Lanterns

When I was younger, shortly before my life was changed so dramatically by Katarina, I went with my parents, and my brother, Gilbert, into London. There was an exhibition in Knightsbridge, where they had created a representation of a Japanese village. We found it utterly delightful and fascinating, though how authentic it was I cannot say, having never visited Japan itself. We came away with many souvenirs – silks, paper, lanterns and such like, which my mother much treasured and kept in her library. I, myself, was fascinated by the architecture, exotic looking dwellings and shops, seemingly constructed of wood and paper, two of my favourite materials. Father was much impressed too, though, as he said at the time, it was not something suited to the methods of construction that he was used to.

Supposedly, it was this exhibition that inspired WS Gilbert to write The Mikado, though the dates of those two things don’t necessarily align. That is a more bittersweet memory, for it was a performance of said operetta that Mother and I attended shortly thereafter, and was one of the last musical performances we attended together before her illness made things harder to leave the house for extended periods, and before my life changed irrevocably.

I was reminded of this exhibition when I took myself down to the Seiiki District of Callisto. Given that the entire island is a collaborative project between the British and the Japanese, it was no surprise that the district is built in very much the Japanese manner. The occasions was some festival, of which I did not learn the proper name, but was associated with lanterns. And lanterns there were a-plenty. Delicate and elaborate, with shades made, I assumed, from coloured paper. They cast their gentle light over everything, soft and beautiful. In a way, it made me think of times in faerie, where some of the demi-fae would flutter and fly, casting their own light on the scene. It was a most pleasing feast to the eye.

And a feast in other ways, as there were vendors displaying any manner of foods and snacks. I must admit, I partook lightly, as some of the items were unfamiliar to me, and took pains to ascertain that those I sampled did not contain mushrooms or other fungi, just in case they were of the variety that had been causing problems. I did, however, find some rice cakes, some pork buns, which Bailey had mentioned at our first meeting, and some noodles in a delicate clear fish broth.

I also found Bailey there, albeit not dressed as a nurse. She was feeding bits of rice cake to the koi carp in the stream. She was also, it would appear, not well, as she was vomiting at regular intervals into the tub holding a somewhat benighted tree. Whether this was because of inebriation of over-indulgence in foodstuffs, I could not tell. She greeted me cheerfully enough, and did not sound inebriated, but given her exuberant nature, it was hard to tell.

Her vomiting was commented upon by somebody who I learned was called Naoki Sato, though Bailey addressed him as Sharkey, for reasons that did not become apparent. He was more concerned, as was a woman called Willow, with the possibility of Bailey passing on the contagion through spores in the vomit and gave her a plastic bag in which to deposit her sick. When he heard me address her, he asked if we were… intimately involved… and suggested that I should be careful to avoid contagion.

I assured him that Bailey and I were only recently acquainted and not in any intimate way, which denial she enthusiastically confirmed, and that I was aware of the contagion risks and was taking appropriate precautions. A younger me might have been offended by the enthusiasm with which Bailey denied any intimacy, but younger me was a much more awkward person when it came to relationships and intimacy.

Others turned up. One was most strikingly dressed in clothing and makeup of a most elaborate nature. I was reminded of some of the costumes in The Mikado, but it also occurred to me that his appearance would not have looked out of place on some of the elven and fae courts I have attended. His name, I learned, was Ayzere Sian, and he was proprietor of the teahouse in the district.

I introduced myself, both by name and as consort to Gwyneth. I reasoned she had been here longer than I had and may have met more people. I am, of course, my own man, not just a consort, but I thought it would give context and a reason I was there. I suppose that this could have been a risky thing, should somebody have taken offence of her, but that seemed unlikely. Gwyneth gets along with everybody.

Only Naoki appeared to recognise the name, and only as somebody he had briefly met. The name was not familiar to the others. Ah well, she did say that she had only briefly visited the area when Berkshire suggested it. I made polite conversation for a few minutes, but the others, particularly Willow and Saoki seemed more concerned with what places Bailey may have contaminated with her vomit, and the matter of various charms and remedies that could be put in place to mitigate the potential contagion. Azere, on the other hand, seemed sceptical when I introduced myself, as if marriage, or being a consort was something he did not entirely agree with.

There were others around, but they were involved in their own conversations and I was not particularly inclined to interrupt. Although it had been a day or so since I arrived, I was still a little tired from my journey, so I wandered for a while more, sampled some more interesting dishes and then took myself back to the sithen to rest.

So, I have seen a little more of Callisto. One of the more pleasing areas, if what Berkshire told Gwyn is to be believed, and I can believe it. No doubt I will have time to explore some more.

The Prince That Was

Memory is an unreliable witness. Recollection can be distorted by one’s own desires, prejudices, by a nostalgic belief that things were better than they were, or by denial of things one prefers not to remember. It is imprecise, corruptible, fallible, and malleable. Mother knew this, which is perhaps why she bought me my first journal on the occasion of my 11^th birthday. That and the desire to provide an outlet for my musings, rather than scribbling in the margins of exercise books, and notebooks. I have kept my journal, more or less, ever since. Committing my memories to pen and paper before the passage of time causes them to fade. So, when recall fails me, I always have my journal to consult.

I did so this morning, for there was a nagging thought in me that I had misremembered things concerning the one-time prince, Llwydbrynnos. Perhaps the madness in him, and my associations of madness with the late, hopefully, Gwythyr, distorted my recollection regarding his parentage. I had characterised his madness as being a result of the taint from Gwythyr, when, in truth, he was not the son of Gwythyr and Faermorn, but of Saone, once Seelie Queen in Ashmourne Wilds. I was never close to Saone, nor ever her confidant, unlike with Faermorn, so I did not know who was father to Llwydbrynnos, nor what caused his madness. Such dealings as I had with him had little to do with getting to know each other and when the madness and destruction came, I was too busy defending my realm to concern myself with his background. Nevertheless, I wronged him in ascribing his madness to Gwythyr, so I am happy to correct myself here. He told Gwyn that the madness was behind him, so perhaps I shall never know as to what his madness could be ascribed. As to whether he has truly left it behind, that remains to be seen.

Gwyn was gone when I awoke, no doubt exploring or possibly just finding something to eat that wasn’t a mushroom. I dressed and wandered out into the sithen proper in the hope that coffee might be there to be found. I heard voices, or at least, a voice, so I headed in that direction. I was guest here in this sithen, so should at least introduce myself.

The voice came from the pool that gathered around the foot of the waterfall, where we had seen Llwydbrynnos the previous evening. Said King was still there, barely upright in the pool, and being ministered too by a rather odd individual, who appeared to be the owner of the voice. A young woman, though I have learned that judging age, or indeed, gender, by appearance can be deceptive, dressed as a nurse, of sorts. If I were to be charitable, and generally, I tend in that direction, I would describe her as a nurse who had recently been attending to some messy, and very bloody trauma. If I were less charitable, I would have guessed that she was on her way to some horror-themed costume party, or had escaped from the set of a low-budget blood and gore film set.

Whoever she was, she seemed intent on ministering to Llwydbrynnos in a way that seemed more affectionate than might have been considered professional conduct elsewhere. Here, of course, who knows what passes as professional conduct? Llwydbrynnos himself was much changed from when I had last seen him, and yet somehow still recognisable. He did not seem to be aware of anything or anyone around him, let alone the ministrations being visited upon him. He also appeared to have some sort of rose-like creature growing from him. Strange, but at the same time, oddly familiar, as if this was a distant cousin of the Mystroses that grew around Mysthaven, or their cousins, the Wyldroses in faerie there. 

The King still showed no sign of awareness. Indeed, aside from some small movements, possibly in response to the ministrations, the flow of the water, or the motion of the roses, and shallow breathing, he could have been a statue. The roses were somewhat more animated and some turned in my direction. Sensing my blood, maybe, or, if they were cousins to the roses I knew, some sort of recognition. Or perhaps their reaction was more like a guard dog sensing a stranger, with a certain amount of hissing. I watched the King again, unable to contain a slight undercurrent of trepidation. His aura, such as I could sense, showed the ever-present conflict of dark and light, but which was going to be dominant I could not tell.  I forced myself to relax and suppressed my fear. The past was past, and now, I would deal with the present. I gave greetings to them both, even if he was not aware, expressing the hope that I was not interrupting anything.

The nurse, who was singing some kind of lullaby was clearly not expecting anybody, for she jumped out of her skin with a colourful and inventive imprecation.  She recovered quickly enough and made a creditable attempt to act as though all was normal and claimed that she was just tending to the King’s medical needs. It looked like more than that to me, but I gave no indication that I thought otherwise. After all the thing that I have seen in my travels, little surprises me anymore, and it isn’t my place to judge what others do to each other. She told me that he had had an accident and needed some looking after. Then she advised me that if I wished to speak with him, I might have to come back later. I could speak to him, she said, but she could not say whether he could hear or listen or respond. Almost as an afterthought, she offered her hand and told me she was called Bailey.

I declined the hand and offered slight bow instead. I asked her forgiveness and explained that I had been told by my wife, Gwyneth, that there was some contagion here that could be passed by touch.  I similarly offered Llwydbrynnos a bow, even if he was not aware of it and explained that he and I were old acquaintances, albeit some years ago.

Llwydbrynnos gave no immediately obvious response, but perhaps there was some twitch, some change in his wing-beat that indicated that there was some awareness of another presence. The roses that grew around him gave more response, and I fancied they almost bowed in response and seemed to settle, as if accepting my presence. Bailey didn’t appear to take offence, merely glanced at her hand and responded with an “oh, yeah.” She asked if we were knuckleheads of old and offered to “fuck off for a bit if we wanted a moment.” Despite the offer, she made no move to depart, instead stripping off a glove and scratching herself on the arm to draw blood, which she offered to the roses, much as one might feed a pet.

I was a little bemused by the term knuckleheads. I had always thought this a term for an inept or bumbling person, which did not apply to Llwydbrynnos or myself. Perhaps she just meant it as acquaintances. I speculated that the word almost sounded like it could be applied to a pugilist and while the King and I had had our disagreements, we had never personally exchanged blows. I watched her feeding the roses and my mind went back to Mysthaven where I sometimes did the same to the Mystroses.

These roses fed greedily, and perhaps whatever sustenance they gained, stimulated the King, for his eye opened, unseeing, and turning towards us, as if aware there were people, if not aware enough to in any way respond. Bailey looked a little perturbed at my reference to past disagreements and bridled somewhat. If I was here to fuck with the king, I’d have to go through her first. Otherwise, she seemed pleased that I was acquainted with similar roses. She then decided to supplement their feeding with some coffee that she poured from a flask. I wasn’t sure whether the roses had more of a plant or animal physiology but they seemed to react to it anyway, and it even triggered a certain amount of reaction from Llwydbrynnos. Again, his eye opened, but again, there was no hint of recognition there. Bailey said that he had been through some shit and people didn’t understand what that did to people.

That was more true than she knew, I thought, though I could not speak for more recent events. We’ve all been through some shit, I told her, and  I assured her that so far as I was concerned, the past was the past, and I wasn’t about to start any hostilities, though I reserved the right to defend myself if anybody else did. I told her that I admired her loyalty, a quality that I much admire, which pleased her. I repeated that I was not one given to violence of any sort. I told her that a great queen had once described me as her warrior-poet, but that I was very much inclined to the latter rather than the former, save when it came to defending me and mine.

She thought that was an interesting career path. She didn’t know much about poetry, but thought it must be like songs. She had learned a lot of songs from her father. I could not argue with that. A song is just a poem with music, I said, or a poem is a song without a tune, save for that evoked by the cadence and such of the reading. I thought back to the days when Faermorn gave me the title of warrior-poet, and said that poetry always came first, the warrior later. She, it seems was just the opposite, having been a warrior first. The only poems she knew were those of Victor Hugo, about which I knew little. I offered to bring some of my poetry books next time, for I always have some with me when I travel. Perhaps she, or indeed, the king, might like to hear some. That, she thought, they would both like.

I took my leave thereafter, as I had not yet breakfasted. Bailey recommended a noodle house in the Seiiki district, where I might obtain some pork buns “as large as your fuckin’ hand” as she put it. It was not the first thing I would have thought of for breakfast, but I figured I’d give it a go. I made my way out, and eventually, found my way to the place she had mentioned. A strange way to breakfast, but, let it not be said that I am not open to new experiences.

So, Llwydbrynnos lives, but, as yet, is insensible to my presence. His taste in companions might be considered questionable, but, given his past, who is to know. At least this companion seems devoted. What will pass when he is recovered remains to be seen. But, as I said to Bailey, it will not be me that starts anything.

Under Another Sky

I have, for some considerable time, found my travels to be remarkably, for want of a better word, mundane. Aside from the portal that takes me from Awenia to the mortal world and back, I have taken only such means of travel as are available to the ordinary folk of the world; the bus, the taxi, the train and such like. There are planes too, but they are not needed for my travels have always been within the city itself. I sometimes forget that I am privileged to have means other than these, for when I wish to travel further afield, such as to join my beloved wife in this place she tells me is called Callisto. Even there, I have options. I could, should I choose to, take the Shadow Roads, for those can take me anywhere I wish. That, however, holds too many memories of my Cait friends, and, of course, my much missed friend, and other Queen, Valene of the Cait. She, at least, I know lives, somewhere, and I sometimes feel her presence, if only by the faint scent of mint at times when there should be none present.

So, no, I opted not to go to the Shadow Roads this time, but to take advantage of one of the gifts that the much lamented Alec gave me along with that of making me my own anchor, that ability to walk between the realms. There, however, my navigational skills are less developed, for I do not use that ability often. That said, when it comes to finding places, or people I am familiar with, or have a strong attachment to, then there is no difficulty. And there is none so familiar, or more attached, than my beloved Gwyn, so that is the road I took.

I stepped across the realms and found myself in what would seem to be a sithen of sorts. I looked around, lost for a moment in my memories, recollecting sithens I knew before. In Ashmourne, and even way back further on the Isle of Legacies, in the Underhill Club. It was but for a few moments, though, as I knew the presence of Gwyneth close by and so I turned and approached for a kiss.

Gwyn was there, looking as lovely as ever, though, as is ever the case, looking subtly changed from when I saw her last. That I am used to, for she can be as changeable as the wind. And, I remembered that she had mentioned that this place had a glamour of its own. She stepped back a pace, though, as if avoiding my kiss. There was, she told me, some contagion here that might be passed by touch. Apparently, it was something to do with some mushrooms. She pointed at a circle of fungi nearby, where a small demi-fae was enthusiastically licking one. She urged me not to follow its example. Otherwise, she said, it was so good to see me although this was perhaps not the best place for a holiday.

I recalled a time, when I was a young boy, being told by Mother to not lick things I did not know were safe. I cannot, all these years later if it was when I ate some of her pot-pourri or mistook a cake of carbolic soap for cheese. I told Gwyn of this and assured her I had no intention of licking anything if I could help it. I hugged her and said that whatever was going on here, it was bound to be more interesting than waiting on the committee stages of processing the Accords.

Gwyn laughed and said she was always telling me I should take time off. She led me over to a bench where we sat. She was not entirely sure that this contagion, or sickness, whatever it was, was carried in the air or by touch, only that she did not get sick until she was touched by the King. Speaking of which, she said, I should probably sit down.

I speculated aloud what I might do with time off. I had, I knew, much neglected my music, my reading, my writing, and even those woodworking skills so long ago taught to me by my father. What was this about being touched by a king, I asked, and why did I need to sit down for it? I was not really that perturbed. Jealousy has never been an aspect of our relationship and we have not always been entirely exclusive, so that in itself did not worry me. I thought back, with a sudden pang, to the time when our children were conceived, and wondered briefly how they fared.

She told me she had been approached, a few days before, by a well-spoken older gentleman who introduced himself as Lord Berkshire and said he was King here. Not a name she knew, but then, she had only been here a short while. He had suggested to her that they move to a different part of town where the grey mist, which has apparently been affecting people in these parts, was less dense. This gentleman claimed that he knew her of old, despite the glamour that the place casts on anybody. He then kissed her hand formally and she felt the cold, the extreme cold, a somehow familiar cold. This man, this King, she said, was Llwydbrynnos.

The name did not register at first, and then the memories came rushing back. Llwydbrynnos, the son of Faermorn and Gwythyr, the mad prince. All the madness and destruction in faerie, the battles around Mysthaven, the corrupted roses, the violent demi-fae whose blood I had boiled. The final battle when Faermorn tempted Gwythyr out of Llwydbrynnos’s body and dragged him off to whatever passed for the afterlife for them, the final demise of Maric. Llwydbrynnos, captured by Vedis and taken away for whatever punishment and imprisonment she chose to apply. That Llwydbrynnos?

Yes, that madman, she agreed, though he had said to her that he had left the madness far behind. She was not entirely convinced, but for now, she thought it was safe enough to remain. While leaving might still be a good option, there was much here that was good. There were other problems, she said, creatures from the Deep that had risen in the mist, possibly summoned by some of the residents. Meanwhile, the King had been infected by whatever had come from the mushrooms and was very sick himself.

I mused for a while on the nature of madness and evil. Llwydbrynnos was the product of his mother and his father. And while much of the evil and madness might have come from Gwythyr, there was still the influence of Faermorn to be reckoned with. And, with Gwythyr, much of his madness and destruction and evil were choices he made. Llwydbrynnos might not have had such choices. I was prepared to take things as I found them and not judge until I had dealing with him myself. I was not in fear, I told her. She and I were not the people we had been back then. We were stronger, better, possibly even wiser now than we were before. If he tries anything, he’ll find out we are not to be messed with.

He had been most proper and polite, thus far, Gwyn told me, and they said that at some point, they should have a talk, so that past events, history, should not be repeated, which I agreed was wise. Perhaps we might have that talk together.  She then told me a little about this place, this Callisto. It reminded her of Jasper Cove. There were many fae and others here. Some monsters too, but overall, it seemed to be a nice enough place to be.

I asked if there was anything to drink and she pointed me at a bar, where we found some rum and some absinthe that she had tried on another day. We reminisced about our days in Jasper Cove, when she used to call me a “posh fuck”. She said I still was, but I was her “posh fuck”. We were about to take our drinks and find our way to guest quarters when she spotted something in a pool by a fountain. It was Llwydbrynnos! He did not seem to be aware of us, or indeed anything. Perhaps he was in deep meditation or a catatonic state. Gwyn muttered to herself about having not slagged him off. I tried to reassure her. Nothing we had spoken of was anything less or more than the truth. And, if he was aware of anything we had said, it was nothing we would not have said to his face. With that, we took our drinks and retired for the night.

A Man of Leisure

Many things are considered the very epitome of slowness. The snail, the sloth, the glacier. All are, indeed, slow, but in comparison to the committee stages of government departments, specifically, the Bureau for Supernatural Affairs, they are more like the swift or the cheetah. I have done what I can. I have drafted and redrafted and drafted again the Accords that will allow Awenia to have its place on the world stage, and now, these have been submitted to the seemingly endless and geologically slow process of going through committees.  There will be questions, I am sure, questions that I will need to answer, but not for a while. My friends at the BSA assure me that it could be months before they even begin to think of asking me to respond to their queries. The cynical part of me wonders if committee members get an hourly stipend, so it is in their interests to drag things out as long as possible. But, I am assured, this is the speed at which government operates.

And so, for the first time in, I can’t remember how long, I find myself with little to do. I had thought that being consort to a faerie queen would mean that I would be a man of leisure, and perhaps it does, as consort. As CEO of Awenia Holdings Inc, on the other hand, and architect of the Accords between Awenia and the mortal world, I have had little time for leisure.  And yet, now, here I am, wandering the land, free, for now of most of my onerous duties. And even my lesser administrative duties I can pass over to Bran for a while.

Perhaps then, it is time to take my leisure for once. And take my leisure as consort to the Queen. My beloved wife and my queen is taking a break from her pursuit of the latest in fashions and the documentation thereof to take a holiday in a strange land called Callisto. Not the moon of Jupiter, named for the unfortunate nymph of the Greek Myths, but an island far across the world. Well, a world, at least. It has been a while since we have had opportunity to spend quality time together, and now I am at liberty to respond to the subtle hints and join her. And so, I shall. At least, thanks to that rogue, Alec, it need not be an arduous journey. It has been a while since I exercised my ability to walk between the realms, but I am sure I have not forgotten, and navigation should be no problem, for there is none closer to me than my beloved Gwyn. I wonder what adventures await when I get there.

I Look at Clouds That Way

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way

(Both Side Now, by Joni Mitchell)

I’ve always had a fascination for clouds. When I was young, Mother and I would go for walks in the parks and the countryside, sometimes with my brother, Gilbert, but usually without, for he was not inclined to the outdoor life. Often, we would stop and sit, or lie on the grass, looking at the sky and watch the clouds, imagining they had shapes. That one looks like a dragon, that one looks like a dog, that one looks like an old man’s face and so on. Of course, they were none of those things, just random shapes that our brains chose to interpret as familiar forms. There’s a word for that – pareidolia – the same thing that causes us to see the man in the moon. That there is a rational explanation of why we see such shapes does not detract from the pleasure we took in it. Of course, then, I did not know that word, nor would I have cared. We looked and made shapes as we saw fit. At other times, they were just clouds, fondly imagined as snow-covered islands in an azure sea, or stately ships sailing serenely by.

Of course, when I took to the sea, I saw clouds differently, as I learned to observe and interpret the different cloud formations as indications of the weather that was to come. Even so, when more prosaic interpretations were my focus, I still looked to see familiar friends, the dragon, the dog and so on in in their myriad forms. I, even now, accept that there is a difference beween those clouds and the cloud that my daughter, Wren, insists is where my documents are stored. I have to trust that is a difference manner of cloud.

One notable aspect of all cloudscapes, whatever interpretation I might place on them, is that they are, by their very nature, transient, changeable, impermanent. The same could be said of much of my home, in Awenia. It does seem to be an aspect of faerie, this impermanence, or, at least, an aspect of the nature of my faerie queen, Gwyneth. My beloved, my queen, my wife, the centre of my world, reliable, dependable, and my rock and my anchor. And yet, for all this, as changeable as the wind. Free-spirited, wild and restless, she changes the shape of Awenia as often as she might change her clothes or her hair. A hill one day, a lush valley the next. A woodland path today, and a lakeside path tomorrow.  All that I know is that often, when I return from my business trips to Seattle, what was there before is no longer.

Even to our home. Our home in Awenia, that is. Not the small apartment above an office that serves as Awenia’s legal presence in the mundane world, and my residence while I am there. The place I stay while I am dealing with the endless bureaucracy involved in negotiating the Accords between the US Government and the Faerie Realm of Awenia. No, our home, where Queen Gwyneth and Prince Nathaniel can become just Gwyn and Nate. I have lost count of how many castles, cottages and mansions have been our home. And now, on return from my most recent foray into government intransigence, our home has changed again. I am hoping that this, perhaps, will remain, at least for a while. As we approach the time when we will open our doors to visitors from the mortal realm, it would be nice to not have to keep reprinting the maps.

This is a house with many levels, and many staircases and balconies, perched upon an outcrop of rock with a glistening cave and waterfall at its heart. It is an exciting space, and one that I look forward to transforming from a house into a home. That, as ever, is an ongoing process, and at the moment, we are still trying to decide what rooms, what spaces will be used for what. We have agreed a rough division between the public and the private. Although this is to be our private residence, we cannot escape our roles and our duties, and so there will always be a need to receive honoured guests and visitors. And thus, there will have to be spaces – reception areas – that are, while part of our home, not entirely ours, for they will, in part, belong to the public.

Beyond that division, little is yet decided. When I returned from this most recent trip, Gwyn had left suggestions, in her own inimitable way. Most people, when separated by business and travel, would send each other messages. We have so many ways to do this on our phones. Or, in the case of something like suggesting that this room should be our main reception, leave each other Post-It notes. Not so my beloved Gwyn. Not for her a small yellow rectangle of paper, perilously adhered to a wall or door. No, not when she can manifest wooden plaques bearing the suggested ideas for each room. Not when she can manifest floating text, glowing with instructions, like an immaterial neon sign hanging in mid-air.

Some might have considered the messages a little blunt, or insulting to my intelligence, but not I. Mother described me as a sensitive soul, which was, perhaps, accurate, but life at sea, working with other sailors, soon toughens up your skin, so I am not quick to take offence. Gwyn would not so offend my sensibilities on purpose, and I am sure she had no such intent. It’s hard to be nuanced when communicating via a floating magical neon sign. Yes, she can be blunt. Certainly the pint-sized potty-mouthed polymath that was the Gwyn I first knew could definitely be blunt. Posh Fuck was how she would refer to me, back then. I am not sure the moniker stands up now, when she is queen, and I merely her consort. Posh to others, perhaps, but no longer to her. She has learned more diplomatic language now, but, I’m sure, sometimes, she remembers that name, and if she were to call me Posh Fuck, it would be with a smile, as it was back then.

Language, or tone notwithstanding, I find no fault with her assessment of the spaces in the household and what we might use them for. She is much better at that sort of thing than I am. I think I could legitimately claim better experience and knowledge when it came to the construction of a dwelling, I learned much from Father in that respect, but in respect to the interior decoration etc, I gladly defer to my beloved. Save, perhaps for her assessment of one level, a somewhat peculiar level, that exists between the area she designated as our library/music room/private relaxation space and the privacy of our bed-chambers. Yes, I can see how she would regard it as an unnecessary intermediate level, but, I can see that this would be a good space for my things. My man-cave, as she might call it. A place for my personal desk, books, knick-knacks etc. My office or study if you like. Save that it is for my personal use, as opposed to the office I will have near the Awenia landing point, for my official business as CEO or Operations Manager of Awenia Inc.

I lack the magical ability to create floating magical neon signs. Carved wooden plaques I could manage, but it would be in the old-fashioned way, with chisels and a mallet, not magic. But that would take too much time and effort. So, I would have resorted to that marvellous invention of the modern era, the Post-It note. Except, there was no need, for who should appear as I was contemplating this space, but my beloved wife and queen. We greeted each other as lovers would do, but details of that are not for these pages. Suffice to say that we had not seen each other in some time, so our greetings were, shall I say, intense.

After, we had leisure to discuss the disposition of the various spaces of our new home, and the interior decoration, and furnishing thereof. There was not much to say on my part. She knows me well enough, and knows my preferences, my aesthetic. For the most part, I can leave the details to her. My main input will be in respect of the level where I would have my man-cave. There, at least, I may express my preferences, my likes and dislikes. I am fortunate in that in such matters, Gwyn and I do not differ greatly. I would have my old, dark and polished wood, my mahogany and brass instruments, my nautical maps and blueprints, and similar things as we both see fit to place there. And, with those, I will be content.

It will take time. For all that she can manifest most things through magic, I still have a preference for that which is material and put in place by mundane physical effort. There are antique stores plenty enough in Seattle for me to go browsing. I will have time while I am negotiating the terms of the Accords between Awenia and the United States of America. The wheels of US Government machinery turn slowly, and there will be enough leisure time between meetings to indulge myself. As for Gwyn, the annual Fantasy Faire looms on the horizon, which will take much of her time. I am hopeful that I will be able to share some of that time with her, should those that organise the faire find something that suits my talents. We shall see.

O Captain! My Captain!

The wheels of bureaucracy, as I have written before in these pages, move slowly. One might say, even glacially slowly. The Bureau for Supernatural Affairs and the Consilium Arcanum are still considering the latest draft of the Accords that will enable us to welcome visitors to Awenia. There are committees. I have come to believe that the purpose of committees is to obstruct progress. So far, all they ever seem to commit to is the date of the next meeting. Thankfully, despite being author of the Accords, they rarely request my presence in person. Still, the time drags. Heck, the Treaty of Versailles didn’t take this long!

Awenia is ready. Well, as ready as Awenia ever is. It is the nature of a faerie realm to be somewhat fluid. Gwyneth, my beloved wife, is, as ever, constantly changing things. Moving a lake here, rebuilding a castle there, extending the Book Forest yet again. At least she has finally gotten the hint I have been dropping for nigh on a year. We now have a private residence entirely separate from the official residence. A place we can be Gwyn and Nate, rather than Queen and Consort.

I still have my office in the castle, from where the business of the realm will be managed. The place where I will be Lord Nathaniel Ballard, CEO of Awenia Leisure Holdings Inc. etc.  Just as Gwyneth has her Throne Room, where she will be Queen. It is an equitable division of labour. I do the managing, she does the ruling.

Today, I decided to start moving my personal library from the castle to our home. The trouble with moving books is that you have to handle them, and handling them leads to opening them, and opening them leads to reading them. It is a temptation I know only too well, but have mostly steeled myself to resist. Easier, perhaps, with heavier tomes such as Le Morte d’Arthur, or any of my other tellings and retellings of the Arthurian stories. Harder, though with the poetry, especially with such favourites as Leaves of Grass. When that volume came to my hand, it was not surprising that I soon found myself seated in the arbour in the Book Forest, settling down to re-acquaint myself with Mr Whitman.

Inevitably, it fell open to “O Captain! My Captain!”  A favourite, not so much for the content, as the associations and the memories. Memories of my dear, but absent friend, Catt. An association that started the first time I was formally presented to the then Winter King and Queen, Artur and Katarina. Catt had recently been appointed Raven – Captain of the Guard – for them, so it was not overly surprising that they invited me to appear before them. I knew them outside of their regal roles, of course. How could I not when, for a while, I managed their night-club, Twilight Pleasures, for them.

What I did not expect is for them to invite me to be a part of the Winter Court, to be a part of the Guard, under Catt. I was a little troubled by that part. Would having a formal relationship of different rank affect the friendship we had? That is when it began. I turned to Catt and quoted the first line “O Captain! My Captain!” at her, for she knew well my love of poetry, and I received a smile in return. She knew then, and I knew then, that whatever this appointment might make of our respective ranks, it would never change the friendship we had enjoyed before.

My fears assuaged, I gave Artur and Katarina suitable obeisance and said I would be honoured to serve them. Some may have thought it strange for the fae crown to appoint vampires to their personal guard, but they, and we, felt it might improve relations in the city. It fell to Catt, as Raven, to administer the blood oath. That is where things went slightly amiss. Instead of a simple cut to my hand, Catt was a little too enthusiastic, and severed my hand entirely from my wrist. A simple mistake that anybody with a preternaturally sharp sword might make.

For a moment, we were all frozen in a horrified tableau. I stood there, staring stupidly at my wrist, too shocked to make any move or comment. Catt yelped and started gabbling apologies. Artur just looked on with some bemusement. Katarina, in her own inimitable way, smiled faintly. Then, as though it were no great matter, reached down and picked up my hand, saying drily “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”  She asked for my arm, and I dumbly lifted it towards her, still somewhat in shock.

“We’ll soon have this fixed,” she said. She offered the hand up to the wrist and wrapped her other hand around the join, speaking something in the faerie tongue.  I felt a rush of energy, at the same time icy cold and burning hot, around my wrist. My first experience of the healing power of faerie magic. A foretaste, though I did not know it then, of the power that a later queen, Isabella, would use to give me back my heartbeat and my breath. She removed the hand around my wrist. To my astonishment, my hand was attached to the wrist, as if nothing had happened. I could flex my fingers, turn my hand, and feel the touch of Katarina’s fingers on mine.

“I think we can take the oath as read,” said Artur, chuckling, “but please don’t make a habit of losing appendages while in our service. Let us take a drink to celebrate. We have blood wine for you.”  And so we did, although it did take Catt some time to stop apologising. So began my service to the Winter Court.

That was so many years ago, before the implosion of the Nexus scattered us far and wide to many different dimensions and realms. I still think fondly of Catt. We were never lovers, although we perhaps could have been, had circumstances been different. Still, I treasure the time we had. The scar on my wrist tingles sometimes, as if somebody had applied ice. At those times, I wonder if that means she is near, or that she is thinking of me. Certainly, during the short times that our paths crossed since the Nexus separated us, I felt that sensation before and while in her presence. Perhaps next time it does that, I could try to walk the realms, to find her and renew our friendship. Gwyneth would not mind. And, while the committees grind their way on, I have the time.

New Horizons

Getting to know the website…

I have always loved the written word. From infancy, Mother would always read to me. Some children’s books, yes, but a lot of the time, things like the Arthurian romances and the great poets. I always wanted more, so Mother taught me to read, so that I could satisfy that hunger for myself. She gave me my first journal for my 11^th birthday, the first of many I have kept more or less ever since, and I found that I loved to write as much as I loved to read.

Of late, I have been writing many thousands of words; dry, procedural, formal words – for the Awenia Accords, for the Code of Conduct and such like. I was thinking just a few days ago, how nice it would be to have something else to write. Something that didn’t include the words “whereas”, “aforementioned”, “hitherto” and the like.

Be careful what you ask for.

Winter is turning to spring. And spring, among other things, brings the prospect of the marvellous event that is Fantasy Faire. It is a mammoth occasion with all sorts of things to see and do and hear. In the process of entertaining and educating, it raises money for cancer research, which is something that is very dear to my heart.

Fantasy Faire has always been a big part of my beloved Gwyn’s life, and over the years, I have found myself getting increasingly drawn in. Especially to the Literature Festival, or LitFest. Nobody who knows me could deny my love of literature. In the past, I’ve helped out with odd bits and pieces, but now, I’ll be doing something different. Something challenging. And, given my somewhat patchy ability with technology, frankly terrifying. I’m going to be helping out with the website!

Yes, I know, that’s hilarious. Nathaniel Ballard, the famously technophobic Victorian accountant going all Webmaster? Well, you can all stop laughing in a minute. Especially you, Wren. Have some respect for your father. He may be old, but sometimes, you can teach an old dog new tricks. And, in this case, it is you, dear daughter, and my friend, Skeleton, who have managed to pound some understanding of this Internet and World Wide Web stuff into my skull. That and a mysterious guardian spirit*, sitting somewhere over my shoulder, who apparently has much more experience with these things.

And so, now, I am finding my way around a thing called WordPress. I will be using it to provide information about the LitFest – events listings, notices about the events, and whatever other content the organisers see fit to throw my way. First, I need to look at previous content, and use that as a template, so that is what I am doing now. Then, I will start to fill in that content as it becomes available. That bit I can do. While I may be struggling to understand all this Content Management System and Blogging Platform stuff, in the end, it comes down to writing words. I like writing words.

* That’d be me, Ian, Nathaniel’s author, stepping out from behind the keyboard for a few moments. Like Nathaniel, I am a great lover of literature, and particularly, fantasy and science fiction. And anybody who thinks that isn’t literature can go take a swan dive off an asteroid. I also spend a lot of time in Second Life playing Nathaniel and other characters in mostly fantasy settings.  Fantasy Faire is important. Although it is there for us to all have fun, going to fantasy-themed events, doing fantasy-based shopping and hanging out with like-minded people, at the end of the day, it is there to raise money for cancer research. I turned 60 a few months ago, and looking back at my life, I realise just how much my life has been touched by cancer. Far too many friends and relatives lost to its ravages, so many friends who are cancer survivors, or on their way to being survivors. I even had my own scare a couple of years ago, when worrying symptoms suggested the possibility of prostate cancer. Fortunately, I turned out to be clear, of cancer at least, but it still left its mark. Likewise with a recent screening for bowel cancer (likewise clear).  Cancer touches too many lives, takes too many lives, and it must be defeated. That’s why I support Fantasy Faire. And, if you are able to do so, please likewise support it, even if you don’t have anything to do with Second Life. The donations page isn’t yet active, but, when it is, I’ll be sure to let you know.

*

Head in the Clouds

Sometimes, even lifelong habits fall into abeyance. Such as writing in my journal. This has happened before, when life has taken my time or my enthusiasm. Yet, it seems so long ago that I last put pen to paper – actual pen with ink to actual paper. Of course, I have good reason. I had not quite envisaged just how monumental a task it was to fashion a treaty. Even with my experience writing the Accords between Mysthaven and the Summerlands, which has stood me in good stead, did not quite prepare me for the ponderous machinations of mundane bureaucracy. But, it is done. The Treaty between the Faerie Realm of Awenia and the State of Washington, and thus, the government of the USA, is written and is now grinding its way through the machinery of government process – of committees and working groups and the like.  With a bit of luck, we might see some results before I die. At least, now, we have an administration that is more open to international relations.

Meanwhile, there have been all the other administrative tasks. Since people will be coming to holiday in Awenia, and we will be charging them for the privilege, we will have to be a business, so far as the mundane world is concerned. I’ve got the incorporation papers back now, so Awenia Leisure Holdings Inc is now fully formed. The bank account has been set up with myself, Gwyn, Bran, and Skeleton as signatories. We made Skeleton a signatory because she is getting all the website stuff sorted out, for bookings, credit card payments and suchlike, so she needed to have access to the accounts.

Talking of Skeleton, it’s thanks to her that I can actually sit and work on stuff outside, in the café and various other places around the realm. She has finally managed to set up an internal Intranet (I think that’s what she called it) around the realm, and, more importantly, solved the problems of connecting that to the rest of the Internet. So far as the mundane world is concerned, everything related to Awenia Leisure Holdings Inc, servers, databases etc, will sit in the mundane world, and stops at the portal. Only a few of us, like me, will be able to “tunnel” in from the Awenia Intranet. I’m not entirely sure what that means, save that it means Awenia is very secure from hackers and such like.

Skeleton has also been educating me. I now have a better understanding of what a server is, and what cloud storage is, so I don’t need to look up at the sky any more. Although, I probably will still do so when Wren talks about it, just because I enjoy watching her rolling her eyes. I’m even getting to grips with the concept of things called blogs, which are like my diary, but stored online so other people can read and comment. I should probably make one for Awenia some time. Once I get the hang of the creation, editing and tagging of things, it should be easy. The rest is just words, and I’ve never had a problem doing those. Wren will be amazed when she next comes to visit. Imagine that, her adopted father, a relic of the Victorian age, an Internet blogger. Wonders will never cease.

Lost in a Good Book

It is no secret, and no surprise to anybody, that I love a good book. The love of books is one of the many gifts my parents gave to me. Like many parents, Mother taught me the basics using various spelling and reading primers, so I was well able to read before I started school. But, it was on the books in her library, read at her knee by the fireside, that I really learned to love to read. I cut my teeth on romantic poets and tales of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. As an adult, I discovered that magic is real, but, to that shy, retiring, red-headed boy, books were magic. Just by opening a book, I could be transported to lands far away and to times in the near or distant past, with new adventures and excitement every time I turned a page.

And now, some 160 years later, through this wondrous thing called the Internet, I have access to almost any book I desire, just by a few taps or swipes of my finger on the screen of my tablet or my portable phone. A different kind of magic, taught to me by my demonic friend Skeleton. That said, I still, and always will prefer an actual paper book. There is nothing like the feel of paper, card, fabric and leather in your hands, and definitely nothing like the smell of a book, old or new. And nothing like the thrill of discovering the story within.

And so it was with much anticipation that I took myself off to another exhibition, or rather, I should call it an immersive experience, curated by my good friend Jaz, from my writers’ colony, with her friend Harry, and another writer friend, Finn.

The Book Fairy takes us on a journey of discovery, wherein a young girl, Nythia, who is addicted to her phone, has it confiscated by her mother. Thus deprived, and with the aid of a fairy, Lila, she finds a whole new world, or worlds, in a book. She makes a new friend on the way, a friend who stays with her once she finds her way home. A friend who is there for her as she explores this new, exciting adventure of reading.

The gallery, when you arrive, is dark and featureless, so that all that you experience is contained within the exhibits – the pictures, the accompanying texts and the voice of the narrator, telling the story as it happens. No distractions, just the story, just as it should be. Like Nythia, you are immersed in the story, inside the book. You step through each page, much as she did, which takes you to the next page, the next part of the story.

Until you emerge, blinking, back to the lobby. Where, much like a real-life gallery, you can purchase gifts – models of the characters in the book, lovingly crafted by Harry and prints of the pictures, beautifully photographed by Jaz on each of the pages. If I had any complaint, it was that it was over too soon, leaving me wanting to go on more adventures with Nythia. So it’s not really a complaint after all.

It was a magical and satisfying journey, with a conclusion that is much in accord with my own feelings – there’s nothing quite like a good book.

Go see it, before it’s too late.

The Book Fairy

Story, art direction, scenes – Harry Cover & Jaz
Special effects – Venus Adored & Kurk Mumfuzz
Narration – Finn (Fionn Bookmite)

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Robots and Avengers

For my eleventh birthday, my mother gave me a journal. I had been keeping a diary before that, in an assortment of other notebooks and exercise books, but that gift was the first time I had one specifically for that purpose. I have kept a journal ever since. Sometimes assiduously, sometimes only intermittently. Until recently, the longest gap was when I found myself in that strange pocket of London in 1891, that place known as the Isle of Legacies. There, I was too preoccupied with adjusting to my new existence and a life filled with were-creatures, dragons, angels, and other vampires to record much of my experiences.

Now I find I have left another gap. In truth, I have had little motivation to record my daily comings and goings. Awenia is very quiet these days, with our Queen, my beloved wife, Gwen, on her travels, and me occupied in large with the bureaucratic processes involved in agreeing Accords between Awenia and the mundane world. And those processes offer little to write about, especially now things are at the so-called committee stage. Which stage, so far as my observations of the process are concerned, seems to consist of arguing over every little point, and despite the name, failing to commit to anything.

In between times, I have found some solace in reviving my writerly ambitions. I have been visiting a Writers’ colony in a place called Milk Wood. With the encouragement of friends I have made there, I participated in an event called National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short, in which the challenge is to write a novel of at least 50,000 words in the space of a month. I dug out some of the bits and pieces I had jotted down before about the butler/valet who works as a minder for a gentleman vampire, and used that as the basis for my NaNo project. It was hard work, especially as so-called real-life kept intervening, but somehow, I managed to complete it. It is very much first draft, and, as yet, I have not found the energy to go back and apply my editing eye, but, I am very pleased that I participated and succeeded. Perhaps next time, I will revisit my Serendipity Island project.

I have made many friends at Milk Wood, including a lady from India who goes by the name of Jaz. I have enjoyed her writings very much, both those about ordinary folk in her country, and her fantasy writings involving the myths and legends of her lands. Despite my own country’s Imperial past with India, I did not know much about the country and its culture, so reading Jaz’s stories have been very enriching and enlightening for me.

She is also a photographer of note. Certainly better than my clumsy efforts taking pictures at her exhibitions. Today, she invited me to an exhibition featuring her photographs. Well, two linked exhibitions really, concerning one possible future for our planet. In the first, Earth 2030 – The Final Countdown, human activity has devastated the Earth, with climate change and other pollution. Humanity appealed to the Avengers, a group of super-heroes, to assist them, but they rightly refused, saying it was humanity’s job to clean up their own mess. They did, however, save our flora and fauna, taking them to a safe place. In the meanwhile, humanity created robots to clean up the mess, which action pleased the Avengers, who came back to assist by overseeing the robots. In the linked exhibition, Earth 2040 – A New Beginning, the work succeeded, Earth is saved and is now liveable again.

This is a joint exhibition. The robots and other items are the work of Jaz’s friend, one Harry Cover, of L’Artistan gallery, whose wonderfully quirky creations seem assembled from materials reclaimed from a junk-yard – oil drums, engine parts, old machinery and such like. These are supplemented by Jaz’s atmospheric photographs showing the robots at work, tended by the Avengers. And, at the end of the tour, you can even adopt one or more of the robots, whose job is now done.

It’s a splendid pair of exhibitions, both sombre and optimistic, which are a timely reminder that our home does face an uncertain future if humanity does not take stock of the situation and take pains to prevent that possibly toxic future.

The exhibition is on until March 31s 2020, so get along and see it while you can.

Earth 2030 – The Final Countdown

Earth 2040 – A New Beginning

L’Artistan Gallery

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