the effect intensifies. At the close of each stanza, as the text fixates upon the uncaring woman asleep, the composer completely breaks down the musical meter. Seven sequential times the melody sings a descending fourth motive, each time utterly isolated in its rhythm from the similarly disjunct rhythms of the accompanimental lines. Once again, the virtual tears in the text create in Dowland's hands a palpable blurring of the musical reality. Weep you no more, sad fountains has been acclaimed the gem of all Dowland's songwriting.[2]

To listen to some recordings of the song, visit the Classical Archives here, or for more Dowland music, visit their composer page here or visit http://www.johndowland.co.uk/.

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[1] The lyrics quoted here has been taken from the CD booklet of “Songs from the Labyrinth”.

[2] With thanks to the All Music Guide. This paragraph is © 2008 All Media Guide, LLC. All Music Guide is a registered trademark of All Media Guide, LLC.

Ageless Words Friday: In Darkness Let Me Dwell

About a year ago I happened upon Sting’s Songs from the Labyrinth CD while browsing the Classical Music room at a local music shop. The CD includes songs by the English songwriter John Dowland, as well as snatches read from a letter written by him. One of the songs, “In Darkness Let Me Dwell” (c. 1603), is one of the most woeful songs I have ever heard. Although very dark, it is also extremely beautiful.

In darkness let me dwell; the ground shall sorrow be,
The roof despair, to bar all cheerful light from me;
The walls of marble black, that moist'ned still shall weep;
My music, hellish jarring sounds, to banish friendly sleep.
Thus, wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb,
O let me dying live, till death doth come, till death doth come.

My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poison'd wine,
My sighs the air, through which my panting heart shall pine:
My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night,
My study shall be tragic thoughts, sad fancy to delight.
Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be:
O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee, I haste to thee.

Worldbuilding Wednesday: A Map of Airthai

The following map of Airthai was inspired by T-O maps of Earth. It is not supposed to be a realistic representation of the world, but rather a symbolic one. It was only drawn and used after the Great Sundering of the Lands.

Just as there are four directions (north, south, east and west) and four seasons, there are also four stars that aid travellers in finding their direction and Airthai is divided into four parts. Three of these parts (the Continent and the Eastern and Western Isles) are placed against the fourth; which is the Sundered Lands. The map is therefore also used to show that the Sundered Lands are only a small part of the world and that its people would never be able to overrun and rule the whole of Airthai.

Much later, a similar map was drawn of the Continent as a form of protest by a scholar from Trelkanor after the Khalvér and their Nightwatchers had infiltrated the country. In this map he placed the “Southern Lands” – of which Trelkanor is the farthest south – in the place of the Sundered Lands. He had hoped to get some sense into the rulers of the country and its people, but was stricken by the Illness shortly after the map was made public and most copies of the map was destroyed out of fear.

Other fiction: For Part 12 of Virgin for Hire, click here.

The Strangeness of Half-remembered Ideas

If someone ever steals my phone – or rummages through the ‘notes’ application – they would probably think that the owner is not all there; probably referring to “Earth”. I admit a lot of the time my mind is wandering off on its own somewhere, especially right before I drift off to sleep; which brings me back to the phone. Because I use it as an alarm clock (there’s nothing like a jig to get your mind up and running at 4:45am) it’s usually on top of the pile of books I am reading and the notebook I keep next to the bed. And I can type a note without having to turn the room’s light back on and waking the pets. As a result, my note entries are in a jumble of Afrikaans and English and look something like this: “cross map”, “Azah – naam”, “Storie ‘they came from the forest/wood’. In afr? Beide?Afr, tuin wat aangelê is ens sit by ander storie” – yeah, I’m still trying to remember what “other story” I meant at 12:30am, but it seemed logical at the time. I also sometimes forget that I had made a note.

Some notes are even the (proper) beginnings of stories:  I saw them when I went outside to feed the garden birds. It wasn’t normal. It hadn’t even rained. But there they stood, a whole cluster of them under the acacia. Toadstools. Acrid yellow smoke was curling from a tiny chimney protruding from the one in the centre. It had started. And it wasn’t even spring yet… Which meant that they could only be Winter Gnomes. Now, If only I could remember where I was going with this…