Fantasy Cove

Four Dreamscapes

2006-02-24T21:11:00.000-08:00

I can't remember what started this dreamscape phase, however short it's been... Oh yes! *light bulb blinks on overhead* I was looking for a unicorn selections tutorial, and when I failed to find one I turned to Googling for fantasy image tutorials. The dreamscapes came disguised as one.

Perusing the site I figured I might as well take advantage of the pix and whatnot offered as possible elements for the visitor's use as he/she follows the tutorial. It turned out to be quite easy and simple--with a few exceptions. I also used a Paintshop Pro tube I've had for ages in one, along with--after splicing the sky from it--one pic by the painter, Jonathon Earl Bowser.

Dreamscapes, I've discovered, are quite fun, quite surreal and quite limitless. And quite bizarre. They can be anything.

I'm entertaining the idea of picking one from the ones I've made above and using it as a prompt for an entry. I'm kinda interested to see what (if anythang) evolves from the visual.

Chasing Rainbows

2005-08-28T11:35:00.000-07:00

For you Winnie, who has been wanting to know what's at the end of a double rainbow.

I've been invited along on a trip of sorts, a trip of the mind. Or rather, a trip of the imagination. The Soulfood Café is currently offering a tour to a number of its patrons of what lies beyond its back doors, along what is called the Silk Road. Numerous stops will be made along the way, and numerous tasks will be required of the travelers who embark on this journey. Each stop and task of the 21-day tour is meant to help us find and use our imagination to nourish our creative talents, to give voice to our Muses and to inspire and edify our fellow travelers. I've packed and today I'm taking the first step. We all begin at the Grotto, or the Cave of the Enchantress. Before I can get there, though, there's a gate I must open and pass through, a gate allowing me entrance into this magic world.

Lil did I know it at the time, this entry in my journal was to be the beginning of my journey along the Soulfood Silk Road. The child in it, now grown up and having seen a double rainbow just now on one of her many excursions just outside her village, is off to find the answers to her questions of what lies at the end of this twin beauty.

Last night the wind blew hard enough outside my windows to be heard, and I knew the heavens would soon be opening up to release the cleansing tears we mortals call rain. For when the wind comes, moisture is sure to follow. It was a playful wind I heard, scuttling the first of the fallen leaves of the changing season along the path following the west wall of my cottage. It swirled through the village square, and sometimes, lying abed, if the wind brought it near I'd hear the slow wooden cccrrreeeakk of a business sign hung outside Paddy's Pub and a few other shops down the road aways. It rustled and pushed through the leaves of the trees, and in my mind's eye, snug warmly under my covers, I could see their limbs dancing and swaying to the wind's whistling tune.

If there's rain on the morrow, I thought before drifting off to sleep, as sure as Ireland is green, a rainbow is sure to grace our sky. And I determined then to watch for it.

Ever since I was a wee one, I've loved the tales told me by my grandma. Tales of Old Ireland, tales of the Fae Folk and Queen Mab, tales of the heroes of yore. They fed my fertile, young imagination and oft times I would go exploring, to see if I could stumble upon Queen Mab's court and espy what it was the Fae Folk were up to. Or perhaps to try and catch myself a leprechaun and have three wishes granted.

One day when I was seven, and it was nearing the end of the summer vacation my family and I had taken to visit her here in Ireland, it had rained most of the day. I was quite put out because I couldn't leave the cottage. I wanted to explore! I wanted to see if I could find and capture a wee man or woman and have them grant me my wishes. I knew exactly what I'd wish for too. I wanted to stay in Ireland with Grandma, not having to go back to the States come next week. I wanted to meet Queen Mab and dance with her people. I wanted to be great, like the hero Cuchulainn.

"Now child, don't mope so," Grandma told me as she sat knitting in her rocking chair. "Ye can go explorin' tomorrow. 'Tis sure to be a better day."

The rain had stopped by then, but twilight would soon be falling upon the tiny village and my parents and sister and brother would soon be returning from the next town over. The adults didn't like it if it was nearing dark and I wasn't within calling distance.

I was at the window, despondently watching the leftover raindrops slide in slow, meandering rivelets down the pane of glass. I was about to turn and answer her when an arc of color caught my eye. A rainbow! A beautiful, brilliant rainbow perfectly arching across the gray sky!

"Grandma! Look, a rainbow!" I said excitedly and launched toward the door, throwing it open and hastening out into the front yard. I pointed to Earth's natural prism hanging above the trees and drank in the deep red that lightened by degrees then bled into what soon became orange and all the other colors. I had never seen a rainbow this vibrant before and I wanted to take in every last detail so I could tell Da and the others about it later. Da loved rainbows.

Grandma was slower in coming, but come she did and placed her thin arm around my shoulders, a smile wreathing her beloved wrinkled face. I noticed then one end of the rainbow seemed to touch the hills in the distance, and I remembered the tales of a leprechaun's pot of gold being at the end. Having a child's curiosity I asked her. It was that day she shared the true magic of what lies at the end of a rainbow if one is lucky enough to get there before it fades. It was that day my world changed just a lil, my imagination expanded to include new possibilities and my own love for rainbows was born.

I never forgot that day or her words to me when I asked about double rainbows. "I think ye are just the explorer needed for that answer, my child. Next time ye see a double rainbow, ye can tell me your answer."

Now I'm grown and have come back to Ireland, having inherited Grandma's cottage.

Sure enough, the rain came. I awoke early this morning to the tap-tap-tapping of its drops on the windows and thatched roof. I smiled into my pillow and curled my toes into the mattress, my heart dancing at the prospect of seeing a rainbow. Grandma's words filtered up through the lingering mists of sleep and I was suddenly gripped with the whimsical thought of chasing a rainbow to see what was at the end of it. Maybe this time I would be quick enough to slip through the gate into the invisible world of the Fae and finally meet the queen I had so longed to know.

What if there's a double rainbow? You could finally have your answers and no more wondering... This thought followed closely on the heels of the first and my eyes opened. Sleep was firmly banished in the new compelling whimsy of the idea.

Why not? I thought as I stretched, pushed back the covers and rolled from bed. It's crazy, but then Grandma would say, 'It's magic. It does'na haveta make sense.'

True, and it would give me another excuse to take my camera, journals and things and go exploring. And maybe, if today's is a double rainbow I'll be able to find the answers to my long-ago questions for both Grandma and myself.

The chilled wooden floor instantly cooled the soles of my bare feet, sending lil shivers up through my legs, causing me to yelp in surprise. Hastily I reached for my Irish green zip up slippers and put them on. Hugging myself and chafing my arms a bit to ward off the chill that invaded my room early this morning, I walked down the short narrow hallway to the common room where the fireplace and kitchen are. I knelt and started a small fire to warm the place up then moved to the kitchen area to start a pot of tea.

"If the rain lets up later, Grandma, I'll go exploring," I told her. "Perhaps then I'll be able to answer those questions we both wanted to know about and find out what's at the end of a double rainbow."

It may seem crazy, I know, talking to a dead loved one, but it's comforting to me. Since she died four months ago I've been missing her something terrible; talking to her fills the void and brings her spirit close.

*******The rain let up just after one this afternoon. I spent my morning in restless anticipation, cleaning my cottage and then packing any and all things I thought I would need for this exploration in my oversized Texas Flag overnighter. When I noticed the rain was letting up outside my bedroom window I slung the bag over my shoulder and started down the short hall toward the door. My image in the hall mirror caught my eye and I stopped briefly for a quick once over. My reflection grinned wryly back at me. Dark brown hair was pulled into a bun, but flyaway wisps were falling around an oval face on the rounding side with sea green eyes evenly spaced apart. Thin-rimmed tortoise shell glasses were sliding down a short wedge of a nose. I pushed them up then looked down at myself. A red sweatshirt with the old-fashioned Mickey Mouse sewn on the front and on the right shoulder, paired with black floral-printed stretch pants and Ugg hiking shoes. I had to laugh. Eccentric Colleen O'Leary's granddaughter was sure to be thought of as eccentric as she if people ever caught wind she was chasing after a rainbow.
Stepping outside the rain was falling intermittently now, and I knew I had to hurry. Not caring that the occasional drop splattered on me or my glasses, I followed the muddy path in front of my cottage until it forked left or continued straight on into the village. Turning left I walked at an increasing pace until I left the path altogether and began climbing a knoll. The heavens soon dried up and cleared, and though I crested the small hill and kept going and climbing others, I remained alert, searching the lightening sky for the rainbow.
Stopping to catch my breath for a moment, having climbed over a low stone wall and hoisted my bag over it, I twisted to my left to scan the horizon. And there it was! A double rainbow! The inner arc of banded colors was more vibrant and prominent than its outer sister, but I thought the first just as lovely as the second. I knew I was grinning foolishly and my heart jumped into joyous overdrive. A double rainbow!
"What a magnificent sight, Grandma!" I cried as I shouldered my bag hastily again and took off in that direction as fast as my bag, the terrain and stone walls allowed. "Here we go!"

Always keeping the curved bands of color in sight, I prayed they wouldn't fade before I could get there.
Funny how magic works, especially on Time and distance and other things. The rainbows always seemed to hang in the distance, no matter how far I traveled. Then all of the sudden they were before me! Shimmering arcs of brilliant color, one about 25 feet from the other and duller, but no less beautiful. Their ends barely brushed the tips of the grass blades, and they sssooaarred into the sky. I felt insignificant standing there in front them and shivered.
It's difficult to describe what it's like standing in front of a rainbow, but I shall try. Words, speech failed me as I stood there looking up with my mouth hanging open. The air seemed thin, charged with some invisible force and my nerve endings tingled as if sparkles, all the colors of the rainbow, traveled along them.
I don't how long I stood there in silent awe. A hundred years, or mere seconds, I couldn't tell you. Belatedly, and excitedly, I remembered my digital camera and began recording pictures. Talking to Grandma, I put the camera away back in my bag and, looking at the wonder of colored light and mist I stood up, taking my bag with me.

"Ready Grandma, to find out what's on the opposite side?" Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I stretched forth my right hand and walked the rainbow's curtain...

A STREAMING BALLAD IN BLUE

2005-08-06T17:26:00.000-07:00

Goblin spoke to Ternerhooks
“Beware! Be long, Be gone!
Something foul is seeking
The girl with the clear blue song!”

2005-08-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

2005-08-06T17:20:00.000-07:00

~

A narrow eyed man, all cloaked in black
Limps up from out the sea
Carrying a slick and leaking sack
And a spiraled iron key

He has come to make an offer
To a face without a name
And he carries his dripping coffer
With a quiet, patient shame

Down an alley dark and twisted
He waits in the puddling rain
The air is blue and misted
And his face engraved with pain

In pain he walks, in pain he waits
It engulfs, devours, transcends
He is lost within the dire straits
Of an anguish that never ends

A voice in the darkness hisses
Not an inch from where he stands
And the rain leaves frozen kisses
On his empty, open hands

“Walk on the sand when the waves retreat”
A rasping whisper taints the dark
There is nothing to see in the inky street
Not a shadow, not a spark

“Walk on the sand where the waves retreat
Find the one whose voice is true
Bring me the blood of the sweetest meat
Bring me her song of blue . . .”

Then the voice is sucked into stillness
Has he entered a pack to betray?
He feels a gist quaver of illness
The covenant bag has been taken away

A creeping shudder shakes him under
He puts his hands across his face
The wet air is split with thunder
And emptied of all grace

~

She sits on a log with her face to the sun
She is almost as still as a stone
Only fingers move, in hair undone
Plaiting feathers, flowers, bone

Her dress is a patchwork of rags and rhyme
Her hair is silk indigo lace
Perfectly balanced in both space and time
She dreams with a smile on her face

2005-08-06T17:19:00.000-07:00

2005-08-06T17:17:00.000-07:00

And she sings in a voice borrowed from birds
Clean and most treacherously true
She sings without thought, without rhyme without words
A song that’s unbroken and blue

She sings of blue mountains, of sea and of windOf live gems
From beneath the cracked earth
She sings without words of how sapphire sinned
And was redeemed by the white sky’s blue birth

She sings of blue whales that leap on the foam
Of bluebirds embroidering the trees
She sings of blue smoke soft wreathing a home
And the iceblue of vast Northern seas

She sings of long nights of empty blue sadness
The deep, darker blue that’s depressed
She sings of the roiled blueblack of madness
The joy of a pale Robin’s nest

She sings up blue flowers so Spring can begin
Blue silk in rich markets afar
She sings of blue veins underneath her own skin
She sings of a blue crystal star

~

And here he sees her singing
And he steels his heart and brain
Such a little thing this song of blue
To commute such scorching pain

Forged in the sea, the pact makes no sense
Meaning mystic and message arcane
Yet, it’s steps he must follow, trembling and tense
The checkered path to the end of his pain

The slick sack was delivered, the hissing voice spoke
He has followed it here to the sand
The rest of the world can all go up in smoke
He must fulfil the offensive demand

And here she sits singing, eyes closed in the sun
As if she were tasting each note
Somehow he must do what has to be done
And rip that blue song from her throat

In his cloak is a dagger of cuttle and bone
A dried rose with one razor thorn
A sliver of drab, rain-colored moonstone
And a cup made of silver and horn

2005-08-06T17:15:00.000-07:00

2005-08-06T17:10:00.000-07:00

~

She opens her eyes, he is startled by blue
So blue that they make the word shout
He is drowning in blue that is fresh and so new
Like the end of a long, barren drought

Her song has been stopped by a smile
As soft as the clouds in the sky
An enchantment that could beguile
The rivers and seas to run dry

“Why does the blue sea turn?” she asks
Shading her eyes from the sun
“Who gave the dolphins their long silver backs?
How soon will the waves be undone?”

He is stuttered to stillness by her clear crystal voice
By her words with no plan to their rhyme
Is she speaking without any kind of a choice?
Lost in some stray piece of time?

Is she speaking in madness, in some kind of trance?
As one whose wits have gone blind?
Or is this some kind of elaborate dance
Does she know what he has on his mind?

His heart skips a beat and pain clenches his back
Shoots through his arms to his head
Agony stabs at the man dressed in black
And with it a well traveled dread

It never will stop, but continue to grow
And he knows there is nowhere to run
He looks at the girl and he clenches his jaw
And prepares to do what must be done

He knows that somehow he must make her sing
It’s the only dark, desperate way
To finish this creeping, detestable thing
This pact to deceive and betray

“I’ve never . . . I’ve never heard such a voice”
His own voice is hollow as tin
“It makes the sunshine wake up and rejoice
To stop now would be such a sin . . .”

She smiles again and opens her mouth
Her voice begins soft, low and mellow
Singing of buttercups, sun in the south
She sings out bright streams of yellow

She sings out of daisies and butter
Of lemons and sunflower sun
Of canaries with wings all a flutter
And lamplight where stories are spun

He is lost in the spell of her voice
Sinking under a bright amber wave
He struggles to hold on to choice
With the desperate despair of a slave

He must stop her bright golden singing
With black terror his heart is rife
With saffron his ears are ringing
Fingers curl on the sharp cuttle knife

“Oh sing just like you sang before!
‘twas a balm so clear and clean”
She nods her head and begins once more . . .
Singing the healing salve of green

She sings of spring and the birth of green
Of a pure, fresh grassland breeze
Of jade and emerald and aquamarine
Of the lusty green song of the trees

He is caught by the vision of woodlands
His blood echos the sweet rising sap
Then he is back on these misunderstood sands
With the sharp sudden sting of a slap

She gazes up at him with eyes of green
And he is rocked with a deep dawning dread
In a whisper so clear it can almost be seen
He breathes out, “Sing something red”

So she sings about rubies and cherries
Of roses bloomed ripe from the bud
She sings of cardinals and berries
She sings of the rich red of blood

When the singing has stopped her hair is red
And she speaks through the roar of the sea
“What is it fills the waves with dread?
Who drowned the split crimson tree?

Why does the sky taste of ashes?
Why are the stars so arcane?
Is time lost when thunder crashes?
What must I give for your pain?”

A hush washes over the man dressed in black
And his head is bent down with shame
The thought of his gruesome, intended attack
Leaves him sickened and covered with blame

“Oh, She who breathes color” he whispers low
“I came here in stealth and deceit
But I can not go on with this ghastly show
Or make this base bargain complete”

The wind whips the strands of her new scarlet hair
She smiles and just shakes her head
“I know of your compact and of your despair
I know of the things that you dread . . .

I speak not of darkness, or bindings or guilt
But the harsh pain with which you’re possessed
For castles of sand must be always rebuilt
And I have a dissolving request

Who suckles the sun at midnight?
What is the language of rain?
Who gathers the threads of the twilight?
What must I give for your pain?

Put a price and a worth on your torment
If you can contain and supply it
I’ll count any fee fairly spent
I would contract to purchase and buy it”

He stares in utter disbelief
Thoughts of grim nights of unending pain
When he speaks his voice is thick with grief
“You must be completely insane.”

Her face is untouched by surprise
In her eyes the smile still swam
A smile that is patient and wise
And she answers, “you know that I am

I sit by the sea singing moonshine rhyme
In the sun and the dark and the rain
Transposing color to concrete design
There is nothing in that, that is sane

Who carved the ocean’s wildest wave?
What is the smell of a prayer?”
Here eyes are brown and still and grave
She meets his and holds him there

“Now I ask, are there weeds in a King’s wine?
Words that shout and echo ‘insane’
You can see I’ve stepped over that fine line
What must I give for your pain?”

He closes his eyes and rocks on his heals
As a sweet, aching hope shoots through
Of all the unearthly preposterous deals
Is this crazy enough to be true?

He looks in her eyes, so deep he is lost
It seems that he hangs there for weeks
Then suddenly something screams: ‘Damn the cost!’
Before his mind changes, he speaks

“You must give me the skill to compose
Though my mind is now wounded and scarred
Give back the color to yesterdays rose
Give me the words of a Bard.”

She blinks once, her eyes thick with thought
Then she answers, “‘twill be as you choose
Since this is the thing you have sought
I will give you the gift of the Muse

I will give you the blessing of words
I will hand you the lore weavers thread
I will give you the music of birds
And the deep resurrection of red

In return you will give me your pain
Secured in this gold and bone locket
You will give me the color of rain
And the moon that you keep in your pocket”

For a moment he’s startled by rage
As if he were holding the moon!
Like an eagle trapped in a cage
Then he is caught by the edge of a tune

She is singing again and swaying
A piercing song, clear, clean and true
She somehow seems to be praying . . .
A crystalline song with no color or hue

His hand has reached for his knife
A sharp edge of cuttle and bone
But this moment’s a prism of a life
As his hand meets not cuttle, but stone

Pulled from his cloak, it lays on his palm
A hard little rain-colored round
She steps up to him with a smile of calm
And takes it, without any sound

She holds out the locket, on a long golden chain
Forged of old gold and deep carved bone
As it falls in his hand he is crippled with pain
And doubles over his hand with a groan

His body is wracked with every pain
He has ever felt before
From the base of his foot to the top of his brain
Each anguish doubled times four

He is falling, the locket snaps shut
And the pain is erased in a breath
He stands silently clutching his gut
His face just a shade short of death

She takes the chain from his shaking hand
And loops it over her head
Then she bends to the shining wet sand . . .
For a dry, crumbling rose that looks dead

A memory had gone tumbling
From his clock to lay crushed on the sand
Now it lies abandoned and crumbling
Black with age, in her small pale hand

She slashes her palm cross the one razor thorn
Her blood on the crushed rose is shed
As if touched with fire, the rose is reborn
Blushing, blooming in lustrous red

With a smile, she gives him the rose
“There is yesterday’s color my friend
Though it’s different than you suppose
Our contract is now at an end”

Then she wipes her palm on his cloak
And a bright scarlet stains starts to spread
And like quick flame and billowing smoke
It is kissed with a bright spreading red

Crimson licks up his inky dark cape
Like a hot, hungry ruby red fire
Before he can move or escape
He is clothed all in Scarlet attire

She dabs a drop of blood between his eyes
Where it shines like a ruby shard
“Ah!” she says, “here, I surmise
Is the famous Scarlet Bard!”

Then she walks away, and that is the end
Calling back once over her shoulder
“Here is something to remember my friend
Before you get too much older . . .

There is an alternative flow to each river . . .
Remember, you’ve always a choice!
Now I’ve got a locket to deliver
To a man with a hissing, dark, voice . . .

Oh, why are the planets not strung on wire?
Came her voice as she vanished from sight
Have the cows formed a rainbow cloud choir?
Who paints the doorstep of night . . . . ?”

~

“And that is the tale!” sings the Scarlet Bard
“Truth wrapped in ribbons of rhyme”
All through the crowd is a murmuring regard
For a tale both warm and sublime

One small thoughtful face by the fires
Rests her chin on the top of her knee
Tugs on the red cloak, and inquires
“What happened to the spiraled iron key?”

The Bard gazes into the fires
Where scarlet ceaselessly blooms
He considers what mythos requires
And the things that a story presumes

“I’d forgotten that iron spiraled key!
What do you know about that?
Well, he left it there by the sea
On the rock where the blue girl once sat

The waves took it away, I suppose
In their vast, mysterious space
Where it has gone no body knows
It vanished with nary a trace . . .”

“The key to his heart!” a breathy voice said
But the Bard smiles, with cynical eyes
“Nope, The key to the old decrepit shed
Where he kept his fishing supplies.”

A murmur of protest sweeps round the fire
But the Bard laughs and claps his hands
“Now I’ll tell you a tale to inspire
Filled with secrets of far foreign lands!”

Happy expectancy hums round the fire
His listeners quickly agree
As he bend down to re-tune his lyre
He feels a small hand on his knee

The child looks in his eyes and smiles
And he smells the sea and the sand
Thrown back through years and miles
He feels something slipped in his hand

She presses his hand to his heart like a prayer
“One day she’ll come back, you’ll see”
When he blinks there is nobody there
In his hand is a spiraled iron key

©Edwina Peterson Cross

2005-08-06T17:09:00.000-07:00

Sky Onions

2005-07-06T02:53:00.000-07:00

The Legend of the Pleiades

2005-07-06T02:49:00.000-07:00

Once Upon a Time in a land that was far, far away . . . just how faraway was this land? Well, it was further away than the corner, but not as faraway as forever. It was as distant as tomorrow, but not quite as remote as later. In this land, which lay beyond the tall blue mountains, but not behind the clouds, there lived seven sisters.

These sisters were named, Ona, Oneida, Oni, Ondrea, Onella, Onora, and Onyekachukwu. Ona was the oldest, the most practical and pragmatic. She was the best at problem solving and figuring things out. Onyekachukwu was the youngest. She was flighty and frivolous, given to giggling and telling off-color jokes that made everyone laugh. Oneida had the voice of a lark, Oni painted marvelous pictures, Onella had read all the books in the library, Onora knew everything there was to know about numbers Ondrea fell right smack dab in the middle. She was the best at . . . well come to think of it, no one really knew what Ondrea
might be good at. People often forgot that Ondrea was there at all. If Ondrea had suddenly gone missing and they had counted themselves and only found six, they would have spent several puzzled moments feeling very blank because the missing name just would not appear in their heads. What did she look like after all? What color did she wear? It was hard to remember.

The answer was red. Each one of the sisters wore a different color. Their parents had thought this up as a good way to tell them apart. It would have been too, if they hadn’t kept forgetting which child they had assigned to which color. I will tell you, though you probably won’t remember either. Ona wore green, Oneida wore turquoise, Oni was always seen in yellow, Onella in pink, Onora in purple and laughing, giddy Onyekachukwu always wore orange.

Did you notice that Ondrea was missing? No one else ever did either.

Now, the most notable thing about these seven sisters, and, indeed, the point of this story, was that these seven sisters loved nothing in the world so much as onions. This enjoyment of onions was not just a preference, it was a passion; it went far beyond just a fondness or fancy and was closer to a madness or mania; an obsession that many people felt was slightly unbalanced. These seven sisters LOVED onions.

They loved green onions, red onions, purple onions, yellow onions and white onions. They loved Vidalias, Bermudas, Carzalias, Nu-Mex, Imperial, Maui, Hawaiian Hula and especially Walla Walla Sweets. These sisters loved onion soup, onion salad, onion quiche, onion sandwiches, onion rings, caramelized onions, grilled onions, barbecued onions, raw onions and everything in between. It is said that they even made onion margarita’s, but to ask you to believe that would be stretching your incredulity a bit farther than incredulity ought to stretch. It is quite true, however, that they were all fond of Gibsons.

They loved to listen to the Beatles White Album just to hear “Glass Onion” and they realized that onions had prescient powers.

"Onion skins very thin,
Mild winter coming in.
Onion skins very tough,
Coming winter very rough."

These sisters knew full well that the ancient Egyptians actually worshiped the onion, that the shape of the onion symbolized eternity to the Egyptians who buried onions along with their Pharaohs. The Egyptians saw eternal life in the anatomy of the onion because of its circle-within-a-circle structure. Paintings of onions appear on the inner walls of the pyramids and in the tombs of both the Old Kingdom and the New Kingdom. The onion is mentioned as a funeral offering and onions are depicted on the banquet tables of the great feasts. Onions were always shown upon the altars of the Egyptian gods. I’m not going to go as far as saying that these seven sisters actually worshiped onions themselves, but there were suspicious onion shaped Objects d'Art all around their house.

The greatest dream of all of these sisters was to someday become the Payson Onion Queen and rein over the Golden Onion Days. None of them ever realized this dream, however, because Far, Far Away was just too far away from Payson. Still, in due time, as the years went by, each of these seven sisters fell in love and was married. They each walked down the aisle to the sounds of Booker T and the MG’s singing “Green Onions” carrying a bouquet of those same long steamed Green Onions. One by one, they left their parents home to set up house keeping, taking with them their onion statues, framed portraits of famous onions and samplers that they had cross stitched with such messages as:

"I will not move my army without onions!"
~ Ulysses S. Grant ~

"Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep."
~ Carl Sandburg ~

"Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon."
~ William Shakespeare ~

"If you hear an onion ring, answer it."
~ Anonymous ~

They also took all their favorite recipes. There was one thing that could always be said with great truth and gusto: the Onion sisters were good cooks. Each husband counted himself lucky and smiled upon by good fortune. At the beginning.

As the years went on, however, it became evident that the sisters passion for onions was not waning or weakening, but only growing stronger. All of their husbands began, in subtle ways, to become restless and discontented. They initially claimed that it had to do with being sick and tired of every meal they were served being full to brimming with onions.

They also let it be known, through insidiously dropped hints, that their unhappiness had to do with . . . well, we might as well come right out and say it: olfactory offenses. They slyly spread the rumor far and wide that they were all suffering and sad because of smells.

The sisters, of course, knew that this was piffle and poppycock; trash and twaddle; bilge, blather and balderdash. Though it was a closely guarded secret, each of these seven sisters was the possessor of the deep, hidden mystery of the Knife’s Templar. This clandestine key is known to few on earth now, but these seven sisters were all initiates of this secret sect and recipients of it’s shrouded alchemical knowledge.

You all know the story. It is told that once Woman had the unmitigated gall to assume she could handle Knowledge. Accordingly, she took a whomping big bite right out of the Onion of Knowledge. Of course she was eternally punished for her presumptuousness. She was immediately expelled from the Garden of Onion. A Great Voice was heard to speak, saying: “With weeping will she chop now. In sorrow and flowing tears, will woman bring forth the onion.”

Everyone knows this story, but not everyone knows the secret story which tells how the alchemy of tears can be altered, the vale of weeping averted, the tale that tells how an onion can be chopped without it’s sulfuric compounds being released into the air. This is hidden knowledge. This is the mystery.

This mystery, along with a specific ritual, was gifted to mankind soon after the dawn of time by Raptor Spirit, the Great Papa Falcon. It had been handed down in secret for generations upon generations. I will tell you the mystery and the secret ritual, though it’s possible I may have to kill you afterward.

The first part of the mystery is held in three words. These secret words are accomplished as the first feat. In beginning, the initiate holds The Orb toward the moon and chants these words: “Chill. The. Onion.” The initiate then does exactly this, under cover of night.

After secretly accomplishing the first feat, the second feat is begun. The initiate performing the ritual holds a knife up sidewards and lifting it carefully against their nose in salute, chants the second part of the mystery. “Never. Cut. The. Root. End!”

Firmly grasping the onion, the initiate slices slice off the tip opposite from the root end. They then slice the side of the next layer and peel back to form a handle over the root stub.

By using this ritual and remembering the mystery, the sulfuric compounds are held in check, though Knowledge be attained, the initiate will not be overcome with tears. Thank you, Oh Ancient Falcon, whose spirit still flies the skies of the Over World.

And, as for the contemptible innuendo that these husbands were discomforted, confound or chagrined because of onion breath, well that is simply stuff and nonsense. All of these sisters had grown up knowing the secret of dispelling onion breath. It wasn’t something that they broadcast far and wide, but certainly they didn’t eat all that parsley just to turn their teeth green.

No, the sad truth, in the end, was that all seven husbands were jealous. None of them would ever have admitted that they were stabbed to the heart by envy when they saw the way their wives looked upon an onion, but that, in the end, was the truth.

What happened was not meant to happen. The final outcome was not what they had planned. None of them really wanted to lose their wives, they merely wanted what husbands have wanted from time immortal: They wanted exactly what they wanted, exactly the way they wanted it, exactly when they wanted it. And what they wanted, in this case, was for their wives to give up onions. That was what was behind it all. All seven husbands really believed that their wives would come home repentant, remorseful, regretful and without onion. They expected their wives to be so penitent that none of them would ever think about another onion, touch another onion, or smile that special smile at another onion . . .

They planned it together and all struck at once. The sisters had been at their parents home celebrating their mother’s birthday. (Onions really add a whole new dimension to the concept of a Layer Cake.) At the end of the evening, when each sister arrived at her own front door, she found that front door locked. All of the locks had been changed. Each of them found a note bearing slightly differing wordings of “I’ve had it with you and your onions. Don’t come back.”

The youngest husband, married to Onyekachukwu, the youngest sister, had written “Get out and stay there!” Onyekachukwu, in her orange party dress, squinted at the note. “What a dork,” she muttered, “I already AM out.”

I repeat that the outcome that came out in the end was not at all what the husbands had planned. Despite some of them having been married for many years, these men didn’t know these women at all. Unfortunately, this is a rather common state of affairs, regardless of onions.

It didn’t take long for all seven sisters to rendevous at their parents house once again. Their father had to be forcibly disarmed and they had to feed him quite a lot of homebrew before he feel asleep still muttering dire threats that were quite sincere. Their mother was very calm as she announced quietly, “they’ll be sorry.”

“They will indeed,” sighed Ona, “as soon as they figure out that we’ve taken them at their word and we are not coming back.”
“Well, that too,” said their mother, “but I was speaking specifically about the spiders eternally crawling on their skin, the slimy creatures they will keep finding in their under shorts . . .”
“Mother!” cried Oneida, “no spells! Remember just a little while ago, you promised not to cast any more spells?”
Their mother smiled happily at a spider on the ceiling. “They can buy buckets full of Viagra if they want, it won’t do any good. It will never do any good . . .”
Ona patted her mothers hand. “That’s fine mom. Have at it.” She addressed her sisters, “Well? Where are we going?”
“Away,” said Oni vaguely.
“Far away,” said Onella definitely.
“ . . . a galaxy far, far away,” said Ondrea.
“Yes!” laughed Onyekachukwu. “I get Han Solo.”
“I’m serious,” said Ondrea, softly.
It was suddenly completely silent around the table which held the crumbling remains of an Onion Layer Cake.

The seven men were, indeed, soon very sorry. Though they never told anyone, even each other, about the spiders, slimy things and buckets of useless Viagra, they did openly repent the way they had treated their wives. In their loneliness, they desperately sought after their wives and begged them, again and again, to come home, but it was all in vain.

Ona’s old VW bus had last been seen taking a sharp right at Orion the Hunter. Before too much longer there was a new cluster of stars blazing in the night sky. From out of that cluster, seven stars burned especially brightly; radiant, round and golden, glittering like glistening onions in the dark night sky.

There is a legend that says you should always look straight at those seven spectacular stars they call the Pleiades. You must look at them openly, frankly and honestly. The legend says that if you look directly at them without blinking, you will see colors: Ona in green, Oneida in turquoise, Oni in yellow, Onella in pink, Onora in purple and laughing, giddy Onyekachukwu eternally in orange.

Did you notice anyone missing? Neither did anyone else.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This story is for Dilyn
May he always
Be faced
With Only
Fictional
Onions

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Supersized! Why Were Things So BIG!?

2005-06-17T10:58:00.000-07:00

This is also another journal entry of mine written days ago. It's one of my favorites, and maybe y'all can think on the answer(s) and come up with a few. I'd really like to know what your minds come up with.

The Mastadon

An Archelon, the world's largest(?) sea turtle

Megalodon

I have one question: Why were things so BIG in prehistoric times?

Even the bison back then were HUGE! I tried finding a picture of one like the Archelon, but all I came up with were pictures of cave art and today's smaller version. From the hoof to the shoulder bone, the distance measured seven feet! (I remember this from the exhibit at Idaho's Museum of Natural History on ISU's campus when I went with a class once.) So, knowing this, just imagine the horn span!

The Archelon picture is of the sea turtle from Thanksgiving Point. As you can see, it's suspended from zee ceiling of the Museum of Ancient Life. It's near the doorway to the sealife exhibit, and let me tell you, entering that room sitting in a wheelchair, with that thing leaning forward as if it was gonna swoop down on ya...yyyeeaahh, you wanna dive out of the way!

And, apparently the Megalodon, by the way which gave me the creeps and major gooseflesh just looking at the painted plaster replica of zee head, is said to have been a bigger version of the Great White. Scientists say it was anywhere from 15 to 20-feet-long. But, in 1918, off the coast of New Zealand it was reported that several fisherman saw a shark 30-feet long! That would be good enough to keep me landlocked for a good long while, if I knew that was in the same water with me!

Almost everything back then was supersized, pardon the McDonald's expression. I find it interesting and would love to know why. And why, over many, many, many years of evolution the species that survived became smaller. Was it so man could have easier dominion over the plant and animal kingdoms? Really, those answers would be sweet to know.

The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.
~Frank Herbert~

Future Earth

2005-06-07T18:32:00.000-07:00

This is yesterday's journal entry. I knew Gwen would get a kick out of it, so I showed it to her, and she suggested I post it as a possible writing challenge. Please enjoy and please do take up the writing challenge presented in the many questions I posed.

A random thought ocurred to me yesterday--I find this happening a lot more, or it could be I'm just following up on these piques of harmless curiosity more often. Whatever the case, I found myself thinking and wondering from a literary and historical point-of-view: If the Earth had several more centuries to reveal yet, what would future generations have to say about us? What would they consider to be classics, timeless and of the same magnitude as we find The Illiad and The Odyssey to be today?
What events or people from the 20th and 21st Centuries would be thought of or revered as legends and myths come their time?

Though Egypt, Mongolia, Greece, Iraq (Persia), England, Italy and many more countries have stood the test of Time and are powers of the modern world, they're not the same as they were thousands of years ago. The Ancient Egyptians, Sumerians, Babylonians, Romans, Ancient and Classical Greeks, Ghengis Khan and his Empire, the Saxons, Mayans and Aztecs--all were proud, intelligent civilizations with distinct and different cultures. But in the end they all...collapsed. Or were absorbed into the conquering, rising cultures that followed their falls. What new countries and cultures will have come about by their time? What countries and cultures will still be around, but changed yet again? What countries and cultures will no longer be on the modern map or be a way of life? What will civilizations be like then?

Aaahhheemmm. Yeah, my mind was really going to town with this train of thought. But after searching for a Greek/Roman myth to add here, I got to wondering. History, myths and legends are fascinating--at least to me--and I got to thinking about how we marvel and admire civilizations past. And I couldn't help but wonder. T'would be fascinating to see what the future would be like in eight, nine hundred years--if the Earth last(s/ed) that long, to see the answers to my many questions unveiled.

Another thought similar to this vein of deep thinking came to me some weeks previous, but until now I've not pursued it. I can't remember exactly what sparked it, but I got to thinking about discoveries and explorations and the many animals (some now extinct, sadly) found on such excursions. As I stated before, there are myriad species of animals and plants on this Earth with us. Who's to say they're all discovered? Wouldn't it be exciting, I asked myself, if they really found the Loch Ness Monster? Surely not all species of animals [or plants] are discovered?

Scientists would definitely have a field day if ol' Nessie was, indeed, discovered. Personally, I have no doubt she may actually exist. The seas and oceans are many fathoms deep and there's no telling what secrets they have yet to reveal. So who knows what unknown creatures reside in the deepest waters? And besides, if I remember right, sharks and crocodiles are prehistoric creatures that have survived millennia, so why not an aquatic dinosaur (a plesiosaur)?

And going a lil further to tie this altogether, what species of plants and animals would be extinct or endangered eight, nine hundred years from now?

2005-05-24T03:13:00.000-07:00

The Shepherdess of the Silver Sea - From the Narnian Cookbook by Edwina Peterson Cross

2005-05-22T16:20:00.000-07:00

The Merpeople Sing at the Coronation - From the Narnian Cookbook by Edwina Peterson Cross

2005-05-20T00:38:00.000-07:00

Larkin's Doors

2005-05-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

Elk Woman

Enchanted Images

2005-05-20T00:19:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, Vi! This is it! I remember it for the simple reason that it is incredibly memorable. You can see why the e.e. cummings poem jumped out at me! It IS his balloon man! This may have begun as a dream, Vi, but what it is now is a prose-poem, the images so marvelous. I am copying it immediately to my “Very Important Work” file so I don’t loose it again! The images from this dream have ended up in several of my paintings. It predates “Elk Woman” and I’m quite sure I remembered something of this poem when I painted her, in her forest, with her candle. I will add “Larkin’s Doors” check out the crags in the surf outside the window. Fingers pointing to the sky. Shakespeare Crags! I had forgotten about “Everyone is a Princess” though I don’t now how, since it is quite the point, isn’t it?

The Dream

2005-05-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

This is a reposting of a dream I had in November of 2001 and which Winnie remembers to this day and has written a poem about. What a memory you have, Winnie … you are amazing.

I was walking alone through a deciduous forest. The path I followed was narrow. The dappled effect of the sun shining through the leaves was mesmerizing. I passed a couple of rustic cabins with sheep and goats about. Along the way I met a wizened little man carrying a bunch of colorful balloons. He smiled but we did not stop to speak. I paused here and there to take pictures although I was not aware of carrying a camera or a bag/pack of any kind. When I came out of the forest, I found myself standing on a headland high above the scintillating surf. Off to my right I could see several towering rocks, like fingers pointing toward the sky. A rustic sign identified them as Shakespeare Crags, BC. Close to where I stood and old Indian woman was sitting on a tallow bench. Beside her, on the bench, was a simple sign that indicated that she was selling kisses. As I approached her, she said, "Everyone is a princess." She repeated the words as I bent to kiss her.

And that, my friends is where I woke up.

Vi

2005-05-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

Eating a Rainbow

Another Story of Vi's . . . still drifting in my mind

2005-05-18T11:02:00.000-07:00

Vi - this is off the wall, but do you remember a piece that you wrote (maybe 2002?) that I said reminded me of the e.e.cummings poem about the goat-footed balloon man? It seems to me it was set at a beach and it involved a bench . . . something that disappeared . . . part of the reason I ask is that though I can’t remember the particulars of the story, the feeling of it has never left me. I remembered it when I painted this picture called “Eating a Rainbow.”

In Just-

in Just-
spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles       far       and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far       and       wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
   the

           goat-footed

balloonMan       whistles
far
and
wee

 -- e. e. cummings

Three Stone Steps

2005-05-18T07:56:00.000-07:00

This is something I wrote in 2003 and a piece, I think, that fits in some strange way with gates without shadows and doors without knobs.

When walking out one day
in a seedy part of town,
I happened by an empty lot.
At first, I turned away, appalled at the junk strewn about,
soda cans, beer bottles, plastic bags, discarded fast food cups,
bits of this and that,
an old shoe, used condoms, and a broken trike.
Something though had caught my eye
and my imagination ...
Three stone steps growing from the weed infested dirt.

They beckoned,
those three stone steps,
so I picked my way through the litter.
They were old and scarred,
those three stone steps,
not smooth at all, nor level.

I stepped up one and instantly
smelled roses on the breeze
and heard the laughter of children playing --
I stepped down and looked about.
There were no children, no roses …
only the din of traffic
and the clatter of big trucks loading
at a warehouse across the street

I turned once more to the steps,
up one and then, another.
I turned, expecting …
but the lot was empty.
But there it was,
the sharp sound of an axe biting into wood
and the dull thud of split logs falling to the ground.

I wondered about the steps, were they magic?
Where would they lead me if I climbed all three?
What had they at one time been connected to …
a house, the home perhaps
of a pioneer who settled when the city was a village,
a mere settlement on this wild, Northwestern Coast?
Yet there was nothing left of house or home,
so perhaps there never was one.
But, why three stone steps
on a discarded city lot in a seedy part of town?

A car pulled over,
the driver rolled down his window.
"Want to buy it?"
I shook my head.
"It’s for sale," he said.
I shook my head again.
He shook his …
wondering, I suppose, about the crazy woman
standing on the second step of three
that led nowhere.

One more step and I was on the threshold,
and wafting through the open door,
the most delicious smell of baking bread.
And a woman’s voice, so like an angel,
Singing to her child,
"Hello," I said, reaching for the knob.
"May I come in?"
I took another step
and fell onto the hard and stony ground.
I looked around, embarrassed, and got quickly to my feet.
I brushed myself and left, determined not to come this way again.
Steps, you see, can fool you, especially if they’re built of old, uneven stone.
They fool you into thinking that where they lead,
you, too, can go.
but when they lead you back in time,
beware, you could be heading for a fall.

Vi
©2005

2005-05-17T06:28:00.000-07:00

THE DOOR

The story Behind Vi's Wrought Iron Gate Poem

2005-05-15T16:57:00.000-07:00

Vi's poem, the Wrought Iron Gate, had been niggling at the back of mind for almost a month. I wanted so much to find that field and walk through the gate. I'm not taking metaphors here, I didn't want to write about it--I love writing, but it's hard work and it wasn't work I was looking for--I wanted(needed?) the experience of touching cold wrought iron swirls warming in the sun but casting no shadow--a gate that came from nowhere and lead--somewhere else.

The poem stayed with me and I went back to read it again. I pasted it into my computer's note program. I made a copy and kept it in my pocket. I found myself wondering if there might be a gate just like it somewhere in this world; it's a big world after all. Foolish thought. I pushed it away but it simmered on the back burner of my mind, edged into my dreams, nagged me at work.

I read the poem to a friend thinking, quite selfishly, that if I shared it with someone else it might cease to haunt me. She loved it but I got no relief. Strange. It's a short poem and simple, no fancy, multisyllable words, no deep, life altering epiphanies, just a sweet, slightly mysterious combination of phrases set into a few simple stanzas that leave room for the reader to wonder and wander about. A poem that Billy Collins would admire.

I suppose it began as a dream. I had finished dinner, and was in that drowsy state I sometimes find myself in after a busy, noise-filled day, when I've finally settled down and given-in to the quiet and peace of an evening spent alone. I wasn't thinking about the poem, I was reading a not-too engrossing novel and, I admit it, I dozed off.

Suddenly, I was standing alone in an empty field, knee-deep in nondescript grasses and weeds that were unknown to me. I had no words available until I turned and saw the gate. I went and touched the wrought iron, let my fingers travel along its cool curves, as Vi did, while my eyes searched for the shadow I knew they wouldn't find.

There was nothing to do but go inside the poem. The gate swung open at my touch and, holding my breath, I walked through to the other side.

I've never been so disappointed in my life.

To be continued.

2005-05-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

Starfish Sky

2005-05-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

China Moon

2005-05-06T18:43:00.000-07:00

Kaija

2005-05-06T18:42:00.000-07:00

Fay

WORK IN PROGRESS

2005-05-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

BELOW
PART I:

I begin to fall behind. The voices of the rest of the company keep getting more and more muffled and the light keeps getting dimmer and dimmer. I get so tired at the end of the day, the equipment starts to feel so very heavy. I stop to rub the back of my neck, my stiff fingers kneading the knotted muscles between the roots of my hair. The lights are moving further away, bobbing along in the semi-dark, but it doesn’t really seem to matter, as my eyes are beginning to rock shut on every other pulse beat anyway. I take off my safety goggles and rub my eyes, shaking my head hard to try and wake myself up. It doesn’t help much. The lights are getting bleary and blurred as they get further and further away. Suddenly they turn a corner and I am plunged into complete blackness.

The thing is, of course, I ought to be terrified. I am not terrified. I am staring into the inky darkness completely calmly. I take an inventory. My heart is not hammering, my breath is not coming too fast. I can’t see anything. I am completely alone. I haven’t a clue where on earth I am. Interesting. Obviously I know something that I don’t know that I know. That would be intuition. Of course it feels much too strong to be merely intuition, but I don’t know another word for it, so I will call it intuition. I am not frightened or alarmed or panicked. I know everything is going to be fine, everything is going to be all right. Except, of course, for the fact that the song that has begun to fill the air, is just a little bit on the flat side.

It is a sparkling song, however, a song that is actually putting small, bright diamond bursts of light into the air. It smells like diamonds too and if I breathe in quickly through my mouth, I can taste it. Wet diamonds. If I didn’t have such a good ear I wouldn’t know it was flat either. I consider: a diamond song really would have to be a little flat, in theory. A diamond just isn’t round after all, not like a ball. Roundish, of course, which is why the song is just a little bit flat. I reach my fingers out and try to catch the diamond sparks that are snapping in the air, but they are elusive. Elusive diamond sizzles snapping in the dark.

When the a new gem enters the air, I actually taste it first. I inhale through my mouth, my tongue against my lips, and find that the clear, sparkling diamond essence has been replaced by: ruby. Not cherry, or strawberry or even just red, but ruby. Umm, I like ruby better than diamond, it has more taste and, truly it’s song is not so flat. Why is that, I wonder? It doesn’t sizzle quite as much, however, nor snap. It seems to seep all over, making everything a deep, darkish crimson color. I can see around the mine a little bit now. I use the thick red light to locate my hat and pick ax. When I stand up, I find myself looking right into a bed of cream colored crystals. Sitting on the bed of cream colored crystals is a quite attractive Fae, about the size of my hand. She is purple and has pink and purple wings. Well. She looks purple in this ruby light anyway.

Now. I am aware that most miners who happened to look into a bed of cream colored crystals and see a purple Fae the size of their hand would probably decide that they had been exposed to some kind of gas leak and were hallucinating. They would immediately lay down, shut their eyes and try and make the purple Fae go away. Consider, however: I have already been perfectly at ease listening to slightly flat diamond music snapping and sizzling in the dark and slurping ruby juice off the air. Tells you something doesn’t it?

I look at the little Fae sitting in the crystals. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound off hand. She smiles slowly. “Straw is cheaper, grass is free.” Then she laughs. Her laughter is worth the stupid joke. It sounds like sweet, clear water tumbling over melting ice in a Spring chinook.

“Are you lost?” she asks me hopefully.
“Possibly.” I say nodding. “My company sort of went on without me and I don’t have any light.”
“Well, that sounds promising,” she says doubtfully.
“Are you supposed to be catching lost miners?” I guess.
“Oh no,” she says shaking her head. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to people who can’t hear me.”
I have to think about this. I look at her carefully. “I can hear you, you know.”
“Yes, there is that,” she says shrugging. She sounds disappointed.
“I take it,” I say, “that you were expecting someone . . . different?”
She squints up at me. “Well, yeah.” She scratches her ear. “A Princess, I think. I mean, I wore my DRESS and I’ve got proDUCT in my hair and everything.”

Sure enough, she is wearing a really cute, really little, little black dress and her black hair is spiked up on top quite carefully.
“Yeah,” I say nodding, “you look really good.”
She smiles. “Yeah?”
“Uh hu. Did you do you own hair?”
“Well, like, I DID it, I mean I didn’t CUT it, but I DID it you know?” She smiles again. “Your not a Princess, though?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think there is much doubt of that.”
She looks disgruntled. Then she looks thoughtful. Then she looks calculating. Then she looks crafty. Then she looks resigned. Then she looks delighted. This all happens very quickly, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.
“But you CAN hear me?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Very good.” She jumps up on the crystals. “You are elected. OBViously you are THE one. I mean, I don’t know why you are wearing such weird clothes and all, but, hey, that is not my problem, you know?”
“OK,” I say. “What am I elected for?”
“Well,” she says carefully, “I’m going to take you Below and I’m going to show you how things Are when they are Backwards. This is important so listen: Once you understand how things Are when then are Backwards, then you can go back up topsides and tell everyone and they will understand and soon everything will work out better up there because they will understand and things will begin to be Backwards up there too.”

My eyes narrow slowly. “Rrrrrright.”
She takes hold of the end of my index finger and begins flying, pulling me along the mine shaft. This feels exactly like you would expect. Like having a butterfly attached to the end of your finger. “Commmon.”
We might go over that part about hallucinations and toxic gas again, but, we are just going to assume that you have figured out a few things about me by now, so we can skip the part where I ought to be examining my sanity and move ahead to the moment when we come through the low shadowy mines to a find the long, long drop of an empty mine shaft. The pale reddish light of the ruby is still filling the mine around us. There is another kind of a light coming out of the shaft. A creamy, pearly light that leaves a shaft of swimming golden motes glowing above the mine shaft. I look down, but I can’t see the bottom. I mean, the mine shaft is lit all the way down with the same pearly, gold glow, but I literally cannot see the bottom, it is too far away. I look at my friend on the end of my index finger. “Below?”
“Yeah. Below.” She scratches her ear with her other hand. She looks me up and down. Her lips twist. She puts her head on one side. “Hummmm.” She chews on a purple thumb nail. She lets go of my finger, flutters over and looks down into the shaft. “I suppose you wouldn’t care for the idea of sort of . . . free falling?” She finally asks.
“Well, that sort of depends on what happens at the bottom.”
“I’d . . . I’d get down there first and catch you,” she says. “In theory.”
“No. I’m afraid I couldn’t go for free falling if it’s just in theory.”
She nods absently. “OK. How do you feel about wings?”
That is another story entirely. I smile. “Oh, I could DO wings! Is that possible?”
She looks at me critically. “Yeah. I think so. You are going to have to do some . . . shrinking and, I think you’re going to have to take your . . . shirt off.” I’m about to ask her who we might be going to run into “Below” when I decide I really don’t care. For the experience of flying, I’ll arrive where-ever topless if I have to.

I unbutton my work shirt and shrug it off, letting it fall on the ground. My sports bra goes on top of it quickly. She looks at me and blinks. “Tattoo. Wow. Cool.”
“Thanks.”
She flutters over in front of my face and forms her hands into a triangle, her thumbs together, her index fingers touching. Then just as if she were blowing a big bubble, she starts to blow slowly and softly on her hands. I hear a sound something like a harp arpeggio and I suddenly I start to itch really badly between my shoulder blades. I’m reaching my hand back over my shoulder to scratch when I am struck by several things all at once. One is that I am sort of hovering in mid air. The next is that I’ve put my hand, not on my shoulder, but on something that feels more like a maple leaf. The third thing is that I am still looking at the tiny Fae, but she isn’t tiny any more, she has grown to be the same size I am. All at the same time, I realize that none of these things make any sense and suddenly I come down with a rather large whomp on the floor of the mine, sitting on my work pants which seem to be big enough for the Jolly Green Giant.

The purple Fae alights next to me and sure enough, we are the same size. She smiles and nods indulgently and points over my shoulder, “Wings.” I twist around. NOW my heart is hammering and my breath is coming too fast. Spread behind me are the most beautiful pair of wings I have ever seen in my entire life. Well. I don’t know if they actually ARE the most beautiful pair of wings I have ever seen in my entire life, but there is no doubt that they are attached to my back, which automatically makes them the most beautiful pair of wings I’ve ever seen before in my entire life. I can’t see all of them, but I can see that they are blue with black veins. Yes. They are beautiful.

She is scratching her head. “Kinda . . . small.”
“Are they?” I look over my shoulder and end up turning in a complete circle getting hit in the face with a soft swish of wing at the end. They are smaller than hers. They just cover and rise above my back, where hers are big enough that she could wrap herself up in them if she wanted to. She walks all the way around me with her head on one side and one eye closed. “Temporary,” she finally concludes, “serviceable and . . . veeeeery attractive, if I do say so myself, and I do.”
“Yeah?” I can’t quite believe how pathetic my voice sounds.
“Oh, Yeah,” she says, nodding, “they’re gorgeous.”
We stand there grinning at each other rather foolishly for a moment.

I move my shoulders experimentally and the wings lift and close. When I move my shoulders a little bit more they lift me right off of the ground. Whoa! I look at the Purple Fae, “How do you . . .”
She shakes her head, “don’t think about it.”
“Don’t THINK about it?”
“Uh hu. You gotta just not think about it. Like, doing the Watusi, or riding a bike, or . . . yeah, you know. Just don’t think about it.”
I look at her with slightly narrowed eyes. “You do the Watusi?” She shrugs, “I can fly.”
OK.” I say, purposefully blanking my mind and subsequently rising up into the air.
“Very good,” she says, smiling. “Take a whirl around the mine.”

While I am flying there is a gem change. Because of that, flying will always be green. As green as the cucumber crisp menthol mist of mint on the tongue of summer, as green as the touch of cool dew damp grass and deep, wet, jade moss, as green as the ultimate, luxuriant, lush sound of emerald.

Fifteen minutes later I return to her side. I know that my eyes have changed. I know they will never look the same again. She looks at me, and her own eyes soften. “There will always be dreams,” she says wistfully.
I smile. “Fifteen minutes,” I say. “It was worth it.”
“Yeah,” she adds with something like pity in her voice, “and your eyes are green.”
“Are they?”
“As green as faery glass.”
“Wow.”

I have realized, of course, that I am not wearing any clothes. That didn’t matter either. She looks at me now, however and says, “I think we’re gonna have to cover the tattoo. Sorry.”
I smile and hold out my arms. “Have at it.”
She blows again, this time through just a circle made by the forefinger and thumb of one hand. There is very short sound like the single hollow note of a wooden flute. I look down to find that she has given me a rather terrible prom-thing with a big poofey baby-blue chiffon skirt.
“Oh, honestly! Are you trying to pull off the Princess thing here?” I ask her.
She shrugs again. “I thought it was worth a try.”

I swish the skirt around a little. “It matches the wings anyway,” I comment.
“Yeah,” she says modestly, “I’m really good at that.”
I look at my hands. “The gloves are a mile and a half beyond cheesy.”
“I like the gloves!”
“If you were going to go to all the trouble of blue gloves, you might have untangled my hair.”
She looks at the snarled rats nest of my curly blonde hair. “I like your hair!”
I snort through my nose rather too loudly. “Uh hu. Well, let’s go. You’ve got me looking like something short and fat right out of Sleeping Beauty here.”
She giggles. “Yeah, you kinda do! you know? You look just like Fanny Weathertinkle or whatever their name was. And the dress will all poof out when we go down too. So dainty.”
“Oh, go jump down a mine shaft.”

We don’t actually fly down the mine shaft. It is more like floating on the golden whatevertheyare that are slowly drifting up as we are slowly drifting down. It feels like falling through champagne might feel; really dry champagne, I mean totally dry, the bubbles sort of tickle all over as they go past, the way champagne bubbles tickle your nose. It seems like we are in the mine shaft for no time at all, and yet, it also seemed like we are here for eons of soft, slow, golden time as well. Nothing happens in the mine shaft. I could easily stay here the rest of my life.

We land gently and my skirt does, indeed, puff out. The purple Fae laughs her beautiful laugh again. “Bibbbybobiedwhatever,” she giggles.
I scowl at her. “What IS your name? I can’t keep thinking of you as “the purple Fae.”
She snickers. “It’s Fay.”
“It is NOT!”
“It IS!”
“Humph.”
“And what is your name?” She asks, smiling.
“Kaija.”
“It is NOT!” She throws her head back laughing; crystal water singing over melting ice.
“Actually, it isn’t,” I say dryly, “It’s Yekaterinanna, but that is kind of a mouthful.”
“Wow!” she says, “it IS! I can’t even SAY that!”
“Fine. Call me Kaija.”
“Kaija,” she repeats, “and you can call me Fay,”
“Fine,” I say again, “as long as you are not going to tell me your first name is Purple.” She smiles slowly, but she doesn’t say anything.

(Here ends Part I, of BELOW)

Song of the Temple of the Moon

2005-05-06T03:10:00.000-07:00

Hush . . .
For the earth breathes out
An exhalation of dreams
Mauve and mallow in the moonlight

Sighing in it’s sleep,
The world becomes
It’s own iridescent illusion
Murmuring mother-of-pearl
Whispering shadowed silver
Breath of burnt roses
Ashes of roses
A shiver of roses
Hush . . .

Will we glisten down from the moon,
On the liquid west wind of midnight?
We are the dust of diamonds,
The sparkling, scattered breath of stars,
Effervescent, scintillating
We alight and are softly spellbound
Translated in the mulberry moonglow
We shudder shimmering
In a flash of flesh, blood hammering in sudden ears

Against the cool, pink veined marble floor
Sounds the enthralling, enchanted drumming
Of feet

We come to this place
Glittering, under the floating boat
Of a wet, crescent moon
We come here to worship
We come in adoration
We come exalting

We come here to
Dance

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Story of the Temple of the Moon

2005-05-05T15:10:00.000-07:00

What do you see here? What happens after the sun goes down at the crystal temple?

2005-05-05T14:44:00.000-07:00

Photograph by Gwen Meyer. Fantasy Creature. Anyone want to use him as a "Spring Board" to writing? You know there is a sub-genre of Fantasy called "Dark Fantasy" that often borders on Horror . . .

2005-05-04T23:54:00.000-07:00

China's Falls

WAKE UP FANTASY LAND!

2005-05-04T23:31:00.000-07:00

Hello Fantasy Folk!
Is Anyone Awake Out There!!!

I have a couple of new ideas for keeping the Blog fresh! I just hate checking in and finding my own picture still sitting there!

1. I know how hard it is to get writing to the point where you want to post it. My first suggestion is that we get rid of the idea that something has to be polished to be posted. In the title box, just put the words: Work in Progress. I would love to read works in progress and promise feed back on everything. I know I won't be the only one to offer feedback. This is a completely safe place, it will always be kind and constructive. There are people here who read fantasy, who love fantasy, who want to help. It's the offer of a life time folks!

2. I am going to start posting some of my paintings that have Fantasy themes. I offer any/all of them as spring boards for writing. Will the rest of you start looking for Fantasy Art as well? There is a lot out there on the web. Look for settings. Characters. Themes. If you find a setting or a character that sparks your imagination - even if it isn't something you want to write about youself, please post it.

3. Who would be up for working on a theme together? If we suggested - for instance - the Arthurian Cannon, or Fairy Tales, or Folk Songs, or Unicorns, or Dragons, or . . . yeah! Who would be up for posting SOMETHING on the theme? A Work in progress, a poem, a painting or picture, a story from childhood, photographs that have meaning to the theme, collage, recipes, hair clippings . . . OK. I got carried away.

What do you think?

P.S. The spell check on this thing just gave me "Earthworms" as a correction for "Arthurian." Anybody want to write about THAT?!

2005-04-29T17:06:00.000-07:00

Phoenix

The Phoenix Bird

2005-04-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

You are Form 0, Phoenix: The Eternal. "And The Phoenix's cycle had reached its zenith, so he consumed himself in fire. He emerged from his own ashes, to be forever immortal." Some examples of the Phoenix are Quetzalcoatl (Aztec), Shiva (Indian) and Ra-Atum (Egyptian). The Phoenix is associated with the concept of life, the number 0 and the element of Fire. His sign is the eclipsed sun. As a member of Form 0, you are a determined individual. You tend to keep your sense of optimism, even through tough times and have a positive outlook on most situations. You have a way of looking at going through life as a journey that you can constantly learn from. Phoenixes are the best friends to have because they cheer people up easily.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

"A mythical bird that never dies, the phoenix flies far ahead to the front, always scanning the landscape and distant space. It represents our capacity for vision, for collecting sensory information about our environment and the events unfolding within it. The phoenix, with its great beauty, creates intense excitement and deathless inspiration."
~The Feng Shui Handbook, Feng Shui Master Lam Kam Chuen~

*The Phoenix has several counterparts around the world, but the most famous or well-known is the Arabian Phoenix. As large as an eagle, it has brilliant scarlet and gold plumage and a melodious cry. Making its home near a cool well, the Phoenix would appear at dawn every morning to sing a song so enchanting that even the great sun god Apollo would stop to listen.

Only one phoenix existed at any one time, and it lived a life span of 100 years, 500 years, 540 years, 1000 years, 1461 years or even 12,994 years (according to various accounts). The only things it would eat were dewdrops. As the end of its life approached, the Phoenix would build a pyre nest of aromatic branches and spices, such as myrrh, set it afire and be consumed in the flames. After three days a new phoenix would rise from the ashes. According to some sources, the phoenix actually rose from the midst of the burning flames. The young phoenix would then gather the ashes of its predecessor into an egg of myrrh and take it to Heliopolis, the City of the Sun, to deposit it on the altar of the sun god.

If you think about it, the Phoenix is a perfect symbol for journals. Or those who keep them. They are blank pages or books on/in which we put all we experience, think, feel and envision. They're chronicles of our individual journeys--and yes, life is a journey in my eyes. We are constantly learning, experiencing new things, and what better way to remember and relive than to keep a journal for ourselves or our posterity? Our experiences, thoughts, observations, lessons and feelings will live on even though our bodies will return to the dust. In that way we are immortal as the Phoenix.

The other day, upon finding another interesting journal with a unique voice, I realized how great journals are. They are worlds among many others, a reflection of each author. They can become invaluable and a wonderful endeavor, if we can each just find our own unique voice.

Gwen sent me this quiz. I'm grateful and very glad she did so.

In the Garden of Paradise,
beneath the Tree of Knowledge,
bloomed a rose bush.
Here, in the first rose, a bird was born.
His flight was like the flashing of light,
his plumage was beauteous,
and his song ravishing.
But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree
of knowledge of good and evil,
when she and Adam
were driven from Paradise,
there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub
a spark into the nest of the bird,
which blazed up forthwith.
The bird perished in the flames;
but from the red egg in the nest
there fluttered aloft a new one
the one solitary Phoenix bird.
The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia,
and that every hundred years,
he burns himself to death in his nest;
But each time a new Phoenix,
the only one in the world,
rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us,
swift as light,
beauteous in color,
charming in song.
When a mother sits by her infant's cradle,
he stands on the pillow,
and, with his wings,
forms a glory around the infant's head.
He flies through the chamber of content,
and brings sunshine into it,
and the violets on the humble table
smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of
Arabia alone.
He wings his way in the glimmer
of the Northern Lights
over the plains of Lapland,
and hops among the yellow flowers
in the short Greenland summer.
Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun,
and England's coal mines, he flies,
in the shape of a dusty moth,
over the hymnbook
that rests on the knees of the pious miner.
On a lotus leaf he floats
down the sacred waters of the Ganges,
and the eye of the Hindu maid
gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him?
The Bird of Paradise,
the holy swan of song!
On the car of Thespis he sat
in the guise of a chattering raven,
and flapped his black wings,
smeared with the lees of wine;
over the sounding harp of Iceland
swept the swan's red beak;
on Shakespeare's shoulder he sat
in the guise of Odin's raven,
and whispered in the poet's ear
"Immortality!"
and at the minstrels' feast he fluttered
through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him?
He sang to thee the Marseillaise,
and thou kissedst the pen
that fell from his wing;
he came in the radiance of Paradise,
and perchance
thou didst turn away from him,
towards the sparrow who sat
with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise,
renewed each century
born in flame,
ending in flame!
Thy picture,
in a golden frame,
hangs in the halls of the rich,
but thou thyself often fliest around,
lonely and disregarded,
a myth--
"The Phoenix of Arabia."

In Paradise,
when thou wert born in the first rose,
beneath the Tree of Knowledge,
thou receivedst a kiss,
and thy right name was given thee
--thy name,
Poetry.

~The Phoenix Bird, Hans Christian Andersen~

*Info gathered from Lady Gryphon's Mythical Realm

Phoenix

2005-04-29T16:57:00.000-07:00

Too strong to be swallowed
Too dark to be seen
This almost silent scream
Is carved in acid

Look at what can not be looked at
Bear what can not be borne
Kindle, then ignite the icefire
That will burn us all
Whole and dry
That will bathe our hearths
Clean of ashes
With a bright whirling dream of
Feathers reborn
By your name
Through your name
In your name

Comes the Phoenix

©Edwina Peterson Cross
(For Lisa)

2005-04-23T22:48:00.000-07:00

The Crossing

A Rainbow Encounter

2005-04-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Shiloh! Please report back to us when you find out about the double rainbow! It is something I’ve always wanted to know.

I had to pull of the highway the other day because of a rainbow. It wasn’t that it was blocking the highway exactly, but it was making me quite unable to drive, as it kept changing and growing and intensifying and I had to keep looking. In the parking lot of Burger King, my sixteen-year-old son and I sat on the back of the car in a steady drizzle of rain and watched the two sides grow from fat striped stumps, one stuck to each mountain range, into elongated, graceful, soaring pillars whose fingers reached for each other above the valley. Finally the two sides met and melded and a real rainbow curved and stretched all the way across the sky, arching over the green valley below, connecting the Siskiyou’s to the Cascades. The light that shone through its colors like liquid pearls had to have come from Somewherelse, as the sky between the mountains was black and roiling. Just when it was so beautiful that it was nigh on being more than a mortal could stand ~ the sun set. Oi Vey! The color! The light! Magnificence. Brilliance. Resplendence. Glory. None of them are enough; words can’t hold what happened in the sky.

And the cars zipped past and people parked and got out of their cars and scuttled through the drizzle into Burger King without ever lifting their eyes. There are things in the world that I cannot understand. There are things in the world that I will never understand.

What's At the End Of the Rainbow?

2005-04-23T19:54:00.000-07:00

What's at the end of the rainbow?

It isn't a pot of gold. Nay, no wee spry leprechaun lies in wait for a bumbling human to come along for a bit of sport in the game of "Catch the Leprechaun...If Ye Can."

It isn't a pool of rainbow water, where the fairies in charge of Nature come to replenish their store of dyes.

It isn't a gateway back to Kansas from Oz. Nay, only the Ruby Slippers and a powerful wish can send someone back home.

It isn't a fountain of rainbow colored Skittles, where one is told to "taste the rainbow."

And, sorry it is I am to say, it isn't a roadway to Rainbowland or Rainbow Brite.

Ooooook, then what have you found at the end of the rainbow?

The joy of dreams.

Renewal...fresh hope.

Magic...beauty.

A place which only innocent eyes and those with open minds can view. It's here, in the few precious moments when the rainbow touches earth, the gate to this unseen world is opened to mortals.

It's here, if such a one is lucky enough to pass through the bands of color into this new, unknown world, they will see and experience things beyond their wildest imagination.

It's here, where time has no meaning or seems to stand still, one can remain ageless.

It's here that dreams come true.

It's here that one is granted a boon, but only one, by the great Queen Mab.

It's here that one can dance with the Fae folk in one of their enchanted circles while Queen Mab presides over her court in a secret glade.

It's here that one's innocence is sustained and renewed.

Aaahhh, so what happens when there is a double rainbow? Are there two gates?

*smiles* I think ye are just the explorer needed for that answer, my child. Next time ye see a double rainbow, ye can tell me your answer.

Aye, Grandma.

2005-04-22T01:07:00.000-07:00

Were they supped up by a hungry trout - Whose belly now flutters and sings?

2005-04-22T01:06:00.000-07:00

Were they gathered into a word balloon? - Were they found to be profound?

2005-04-22T01:05:00.000-07:00

Did the Faeries just flat wear them out - In a Rodeo of wings?

Where Have the Butterflies Gone?

2005-04-22T00:59:00.000-07:00

Where have the butterflies gone?
Were they spun off into tomorrow?
Were they swallowed by the dawn,
As the sky turned bright and yellow?
Were they lost behind a cloud?
Were they called to dress the dead?
A quivering, golden, shroud,
Sewn of gilded, fragile thread.
Were they just too much of a cliché,
Too happy, bright and brief,
Dissolved into the salt sea spray
A platitude of blissed relief?
Did they all go out against the moon
With a spatting, sizzling sound?
Were they gathered in a word balloon?
Were they found to be profound?
Did the faeries just flat wear them out
In a rodeo of wings?
Were they supped up by a hungry trout
Whose belly now flutters and sings?
Where have the butterflies disappeared?
Did you even know they were gone?
Or is it just as I always feared . . .
You greet this news with a yawn
“What use were butterflies anyway?
Just a vaporous moment of wings
So the world’s grown a little grey . . .
One becomes accustomed to things”

©Edwina Peterson Cross

(With a nod of the head to Believer, who wondered)

A Wrought Iron Gate

2005-04-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

A Wrought Iron Gate

A wrought iron gate
in the middle of a field –
No fence or tangled hedge,
no garden path or cottage,
just a gate, a wrought iron gate
in the middle of a field.

I walked around and wondered,
fingered the cool metal,
caressed the ornate curves of iron
and wondered –
wondered how a wrought iron gate
came to be in the middle of a field.

The sun appeared,
pushing aside the clouds
to shine upon the gate,
that wrought iron gate leading nowhere
and casting not a shadow
in the middle of the field.

Vi Jones
(c) April 19, 2005

2005-04-17T02:10:00.000-07:00

A Poem to the Moon

2005-04-17T02:07:00.000-07:00

A poem to the moon
A sliver of song
A poem to the sand that is
Rippled and long
A poem to the sea
That will break in my mind
A poem to tomorrow that
No one will find
A poem to forever
That will echo your voice
A poem that will offer
No kind of choice
A poem of the past
Filled with butterfly wings
A poem unrelieved
By everyday things
A poem unencumbered
Unbroken and round
A poem that is nothing
But thought and a sound
A voice come full circle
Without any tune
A silver of song
A poem to the moon

© Edwina Peterson Cross

2005-04-14T02:42:00.000-07:00

My Dream of Silk

2005-04-11T11:29:00.000-07:00

Roisin, Daughter of Dana

2005-04-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

Elizia Borrows a Dress

2005-04-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

Dancing With the Sidhe

Questing for Words That Will Dance

2005-04-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

A Ballad of the Sidhe

I went up from the Derbane Dales
When the green had just begun
As sweet, young Spring unrolled herself
I walked into the rising sun

A path I found through the Dryadwood
Beneath the sound of birds
My journey out into the wide world
Questing for radiant words

Searching for words like thin rare glass
So a touch would make them ring
Seeking for new ways to weave them
Into plaits that will sparkle and sing

I carry the tools for this gathering
At my side in a small velvet sack
An empty book hungry for markings,
My harp in its case at my back

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

I followed my footsteps pattern
Though the paths that I knew disappeared
I left behind the well known wood
And began up the Mountain of Wyrd

Looks are black toward this mountain
From the folk of the lush Derbane land
Mistrust, fear and suspicion
For something they don’t understand

For ‘things happen’ up here on the mountain
Where forces unknown hold sway
So they spit on their fingers and turn them
To keep the Wyrd of Wyrd Mountain away

Yet here’s where my foot steps led me
And I followed, my mind flying blind
Knowing that what I would find here
Was exactly what I would find

Knowing that what I might take here
Would be several kinds of chance
Knowing I’d take all that followed
Searching for words that would dance

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

I came to a hushed bright hollow
Where I stood silent and very aware
There was enchantment in every rustle
A witchery in the bright air

I held my hands up to the sunshine
No, not witchery per se
I took a breath of the trembling air
What I tasted was something fey

I saw nothing move in the brightness
I heard not a sound on the breeze
Except for the drowsy droning
Of butterflies, sunshine and bees

But that sunshine was thick with magic
The air had a sharp smell and taste
I knew I had come to a turning
That the Children of Dana had graced

Like being at once in two places
I gazed at an old, sleepy tree
I smiled and said to no one
“Ah! A gate to the land of the Sidhe!”

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

One doesn’t trifle with Tir Na Og
Or find these portals for free
The clearing spun; a kaleidoscope,
Or a rainbow on some drunken spree

Colors flew and sang and filled
My ears with a insane buzz
And I found myself facing a yellow moth
Somewhat bigger than I was

He flew into the whirling colors
And when at last I coulds look around
I found only about three inches
From my head to the loam covered ground

Beside me the tree soared skyward
And I saw what had been there before
As a tiny crack at the tree’s base
Was a vaulted and towering door

And standing in the dark opening
All smiling and serene
Was a beautiful red haired woman
Dressed in wide silks of green

Her voice was like cream on moonbeams
Like stars on sweet sea foam
“Welcome,” she said, “to our dwelling
Our Home Away from Home

So glad we are that you’ve joined us
We hardly know where to begin . . .
A feast is prepared in the dwelling
Come in, my dear, come in

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

I knew it was never this easy
Soft words to entangle, entwine
But I’d known all along what I found here
Would be precisely what I would find

So I smiled at the beautiful lady
And I entered the darkened doorway
To find a hall so majestic
That my breath was fair taken away

The walls were covered with carvings
Of stars and beasts and flowers
Which glowed from inside with the soft light
Of golden kissed moonbeam showers

A feast was laid there on trestles
Full marvelous to behold
Vines twined ‘round plates of silver
And goblets of wine made of gold

“Come break your fast!” said the clear voice
“Here’s all that a mortal desires
Bread soft as heaven, and sweetmeats
Mulled wine come just from the fires”

I smiled as I looked at the trestles
And I said, “What a feast here for free!
But I’ve heard it’s unwise to unthinking
Partake in the food of the Sidhe”

Here smile only deepened
She looked down at the carved wooden floor
She said, “you might as well eat, dear,
Your mistake was to walk through the door”

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

I turned back to the dark doorway
To find it had quite disappeared
The walls were all covered with carvings
Of the towering Mountain of Wyrd

“A mortal who walks through that portal
Returns not to Valley or Dale
You’ve crossed over into a new land
You’ve walked through Tir Na Og’s veil”

I smiled at the beautiful Lady
“I did recognize your veiled portal
But I'm not really sorry to tell you
You’ve captured a . . . not quite a mortal”

One delicate eyebrow raised
Said I, “I hope this explains . . .”
And I held out my open hand to her
‘neath a tracing of bright green veins

She threw back her head in laughter
And took my outstretched hand
She laughed, “This is so delightful!
The best trick I ever planned!

Look just what I’ve done here!
Unheard in the tales of the Shide!
By my well woven ruses and wiles
I’ve a Dryad trapped in a tree!”

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

Our eyes were both full of laughter
As we stood there holding hands
Then she laughed, “your not off the hook yet,
I’ve still got a few demands

You have walked into my portal
Now you must give something back
And if I am not mistaken
That’s a harp there at your back.”

“It is,” said I, still laughing
“Though that guessing isn’t hard
Though I am Dryad of the Woodland
I am also a wandering Bard

Are you telling me I can win freedom
For the price of a well turned song?
That is surely something worth doing
I don’t see how I could go wrong”

“We’ll make a barter pact,” said she
What is it you most require?
What would you ask of the Fair Folk
If you had your fondest desire?”

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

“I can give you a tune as soul soaring
As the song of the rarest of birds . . .
And what would I ask in return?
What I seek are enchanted words”

The smile fell from her face
And she dropped my hand
“Though you may come as a friend here
There is something you must understand

The secrets of Tuatha De Danaan
Are never to be bought for a song
We’ll give no magic away here
To someone who doesn’t belong”

I smiled and shook my head
“I seek for no such chance
The enchanted words I am questing
Are the kind that make poetry dance”

“Ah! That is a different story”
She looked at me in thought
“That kind of enchantment we could share
Though its something that couldn’t be bought

So, I’ll make a trade with a Dryad
If you will take this final chance
Besides your song, you must feast here
And beside me you must come and dance”

I laughed and I said, “I agree then
I’ll accept your ‘final chance’
I looked down at my traveling clothes
“Though I’m not dressed at all to dance.”

She laughed, stars sparkling on sunset,
And said, “this is no distress
It seems you’re as small as I am
I’m sure you can borrow a dress!”

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

So we feasted into the starlight
And I played them my sweetest tune
And in a borrowed gown of lilac
I danced ‘neath the light of the moon

Beside the beautiful lady
Of the Tuatha De Danaan I danced
I Never have spent such charmed hours
Enchanted, enthralled and entranced

I was, in truth, unsure of the outcome
Though ‘chance’ was the way that I chose
But I awoke in the morning
Clutching a blood red rose

Leaning against the trees trunk
Just the right size I should be
With nothing else at all to show
I’d spent the night with the Sidhe

‘Til I opened my sack, and opened my book
To find bright dancing words there penned
And at the end, in life-green ink
‘From Roisin, your friend’

Sing for the words that are wakening
Sing wild for a bright game of chance
Sing for the turn it is taking
Sing hey, For the Dance, For the Dance!

~ The Lady Elizia of Dryadwood Hall ~

©Edwina Peterson Cross

The Gallery

2005-04-06T09:54:00.000-07:00

The Gallery

I saw nothing unusual after stepping into the cool, silence of the gallery. A few visitors moved slowly about, some stopping to study the art that hung upon the walls. While some lingered, some did not. I thought the artist deserved more. The scenes and the people depicted within the confines of their frames were in many ways alive, so why should they not be given the respect they deserved?

Flowing from the heart of the artist, through the tools, brushes, pencils, or pastel sticks, an image emerges that draws the viewer and allows him or her to commune for a few moments with those who, were it not for the artist, have a life at all.

I was suffering through a depression brought about by the abrupt leaving of my lover, partner, and friend. Though months had passed since the disintegration of my life, this was my first time back to the gallery. I remembered well the last time I was here. We were here together to view the works of Monet. There had been long moments of silence. Little did I know that even then, the love of my life was straying.

Finally, I summoned the courage to return alone to the Gallery. As I wandered aimlessly, glancing at this painting and that I wondered what had happened to my old enthusiasm for life and for the arts that had meant so much to me.

I glanced briefly at a painting of a Warrior Queen. My desire to move on was arrested in mid step. I turned to face the warrior. She was so alive in oils. I sat on the cool marble bench and stared into eyes as dark as the night sky, the gallery lights reflecting in them as the sun on a summer day.

She was dressed in black leather and bronze armor and sat astride a mighty war horse. Her auburn hair flowed outward in the wind. Why, I asked myself, was I feeling the same wind on my face when the air in the gallery was still? Cool, but perfectly still.

My surroundings faded when the warrior smiled, and held out her hand in invitation. She pulled me up behind her. I clung tightly to the warrior as she urged her horse into a full gallop and was aware of her fit body encased in leather, the hardness of her bronze armor, and the steady gait of the horse.

We stopped at the edge of a thick forest and dismounted in the glade where the tall trees concealed and protected us but did not encroach. The warrior placed a blanket on the ground and invited me to sit. I did. It seemed like the most natural thing to do. Then, the warror removed her armor and dove into the sapphire reflecting pool. Although I had not noticed the pool it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to strip off my outer garments and step into the water. My immediate reaction was the coolness and the goose bumps that appeared on my arms.

The warrior took my hand and led me to the center of the pool where the warming glow of the water and sunshine revitalized me. "You are troubled," she said in a soft, husky whisper as she led me to the bank where from her saddle bags, she produced some course but delicious bread and cheese which she sliced with a wicked looking dagger. "You have been troubled long enough. It is time now to face the future."

#

"Ma'am, ma'am, are you okay?" The voice was male, harsh, and intruding.

Too late! The vision of my picnic with the warrior faded.

"You must leave now," the security guard said, "we're closing."

"Yes, of course … I'm sorry … time got away…."

I turned for one more look at the warrior. Did I detect a smile that had not been there before? I believe I did. "Your name, what is your name?" I asked the painting.

"Martin, Ma'am." The guard took my arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Damn you, Martin, for interrupting."

I left the museum that evening with a new determination to live my life to the fullest and to put behind me forever, the love that had failed. I knew now that the reason I had come to the gallery this day was to reclaim what was rightfully mine … the soul of my being. Something happened in the coolness of the gallery. I cannot explain what it was but I knew I was setting forth on a new path. It was as if the spirit of the warrior had remained with me and I was about to savor everything that life had to offer and to hell with the past.

Vi Jones
April 5, 2005

2005-04-05T18:52:00.000-07:00

Here is a painting still waiting for it's story. I wonder where it is and if I will ever finish it? Meanwhile, I had to do something to get rid of that chicken! WHERE IS EVERYONE? WAKE UP FANTASY COVE!

2005-04-01T16:49:00.000-08:00

Need I say more?!?

Alas, We Are Sorry To Inform You...

2005-04-01T10:15:00.000-08:00

Dear friends and expectant readers,
Due to the excruciating pain in my hand and a sudden and severe case of writer's block between my partner and myself, we fear the series has come to an unexpected end and are so--

The door to the queen's solar crashes open against the stone wall. All activity and laughter ceases within the chamber as all eyes turn and widen with fright. Horrified gasps and screams clog feminine throats. There, in the arched doorway crowds the scariest, most unkempt and vile-looking warriors. "Ruthless barbarians!" a lady-in-waiting cries out after a short, terrified stunned silence.

Her cry breaks the spell between refined ladies, maids and the monsters intent on conquering Camelyard. Chaos suddenly erupts and reigns as women cling to each other, screaming. The Outlanders roar and charge into the opulent room.

While some of the ladies sob, quail in corners and are generally unhelpful, others: my partner, the queen and myself included, look around the once peaceful room for weapons as we try to dodge the barbarians. The queen finds a broken loom and takes up a timber from it for a club. She snarls defiantly in the Outer Isles' tongue. Shiloh finds the Queen's ceremonial rapier kicked beneath a fainting couch and automatically is en garde. Shiloh dodges a nasty swipe from a wicked, bloody and nicked blade. I find a cold empty brazier and set about caving in helmets and the heads in them.

"Where are the men?" Shiloh shouts. For all the courage the women possess, we are not seasoned warriors and cannot hold the day so far outnumbered.

"Where are the men?" Shiloh repeats.

Eventually we are subdued. In the susurrus of panting breaths, we look at one another. Guenever is nowhere to be found. The conquerors don't seem very bright and no lady here would betray her queen.

Lancelot and several knights arrive now, and the fray begins among the men. Lancelot chases after a barbarian who finally notices Guenever has escaped and runs into Guen, who is kneeling beside a felled Arthur under a fallen beam. He spies Lars the Horrific creeping up on her from behind with Excalibur in hand. Lancelot quickly throws a knife, which only stuns Lars with the handle. It buys him enough time to grab Guenever and drag her away. Guenever accepts words only she can hear and goes, her eyes still caught by the body of her husband. As she and Lancelot creep silently down the hall, one tear runs down her cheek.

The ringing and slide of kissing steel ends as the last wounded knight is dispatched before the sad, hopeles and terified gazes of the captive women. Subdued and bound we are dragged heedlessly out of Guenever's once serene sanctuary with the rest of the women. Shiloh has a wound in her side, I notice as I try moving closer to her.

I am trying to see how badly she's hurt; I have a gash on my head in addition to my useless hand now.

"Psssst...Shiloh?" I whisper. "Where's Myrddin?? Surely the Enchanter's magic will win the day."

Even as the words leave my lips, we hear the clank-clank-clanking of chains echoing off the Great Hall's stone walls. All captives turn their defeated and sorrowful eyes to the source. Myrrdin is being poked, shoved and prodded none too gently along. Shiloh motions her head in his direction.

"A witch must have put power-draining chains on him," her voice shakes with raw emotion.

"We are lost, Camelyard and its people are fallen." the queen's maid, Ivy, speaks in a sickened whisper. At the mercy of our captors, we choose to submit for the moment and live. Myrddin raises his tormented gaze and says:
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"APRIL FOOL'S!!!!!!"

Gwen and Shiloh

Wish

2005-03-28T11:31:00.000-08:00

I made a wish upon an elven ear
Such potent magic does it hold dear

I made a wish upon a pixie's nose
So much wonderment in one of those

I'm sure my wish will one day come true
I even wished on the sky's blue hue

Camelyard Eternal: We Begin

2005-03-25T19:34:00.000-08:00

Greetings. I am Ghy'ni'vhyr, a Shape Shifter, one of the last of an old and legendary breed. We are reviled for our nature and abilities, yet it is our abilities that have allowed us to save mankind from itself over and over. We Shape Shifters, have not only the ability the take on whatever physical form we wish, we can also move through Time, Space and the Universes as easily as you may walk through your door into the morning sunlight.

It is the talent of Moving that is my best. You see, while all Shape Shifters have the Gifts, we are all best at one of them. A very few, like myself, have mastered all the Gifts and then honed one to the keeness of a fine blade. Those of us that can Move well have an affinity for a certain time in our (we were here before men and share this planet gladly) world’s history. My affinity is for the mediaeval era; chivalry and the wonder of brave knights and their fine ladies fascinate me.

Now, all of you may not know this, but the Universes are layered upon one another like the pages of a book. All of the Universes have commonalities; it is one of those that I take the risk of exposure to tell you of.

Very few people have not heard the Legends of King Arthur, Merlin and Camelot. All of the Universes have known Camelot and the glory it represents. It is one of those I bring you the tale of.

All you need to do is listen to this tale as it unfolds and accept the possibilities it represents. I will as time passes tell you all I have known in that Universe’s Camelot (Camelyard).

{To be continued...}

Collaborated by Gwen M. Myers and Shiloh Cannon-Blackburn

Home Is

2005-03-24T17:53:00.000-08:00

Dear Fellows of the Cove ~
I will send this poem many places across the Internet to many people. It did really happen. When I began to paint the picture, I painted the Immanent Grove as it actually appears (sometimes!) in Ashland. And then I painted The Lady Elizia of Dryadwood Hall, for in truth, when I come home in Cyberspace . . . it is here I come.
With Love ~ Winnie

2005-03-24T17:50:00.000-08:00

The Lady Elizia Comes Home to the Immanent Grove

Coming Home

2005-03-24T17:44:00.000-08:00

River of Prayers

Walking miles through ceaseless rain
Barren hills of fear and pain
Color fades and light goes out
Rain falls parched and seared with doubt
Memory fades, meanings spin
Pain is all that’s ever been
Never to again feel peace
No kind of hope, no release

In the bats wing of despair
Appears the tail end of a prayer
Silver in the blackness falls
Twists and glitters, silent calls
I saw it there, a slender spark
Leading up, out of the dark
In the silence, thin and hollowed
Silver sang, and I followed

Like a woven plait of stairs
The silver sang with many prayers
Linked to make a glistening light
Leading out of pain and night
Through the hours it carried me
Silver river to the sea
Borne upon it’s healing foam
The river brought me safely home

Werewolf Project

2005-03-22T15:21:00.000-08:00

I have been working on a Werewolf Project with the kids at school and they are loving the horror and gore. If you all go to the Project Page you will find the artwork of the Girlie Werewolf Project. Now being a thinker I thought that the next bunch of mini stashes I could send out to artists would include a glove - when I can source some lovely old gloves - and we could have another challenge going. The challenge would be to depict the noblewoman's hand or the hand of some other victim of the werewolf. Alternatively people can make wolf masks or depict some other element of the story. Alternatively you could join a colouring competition and post your responses here on the Art Blogger.

To see LaTrobe Secondary College student work you can visit the Student Forum or The Chamber of Horrors here at Soul Food.Any takers? If so let me know and I will begin sourcing gloves and sending mini stashes to people. As with the Footprint they will come back to provide inspiration for students ranging in age from five to eighteen.

Raven

2005-03-20T17:20:00.000-08:00

Along with fantasy and fairy tales, I am fascinated with folklore, myths and legends. Especially those from the British Isles, Greece and Native America. My first affinity is for the cultures of Native America, and since ravens are important in the Soul Food Community I thought I'd share information and a favorite tale, How Raven Stole the Sun.

From the Vikings to the Celts to Native America, the raven plays an important part in mythology. I always thought it was a scavenger of trinkets, a loud, annoying nuisance of a bird with no real purpose. Happily, I was wrong. I now know why the raven holds fascination for some people and why it's a portent for them. A good portent.

The raven symbolizes knowledge. Knowledge is important and is often times likened to the gem(?) of the sea, the pearl. Pearls of Wisdom. We are told not to "...cast our Pearls before swine..." Anyways, I'm going off on tangents here, sorry. As knowledge is precious to many of us and catches our eye, so would a pearl be to a raven. We collect tidbits of knowledge as a raven collects bright and sparkly objects.

The raven also symbolizes good guidance. The Vikings would carry these birds aboard and when they were unsure of their proximity to land, they would release the ravens. If they came back to the longship, the sailors knew they were far from land. However, if the birds failed to return then the Vikings knew land was very near. For the Celts, the raven was a guide that, if it landed on the fallen body of a comrade, led that warrior's soul to Heaven. For some Native American tribes he (Raven) is a trickster, a god...albeit one working in their favor.

The story I wish to share with you is, I believe, the Tlingit version (Pacific Northwest Indian tribe).

How Raven Stole the SunBefore the Sun lit the Earth's sky, people lived in darkness everywhere. The old Sky Chief was greedy and stingy and liked keeping the light to himself. Every once in awhile he would take the Sun out of its bag he hung on his wall and admire its light. Then he would return the ball of light to its bag until the next time.

Raven, a crafty trickster, thought it was high time the Sun was shared with everybody. He knew the Sky Chief's daughter went down to the river for a drink and some water every evening and formulated a plan. The next night, as usual, she walked down to the river and knelt to fill her vessel with water. Raven was ready. He'd hid himself up in a nearby tree, having changed himself into a pine needle. As the daughter filled her pot for a second time for a drink, Raven let himself fall into the pot as she lifted it. Because it was dark, the daughter didn't see the pine needle, and because it was small she did not feel the pine needle slide down her throat.

There inside her belly, Raven grew until nine months later she gave birth to a fine baby boy. As the baby, Raven cried loudly and almost nonstop, until one day his grandfather, the old Sky Chief, in desperation for peace took down the Sun's bag from his wall and showed it to his delighted grandson.

"Careful with this," he told the crafty Raven in disguise, "Don't ever take it outside or show it to anybody else."

The baby soon grew into a fine, strong child, who was smarter than his mother or grandfather knew. One day, Raven knew the time had come for him to take the Sun to the People. He waited till his grandfather and mother were sleeping later that night before he took the bag down from the wall and removed the Sun. Once outside Raven changed back into a bird and flew off. But Eagle saw him and alerted the Sky Chief, who ordered him to give chase. Eagle did, but even with the Sun in his beak, Raven was faster.

Now, in the light of the Sun, it was seen that Raven's feathers were white, but the farther he flew the more covered in soot he became from the Sun's fire. Once he reached the safety of his island and released the Sun into the heavens, he was completely black.

That is how Raven stole the Sun and gave it the People. And to this day his feathers have remained black forevermore.

Passing on the Dream

2005-03-19T14:30:00.000-08:00

Standing atop the Palisades, the Hudson River winding beneath me, I watch the stars fade and an indigo night pale to a soft, muted, shade of blue. In the silent hush before dawn I hear the whispered words of a language I don't speak, feel the presence of a people I've never met, and see tall masts and billowing sails of a ship that used to be.

My legs are aching and I shift my feet carefully lest I step on a stone and tumble down onto the sharp rocks below. I shiver in the cool damp air, pull my coat closer to hold in what's left of my body heat and wonder why I've come to this empty place only blocks from my crowded neighborhood.

My heart knows the answer. The dreams have brought me here. For weeks, I've watched my own silhouette emerging from the deep shadows of night to greet the dawn in this place and each morning I've pondered the why of it. I've been frightened to come, afraid of the height of the cliffs, the loneliness of the spot, of being spotted by the police and hauled in for questioning. How could I explain? "I'm not suicidal, Officer, I'm here because of a dream."

The sky is paler yet and I know time is short. Will it really happen or am I just a fool? I look nervously behind me, no people yet, no commuters driving along Boulevard East heading toward the bridges and tunnels that will take them into the teeming city.

The City. New York City, the Island of Manhattan, is appearing slowly from the mist. This is the famous skyline that everyone in the world has seen in pictures and yet no one knows that to see it this way, you have to be in New Jersey.

At last! An explosion of color as the sun rises behind the buildings, pink, amber, orange and gold, bathing skyscrapers in light and shadow, pouring through the streets of New York, spilling west into the river and rushing towards me. I look up as I hear what I've been waiting for and feel a current of air blowing my way. My arms stretch out to welcome them and two ravens, black as the night that's just ended, descend heavily, causing me to stagger back a step.

As I regain my balance, they amble up to my shoulders and arrange themselves for comfort and safety. Smooth feathers brush my cheeks and I feel the strength and grip of sharp talons through my coat.

We stand there, the ravens and I, as if in a dream while they whisper their wisdom quietly in my ears, sharing memories of the creatures, the land and the people. They warn me not to forget we are all one, and urge me to cherish and keep the gifts of the Creator.

As the day begins again on both sides of the Hudson, the ravens, Memory and Thought, depart, charging me to pass on the dream and to pursue it with love.

Thought and Memory

2005-03-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

The Ravens flew out of the Soul Food Rookery and headed to Ashland Oregon where they are maintaining a vigil as Winnie undergoes major surgery. For me they have become tireless messengers who bring back news from all around the world.

To the Norsemen, the raven was the ultimate symbol of wisdom, so that Odin, greatest of the gods, had the twin ravens Hugin and Munin ("thought" and "memory") sitting on his shoulders, whispering to him of all the things that they had witnessed while daily flying over the earth.

"A raven emerged out of the darkness and landed upon Odin’s right shoulder, cawing quietly into the chief’s ear. Odin nodded once, barely a nod, and the small beast flew off again with a flurry of feathers. Thor knew not whether it was Thought or Memory, but he was certain Odin’s two small spies would be busy this dark day as they relayed information to the chief of the Aesir as it happened."

Thought and Memory
every day fly over the earth.
I fear for Thought,
that he may not return
Yet still more
I fear the loss of Memory.

Odin needs and uses both ravens but tries to determine which he would mourn most.

Imagine you have two ravens sitting on your shoulder whispering the days secrets.

Roslin and Rory

2005-03-14T15:43:00.000-08:00

ROSLIN AND RORY

2005-03-12T23:34:00.000-08:00

The Dryadwood Calls

2005-03-12T21:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Fantasy Folk,

What a fantastical beginning our Cove has had! Just think, only a short time ago, there was nothing here at all - just an empty space - and now it is peopled, and storied; full of possibilities and all kinds of potential. Here will be anything and everything that we wish and dream it to be. This is a marvelous thing.

If you read the beginning of The Lady Elizia’s story, you will know that she woke up to find that The Green was in the air. This means that the time has come for her to leave the stone halls of her fathers and return to the green hills of her mother’s kin, for her blood has begun to run green and the Dryad Wood is calling.

In the real world I am going to need to leave you all for a while as well. I am going into the hospital on Monday for some extensive surgery which will probably keep me away from my computer for quite some time. I am very sad especially to be leaving the Cove just after we have had such a marvelous beginning. Everyone please keep writing and Bloging and telling your stories. Please leave lots of treasures for me to find when I am finally able to get back to my computer! I’m not sure how long this will be, but be assured I will be back in the Cove as soon as I possibly can. Heather, of course, is a moderator as well and she will be here watching over things if anyone needs anything.

Meanwhile, Elizia will tie up her hair, put on her traveling cloak, sling her harp across her back and leave the Dales, finding her way back into the mysterious depths of the Dryad Wood.

Blessings to you all until we meet again ~

Winnie

One Hundred Steps

2005-03-11T09:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think everything in life takes courage: making that first stroke on a drawing, writing the first word, picking up the phone, walking out the front door. Maybe that's because I lack courage. I don't know, but I'm standing with my hand on a door I'm convinced leads to the Fantasy Cove and I'm terrified to open it.

My fears aren't completely unjustified. Anyone could easily break a neck navigating a hundred slippery steps, and that seagull, who flew into the cave last time, seemed to be aiming itself directly at my face. Maybe I was just unnerved by the failures of the day, but I've never been afraid of an animal or a bird in my entire life and I sensed hatred and evil in that gull.

I don't know where Tookey flew off to, but Oreo seems eager to join me this morning and the Abbey (or my mind) has been playing my favorite hymns all morning, both of which are very reassuring. I'm bringing lunch and my journal, in case this feeling of dread is just nonsense, and deep in the pocket of my brown robe--the whispering shell.

Oreo scratches on the door and I laugh. "Okay, Brave One, you go first!" He takes me quite literally and wastes no time heading down, while I wait until my eyes get used to the blackness of the stairwell. Oh, to have eyes that see in the dark and the sure footing of my cat.

"Wait for me." I mumble, but it comes out louder than I expected and I vow not to speak again. For some reason I'd rather no one knows of my coming.

The walls, as before, are cold and slick with moisture, the steps ragged and slippery from constant dampness. I count from the beginning this time to see if I was right about their number. Traveller climbed up to the owl tower and counted ninety something. I have the strange feeling she missed a few and that every flight leading up, down, or under in the Abbey is one hundred steps.

I'm getting there, fifty steps, no sign of Oreo, but either my eyes are adjusting, or the weather will be clear in the cove today. Sixty steps and I'm sure it really is brighter. The edge of a stone step breaks off nearly hurling me headlong down to the cave, but miraculously I regain my footing and continue. Seventy steps and I can hear and smell the ocean. Eighty and the outline of the cave shows itself in the brightening light.

Ninety steps and, although my heart is beating from exertion, I'm not as afraid as I was before. Finally, I arrive and step onto the floor of the cave. Oreo is waiting calmly and, with tail held high, leads me out into the brilliant sunshine.

Metamorphasis

2005-03-11T00:32:00.000-08:00

The long skirt flaps around my ankles, hem sodden from the splashing of the waves. A huge sandy paw mark decorates the front of my Tee-shirt. I had woken in the dark, yearning to go to the coast. It had not even been a thought the night before, but suddenly it was the perfect idea. We left town by five a.m., racing westwards, the sun chasing us. The drive took twelve hours, but we won. The sun had a ways to go before it would set.

Magic, the dog, travelled most of the way with his head out the sunroof. Packing involved grabbing some tops and a pair of shorts. The ridiculously floppy sun hat unearthed at a garage sale in one of the small villages on the way through. A couple of pairs of outlandish earrings and sandals, left back at the car, completed my wardrobe. Makeup was a thing of the past. I had probably forgotten my toothbrush, but I could always pick one up later. For now we were wandering along the shore, lost in the surf and the moment. I, kicking at the waves, Magic pouncing on every bit of unsuspecting driftwood. Bending forward, I plunge my hands into the water, and watch the journey wash away in the surf. I reach up and ruffle my unruly mop, then throw back my face to worship the last of the sun.

The flash off her pearl earrings could have been what caught my eye. I see her from afar, a solitary figure on the seascape. She stood there, head held defiantly, shoulders rigid. Staring towards the horizon. A look of intense concentration on her face. Her shoes would have given her a little more height, had the heels not sunk into the sand. It would be impossible to get the grit out of those sheer nylons later. Lines of strain on her face added years. The breeze off the ocean wouldn’t dare disturb her impeccably coifed hair. Her burgundy suede skirt looked uncomfortably tight and the white silk blouse buttoned all the way up to her neck. A rope of pearls complemented the bracelet around her wrist. Long, manicured nails stained perfectly to match the burgundy skirt... the alligator bag... the briefcase. She was the epitome of a successful Female Entrepreneur. A Goal Setter, a Priority Manager.
The dog, uninterested in anything that isn't edible, seems not to notice her presence.

She looked at her wrist watch, and reached down to pull a leather (burgundy) binder from her briefcase. She consulted the day timer. Pulling free the colour coordinated pen, she checked something off a list. She flipped to another section, made another notation, and snapped it shut. A tight smile momentarily captured her lips. It almost seemed as if she had checked off a previously penciled in Thing to Do: "5.15 - 5.20 p.m.: watch sunset." Mission accomplished. Spiritual Strategic Goal met for the day.

I come closer. She turned to look at me, sympathetically taking in my somewhat disheveled appearance. I grin and shrug my shoulders, starting to explain: "Dogs!"

Aaaah, dogs! I belatedly call for Magic. The woman's pristine appearance just begged: "Jump on me." He’s a wonderful fellow, but 100 lbs of Lab is a little overwhelming at the best of times and she definitely did not look the doggie type!

But he wanders right past her. Oblivious.

I hurry on by, relieved at my narrow escape.

Suddenly I’m ambushed from behind. Hooking his paw around my leg, his unique rugby tackle, I crash headlong into the waves, then surface, spluttering, sopping wet. Magic is barking uproariously, prancing up and down like the Lipizzaner a psychic swore he had been in a past life. I lunge at him, hugging him as hard as I can - my only revenge. He struggles, furiously, out of my grasp. I fall back laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
I turn to see if I can catch a last look at her, but she had completely disappeared. There was not a trace of her left. All that success, all that poise, the goals, the matching briefcase…

Gone.
Thank goodness.

Andra's Story

2005-03-10T06:15:00.000-08:00

As long as I can remember my dear friend Alexandra has always loved fairy tales. When did her obsession with it started I do not know. But she is definitely a day dreamer. Always dreaming of castle, fantastical histories… I remember when she was a little girl that she used to look for a certain channel, the one call nickelodeon, to watch the fairy tale stories they gave. That was the best part of the day. Some way around the channel searching and some stories I was born. But yet I was not given a name or a form. I was just an entity looking for itself.

But her true love came along with a book her mom gave her. It was called “One thousand and one nights”. Those stories gave her passport to another world she was just starting to know. Then and there her relationship with fantasy became stronger and she delighted herself with them. All this time I was there by her side whispering to her ear my favorite parts and creating dreams of fantastical stories for her to daydream.

When she discovered writing as a passion and a way of creation she discovered a gift in her. She realized she could make her dreams come true; she could give them life by way of writing. This is when I realize I could get my own place someday, my own story.

Along the way, on her journey, she met three unusual creatures that she started to love. Dragons, for their might; Unicorns, for their grace, beauty and magical powers; and Fairies, for their talent of being small and big when they wanted, their magic, the way they look with their beautiful wings. Of course she met other creatures and gods and angels, but those where always in her mind in her thoughts.

Then she came upon a place called the Soul Food Café and here is where she found what I was. For almost a year now I was proclaimed a Dream Fairy. A few days ago I was crown as a princess. Two days ago I was named Andra the Dream Fairy Princess. This is how I became to be. From a thought, an entity, to a Fairy who still whispers in her ear stories to be written.

Andra

The Beginning...

2005-03-09T14:39:00.000-08:00

Covano, as I said in the group discussion, has been lurking inside of me since my junior year of high school. Since then in brief spurts it's come to life when it has deemed to share more facets of itself and its races with me. It's still very new and unknown even to me. Very raw and skeletal in frame, but I have every hope here in Fantasy Cove of making this a flesh and blood world. Of telling the tales waiting to be heard through Roslin, a young Unitarrian, whose love for her world and history, has led her here among us. I will be using one of the many blank journals given to me as gifts to log all that is revealed or shared, because since Covano's conception, one story has demanded to be told. One story of a princess who learns what it means to be a true and wise ruler. A story of her fearless and rash cousin who, in the quest to save her and a priceless magical amulet before the rise of the next full Red Moon, lands himself and a band of unlikely compatriots in dangerous situations. A story of a young mute girl who sets out to prove to herself and to others she can do anything a man can do and is no shrinking violet. A story of a goblin prince who learns the meaning of compassion, loyalty and love. And in Roslin's sharing, I believe the necessay knowledge will come out and finally this novel will begin to take the form it's been waiting thirteen years to have.

Clutching the big, ancient brown leather book to my chest, I look around the rocky cove at those gathered. "Quite the assortment we have here," I say, coming forth.

Careful to keep hold of my treasure, I pull my skirts up out of harm's way as I step over a fallen log and sit down upon it. Smoothing the rose velvet over my knees and legs, I feel the curious gazes of those around me, waiting. Placing the book in my lap and using my knees to balance it, I run my fingers lovingly over the weathered tome. The gold lettering embossed on it is cracked and fading, but one can still make out what they say: The Unicorn Nation: An Historic of Unitarre. So much history, so many lives bound between these aging, yellowed pages...

I finally look up, ready to answer their unspoken questions. "I am the daughter of the Empress Meko Laudlin's most trusted Advisor and cousin, Lord Kentare Grantmorr, the Duke of Covaire. My name is Roslin, known among my people as the Rose of the Unicorns.

"I am a Unitarrian, one of the Unicorn People, a mixing of the Elven and Human races. I come from Covano, a small beautiful world, once again filled with magic and goodness. Green and somewhat serene now--ever since the Great War--with rugged, ancient mountains to the North and East and surrounded by the Faerie Mists beyond the Blue Waters there's no other place like it. But it wasn't always this way..."

I look around the small group sitting in a circle, caressing the book carrying the history of my people, my world. Opening it I begin with a slight smile, the old pages crackling as I turned to the first one. "My father and Madam Librarian would kill me if they knew I'd taken this outside the Restricted Area without permission. But when that mysterious portal of magenta light appeared, how could I not investigate?"

Some of my companions nod assent and murmer at this. "So, we'll keep that a secret between us," I continue on conspiratorial note.

"This is an historic, written by the Elven scholar, Ansen Cree, in the year A.W. 100..."

"In the beginning Covano was a peaceful world, green and wonderful and filled with magic and innocence. The Faerie Mists surrounded it even then and the Faeries, considering themselves superior beings to all other races, took upon themselves the duty of being Guardians to Covano. They delighted in their roles as oracles for the different races and protected the forests and their creatures.

"Covano was the home of many races: Humans, Elves, Sprites, Trolls, Canines, Felines, Gnomes, Dwarves and Goblins on land and the Merr Folk in the Blue Waters. Occasionally small wars broke out, but the Faeries quickly saw them settled. As for the Canines and Felines, nothing could be done to cease their constant warring.

"This peace lasted nearly 500 years. All but the two Warring Races grew and progressed to a higher level of civilization. Magic became less important as Covano entered an Age of Technology. Oracles were no longer heeded or sought out. The Faeries retreated to the forests or back to their homeland beyond the Mists, no longer the worshipped beings they'd once been.

"Though now prosperous more than ever, the races could not continue their control over the progress or the technology invented. Over time both ignited the flames of greed, and greed bred the madness of racism.

"The lands of Covano were torn apart by the terrible devastation of the Great War.

"The once beautiful, mostly serene world was now a colossal battlefield. The ground was stained and the rivers seemed to run red with blood. Battle cries and the booming reports of guns and other artillery echoed for miles. Smoke from fires and explosives created a constant, heavy gray haze that hung low on the horizon. Forests and valleys were raped, cities plundered and fields razed. There was no safe place, not even for the innocent. Sacred shrines and temples were desecrated or destroyed in one battle or another.

"The Great War continued for many years. Generation after generation grew up knowing only sorrow, death, loss, heartache and pain. The races were mere remnants of what they had once been in the Technological Times; some were now, sadly, extinct.

"The Faeries watched in sorrow and disgust as their world slid headlong towards destruction. There was little they could do, for their magic was greatly diminished as there were very few who still believed in magic.

"Those who lived among the wild animals refused to return home to their native land without leaving what protection they could for the creatures. With grim determination and a slim hope of salvation, these Faeries created four horse-like creatures with horns spiraling upwards from their foreheads. These were Unicorns: the Forest Guardians.

"Each was given a name, White Starr, Blue Heart, Golden Knight and Onyx. Each was created with the knowledge of their duties. To carry them out the unicorns needed magic, magic that would withstand the unbelief in Covano.

"Beyond the Faerie Mists, found only in the Faeries' homeland, there is a sapphire-hued crytalline rock which holds pure magic. This power has never needed innocence or belief to work, but instead has drawn on the ancient powers of the Elements for its source. Its shape is the 10-point star, which gives the stone its name: the Starran.

"The Faeries mined and crushed a portion of the rock into fine powder, using it in the creation of the unicorns' horns. This gave the unicorns magic of course, but each time they cast a spell they depleted their store of magic a little more as they had only particles of the starran to use. To give them a constant source a medallion was made from the rock, which is now kept in Unitarre's national treasury. It hangs around the neck of a statue of White Starr, believed to be the first unicorn created. As long as the amulet stays in the possession of the Forest Guardians and their people its magic will be theirs.

"For a decade rumors (sparked by brief sightings and encounters) circulated about these guardians of the forests. From these rumors differing attitudes developed, ones of reverance, awe, fear, fascination, unbelief, even trophies to be won."

END OF PART 1

2005-03-09T07:06:00.000-08:00

Roisin - Celtic Rose

Roisin of Ireland

2005-03-09T03:29:00.000-08:00

I am Roisin, a daughter of the Goddess Dana.

I am of the people Tuatha De Danaan, the Sidhe (pronounced shee) race, we were once angels, cast to earth from heaven as punishment for our pride.

Our land is Tir Na Og, the land of perpetual youth and beauty, where there is no death or disease. Our palaces of gold can be found under the lakes and in the depths under the hills.

We are a people of joy. There is dance and music, laughter and song among our kin.You may be more familiar with others of my kin: the banshee who comes to herald impending death, and the leprechaun, the shoemaker who has more of a reputation for being a prankster.

You may see me dancing in the fairy circles, in my dress of emerald, my golden hair trailing every movement. If you look closely you may notice me amongst the flowers in the garden, in particular my flower - the rose.

2005-03-08T14:25:00.000-08:00

Elizia

IT BEGINS . . .

2005-03-08T14:11:00.000-08:00

When she wakes there is green coming in the window. She turns over on her pillow and closes her eyes again, smelling the clean white of the linen, willing it away. In another moment, however, a second breeze comes through the window and it is greener than the first. She stirs, she sighs. She sits up. Well.

By the time the third has arrived she is at the window seal to meet it. It comes into her lungs with a thin succulent hint of caressing cool chlorophyl and she feels her blood beginning to jump in her veins. She looks out over the land spread below her window. Everything is damp and brown. There are still patches of snow caught in the thickest parts of the underbrush. She lifts her eyes past the snow burned lawns, over the stubble of the fields to the dark woodlands, above the shadow of the trees to where the mountains stretch into the sky, still covered with a blanket of blue tinged snow. It doesn’t matter. She knows perfectly well that you don’t have to be able to see green for it to be there. The wind comes through the window again and it rocks her back on her heals, the insides of her eye lids are painted with visions; she sees those snow covered mountains lying in lush layers of emerald and jade in the soft turquoise twilight of summer. She hears the rivers of the woods, wet in her ears; sluicing downhill, streaming crystal, singing liquid songs over slick malachite moss, water hungrily splashing toward anything growing in a rush of yearning to create, to feast, to become - green.

She opens her eyes slowly and her lips twist. “Oh, very good!” she says to no one, but the wind. “I got the message, but the embellishment is certainly an added attraction.” She looks down at the inside of her wrist. Where the veins would normally show pale blue through her cream colored skin they are already a fairly bright green. She knows if she cut herself at this point she wouldn’t necessarily bleed red. “Well then,” she sighs, “That’s that! Ugh! I do hate arguments. Why do people argue with things that are inevitable?” She gazes out the window for another moment, her brow furrowed. “If something is inevitable it is unavoidable. If something is unavoidable it is inevitable, impossible, inescapable, why don’t any of them have their own word? In, un, in im? At any rate you can’t get out of it.” Another gust of wind comes through the open window and her golden hair is briefly frosted the color of clover. She shakes her head. “There wasn’t even anyone to see that. Wasted effort.” She puts her hand on the casement, considering. “Wind. Window. What is this an OW that the wind comes through? Like when someone pinches you and your mouth goes OW! If so, then all windows would be round. Maybe it hurts the wind to come through it? Because it’s not round? Hu?” She asks nobody. But nobody answers.

Margreth looks at the tray and is pleased. It looks very pretty and the Lady will notice. She always notices things that are pretty. Margreth has soaked last years berries in milk until they are plump again, then put them into fresh milk so they are floating like little red stars in a creamy white sky. Margreth shakes her head. That won’t do, little red stars in a creamy white sky indeed. “I’m just no good at this,” she mutters, “though I do keep trying. What DO they look like?” she gazes into the bowl of berries, her forehead wrinkling. “Agh! They look like red berries in fresh milk! How she does it, I don’t know, but I can’t!” She pushes her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. “I can, however,” she says out loud, “make beautiful bread!” She surveys the small perfect loaf and the pat of white butter beside it with satisfaction. She is just getting ready to put the white teapot on to the tray when suddenly, from out of nowhere, there is the Lady Elizia awake, out of bed, standing there in a riding skirt braiding her long hair. And she is plating into it a narrow ribbon of deep, dark green.

(To Be Continued! ©Edwina Peterson Cross )

2005-03-08T06:30:00.000-08:00

The Lady of the Lake

"Hic Iathus Arthurus, Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus"

2005-03-08T04:37:00.000-08:00

Here lies Arthur, the once and future King.

And I’m off!
So much to say! It seems from Brants answers to my Arthur question that he lands solidly in the camp of a Historical Arthur - by way of declaring himself to Norma Lorre Goodrich. Parke Godwin is another author who writes from a Historical perspective in his “Firelord” (Arthur) and “Beloved Exile” (Guenevere) and “The Last Rainbow” (Saint Patrick - ??? indeed!) Anne Berthelot in “King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table” goes off about whether the real Arthur was Breton, Pictish, Roman, or Saxon. Get right back to the source with Geoffrey Ashe. There are a lot of others who will look at what a “Historical Arthur” would have been like from social to archeological perspectives.

All the way on the other end of the spectrum is the utterly magical, comedic bordering on satyric “The Once and Future King” by T.H. White. Or I guess if you want to go all the way, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” is all the way at the other end of the spectrum.

I am an Arthurian from way back. The following are my opinions - for those of you who are interested but just beginning. Many children begin with T.H. White via Disney’s “The Sword in the Stone” which is done on “The Once and Future King.” I think this is rather a shame as it is almost patronizing, moralizing and I REALLY hate what he does to Merlin. I will admit up front, for anyone who doesn’t know that Merlin Ambrosius, Myrddin Emrys, is not only my favorite character of the cannon, but my favorite character of all time. If you have seen my Blog on the Jung Archetypes you will see Merlin appear as my Animus. I hate T.H. White’s bumbling fat wizard with spindly legs, even though I like his concept of living backwards.

I believe, all in all, that Mary Stewart’s “The Crystal Cave” series is my favorite Arthurian series. Mary Stewart often gets discounted because her other books are “best sellers” but her Arthur series is rock solid as far as scholarship goes. Stewart uses magic, but it is a good deal more “real” than that of T.H. White. It is based on extrasensory perception, including psi powers such as pyro-kinesis and a great deal of mysticism. The series is also really based on Merlin, another reason I probably like this series best. Stewart’s characters are well drawn and real as well, Merlin is a sensitive man, devoted to his country, and to his king, compelled by the 'will of the gods' to save his country, and doomed by his misplaced trust and impulsiveness.

Probably my second favorite series is Susan Cooper’s “The Dark is Rising” Series. The thing is, to even tell you it is an Arthurian series is a spoiler. These are children’s books, but I don’t make distinctions between good children’s books and adult books. I like them just as well. This series is, as someone noted, very uneven, however. The second book “The Dark is Rising” is one of the best books around, I adore it. It has some of the best “feel” of menace and darkness to be found and again, as someone mentioned, it holds tension all the way through. The first book of the series “Over Sea, Under Stone” seems like a Dick and Jane reader by comparison. The Third Book “Greenwitch” I have always liked, but it isn’t of the quality of TDIR. The Fourth Book “The Grey King” won the Newbury Prize (where TDIR was only an honor book.) But it isn’t as good. The last book “Silver on the Tree” is chaotic to the point of “Oh Wow WHAT is going on” at times as it seems she is trying to get as much myth packed in as possible and is running out of book. Still, I like the series very much.

Marion Zimmer Bradley’s “The Mists of Avalon” is a classic, of course. It is a problem book for me. I’ve read it about twelve times. I absolutely love the “feel” of it. There is an otherworldliness that is completely divine. But. This was to have been the story told from the woman’s perspective - and all the women (with the exception of Vivienne the “Lady of the Lake”) are such weak characters it’s amazing they can walk. I detest the Guenevere (which is not particularly unusual) Morgaine, who is the protagonist, is supposed to be being rescued from being the villain, but instead she just turns out being so wishy washy that she ends up losing everything because she is too weak to take a stand in what she believes in. I also don’t care for what she does with Merlin - which is make “The Merlin of Britain” a post rather than a person, so that through out the book there are several different Merlins. I’ll grant it’s plausible, but I don’t like it. And yet . . . I have dreams where I am gliding on a boat through thick, thick, mists on still waters . . . I stand up and raise my hands and bring them down suddenly and part the mists and they open to reveal . . . Zion Canyon. Yes sir. Go figure.

Stephen Lawhead, whose books in the series inclued “Taliesin” “Arthur” and “Merlin” (not a lot of imagination about titles here!) does, indeed, begin his tale in Atlantis, which BTW isn’t that far out, it is an established link of the genre; you’ll see it appear again in “The Mists of Avalon” for example. There is a tie in between the “the summer country” where Arthur was said to have been taken after his death and Atlantis, but, of course, there is a tie in with just about every thing that is said to be floating “out there somewhere” . . . Hy Brasil, Avalon, The Isle of Glass, Llyr and even Lemuria. Lawhead brings Taliesin into the equasion and also has books in this series titled “Arthur” and “Merlin.” The Taliesin/Merlin thing is interesting and often authors even go so far as to portray them as being the same person.

I mentioned that I tend to historically hate Guenevere. It is, of course, because she is always portrayed as a nitwit and, as in the case of poor Eve, gets the blame for the eternal triangle. For a series where the Guenevere is not only the protagonist, but also a character that you will actually like - try the Persia Woolley trilogy Child of the Northern Spring, Queen of the Summer Stars, Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn . And by Nancy MacKenzie: The Child Queen: The Tale of Guinevere and King Arthur, The High Queen and Queen of Camelot.

Not to be Sneezed at:
The Mabinogion: Arthur's first major mention as a fabled king in literature appears in a collection of Medieval Welsh tales known as the Mabinogion, which was the title given to them by Lady Charlotte Guest who translated them into English in the mid-19th Century. These are to be found in their most complete form in the 14th Century manuscript known as the Red Book of Hergest. The tales are thought to date from the songs of a much earlier period, when the bards of both the Breton and Gallic peoples shared common legends and passed down their myths through speech anywhere between the mid-11th Century and 1250 AD. It is from the Mabinogion that the Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Tales are taken also.

Malory's Morte D'Arthur: Sir Thomas Malory was something of a rogue. In fact, 'something of a rogue' is an understatement. He was arrested and charged at various points with such crimes as cattle rustling, ambushing with intent to murder, stealing valuables from an abbey, rape, extortion and insulting an abbot. Still, it is to Malory that all subsequent chroniclers and authors of works about Arthur owe a great debt. He wrote the Morte D'Arthur, the single most important collection of Arthurian myth in the English language, during his final and most lengthy imprisonment. Based on all the available sources Malory could muster, principally the French prose Vulgate Cycle, this work set out to reclaim Arthur as an English monarch and legend, not merely an amusement for French nobility. Hence the definite placement of the mythical Arthurian kingdom of Logres to Britain, and the dominance of patriotism over chivalry. You see the Brits and the French were at it even then. Mallory’s greatest achievement was not as a writer, actually, but as an editor. He took all the work available and ruthlessly chopped out everything he thought unnecessary or overblown . . . this consisted of a lot of the “romantic” elements (like Lancelot soul searching for 40 pages.) What he left in was a lot of blood and guts and good old fashioned gore.

Tennyson: Alfred, Lord Tennyson, who wrote The Lady of Shalott and Idylls of the King, which were both based in the mythic and mystic setting of the Arthurian legends. I happen to adore Tennyson and both of these poems.

FINALLY! No one ever mentions this, but The Musical CAMELOT, not only has some enchanting, beautiful music, the book for the play is charming, funny, witty and absolutely delightful. It was done on Broadway by Richard Burton and Julie Andrews - Robert Goulet and Roddy McDowall. When I get my time machine, that is one of the first places I am going to go. It was turned into a very, very sad movie in which Richard Harris was an OK Arthur, but Vanessa Redgrave whispered her way through Guenevere instead of singing and the Lancelot sounded like he didn’t even speak English - his fake French accent was so bad. So WHY isn’t this fantastically darling Lerner & Loewe, Moss Hart musical done more often?

Because there are only two female parts in it, both are high, high soprano’s and one of them only has one song. You go to case this show and you are essentially casting chorus and one woman. Nobody will do that, so it never gets done. Boo! It is one of my favorites. The book is good enough that if you ever see it (as a play) in the library, it is worth checking out and reading. If you ever get the chance to see it live, I would do so. I wouldn’t watch the very sad movie, however.

The end of this movie just about sums up what I love the most about the Arthurian legend however. My father and I used to have little mock battles about Arthur. He would tell me that he didn’t exist. Then in the next breath he would tell me he was a composit of a bunch of “ragged chieftans.” Then he would tell me that the Dane’s whipped him soundly and sent him into the hills. “Rolf the Ganger beat his pants off and sent him skulking off into Wales.”

My Daddy was a little ethnocentric. I would smile at this point and say, “So Dad, you think Rolf the Ganger won, do you?”
“Of course he did.”
“Do you think anyone has ever heard of Rolf the Ganger, Dad?”
“What?”
“How many people do you think have heard of Arthur of Britain?”
“What?”
“Who do you think really won?”
“I’m talking about History!”
“I’m talking about reality.”

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword.

In the last scene of Camelot Arthur sees his dream go up in smoke. He sees everything he has worked for turn into nothing. The “kinder, gentler” world that he tried to create is gone and all his knights are killing and raping and pillaging again. He believes himself a failure and says to himself, “no one will ever even know. It will all be forgotten . . .” Then you can see in his face that he has realized something. He finds a small boy named Tom who has stowed away with the army and he knights him right there on the field. He tells the boy his task as a knight, the task of his life, is to make sure the story of Camelot is never forgotten. Because as long as the story is told, as long as people remember - Camelot will live. Then he sings the final verse of “Camelot”

Each evening, from December to December,
Before you drift to sleep upon your cot,
Think back on all the tales that you remember

of Camelot.
Ask ev'ry person if he's heard the story,
And tell it strong and clear if he has not,
That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory
Called Camelot.
Camelot! Camelot!
Now say it out with pride and joy!
TOM:
Camelot! Camelot!
ARTHUR:
Yes, Camelot, my boy!
Where once it never rained till after sundown,
By eight a.m. the morning fog had flown...
Don't let it be forgot
That once there was a spot
For one brief shining moment that was known
As Camelot.

Then Arthur tells Tom to run behind the lines . . . always behind the lines, where he will be safe and live to tell his tale. Tom runs off - usually into the theater - Arthur watches him go and the last lines of the play are Arthur yelling: Run boy, Run Boy, Run!

Shellaina

2005-03-07T18:46:00.000-08:00

SHELLAINA

2005-03-06T23:57:00.000-08:00

COME IN!

2005-03-06T23:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Fantasy Folk - I hope you will soon begin to arrive. There are all sorts of corners of Soul Food beginning to turn up. There is quite a bit going on at the Lemurian Abbey, the Alluvial Miners have been underground for some time coming up with all sorts of things, there is a corner for art and of course the Café itself. THIS is going to be an enchanted corner of Lemuria I can tell. Of course we are talking about Fantasy Folk, which means Creative Creatures right from the beginning. Use this blog to talk about authors you love and books you have read, to put up your own work both written and artistic - just to talk to someone who understands the difference between a Pegasus and a Unicorn . . . someone who has been through the back of the wardrobe. Welcome!

"If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer.
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
for we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in! Come in!"