Siege Works

"Country" - An Anthem

2012-01-05T20:27:00.000-08:00

Passing down from generations

Fled from wars and occupations

There's a wish, an inspiration

To go back to where we had begun.

Though we've spread the whole world over

Made new lives with friends and lovers

We still long to meet our brothers

And go back to where we had begun.

Nations pass through hands like grains of sand

Boarders shift and change like the wind

In the end it's land on which we stand

Calls us back to where we had begun.

We are made of dirt and water

Sons of earth, and rivers' daughters

In our hearts, a long lost quarter

Draws us back to where we had begun

We don't need to stay, but we need to come

Need to walk the paths our fathers ran

Need to touch the earth and feel the sun

And go back to where we had begun.

We won't pass our fathers' pain onto our sons

Like the rivers deep, we'll let forgiveness run

With our hearts at peace, the wars will be undone

And "At last", we'll say, "we have begun."

Young and Beautiful

2011-09-23T00:49:00.000-07:00

I like that smile
It suits your face
It makes the world a brighter place
And you can light up my day for a while
With a flash of that smile

You nod hello,
Go on your way
And I won't see you again today
But a moment of beauty goes a long, long way

Ah, Pretty Boy
You make me wish that I was young and beautiful
You make me wish that I could catch your eye
Oh, but I--
I'll have to settle for a smile in passing
As you go by.

You know that shirt
Brings out your eyes
But then I guess that's no surprise
I can tell by the way that you dress
You dress to impress

And every day
At ten to nine
I wait for your path to cross mine
Because a moment of beauty makes me feel so fine

Ah, Pretty Boy
You make me wish that I was young and beautiful
You make me wish that I could catch your eye
Oh but I--
I guess I'll settle for a smile in passing
As you go by.

You make me wish that I was young and beautiful
You make me wish that I was young and beautiful...

Running Out Of Up

2011-07-24T16:55:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling exhausted
From the moment I woke up.
Should have gone to bed hours ago
But I
     Just
          Can't
               Seem to
               Switch
          My
     Mind
Off.
Can barely keep my eyes open
But I Just
Can't
Keep
Them
Shut.
I'm running on empty
And I'm
     Running
          Out
               Of
                    Up.

Mirror Song

2011-06-10T20:33:00.000-07:00

You think you've got it figured out
You seem to think you know the score
I think you're secretly afraid
Of everything outside your door
I've seen your type - you come and go
Without a thought to your own soul
I've got to ask you this tonight:
What are you doing with your life?

Turn on the tube, switch on your smile
Kick of your cares and just unwind
Let all your worries drift away
While you just switch off your own mind
Ignore the beating of your heart
And you won't hear it fall apart
I've got to ask you this tonight:
What are you doing with your life?

Just ignore the questions banging at your door
And keep pretending that everything's okay.
If you keep your back turned to them long enough
Then, like the chance for something more, they'll go away...

You can just sit there in your chair
Or take a chance and risk the fall
Too many people waste their lives
By choosing not to choose at all
Weigh up the chances that you've lost
And tell me - is this worth the cost?
I've got to ask you this tonight:
What are you doing with your life?

You've got to ask yourself tonight:
What am I doing with my life?

Settling

2011-04-28T03:20:00.000-07:00

I have a strange fantasy
In which we end up settling for each other
And live out the rest of our lives
Comfortable in the knowledge
That we each might have done better.

Most people fantasize about finding the "right one"
And living in blissful passion for the rest of their lives.
Me?
I fantasize about settling for comfort and convenience.

I suspect it would make me happy,
But I'm not quite right in the head.
And, really,
It's hardly a complement to you
That I occasionally think
You'd be nice enough to settle for.
You deserve a better standard of fantasy from someone.

Ah, but you'll never find another
Who will be as more or less okay with having you around
As I am...

Down Again

2011-03-27T21:16:00.000-07:00

I don't want to go home
With my head bent down
As a failure - yet again.

It's a shame, it's a crime
Can't I win just one time?
I don't want to go home again.

But here I am again
I'm falling down again
Going down again to New South Wales
I've tried and failed again
I've lost my way again
On the way again to New South Wales

I don't want to go home
And have to show my face
As a loser - yet again.

I want to curl up and cry
I want to lay down and die
But I don't want to go home again.

But here I am again
I'm falling down again
Going down again to New South Wales
I've tried and failed again
I've lost my way again
On the way again to New South Wales

And so I'm going home because I couldn't make it
And so I'm going home because I couldn't take it
And, Lord, it makes me feel so low...
And I don't want to go home again.

But here I am again
I'm falling down again
Going down again to New South Wales
I've tried and failed again
I've lost my way again
On the way again to New South Wales.

Always Maybe

2011-01-03T16:42:00.000-08:00

Eight long years ago I looked at you
I looked at you and I thought "maybe"
Only "maybe"
I did't know if I knew you, I barely knew myself
So I thought "maybe"
Only "maybe"

Then there came the day
We went our separate ways

And I shook your hand
Because I wasn't sure
If I should try to hold it
I said goodbye
Although I wondered
If I should say "wait for me"
It took a while for me to grow up
To the point were I could feel
That I was ready for you
But are you ready for me?

And in these long years since I've thought of you
I've thought of you and I've thought "maybe"
Always "maybe"
I better know myself, but now I'm sure I know you less
And it's still "maybe"
Only "maybe"

Since there came that day
We went our separate ways...

And I shook your hand
Because I wasn't sure
If I should try to hold it
I said goodbye
Although I wondered
If I should say "wait for me"
it took a while for me to grow up
To the point were I could feel
That I was ready for you
But are you ready for me?

Why "Siege Bruce"?

2011-01-01T20:21:00.000-08:00

Why "Siege"?
Well, it's a long and bizarre story involving Superman, Gladiators, computers, homonyms, collective nouns and birds. I'll try to keep it short:

When I was a kid, I used to make up my own stories to fit into the things I liked to read and watch. I would make characters for myself to play in these stories, and for my stories involving Superman I invented a photojournalist called C.J. - 'Everyone' called her "Seege" for short ("see jay", obviously).

When I was in high school, a group of friends and I used to watch the TV show Gladiators, and we decided to give ourselves "gladiator names" like "Terror" and "Twister". For some reason, this old character popped into my head, and I went with "Siege".

This was around about the time I was starting to play computer games (just dabbling, it never really stuck), and I decided it would make as good a handle as any other.

Thus, I started signing my name as "Siege". It kind of kept going from there.

So, why the herons?
Well, I did say it also had something to do with homonyms, collective nouns and birds, didn't I?

I've always been a bit of a language geek (okay, I've always been a bit of a geek in general - not to mention a nerd) and when I discovered that "siege" (also spelt "sedge" or "sege") was the collective noun for a group of herons, it called to me.

Here was a word that had reasonance in history, technology and nature. Very appealing to a nerdy geek.

The idea of "a siege of herons" had me hooked, and when I was trying to think of a way to market myself to potential employers, I thought creating a "brand image", might help. The heron seemed perfect. By associating myself with the image of the heron, I thought I'd be a bit more memorable than all of those other job applicants who didn't bother having themes or images.

It seemed to work, actually. I got alot further with my resumes and application letters after I started using heron images to grace my stationary...

So, yeah, the heron has kind of been my totem for years now. It's like my code for "me". I've often thought of having one tattooed somewhere, but I'm afraid of sharp things.

Okay, but why "Bruce"?
That one's courtesy of my uncle, who is quite possibly one of the oddest people I've ever met.

For some reason, he decided to give his nieces and nephews nick-names that were more suited to members of the opposite sex. My female cousins got names like "George" and "Albert", my male cousin got "Gertrude". I got "Bruce".

They left town, I didn't. I got "Bruce" for a very long period of time. Eventually it merged into "The Bruce" (as in, "Robert the Bruce" - also appealing to a history geek), but it never quite went away.

When I needed to create a pseudonym for some things I was writing, "Bruce" seemed as good a surname as any.

So, now you know. Bet you didn't really care, did you?

All right, but why use a pseudonym if you're going to put your real name on everything too?
Because someone beat me to it, all right?

I'm not the only Sharon Bryan in the world, and at least one of them is publishing poems and stuff under that name.

I bet your sweet bippy you won't find another Siege Bruce out there, though. And if you do, make sure you give me their address so I can send "the boys" around to "take care" of them.

Better in My Dreams

2010-10-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

Take one: English

And there it is
The truth that shines the light onto the lie
Revealing what I've always known
But tried hard to deny

And all my plans
And little dreams are slipping through my hands
But in the end I always knew
They were just built on sand

See how they fly...

You were better in my dreams
But so was I.

Take Two: Eesti keelis

Ja seal ta on
Tõde et valgustab vale
Paljastab mis ma teadnud juba
Aga püüdmanud eitama.

Ja kõik mu kavad
On libisevad läbi minu käte
Aga, kõige lõpuks ma teadnud alati
Nad olid rajatud liivale

Näha, kuidas nad lendavad...

Sina olid parem sisse minu unistus
Aga ka mina olin

Van Havien is coming

2010-09-22T03:14:00.000-07:00

I'm over the last post. I can't be bothered replacing it, but I want it to go away. I do have more chapters of Aino to post, at some point, but I need to do some stuff to them first. Not that anyone is reading them, anyway.

My Story

2010-06-10T02:43:00.000-07:00

This is my story. You may not believe it (in fact, I would be surprised if you did), but that doesn't make it any less true. In fact, if you knew me, you would have to admit that it's the only story that actually makes sense. It explains everything, you see. Everything that seems somehow out of place, or a little unusual. My fondness for poetry. My odd accent. My eclectic range of knowledge and interests. The way I take history a little too personally, and my rather bleak view of the future. It's all perfectly understandable, once you know the story behind it.

I was born in London on the 4th of April, 1810. My father was a dealer in "curiosities". Things found on archaeological digs, baubles brought back from far flung islands, animals killed on hunting expeditions. Many of them made their way through his hands, and some of them stayed for a while. At some point, a seller brought in a number of objects found on a dig in Northern Africa. Most of it was the usual stuff - necklaces, knives, that sort of thing, but there was this one artifact...

Well, it was like nothing my father had ever seen before. Something of a pod, or a box, covered with dials and other moving parts. He was convinced it was a container of some kind, and that one of the moving parts on the surface would unlock the lid and allow us to see what was inside. He became quite obsessed with the thing - tinkering with it at every given moment, refusing to sell it to any buyer. He never did work out exactly what was the catch.

This was, by the way, during the year 1825. I was fifteen years old and heavily into the London poetry scene. I was, at the time busily writing my own volume of verse, which I hoped to publish with funds borrowed from my father. I had sold a few poems to some of the local magazines, which gave me some hope that I might be able to make something of a career out of the written word. Had I remained in that time and place, you may have been studying my poems in school. You probably could have hated me as much as Keats or Byron. It was not to be.

One afternoon, my brother decided it would amuse him to take one of my hats and throw it around the parlour. I suppose he wanted to see how much effort I would go to to rescue it. My father was in the parlour at the time, once again tinkering with that blasted "box". At one point, my brother lunged to get out of my reach and collided with my father, who accidentally dropped the box on the floor. It opened, much to our surprise, but then the room was bathed in some strange light and everything seemed to shift around us.

A moment later, we were standing in a very strange place. Later, we would learn that we were actually more or less exactly where we were before the box opened, only we had shifted forward in time - to the year 2365. Our home, my mother and sisters and the London we knew were all gone. My father, brother and I had become time travellers.

To be continued

Aino Chapter Four - We Sneak Behind the Iron Curtain

2010-04-01T04:01:00.000-07:00

It was, of course, a stupid idea. It was stupid for a number of very good reasons. For one thing, going to a haunted mansion for the sake of rescuing a ghost was a stupid idea – and over the years I had become quite convinced that, no matter how she might have felt like warm flesh and blood, Liisa was a ghost, and Elviiru House was haunted by the most frightening of creatures. For another thing, Canadian citizens sneaking into a Soviet State in the middle of a cold war that could turn hot at the slightest provocation was a stupid idea. We'd be lucky if we weren't shot for spies. And what excuse could we tell them if we were caught? “Oh, don't mind us, officers. We're just trying to rescue a ghost from a haunted house.” If, by some strange miracle, they actually believed we were ghost hunters and not spies, how would we explain the fact that we knew the house was haunted?

News had come to the Estonian communities in Canada in recent years. A lot of families were being moved out of the country. Some people were just disappearing. Estonia was at the very edge of the U.S.S.R. – it was part of the buffer between Russia and the West, and bordered on three fronts by vulnerable coast. From all accounts, the Soviets were holding the country with a deathlike grip. The very thought of getting into Estonia, of all places, was a stupid idea.

It could only have been more manifestly stupid if you tried sneaking into Estonia with an escaped Estonian as part of the “rescue” team. The odds were that someone would discover I was an Estonian citizen who had fled the country with my deserter father eighteen years ago. The Soviets wouldn't care that I was a boy and had no choice in the matter. If I wasn't arrested and shot I'd probably be deported. And not back home.

By all accounts, it was a clearly and undeniably stupid idea.

So I'm still not sure how it came to be that van Havien, Davis and I found ourselves flying into Finland with the express intention of sneaking into Estonia in order to rescue a ghost from a haunted manor house.

It was that damn fool, van Havien. He was like a dog with a bone. It didn't matter how many times I told him the idea was stupid, it didn't matter how many times I thought I had convinced him, he kept coming back to the same point. I had promised the girl I would come back for her, and we should at least try to do it. And, I have to admit, there was a part of me that had always wanted to fulfil my promise. Deep down, I always believed I had failed someone who had depended on me, and was less of a man for doing so. The idea of going back and saving her... Well, once van Havien put it in my head it was hard to shake.

By the time winter had turned to spring and spring was edging towards summer, it actually started to seem like a great idea. No, actually it never seemed like a great idea. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

I still don't know how we managed to convinced Davis to come along, though. It was my ghost and van Havien's stupid idea. Davis had no reason to risk his neck on our fools' errand. He seemed to be coming along for the adventure of it all. Perhaps he just wanted to be part of the group that was doing something, rather than being left behind with Mitchell.

Mitchell had his own role to play in our little game. One that was quite important in its own way, but also suited his particular sensibilities to a T – he didn't actually have to be involved in the execution of the scheme, but would still be in the loop. His job was to send the rescue parties after us if we didn't come out. Every week we would send a telegram to Mitchell telling him we were alive and well. If he failed to receive a telegram two weeks in a row, he was to notify the Canadian authorities immediately. The story he was to tell them was that we believed my cousin was in danger and we had gone to rescue her.

Cousins played a rather large role in this plot, actually. I told my family I was travelling to Europe to stay with van Havien's cousins in Belgium. He actually did have cousins in Belgium, who agreed to send some post cards on my behalf while we were engaging in our manoeuvres. They would have worried themselves to death if I'd told them where I was actually going. And part of our cover once we got into Estonia was to tell whoever cared that Davis' father's cousins had once travelled through the country and spoken at great length about the beautiful manor houses.

As for the actual plot to get into Estonia in the first place? Well, that was something of a double rouse. The lynchpin was van Havien. In his role as a reporter for the Dispatch he set up an elaborate scheme. He talked his editor into agreeing to a story about living conditions behind the Iron Curtain, claiming it was going to be a cutting expose about how the common man is fairing under the Soviet Regime. The Soviets were going to be told a similar story, only they were be told the report was about the innovative farming practices brought in under Stalin's rule and the way they have revolutionised the agricultural industry in the Soviet Union. His editor knew the cover story, and was willing to support it to help van Havien uncover the “real” story – completely unaware that the “real” story was also a cover story.

Continued here

Aino – Chapter Three: van Havien Has an Idea

2010-03-02T23:53:00.000-08:00

I paused for a moment and looked around at my audience, wondering if they would tolerate the second story. Mitchell and Davis seemed completely rapt in my tale, which was gratifying. I had drawn some of the other men at the club as well, although not as great a crowd as van Havien. It was to be expected. I was not as expansive a story-teller as van Havien. I didn't have the sweeping gestures or booming voice to draw a crowd – not like him. I believe it was only luck that lead him to write for a living instead of being in front of a camera or on radio.

Speaking of van Havien, he was looking at me intently. I believe he was trying to work out if I was making this story up or telling the truth. I was glad I wasn't the only member of our party to have difficulty with this. I can't say what conclusions he had drawn at the time; all I knew was that he plainly wanted me to continue. I subconsciously touched the scar on my neck again. I hadn't needed to edit the first part of the story – the wolves weren't in it. This second half, though, that was another matter.

Suddenly, I wasn't so sure of myself. In telling the first half of the story I had started to feel bold, in control. It was an easy tale after all. Perhaps the sort of tale anyone could have experienced at some point. One of those “unexplained, inexplicable” things van Havien mentioned. In truth, it wasn't very hard to explain at all – as long as you tolerated impossible explanations. The second half of the story was harder to explain. Or, perhaps, harder to explain away. A haunted garden is one thing. You could accept that and forget it. Get over it. Move on. But what was in the woods...

The scar on my neck started to burn slightly. I was allowing myself to remember something I had spent years trying to banish from my mind. Was it madness? A shiver ran down my spine.

And yet, my audience sat there, expectantly. I had promised them a second story – the sequel to the first.

“A year is a very long time to an eight year old boy. Old man Tomm never mentioned that night again. And then it was a hard winter. He didn't survive it. By the time my ninth birthday had come and gone and summer was with us again, I had all but forgotten our midsummer visitor and the old man's warnings. And, then, there were so many other things to worry about. We were, after all, sitting between Russia and Germany, and there was a war coming. No one had started making any moves, yet, but Estonia had always been pulled between those two countries. Like a rope in a tug of war. We could feel the players starting to tug.

“I was old enough to understand these things – especially with my father in the army. So you can understand why I was not waiting for the midsummer full moon. Why I didn't spare a thought for our yearly visitor. In the days before the full moon, my mother had received some letters from my father which were making her very nervous. She never told me what he had written, and always burned the letters before anyone else could read them. Her anxiety was making me feel anxious, and I was finding the summer to be very stressful indeed – not the time of light hearted fun it should have been. In truth, I was itching for a distraction. For a cause.

“The night before the full moon, I couldn't sleep. I hadn't particularly remembered last year's adventure, even though I had never really forgotten it. I was just too anxious about my father to really sleep. So I got out of bed and went for a walk through the grounds. I found myself in the old, ruined orchard without really thinking about why I was going there, but suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks.

“She was there. Still strangely beautiful, still strangely sad. Still dressed in those odd, old clothes. And she was not five feet away from me.

“Seeing her up close for the first time, I could see details I had missed last year. The simple, yet beautiful patterns woven into her belt and embroidered on her skirt and jacket. The way her hair wisped around her bonnet. The fact that everything seemed somehow rich and colourful, and yet completely devoid of colour in the silver light of the moon. She smelt like she had been walking through the forests on a warm summer’s day. She turned ever so slightly to face me, and I could swear I could smell wildflowers and grass – like she had taken a nap in a field. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

“I was at that age, I guess. Old enough to form a crush on a girl who was too old for me. I would say she looked not quite ten years older than I was. Definitely old enough to be out of my reach, but not so much older that I couldn't fool myself into thinking there may yet be a chance.

“I stared at her for what seemed like hours, but was probably barely minutes. She held my gaze, summing me up just as I had been looking at her. I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to say something. But what? How does a young boy talk to a beautiful woman? What could I say to this otherworldly being who was standing in front of me? Then she spoke:

“'Why were you crying?' she asked me. Her voice was... completely normal. I called her otherworldly, but the truth is, she wasn't. She was the most natural thing I had ever seen in all my life, except for her clothes and the moonlight. Even her beauty was completely human. It was impossible to believe she was a ghost or a spirit. And I hadn't realised I had been crying. I touched my hand to my cheek, and saw that there was a tear there. I suppose I should have felt embarrassed, but I didn't. It felt strangely nice to hear the concern in her voice.

“'I'm worried about my father, in the army,' I told her. And then, because she seemed interested, I told her all about it. We moved over to sit on a bench in the orchard while I was talking, and she listened very carefully, then put her arm around my shoulder as she stared into the distance, thinking about what I had just told her. Her arm was very solid and warm, and felt very nice. She sighed, and I could feel her shoulders rise and fall with her breath. How could this woman be some kind of vengeful spirit? She just seemed like a nice, normal girl. Kind, and so sad.

“'Nothing ever changes,' she said, 'And yet it does. Always different. Always the same.'

“She seemed to take what I had said as bad news she was expecting, but hoping to avoid. Then she shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts, and she started asking me other questions. Questions about the games I liked to play, the places I liked to walk. Questions about what I liked to learn in school, and what I wish the teachers would teach. It was as though she needed someone to cheer her up. I prattled on, happy to see how much my childish adventures appealed to her. Once or twice she laughed at something I said. It was the nicest sound in the world. More than that, knowing I could make her laugh made me feel like I had some kind of strength or power. I could touch her heart. I could make her smile. Finally, after some time, I asked her the one question that had been burning on my mind:

“'Why are you so sad?'

“You should have seen her face. It fell so far and so fast. It was as though all my prattle had helped her escape something horrible – just for a short while, but with that one question I might as well have taken my hand from hers and slapped her in the face. She looked away for a while. She seemed to be trying not to cry. Maybe she was just deciding if she was going to tell me or not. Eventually, she turned back to me and spoke:

“'I followed something I shouldn't have, many years ago. I followed it too far, and it caught me. They caught me. They took me away from this world, into theirs, to be their slave and fetch and carry, and they would not let me go home. These three nights each year, when the door between our two worlds can fully open, I can come back to visit. But I cannot stay – and the night is so short. And now, it's not really my home any more. Everyone I knew is dead. Everything I loved is broken and decayed. This place... It's not my Elviiru. It's not my home. I suppose I don't really have a home anymore. All that's left for me is broken ghosts of my past... and Aino.'

Continued here.

Cloudy

2010-02-25T17:17:00.000-08:00

Storm clouds are gathering
In the east, overhead
Blocking the sun and creating a darker day
Feel the wind buffeting
Thunderclaps echoing
Turbulence tossing the waves on the sea

Stand on the shoreline and
Watch the waves rolling in
Everything seems to be crashing around you now
Feels like you're going to be
Blown away by the wind
Shattered by lightening or drowned by the rain

All around you are people who love you
They'll hold you close so the wind won't prevail
Just reach out and a friend's hand will find you
There's something to fear but there's nothing to fail

All at once everything
Seems to be rioting
Raindrops and hailstones are coming from every side
Nowhere feels safe right now
Nowhere will for some time
This is a season for storms strong and wild

No point in telling you
Seasons will come and go
No point in pointing out "this, too, shall one day pass"
You know as well as I
Sunshine will come again
While the storm rages it's harder to see

Deep inside you there's strength enough for this trial
Just hold on tight and the storm can't prevail
Have some faith in the light that's inside you
There's something to fear, but there's nothing to fail.

Aino - Chapter Two: Davis Tells His Story, and I Tell Mine

2010-02-10T23:35:00.000-08:00

Van Havien let the last notes of his voice hang in the room. He looked around at his audience – now slightly larger than our small party as others at the club had been drawn into the tale. So enraptured were we by his story that it seemed to take us a while to remember we were in a comfortable gentlemen's club in Vancouver and not a haunted Saskatchewan wood. Van Havien kept our gazes. For a moment, his face was deadly serious. Then, slowly, he raised one eyebrow and let the corner of his mouth tilt upwards ever so slightly.

Damn the man – it was impossible to know whether to take him seriously when he smiled like that. Was he joking? Was this all a story, or did he really meet some monster in the woods? I could feel many of the other men in the audience shake themselves and laugh, taking his half-smile to mean he wasn't serious. Perhaps they felt secure in the knowledge that there were no such things as wolfmen in the woods. Some of us knew better.

Another man not of our party – Robins, I believe his name was – caught my eye quite by accident. I think I saw in his look a reflection of the knowledge in my own. The forests hold more than their share of secrets.

“Well, now,” van Havien clapped his hands together, looking for all the world like a master of ceremonies at a particularly successful occasion. “I believe you have the general idea. Who's next?”

We looked at each other reluctantly. Perhaps it was a mistake to let van Havien speak first. He was the finest story-teller amongst us. There was no way any tale we could tell could possibly match his – even if the story itself was even more spectacular, the telling would be less.

“Oh, come on,” he cajoled, “I'm not asking for an opus, just a tale of the unexpected. Whatever you have, and as interesting as you can make it. Nothing more.”

He looked eagerly about the party. Nobody made a move to begin. He then turned his gaze more pointedly on Davis. Davis squirmed for a little, but finally yielded under van Havien's persuasive eyes. He got up from his chair and moved to take van Havien's place at the fireplace. Handing the floor over to him, van Havien slapped him on the shoulder and moved to reclaim his armchair.

Davis fidgeted for a moment at the fireplace, repositioning the nick-knacks on the mantelpiece. A clerk by trade, Davis was an avid amateur rugby player. Fit and athletic, he was quite good at the game – just not good enough to play professionally. That was always the biggest tragedy of his life. He was a friendly and amiable young man – and a joiner. You could always count on Davis to throw his hat into whatever game was going. He was not, however, a public speaker. It's not that he was embarrassed by speaking in public, but there was simply an acknowledgement on his part that there were others better suited to the task. Following on from van Havien must have been quite daunting for the poor man.

“Yes, well,” he started reluctantly, as though still trying to think of a story even as he spoke. “There was this one night. Ah, years ago. I was in college at the time. No, actually it was the holidays, so I wasn't actually in college at the time, if you know what I mean?” he looked around the room and smiled grimly, as if aware he wasn't doing as well as he could. “I was visiting family in Colorado for Thanksgiving. They had this big old house out in the sticks. It was about five miles out of town, or something. Huge. Surrounded by trees. Ah, dark, brooding trees. Especially in winter, when they were covered in snow. It wasn't snowing, though, so it wasn't so bad.

“Ah, anyway. This one night there was, like a storm, but not. You know when the wind picks up and starts shaking through the trees and howling but there's no rain or thunder? It was like that. Everything was banging in the wind and shutters would blow open. It was cold, too. Really cold. Like the snow was coming and it was going to be a hell of a cold winter. I had a room to myself because one of my cousins was away. It was really hard to get to sleep with that wind. I had to fix the shutters a couple of times, and even then the wind was whistling through the window in that way that sets your teeth on edge. You know? Real bad.

“Anyway, I'd just got to sleep when I swore I heard the door open and shut. I looked at the door, but it was shut. I guess it would be if I heard it shut. I couldn't see anyone in the room, but every time I closed my eyes it sounding like there was someone in the room with me. Walking around. I kept closing my eyes to try to sleep, then opening them to see who was in the room. It was really dark, but I swear there was no one there.

“Then, just after I finally fell asleep – and I'm serious, this really happened – I felt someone climb into the bed with me. I actually felt the covers move, the weight of another person on the mattress and the warmth of another body. I woke up immediately and sat straight up – but there was no one there. I was the only person in the bed. I was the only person in the room.

“I found out later on that my cousin – the one who should have been in that room – had been in an accident that night. He didn't die, but they say he came really close. He was in a coma for a couple of days.”

Davis looked around at the three of us. I'm sure we looked interested, if not completely rapt as we had been with van Havien's story.

“That's all I've got,” he shrugged.

“Good. That's great,” van Havien clapped his hands together, giving a slight round of applause. “Well, who's next, then? Mitchell?”

“Oh, um,” Mitchell looked like he'd rather swallow a whole raw fish, “I don't... I don't have any stories.”

“Sure you do!” van Havien's voice was so enthusiastic it practically bounced off the walls. “Everybody's got a story. You just have to remember it, while most people try to forget the really scary stories – especially if they're true.”

“I, ah... I... No,” Mitchell shook his head sadly, looking like he wanted to play, but simply couldn't follow the rules. “I really don't have anything.”

“Maybe next time,” van Havien allowed him, magnanimously. Van Havien was always oddly magnanimous. It was, at times, rather annoying. Surely one must have delusions of grandeur in order to offer such grace and favour to his fellow men? He cast his eye about the room as if trying to remember who, in the party, might be next. Then he caught my eye and gave a playful wink.

I always hated the way he winked at you when he was trying to be dashing. I don't know why, but something deep inside me just wanted to poke him in the eye. If I am to be honest, I suspect it was because van Havien was always just that little bit ahead of me. While I was still thinking of doing something, he would actually do it. While I was toying with the idea of being charming and dashing, he was busy sweeping the room with his charm. When van Havien was present, you played the second man. There was simply no opportunity to be anything else.

Like this game of his. He had already told a story about encountering wolfmen in the woods. How could I then tell my story about wolfmen without seeming derivative? He had already drawn the scar on his face into the story – and with more flair than I could ever manage. How could I mention my scar, and how I came to bear it, without sounding some how sad and pathetic? After all, my scar is quite effectively hidden by my clothes most of the time. Who would even remember I had it, let alone care for my tale of woe?

Continued here.

Aino - Chapter One: van Havien Tells His Story

2010-01-31T23:09:00.000-08:00

I've just had a marvellous idea,” declared van Havien. The four of us, van Havien, Mitchell, Davis and myself, were smoking in the library of the Spencer Club after dinner on a perfectly boring Saturday night. It was nearing the end of winter in Vancouver, and the weather had been absolutely dreadful for weeks. It was that wet, grey, miserable kind of weather that made it impossible to engage in any of the usual winter sports while simultaneously making one feel tired and vapid – too heavy and drowsy to really do anything indoors except read and sleep. By this point in time, we were all feeling rather cooped up and restless, but none of us had the energy to do much about it.

Well, except for van Havien. Van Havien was a law unto himself. He was constantly coming up with yet another “marvellous idea” to pass the time. Perhaps a strange new parlour game that somehow managed to combine darts and charades. Perhaps a game of dare or truth and consequences. To be honest, we did not enter the spirit of van Havien's games with the gusto he would have liked – yet, we could not help but join in for an hour or two. It passed the time, after all.

Besides, van Havien was the kind of man who could make the very rocks say “yes” to him if he asked them to move a little to the left. He was not much to look at – very boyish in both appearance and manner and quite weed-like in his proportions – but he had a charm to him. The way his grey eyes would flash with excitement could almost always win us over to whatever harebrained scheme he concocted. They certainly proved irresistible to most women who crossed his path.

He tossed his hair back out of his face as he looked to see if he had our attention. His fringe was somewhat longer than the current style, and although he attempted to slick it back with Brylcream most of the time, it seemed to be forever defying him. I subconsciously checked my own hair to make sure the style was holding. Van Havien caught me doing it, and smiled in that infuriating way he had – as though he knew you were trying to measure up to a standard, and he thought it was a great joke. You could almost hear him saying, “Don’t bother; none of us will never make it.”

Once he was sure he commanded our attention, he continued: “Ghost stories! We should tell each other ghost stories!”

We glanced at each other, dubiously.

“What do you mean by ghost stories?” asked Mitchell, “Like, haunted houses or headless horsemen?”

“Yes! But no!” van Havien's natural enthusiasm often outstripped his ability to think about what he wanted to say before saying it. “Stories of the unexplained – of the unexplainable! Things that would seem impossible and unlikely in this modern world of science, but are true all the same.”

“Now I'm confused. True? Aren't we making these up?” Mitchell was never comfortable with fiction. He was even less comfortable with facts.

“No, no no. True stories. Things that happened to us. Perhaps when we were children, perhaps as recently as last week. We've all encountered things that seemed unexplainable, I'm sure. Let's tell each other the stories – and make them as interesting as possible!”

Continued: here

Mets Kohas

2010-01-24T21:42:00.000-08:00

(after Liiv, with a nod to Hix)

The forest rustled in the dark of night
I felt the rustling shiver down my spine
So strange and dark the sound – so like a sprite
Whose hands were reaching through the dark to mine
Around my heart the rustling did entwine
I heard it as I slept – I could not sleep
It loomed over my cradle like a sign
And through my bedroom I could hear it creep
Against my ribs I felt my heartbeat leap
The rustling follows me – it haunts my days
It sinks into my soul, so dark and deep
Like one in mourning, I'm caught in a haze
Am I to be forbidden all my joys?
Forever bound by this accursed noise?

Kaks Ilma

2010-01-11T20:39:00.000-08:00

(After Liiv, with a nod to Hix)

All that the mind could try to do, it did.
It set the world in order, piece by piece.
Set points of ref'rence, layed out like a grid
Each thing assigned its nature, place and peace
All questions asked were answered for in turn:
The how, the why, the when – all neatly solved
The limits set with lessons one could learn
The promised peace of problems now resolved.
All that the heart could strive to hold, it held
The shades of pain, the beauty, longing, tears
Clasped hands still asking questions not dispelled
The why, the how, the when – the nagging fears
The mind may set its limits and not bend,
The heart knows that this limit has no end.

Missing Moments

2009-12-03T15:19:00.000-08:00

You forget, sometimes,
The things you've never done,
Never seen,
Never heard,
Never said,
Never felt.
You go on your merry little way
And forget.
Your life isn't always defined
By moments not experienced.
But then, sometimes, it is.
These negatives, these nots,
They become the white space
That makes the picture what it is.
But you can still forget.
You go on with life, never minding the gaps,
Never missing the things
Never done,
Never seen,
Never heard
Never felt...
Until something reminds you
And suddenly you think:
"If I never have, maybe I never will."
And you feel the white space.
You feel it defining you.
And all these things
You might once have had --
You once might have had...
Well, they slip through your fingers
In a way that's hard to forget.

Sonnet (She Waits)

2009-11-29T15:28:00.000-08:00

She waits, and has been waiting for some time
Her expectations, gone, but still there's hope
She feels she's slipping further past her prime
But though she's still alone, she's learnt to cope
He will not come - she knows he never will
The man she's waited for with girlish dreams
The man she's never met, but hopes for still
The man who can't exist - or so it seems
For no man's ever asked to take her hand
Or looked at her with hunger in his eyes
And time slips through her fingers just like sand
She breathes the years away on empty sighs
Yet still she waits, for so are old maids cursed:
To hope although your heart is fit to burst.

Wonder Woman

2009-11-24T15:14:00.000-08:00

Every now and the she stops
And thinks about the things she's lost
Time keeps marching on and takes
A little more each year
With every new grey hair she finds
She feels she's running out of time
She just can't shake the feeling
All her dreams are tinged with fear

And everyone around her
. thinks she's wonderful
If only she could see it for herself
And everyone around her
. thinks she's wonderful
But she will never see it for herself

Her kids are almost out of school
She wonders what she's going to do
When every day no longer starts
With taking care of them
And work has got her so damn tired
She feels the ache behind her eyes
Well, she's got some leave next month
She'll catch up on rest then.

And everyone around her
. thinks she's wonderful
It seems she just can't see it for herself
And everyone around her
. thinks she's wonderful
But she will never see it for herself

More and more, each day it seems
She can't remember what she dreamed
Back when she was young and had
The whole world at her feet
The face she sees in shop windows
Does not reflect the girl she knows
And all she really yearns for is
The chance to get some sleep

And everyone around her
. thinks she's wonderful
Why can't she ever see it for herself
And everyone around her
. thinks she's wonderful
But she will never see it for herself

Every now and then she stops
And thinks about the things she's lost...

Tallinn on my Mind

2009-11-17T17:31:00.000-08:00

It's just another Monday morning
Tuesday's far away
I'm sitting at my desk
Trying to focus on today
And all the while my mind is wand'ring
To another place and time
And once again I've got Tallinn on my mind.

I know I've got some work to get through
Ain't that always so?
I'm sorting through my mail
And glancing up at the window
It's hard to keep my mind from wand'ring
To another place and time
And once again I've got Tallinn on my mind.

I'm thinking of those cobbled streets and
Wishing I was there
Or looking out across the gulf
And breathing in that air
It seems these days my mind keeps wand'ring
To another place and time
And once again I've got Tallinn on my mind.

Seems that in this great big world there are
Places you can't leave
I'll go back to Tallinn
Someday, that much I believe
'Cause I can't keep my mind from wand'ring
To another place and time
And once again I've got Tallinn on my mind.

Change My Mind

2009-11-12T01:19:00.000-08:00

I never wanted the whole classic package
The house with the picket fence
The kids in the yard
And if I don’t get it – I’ll do just fine
Oh, but maybe you can change my mind?

I never wanted those wedding day flowers
The ribbons upon the pews
The cake with the tiers
And if I don’t get them – I’ll do just fine
Oh, but maybe you can change my mind?

I never wanted to be tied to one place
Putting down roots just seems like a waste
Just let me roam to the end of time
And I know that I’ll be just fine
Oh, but maybe you can change my mind?

I never wanted a life lived in tandem
To know someone waited at
The end of my day
And if I don’t get it – I’ll do just fine
Oh, but baby, you can change my mind.

Poems Because I Can

2009-10-15T23:19:00.000-07:00

Two Sonnets on a Theme:

1 – Italian

No matter how I wish I could refrain
On quiet nights when idle thoughts prevail
Upon a certain theme I never fail
To find my thoughts returning once again
As soothing as the steady fall of rain
Yet harsh enough to make my heart turn pale
It makes me feel so weak and somehow frail
To know that these are thoughts I can’t contain
I’ve tried to let them go so many times
I’ve longed to leave them firmly in the past
But still, in quiet times, they follow me
And when I think I’ve cast them off at last
And fooled myself to think the worst has passed
Still, once again, my thoughts turn back to thee.

2 – Shakespearean

Who gave you leave to haunt my idle thoughts
When we have been apart these many years?
My heart does not endorse these fresh onslaughts
Of thoughts designed to waken ancient fears
For I admit I was afraid to know
The truth of how things stood ‘twixt you and me
And even now I feel those old fears grow
When wondering just what the truth might be
I’ve hung some pretty dreams on things not said
And through these many years they’ve kept me warm
And should the cold truth dash those dreams instead…
I’d rather let my heart stay misinformed
But oh, why should my thoughts be so unkind
To keep the questions playing on my mind?

We'll Always Have Acapulco

2009-10-08T00:44:00.000-07:00

We never made it to Acapulco
But, then, we never planned to go
It could have been the time of our lives
But I guess we'll never know
Hand in hand as we walked on the sand
And dreamed of the life we would share...
It never went bad 'cause it never came good
'Cause not once did we ever go there

And all the fishes say:
"Hey, babe - things don't happen for a reason"
And all the birdies say:
"Hey, babe - you gotta wait for the right season"

Well, we never got to Acapulco
But I'm sure we would have had fun
Dancing by the light of the pale moon
Sleeping in the morning sun
And all the mem'ries we could have made
Of the times that we had while there...
We'll never forget what we never could have
And, I guess, in the end that's quite fair

And all the fishes say:
"Hey, babe - things don't happen for a reason"
And all the birdies say:
"Hey, babe - you gotta wait for the right season"

But who listens to fish anyway?
I'll see you in Acapulco

The Caretaker

2009-03-05T01:49:00.000-08:00

The kitchen, having been deemed the most attractive part of the old inn, was cluttered with bits and pieces of equipment. Cables, lights, sound equipment – the tripod and the camera itself – all combined to make it seem less like a comfortable kitchen-cum-bakery in a heritage listed inn, and more like an obstacle course consisting of various pieces of twenty-first century technology.

It seemed an awful lot of paraphernalia for just three people: the producer, the camera man and the presenter. Kerry marvelled at the way they seemed to crowd a space that was usually big enough for five or six people.

She felt nervous. She new it was ridiculous to feel nervous, but she did. Every day she dealt with far more frightening things – things that could drive other people mad – and barely batted an eyelid, but the idea of being interviewed on national television had her stomach in knots.

Grace, the producer, came over to where she was sitting and arranged her for the camera. She attached a lapel mike to Kerry’s shirt and tested the sound.

"You're going to be fine," she said, with an encouraging smile.

"I hope so," replied Kerry, but she didn't seem certain.

Dan Park, who had been talking with the camera man, came over to be positioned by the producer. He smiled the kind of friendly, half sincere smile that men and women in his position develop after a while. When you visit quirky little out of the way places and talk to quirky little out of the way people for a living, you learn to look interested in everything and everyone. 'Take them exactly as they present themselves to you', was his motto, and he lived it well.

Kerry had only watched the show a couple of times. Being the owner, caretaker and head cook of an inn left her with little time to watch television, and she usually watched 'real' shows, with writers and plots. However, Today's Destinations was a top rating travel show, and she wasn't going to pass up a chance to get some serious publicity.

"Just be yourself and everything will be fine," Dan reassured her.

Kerry smiled, wanly.

And then the camera started rolling.

Hardly ‘rolling’. That would require some kind of film, and I think that contraption is 'digital'.

Kerry felt the thought in the back of her mind, but she could tell from the tone of voice that it wasn't hers. She was used to this, now, but she hoped it wouldn't become a problem during the interview. She turned to face Dan, and hoped he wouldn't notice her distraction.

"So," Dan said, in an affable and interested tone of voice, "tell me about the Sergeant's Rest. What's the story behind this place?"

"This inn has been in my family for generations. In 1892 my great-great grandfather came to Australia and decided to settle down here in Tasmania. Arden was a garrison town back then – you can still see the ruins of the gaol complex off the secondary road out of town – and he thought it was a great place to put an inn. Soldiers do tend to get thirsty, you know?"

"Yes," replied Dan, smiling, "And how did you get involved? How long have you been running the place?"

"Well, like I said, it's been in the family for years. When I was a kid my family and I used to have holidays here – my great uncle ran it back then. He didn't have any children, but he new how much I… got along with the place, so when he got too sick to take care of it he offered me the job of caretaker. After he died I just took over everything else."

Out in the yard, a sudden gust of wind slammed one of the gates open. It swung slowly back into place with a drawn out, eerie, creaking sound. Dan looked over to Grace, who gestured to keep going. They could edit that bit out later.

"So how long have you known the inn was haunted?"

"It's always been haunted. Even from before it was an inn. My great-great grandfather chose a strange piece of land to build on. A rider was knocked from his horse by a couple of local highwaymen not too far from here, and he had a lot of unresolved issues. This place… it's sort of a nexus for ghosts, you could say. We've had a lot of them come and go over the years."

"You're saying ghosts use this place as a hotel, too?"

"Sort of. My great uncle, he spent a lot of time here, with the 'other' residents. He had his theories about what they were and why they were here."

"Like what?"

"Well, it was his theory that people are born with a certain amount of energy – the spark of life, I guess you could call it. He thought people had enough to keep their bodies working for the length of their life. If you got old, you used up all your energy and died. If you got really sick, you used it up faster and died. But, if you died suddenly because of an accident or murder or something… well then it's almost like the energy has been knocked out of your body, and it has to hang around until it can use itself up. That's what he thought ghosts were – the left over life-force of people who didn't get a chance to use up all their energy while they were alive. If you look at it that way, ghosts are kind of… well, they're like people who have completely lost the use of their bodies, if you know what I mean."

"Hmm. And why do you suppose you've had so many ghosts?"

"Well, it's kind of like a magnet, I guess. Energy tends to be drawn by certain things to certain places. Ghosts just come here because it's someplace they can live out what's left of their lives."

"Weren't you scared, as a child, coming to a haunted hotel for your holidays?"

"No, not really. My brothers and sister were. They hated the place. Me, I knew they couldn't hurt me. You get to know them after a while, get along with them, just like you learn to get along with your neighbours. That's kind of why Uncle Zack left the place to me."

"I see. Well, Tasmania is known for its ghost tours and haunted places, what makes the Sergeant's Rest special?"

"It's actually haunted. A lot of those other places, they tell you some scary stories and let your imagination get to work. We have ghosts, and they aren't shy about making their presence known."

Just at that point a couple of decorative plates fell from the wall behind them and clattered to the ground.

Dan smiled, a little indulgently, "So I see."

He's not convinced, trickled another voice in the back of her mind, Shall we convince him?

"No." Kerry's reply was firm, and she had a look in her eye like a parent trying to keep errant children in check.

Dan looked at her inquisitively, but she didn't appear to be talking to him. Grace gestured to keep going. This was something else that could be fixed in the editing room.

"So, tell me about this three-night deal you offer?"

"Ah, yes. We have a special offer that is open to any of our guests. If you can stay more than three nights in a row we only charge you half price. That is, we give you half of your money back. We charge up front. We kind of have to."

"Why is that?"

"Well, the place is haunted. A lot of people think it's a joke—"

At this point there was a massive crashing sound from one of the rooms above. Kerry looked up, listening carefully, trying to work out if she needed to deal with it.

Trish, one of the other staff members at the hotel, ran past the door to the kitchen and shouted in passing: "It's all right! I've got it!"

Kerry nodded and turned back to Dan.

"Sorry about that. As I was saying, a lot of people think the whole 'haunted house' thing is a joke and they book a room, but then when they find out it actually is haunted, they have a tendency to, well, run out of the place without stopping to settle their account. So, we charge in advance, and offer them an incentive to stay for a couple of nights.”

“Right, well that sounds fair.” Dan’s expression clearly implied he thought it was an act – all put on for the sake of attracting customers. “So," he continued, "Do you find it hard keeping staff?”

“We do, actually. I’ve now got a core group of three really dedicated people who have gotten into the spirit of the place, and they’ve been with me for a couple of years, but we do have a high turn-over for our cleaning staff and kitchen hands."

At this point there was a ruckus out in the reception area. An argument between Trish and a couple of guests. Their voices, demanding some sort of compensation, could be heard floating into the kitchen.

"Oh, dear," said Kerry, wondering if she should stay and continue or go out and deal with it. She turned back to Dan.

"I should probably also mention that all customers stay here at their own risk. We can't guarantee any possessions will stay… well… intact."

Dan raised his eyebrows, "Things get broken here?"

"All the time. Ghosts can't really do anything more dangerous than create a really big wind, or some mild vibrations, but that's enough to knock things over. We recommend people keep fragile items safely in their suitcases. Oh, and we also recommend against film cameras. They can warp anything magnetic."

"What about things belonging to the inn?"

"We do tend to go through a lot of tableware, but most of the decorative plates and vases are made of copper. It's safer that way."

Dan smiled again. He was accepting the story as it was told to him, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he believed it.

"So," he continued, "Tell me about that painting. Is it one of the former owners of the inn?"

"Sorry? What painting?"

"The one you have over the fireplace, there."

"That's an oven. And there's no painting there."

Dan was about to argue the point, when he realised this must be part of the act. So, instead, he smiled again, and looked to the cameraman, to make sure he got a shot of the painting.

Instead, he noticed both the cameraman and Grace were giving him strange looks. He glanced back at the oven, and could see quite clearly that there was no painting above it.

"I could have sworn I saw a painting of a man with a beard, dressed in black…"

"Did he have a walking stick with a silver knob?"

"Yes…"

"That would be Max York. He likes to be seen. Used to be an actor in Hobart, but he was killed when his coach overturned just outside of town. Our guests see images of him all over the place. We actually do have one picture of him in the scrap-book, but we don't show that to guests."

"Why not?"

"It gives them ammunition."

"Who?"

"The ghosts. The stronger ones can make you see things that aren't there. It's easier for them to use images you already have in your mind. Max, well he can push his image onto people. Most of the others have to play with what you've seen recently or what you're thinking about."

"You're saying the ghosts can actually mess with our minds?"

"Of course. Your thoughts are energy. They're energy. It's all interconnected."

"Right, well that's very interesting…"

At that point, Dan noticed something he knew definitely had not been there before. He really hoped this was part of the game – but, at the same time, if this was part of a game it was going too far.

In the middle of the table was a small pool of blood, and it was growing. It seemed to be feeding from blood dripping from the ceiling. He looked up, and he could see a dark patch in the ceiling above them, with the blood forming drips and landing on the table.

He looked over at Grace and the cameraman. They didn't seem to notice anything. Then he looked at Kerry. She didn't seem to see the blood either, but she was looking in his eyes, and the expression on her face was not the expression of someone playing a game.

"Stop it." Kerry said quite forcefully. She could tell Dan was under attack from one of the more gruesome 'residents'. "Stop it now!"

Dan looked at the pool of blood. It was starting to spill over the edge of the table and was running towards where he sat. He couldn't believe no one else was reacting to it. What was he meant to do, just sit there and let it reach him?

Dan jumped up and moved away from the table. The pool of blood was growing quite rapidly, and he could see the dark patch on the ceiling was growing bigger and denser. So much blood! And he could smell it, too, the sharp, metallic tang…

Kerry didn't know exactly what he was seeing, but she knew exactly what was happening. She had seen it happen far too many times – and the 'residents' had tried it on her a few times.

"Dan," she said, speaking calmly to try to counter-act the wild look she could see taking over his eyes, "Dan, it's not real. It's just like a bad dream, if you refuse to believe in it, it can't hurt you."

Grace and the cameraman looked at each other, they didn't know what was going on, but they knew Dan looked genuinely frightened. Grace decided to keep the camera rolling, and gestured to the cameraman to keep going.

Kerry kept trying to talk to him, to tell him that all he had to do was know it was a trick they were playing on him and it would all be okay, but he wasn't really listening to her.

Dan backed further away from the ever growing pool of blood. He wanted to believe it was a joke or an act, but deep down he couldn't shake the feeling that it was real – that there was a pool of someone's blood moving out towards him. All he knew was that he didn't want it to touch him. He kept backing away until he ran into the kitchen bench behind him.

Suddenly, he heard a low, squeaking sound next to his elbow. He looked down and saw the biggest rat he had ever seen sitting on the kitchen bench. It looked at him with glowing red eyes and bared its teeth. It was Dan's biggest, secret fear – he could not stand rats. He was practically paralysed with fear when – horror of horrors – the rat lunged towards him.

Dan screamed and ran through the kitchen. He didn't care about staying away from the blood anymore; he just wanted to get away from the giant rat. Unfortunately, while the rat and the blood weren't really there, the various cables and pieces of equipment cluttering the kitchen floor were.

Dan tripped over a cable and fell, heavily. He clipped his head on the table on the way down, and the corner of the solid wooden table ripped a gash in the side of his temple. As he lost consciousness he was vaguely aware of a voice somewhere in the back of his mind saying, Oh good – real blood. That makes it more interesting. Then he blacked out.

Everyone else stood perfectly still for a moment, shocked by what they had just seen. Kerry, who had seen this sort of thing too many times before, was the first to come to her senses and collect the first aid kit.

As she was applying pressure to the wound on Dan's head she looked over to Grace and the cameraman. Grace still looked completely shocked. The cameraman was still filming – as though he wasn't sure what else to do.

"I don't suppose," Kerry asked Grace, tentatively, "That we could just edit this bit out later?"

Eglantine, Part 7

2008-11-15T18:19:00.000-08:00

Hal was gone for a very long time.

While he was away, Ruby busied herself with taking care of the mansion and its grounds. There was a lot to do, keeping an estate running when there was only one person to do all the work. And, to be honest, Ruby wasn't that good at it. Eglantine would probably have managed the job much better.

Many men tried to invite her to parties, but she never went. She was waiting for someone to come back. Actually, she was waiting for two people to come back: Hal and Eglantine.

She became known in the city as the “strange beauty”. Children would tell each other stories about the incredibly beautiful woman who lived alone in the duke’s house and acted like a servant. Men would tell stories about the strange duke who left one of the world’s great beauties to find his ugly wife.

From time to time Ruby would hear these tales, and smile to herself. She wondered what they would think if they knew the strange beauty was waiting to be turned back into the duke’s ugly wife. She wondered what they would say if they knew she looked at herself in the mirror everyday, wishing her face was less beautiful.

It was very strange, really, the way she felt about her face. When she had first seen it, she was so thrilled. She felt a burst of happiness every time she looked in the mirror. Now, there was something vaguely disappointing about it. Oh, it was still beautiful – she could see that – but there was something about it that just wasn't quite right.

“Once we learn to appreciate something, to respect and admire it, we learn to see the beauty that is there,” the witch had said.

By fighting her way to the castle and winning her battles along the way, by using her wits, her courage and her own two hands to complete her challenge, Eglantine had gained a respect for herself that she could see every time she looked in the mirror. Ruby wasn’t the woman who had fought the beasts and the dragons. She wasn’t the woman who had climbed the mountain. She wasn’t the woman who had won Hal’s heart.

Ruby was beautiful, but she didn’t feel the same respect and admiration for herself that Eglantine felt. It seemed Hal wasn’t the only person who had learnt to appreciate Eglantine too late.

The seasons passed. Spring became Summer, and Ruby wondered if Hal had survived the beasts and dragons. Summer turned into Autumn, and Ruby wished Hal was with her to see the changing colours of the trees. Autumn became a long, bitter Winter, and Ruby realised how much Eglantine’s family must have worried about her, because she worried so much for Hal. Winter became spring again, and every day Ruby watched and waited, hoping Hal would come.

Then, one day, she woke up and he was beside her. As they turned to face each other, the biggest smile spread across his face – a smile even more glorious and heart warming than she remembered. Somewhere, deep in side, she knew she was Eglantine once more, and that it was Eglantine whom Hal gathered into his arms and smothered with kisses.

She was so happy to be herself and to be with Hal that she didn’t notice, at first, that she was back at the inn in the village by the sea. She didn’t know how she had managed to get there again, but she didn’t care. Eglantine and Hal had found each other, and themselves, at last.

They stayed in the village for a few weeks, laughing, talking, swapping stories about dragons and monsters, and simply enjoying being with each other. After this honeymoon, of sorts, they moved back to their home in the city. Eglantine’s family were overjoyed to have her back safe and well, and no one ever asked what happened to Ruby. It was almost as if Ruby had never really been there.

In the years that followed, Eglantine and Hal had five children – two boys and three girls – and, as far as they were concerned, every single one of them was beautiful.

Eglantine, Part 6

2008-10-30T00:46:00.000-07:00

Eglantine woke up in an inn back in the sea-side town. Out of her window she could see the witch’s island, surrounded by fog. She did not know how she got there. One moment she was standing before the witch, the next moment she was asleep in this room.

She walked over to the washbasin to freshen up, and saw the most amazing thing in the mirror. The person who looked back at her was completely different. She was tall (but not too tall), plump and curvy (but not at all fat), elegant and sprightly. Her hair was like spun gold, and her eyes were a beautiful brown that seemed almost golden in certain kinds of light. Her skin was like a porcelain doll, but it had a touch of a rosy complexion, and she found she blushed beautifully with the excitement of seeing her knew face.

As she pulled back, she noticed she moved with the grace of a dancer, and when she laughed with joy she found her voice was soft and melodious – like a lark in the morning.

She twirled around the room, feeling beautiful for the first time in her life. Her clothes were different – designed to flatter a beautiful girl, rather than hide an ugly one. She also had more jewellery than she did before: necklaces and other things to match her golden hair and eyes.

She was so exited; she couldn’t wait to get home. She wanted to show her father and her sisters, but most of all she wanted to see Hal. She wanted to see him look at her like he would look at a beautiful woman.

She packed up all her things and went downstairs to pay the innkeeper. That was when she noticed the first unusual thing. The innkeeper asked her a question. It was a simple question, but there was something odd about it:

“Was the room to your satisfaction, Miss Ruby?”

He was not the last person to call her “Miss Ruby”. It seems as though every man in the town knew her, wanted to talk to her, wanted to spend time with her. Every single one of them called her Ruby. She wanted to tell them they were wrong, that her name was Eglantine, but she couldn’t. For some reason, the words just wouldn’t come. When she boarded the carriage to return to her city, she found she couldn’t tell people her real name. Whenever she introduced herself, the name “Ruby” was all that would come.

Even stranger, she discovered that more time had passed than she thought. She had left the city in the spring, and it had been summer when she started her adventure on the island. Now it was spring again. Somehow, she had skipped Autumn and Winter.

When she arrived home, it was as a stranger. Everyone welcomed her as the cousin they had never met – Ruby. She couldn’t tell her father she was his daughter and not his wife’s niece. She couldn’t tell her sisters she was Eglantine, not Ruby. It made her very sad that they couldn't know who she was. But…

Everyone thought she was beautiful. Everyone talked about how Ruby was just as gorgeous as Rose, Lilly and Hyacinth. Everyone wanted to spend time with her – and all of the young, handsome men flocked to her and vied for her attention. It was exactly what she had asked for. It was just what she said she always wanted.

She was surprised and upset to find her father and sisters (now her uncle and cousins) were terribly worried about Eglantine. They were greatly upset by her disappearance, and had tried to look for her, but no one seemed to know where she had gone. Ruby wanted to tell them the truth, but she couldn’t even say she knew where Eglantine had gone, let alone that she was safe and standing right in front of them.

She was also found it strange that her family would speak of Hal in such low, sad voices, as if something horrible had happened to him. When he never came to meet her – even when it seemed as if every other man in the city had dropped by, invited her to a party or tried to talk to her in the street – she began to worry.

Finally, she asked if she could visit him. She said she wanted to meet the duke who had married her cousin. She knew it had been a year since Hal last saw Eglantine, and she wanted to see him again. She wondered if he had moved on and found someone else.

Ruby’s uncle and cousins tried to talk her out of it. They told her he did not like visitors, and he especially did not like to see young women – both things she found terribly strange. However, she was insistent, so they took her to see him.

What a change had come across Hal’s family home! It seemed run down and unloved. The large, sprawling mansion looked as if it had not been cleaned or cared for in a very long time. The grounds had all gone wild, and it seemed as though the only plant that had been watered or cared for was the briar rose – the eglantine.

The inside of the house was worse. No servants came to see them, and Ruby’s uncle told her Hal had fired them all last spring. They found Hal himself in his old sitting room, where Eglantine used to bring him his tea.

He looked terrible. He hadn’t shaved or cut his hair for a very long time, his clothes looked like he had been sleeping in them, and his eyes seemed red and glassy, as if he was thinking about something far away and terribly sad.

Ruby cleared a chair so she could sit down to talk to him. She said she had been looking forward to meeting him very much, but he didn’t seem to care.

When he looked at her, it was not with the look she had been expecting – the look reserved for beautiful women. He looked at her as though he didn’t care. He might as well have been looking at a turnip. She tried to talk to him, but he barely said a word.

After a while, Ruby’s uncle suggested they should leave, but on their way out Ruby had another idea. She might not be Eglantine any more, but she still remembered enough of what Eglantine could do. She told her uncle to go on with out her, claiming an unwillingness to leave such a beautiful home in such a terrible state.

Using the skills she had learnt through her month and a day in the witch’s service, Ruby began to take care of Hal’s family home. It was her home, once, after all. She felt a little unusual, doing the work of servants. It was, after all, something Eglantine had done, not Ruby. Ruby’s hands and body were not used to this kind of thing.

And it wasn't quite the same. Whatever she tried to do as Ruby was different to the way Eglantine would have done it. As much as she tried to follow in her own foot-steps, it seems she couldn't be Eglantine no matter how hard she tried.

However, she worked well and she worked hard, and she slowly managed to undo the damage a year of neglect had done to the house and lands. Hal largely ignored her. He tried to tell her to leave, once, but when she didn’t he just stayed out of her way. One thing he refused to let her do, though, was bring him his tea. Whenever she tried he would storm out of the room, looking angry and hurt.

One day he stood watching her as she worked on the gardens. As she began to tend the eglantine, he walked over to stand next to her, touching the plant.

“My wife never said goodbye, you know. She just left me a flower from this plant. I still have it.” He said, quietly.

“Do you?” asked Ruby, surprised.

Hal pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket. In it was the eglantine rose, carefully pressed and dried.

“Did you ever meet Eglantine?” Hal asked her.

“No, I have only heard of her,” Ruby had to reply.

“You remind me of her, a little,” said Hal, looking at her thoughtfully.

“Really? What was she like?”

“She was clever, and kind, and thoughtful. She was strong willed and determined. She was never afraid of doing the things no one else would think of doing if it would get her what she wanted. Like working as a servant, even if it is below her station.” He looked at her then, and she realised he knew what she was doing, even if he didn’t know why.

“Would she fight dragons and climb mountains to get what she wanted?” asked Ruby.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she did,” replied Hal.

Ruby looked at him for a moment, wondering what this man had been thinking and feeling all this time. Then she asked the question she thought would be most important to him:

“Was she beautiful?”

He was really looking at her now. His tired, yet still handsome eyes were burning into hers, as though he suspected something he was not sure of – as though he thought he might find the answers by looking closely enough. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he answered her:

“No. She was not beautiful. But she was wonderful, and that made her beautiful to me. I do not expect you to understand, because you are beautiful. Beautiful people find it hard to believe there can be other kinds of beauty. I should know. It took me far too long to understand, and by then it was too late. She had gone. But, believe me when I tell you, that as beautiful as you are – and you are very beautiful – I would give everything I have to see her face right now instead of yours.”

Ruby could hardly breathe. She suddenly realised that she had made a horrible mistake. She had wished for something she thought she had always wanted – to be beautiful – when what Eglantine had really always desired was to be loved for herself. Now, what she truly desired had happened, but she was no longer the person Hal loved.

She had to think. There had to be a way to fix this. She could go back to the witch’s island and try to make another wish, but deep down she knew she could never return. Something in the same magic which stopped her from being able to tell people she was Eglantine also held her back from returning to the island. What could she do? How could she fix this?

She wracked her brain, trying to think of an answer. Then it dawned on her: she couldn’t go back to the island, but someone else could go in her place. Someone who wanted Eglantine back as much as she did.

“What would you be willing to do to get her back?” she asked Hal.

“Anything in the whole world,” he replied.

“Would you be willing to fight dragons and climb mountains?”

“Absolutely.”

“Would you be willing to work as a servant?”

“Forever, if need be.”

So she told him. She told him all about the island and the witch. She told him how to get there and what he would have to do. She couldn’t tell him how she knew about this, but he never asked. He simply backed a bag and headed to the village by the sea.

To Be Continued

Eglantine, Part 5

2008-09-16T01:31:00.000-07:00

It was night-time when she reached the wall, and she couldn’t see it properly. She knew she needed to rest, but when she was this close to the witch’s castle she felt she should try to keep going. In the dark, it seemed like the wall was covered in spiky, gnarly vines. She moved around it, trying to find a way in, but it seemed completely solid and unbroken. When she realised she had walked all the way around it at least once, she decided she should wait until morning, and settled down for what sleep she could get, staying ready to jump up with sword in hand should anything try to attack her during the night.

The next day, she could see that the wall wasn’t a wall at all, but a gigantic hedge. The branches of this hedge were thick and covered with thorns, but she knew what she had to do. Using the sword and the knife, she cut her way through the hedge, getting scratched and snagged with almost every step. Her hair got so tangled on one branch that she had to use the knife to cut it off.

Finally, she managed to break through the hedge to stumble into a beautiful garden. As harsh and difficult as the forest, the mountain and the rocky wasteland had been, this garden was soft and beautiful and gentle. There were flowers of all kinds and beautiful shrubs and bushes, and a fountain with crisp, clear water.

After she had had a drink, she washed herself as best as she could in the fountain, cleaning her cuts and scratches. She felt a little guilty that her blood was staining the water, but the cool, soft sensation made her feel so much better. Then she looked up to the castle.

It was actually a very beautiful building – not at all the kind of scary, foreboding place she had expected a witch to live in. It was so close now, just up the end of the garden path.

As she walked through the garden to reach the castle, she felt the beauty of the place seep into her tired, aching body, so that she felt relaxed and peaceful by the time she reached the castle doors. The castle had huge, heavy looking main doors, which she would never have been able to open, but set within one of the doors was a smaller door, and that opened easily for her.

As she walked in, she found herself in a hall full of mirrors. She had never really liked looking at herself in mirrors, and ever since the day Hal and his friends had made her feel ugly and pathetic she had avoided them entirely. Now she was surrounded by them. Every where she looked she could see her reflection.

And what a sight she was! Her clothes were filthy and tattered. Her hair was hacked short and wisping all over the place. She was covered all over with cuts and scratches, and half of her face seemed sunburned from the fiery breath of the dragon she had fought on the mountain pass. The gash from the first beast was older than all of her other wounds, but it still stood out red and sore down the side of her face.

Her face, though, seemed different somehow. She couldn’t figure out what it was. Apart from the cuts and burns, it hadn’t really changed, but it didn’t look quite as… well… repulsive as it usually did. Usually, she couldn’t stand seeing her face for more that a second or two. Now, she couldn’t stop staring at it, wondering why it actually seemed… not ugly. She couldn’t quite bring herself to think it was beautiful, but at the same time she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some beauty in it after all.

“It’s the same face, if somewhat battered,” said a voice behind her. Eglantine turned to see an elegantly dressed, graceful woman walk down a flight of stairs. She seemed to be in her late fifties, and her grey hair was swept up in a lovely style that made her seem almost regal – she looked more like a queen than a witch. She spoke again:

“Once we learn to appreciate something, to respect and admire it, we learn to see the beauty that is there. There is a kind of beauty that rests in everything. We see it most clearly in that which we love. Why have you come?”

“I was told there was a great treasure for anyone who could make their way to this castle,” replied Eglantine.

“There is,” the witch said.

“I was also told that, if I work for you, you will grant me a wish.”

“I will. If you can work for me for a month and a day, without complaint, I will give you whatever you ask for, or whatever you most desire,” replied the witch.

“Then I would like to work for you,” said Eglantine, holding her head proudly.

“Very well. But spend your time here wisely. Think about what is truly important, for you may find that what you ask for is not what you most desire.”

For the next month and a day, Eglantine worked for the elegant witch. She cleaned and scrubbed the castle, took care of the gardens, prepared food, washed clothes and brought the witch her tea. The witch had no servants, and so Eglantine did everything there was to do.

During that time, she recovered from her adventurous journey. Her hair grew enough to be cut into a proper style, her cuts and scratches healed, the burns faded and the witch provided her with new clothes. By the time the month and the day were over, the face she saw in the hall of mirrors was closer to the young lady she used to be than the wild warrior she had seemed when she first arrived at the castle. She still had a faint scar down the side of her face from the first beast’s claws, but it was fading. A stranger might not notice it at first glance.

There was still something strange about her that she couldn’t pin down. Something in the face that looked back from the mirror seemed more appealing, somehow. She thought of what the witch had said to her on the first day in the castle, that perhaps it was because she appreciated herself better – that there was a kind of Beauty in All Things that one had to learn to see.

She had thought about that a lot since coming to the castle. There was something remarkably noble about it all – about being able to see the beauty in that which was not beautiful at first glance. But, all the same, she knew she still wasn’t beautiful. She knew no one would think she was beautiful at first glance, and she knew most people wouldn’t take the time to see the Beauty in All Things that rested in her. After all, Hal had never learnt to see it, and he had spent more time with her than anyone. Well, other than her family.

When the time came, she stood before the witch, ready to make her wish.

“Remember,” said the witch, “You may have what you ask for, or what you most desire. Which is it to be?”

“I want to be beautiful, like my sisters,” Eglantine stated clearly. “I want to be obviously beautiful so that people will think I am beautiful from the first moment they see me.”

“Are you sure? Think carefully, for I do not believe you know what you are asking for. We are as we are. We can change ourselves to an extent, as it is within our power to do so, and we will still be ourselves. But, if we allow someone else to change us, then we will become someone else. Do you understand?”

“I don’t care. I have spent my entire life wishing I could be as beautiful as my sisters, and now that I can finally have my wish, that is what I wish for,” replied Eglantine, quite determinedly.

“Very well,” replied the witch. With a wave of her hand, everything changed.

To be Continued

Eglantine, Part 4

2008-08-26T02:50:00.000-07:00

The creature used its claws to grip the side of the cliff as it pulled itself out of its cave and stretched its wings, ready to fly after her. Eglantine new she was a sitting duck, trapped as she was on the side of a cliff. With strength she never knew she had, she hauled herself back up onto the path – just as the dragon took off and swooped past the place her legs had been mere seconds ago.

As the dragon wheeled around in the air, ready to come back for her, she realised that two of the leather straps holding the breastplate and backplate together had ripped, and another one was almost torn-through. She didn’t have long to think – the dragon had completed its arc and was coming for her again. She quickly struggled out of the armour and pulled it apart. As the dragon came for her, she picked up the backplate in her hands and swung it at the creature’s head with all her might. It sent the dragon spinning down the cliff, but the creature soon found its wings and started coming back.

Eglantine braced herself as hard as she could against the cliff – she had almost thrown herself off the edge when she hit the dragon. The red-and-gold creature came screaming up the side of the cliff, spewing fire as it came. Eglantine took a deep breath, summoned all her strength and brought the backplate crashing down on the dragon’s head as it flew up to meet her. The edge of the backplate cracked the dragon’s skull, and it screamed again, fire bursting past Eglantine’s head and singeing her hair and clothes.

Eglantine realised her sleeve was on fire, and quickly moved to put it out, dropping the backplate over the edge of the cliff as she did so. She realised what she had done too late to catch it without loosing her balance and falling after it. She looked to see where the dragon was, hoping she would have time to pull out her sword or pick up the breastplate, but she saw the creature was halfway down the cliff, falling fast. She had hurt it too badly with her last blow, and it could not find its balance in the air. She watched it fall all the way down, crashing into the rocks on the side of the cliff as it fell.

As she had defeated the three beasts in the forest, so had she defeated the dragon on the mountain pass. She felt a rush of power and excitement, followed by a rush of exhaustion. She had used a lot of strength to fight the dragon, and she now needed to rest. She picked up the breastplate and used what was left of the leather straps to turn it into a shield. She couldn’t afford to leave it behind – who knew what else she would find on this adventure? She slept that night in the dragon’s cave, then set out to continue her journey.

In the days that passed she didn’t find any more dragons or beasts, but the path itself was challenging enough. There were times when she had to flatten herself against the cliff wall and pray the weight of her armour and weapons didn’t drag her down. There were times when the path ran under rocky outcrops, and she had to use the breastplate like an umbrella to protect her head from falling rocks, narrowly avoiding large rocks which could easily have crushed her.

And then there were the bridges. Every now and then she would have to cross a bridge to reach the next part of the path. Some of the bridges were made of stone, others of rope and wood, but all of them were incredibly old and falling apart. Every time she crossed a bridge it felt as if it would collapse underneath her. Occasionally a stone would slip through under her weight, and she would watch it plummet down to the raging rivers below. Once, the wooden slats on a rope bridge gave out under her, and she had to pull herself along the rope to reach the other side.

She had no idea where she managed to find the strength and determination to keep going when the journey was so hard, but she did. She even managed to keep going when there was no food to catch and no water to drink – continually moving forward until she found a place with a stream or a wooded area. Now, she could not only catch and eat rabbits, but she had also taught herself how to catch fish.

Finally, weeks after she had first arrived on the island, she looked up one day to see the witch's caslte in the distance. This filled her with hope, and she set out towards it with more determination than ever.

The closer she got to the castle, the more treacherous the journey became. All of the trees and shrubs which had littered the ground became shorter and sparser until they disappeared entirely, and the mountain’s terrain changed to loose shale. It was like walking through a desert made up entirely of loose, slippery rocks – and it was still up-hill. Every step felt like her feet would slip out from underneath her, and when she did fall, the sharp edges of the rocks cut into her knees and arms where she came down into the ground.

As she drew closer, one painful step at a time, she saw that the castle seemed to be surrounded by a kind of wall. It was hard to see what it was made of, but it seemed to be a kind of mottled green and brown.

When she was about half-way though this rocky wasteland, so that she couldn’t run to shelter in any direction, a group of about five or six winged creatures seemed to swoop down out of nowhere. One minute they were small dots high in the sky, the next minute they were attacking her from all sides. She couldn’t really see what they were, but they seemed to be another kind of small, bat-like dragon.

Eglantine tried to fend them off with her sword, but her feet slipped out from underneath her on the slippery ground and she came crashing down, ripping her clothes and covering her leg and back with scratches. She still lashed out with her breastplate-shield and sword, and managed to keep the creatures from getting too close, but there were so many of them, and lying on the ground, as she was, she couldn’t fend them off very well. One of them managed to claw her sword arm as she swiped at it, leaving red, bleeding gashes and tearing the gauntlet.

At the smell of blood, the little dragons became even more exited, and flew and swooped with more speed – screaming with fierce, shrieking growls.

Swinging her sword and shield around as much as she could, Eglantine scrambled to her feet and started to grind them down, digging below the loose shale to find ground stable enough to stand on. With her feet firmly planted on the ground, she crouched down under the breastplate-shield so that it covered most of one side of her. Now the creatures could only get to one side of her. She crouched ready, with her sword arm curled up, set to strike with all the strength she could manage. When one of the little dragons swooped down, she swung, cutting it almost in half.

She flung the body away from her as far as she could. Like vultures, the other little dragons shifted their attention to the dead, bleeding body of the creature, ignoring her. Trying as hard as she could to keep her footing on the slippery, rocky ground, Eglantine raced up with sword swinging. She quickly killed two more of the dragons before the rest turned their attention to her again, but by that time she was more than ready for them. The fight was fierce, and she was clawed more than once by the creatures, but in the end she stood, bleeding but victorious, with the bodies of the beasts all around her.

In the distance, she could see more dots coming closer. Hoping they would be too interested in scavenging the dead bodies to bother with her, Eglantine started walking again – as fast as she could on the slipping, sliding rocks. She was right: the new little dragons went straight to the fallen bodies of the last batch. She didn’t slow down, though. She kept walking as fast as she could – almost running, scrambling closer to the strange green wall.

To Be Continued...

Eglantine, Part 3

2008-08-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

Eglantine spent many months traveling aimlessly. She couldn’t face going back to the family who must have known Hal only wanted her for her money, but she didn’t know where else to go.

She would pay for a ticket to travel to one town, without caring what or where it was. Once she got there, she would spend only a few days before finding a coach to take her somewhere else. She began to enjoy her mystery tour. Everywhere she went she would see something new – experience new sights and sounds and eat the local food. For someone who was always interested in almost everything, it was easy to get caught up in the novelty of it all.

Shopkeepers and innkeepers were always happy to talk with her (even though they were taken aback by her looks and voice at first) because she was a paying customer who listened well. She began having had so much fun that she could almost forget that she was actually running away from something that hurt too much to think about. Almost.

After a while of travelling like this, she came to a town by the sea. This town overlooked an island that was covered in a low mist. The people in the town told such strange stories about that island. They told of a witch who lived in a castle on the tallest mountain. They told of monsters and dragons who roamed through the forests, devouring anyone who tried to reach the castle. They told of arduous treks through dangerous mountain passes and over rickety bridges which crossed deep ravines – apparently the only way to reach the witch’s castle.

“But why would anyone try so hard to get to a castle where a witch lives?” she asked one shopkeeper.

“Because there’s said to be a great treasure for anyone who can reach her, and anyone who can work for her for a whole month will be given whatever they ask for or whatever most desire.”

This interested Eglantine immensely. For one thing, she was running out of money and would soon have to find work. That didn’t worry her too much, she had had a lot of practice as a maid while living in Hal’s house, and she was not afraid of hard work. She had learnt that she was a very good servant, after all.

She had just enough money left to pay for one last trip before resigning to life as someone’s maid, and she thought the idea of trying to find this witch sounded like an awfully fine adventure. She had nothing else to do – nothing else to loose - so what was the harm?

Instead of paying for a carriage ticket to the next town, she used the money to pay a charter boat to take her to the island. She had a parcel of food from the inn she had been staying in, a good sturdy pair of walking shoes, and a devil-may-care attitude towards whatever she might encounter.

She would probably never have admitted it to herself, but she had stopped caring about her own life; whether she lived or died. She had loved Hal deeply and truly, and she couldn’t bare the thought of living without him, so she didn’t think much about living at all. She never thought past the next adventure.

Each new place she had travelled to had been an adventure for her, but this would be a truly great adventure indeed.

On her first day on the island she came across the remains of a knight who had tried his hand at this adventure before. His bones could be seen through the gaps in the burnt armour, and there were tears in his chain mail that looked like they had been caused by something with very large claws. He looked as if he had been dead for a very long time – knights had stopped wearing armour like that over a hundred years ago.

As Eglantine looked at the dead man, she realised how very foolish and under-prepared she had been. This was a place known for dragons and monsters. Knights had come covered in armour and carrying swords, and had been killed by the beasts which lived here. She had come wearing only a riding dress and a travelling cloak; armed only with a couple of days’ worth of food.

For a moment she felt very frightened indeed, then she shook her head and started thinking about what to do next. Some of the knight’s armour was still in one piece, and his sword and dagger were rusty, but still quite useful. She realised she would never get far fighting off dragons in a skirt, so she ripped it and tied it up to be more like pants.

Part of her felt squeamish shaking the dead knight’s bones out of his clothes so she could put his padding and armour on over her own garments, but she took a deep breath and steeled herself to the task. It was a difficult and unfamiliar task, trying to put on a man’s armour without anyone to help her. When the armour was on, it was heavy and awkward, so she took most of it off again.

In the end, she took the breastplate, the backplate, the gauntlets and the sword and knife. She couldn’t see anything when she wore the helmet, so she figured she was better off without it, and the rest just weighed her down and made in difficult to move. Even the little armour she had taken was heavier than she was comfortable with, but it made her feel a little more ready for the task ahead of her.

For the next day and a half she trudged towards the highest mountain on the island without seeing another living creature, apart from a couple of rabbits and some birds. The armour and weapons were strange and heavy, and seemed to get heavier with each step. It started to feel like she was carrying a whole horse on her back.

She was seriously thinking about taking it off when she heard a strange growling sound not too far away from where she was resting, and thought better of it. Whatever fault the armour had, it was better than no armour at all.

The next day, she decided it was time to try to find some more food, for she had almost run out of the supplies she had bought. After all the years she had spent listening to men talk about their hunting expeditions, she actually knew a thing or two about trapping animals. She was very pleased with herself when she managed to trap and kill a rabbit, although trying to skin it with the knight’s rusty knife was rather sickening, and she didn’t really have the stomach to eat it after that.

This was just as well, as the smell of blood from the rabbit caught the attention of something else – something monstrous. It was a great, big, lumbering, hairy creature that was about the size of a large bear, but looked more like a wild boar – only, instead of trotters, it had paws with long, razor-sharp claws.

Eglantine screamed and threw the rabbit at the monster. The beast swallowed it in one gulp and turned to look at Eglantine. Instinctively, she picked up a rock and hurled it at the beast’s head. This seemed to only make it angry as well as hungry. It lunged for her, but she had had enough time to pull out the sword and hold it ready.

The sword was too heavy. She managed to duck the beast’s first lunge, but there was no way she would be able to hold the sword well enough to fight it off. Suddenly, an idea flashed into her mind. She waited until the beast lunged at her again, and deliberately fell backwards, propping the sword up against the ground like a stick. When the beast came down on her, it fell on the sword. Since the ground couldn’t move, the beast was run through. It lived just long enough to lash out at her with its paws, scratching her down the side of her face with one long, ever-so-sharp claw.

It took Eglantine a while to pull herself out from under the beast, and then a while longer to pull out the sword. She felt strangely pleased with herself, although she wasn’t sure if the same trick would work with a dragon.

It took her three more days to reach the foot of the mountains. During that time she managed to trap, skin and eat a couple of rabbits, and kill three more beasts while she was at it. She didn’t encounter any dragons, but she wasn’t going to complain.

The journey through the mountains was even more difficult than the journey to the mountains. The path was narrow and steep – quite a challenge for a young lady wearing heavy armour. There were times when the path narrowed to a single ledge on the edge of a cliff – and with her breastplate and backplate she could barely fit.

Several times she found a creak or a small spring of water, which she used to wash the cut on her face left by the first beast. The other three beasts had tried to slash her as well, but she had learnt from the first monster and managed to move out of the way in time.

It was as she was climbing up a particularly narrow passage that she encountered the dragon. The entrance to its cave had been hidden behind some jutting rocks, so that Eglantine didn’t see it until she was right on top of it. As she rounded a corner on a particularly dangerous part of the pass, the dragon suddenly leapt out at her with a fierce growl.

She threw herself backwards to avoid the creature, but the path was too narrow and she felt herself slipping off the edge. Using all of her strength, she grabbed hold of a rocky outcrop and held on for all she was worth, with her feet dangling over a very long drop, the weight of the armour pulling her down and the dragon lumbering closer.

To Be Continued...

Eglantine, Part 2

2008-08-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

Hal visited her often after the party. At first, it was on some pretext of doing business with her father, but after a while he let it be known that he was really here to visit Eglantine. She had never had a man come to visit her – let alone a dashingly handsome duke who seemed to be trying to win her heart.

The truth was, it was painfully easy to woo her. She was so desperate to be loved and wanted that Hal didn’t need to put as much effort into it as he did. He was used to wooing beautiful young heiresses who could have their pick of suitors. They needed time, effort and persistence. It was the only way he knew how to court a girl, so he courted Eglantine the same way, even though his heart wasn’t really in it, and everyday he had to remind himself that it was something he had to do for the sake of his family fortunes.

Every time he saw her, he had to stop himself from looking as depressed as he felt. Every time she spoke he had to force himself to look interested, rather than pained. Every time she laughed, he had to make sure he smiled instead of wincing.

It was the most difficult thing he had ever done. The weeks he spent wooing her were the most miserably weeks in his life, and he couldn’t imagine how much worse things would become after they were married.

For Eglantine, it was glorious. It was the most wonderful time of her life. She was experiencing something she thought she would never have – a handsome young man was spending time with her, smiling at her, laughing with her when she laughed… She didn’t know it was all fake. To her it was just wonderful. He was just wonderful.

She loved to listen to him talk. She loved to watch his beautiful face. She loved to see his strapping, athletic body walking across her lawn. Mostly, though, she loved to see him smile. She felt she could die happy as long as the last thing she saw was his smile.

After a few weeks, he asked her father for permission to marry her. Her father was overjoyed and immediately said yes. As for Eglantine…

When Hal knelt before her in the rose garden and ask her to be his wife, she was so happy she almost cried. She was so over the moon that she didn’t even notice the way he took a deep breath and closed his eyes to kiss her – as though he was preparing himself for something unpleasant. She didn’t notice how quickly he got it over with. All she knew was that this wonderful, gorgeous man had asked her to marry him and kissed her. That was more than she ever thought she could ask for.

They had a very short engagement and were married in a huge, glorious ceremony paid for by her father. All of her sisters and their families were there. For Eglantine, it was the happiest day of her life. Almost everyone else knew Hal was only marrying her for the money, but no one mentioned it to her. She didn’t know, and no one wanted to crush her feelings by telling her the truth.

On the wedding night, Hal had to steel himself for the task of making love to her. He didn’t find her attractive in the least, and he still felt that feeling of crushed dreams every time he looked at her. He turned out all of the lights in her room (husbands and wives of wealthy households had separate rooms in those days), and tried to imagine the kind of woman he would rather be married to as he performed his duties as a husband.

As soon as he could, he left for his own bedroom, where he spent the rest of the night drowning his sorrows in a bottle of strong liquor.

In the weeks after the wedding, Eglantine noticed a difference in Hal. The sadness he had been hiding from her began to show. He didn’t smile or laugh much any more. More and more, he found excuses to leave when she tried to talk to him. He spent less and less time with her – sometimes the only time she saw him was through her window as he rode out for a day of hunting. He would still visit her at nights a few times a week (after all, he would receive more money for any children they would have), but every time he left as soon as he could, and hardly spoke to her at all.

She missed him terribly. She missed the man who had come to woo her. She wondered if she had done something wrong to chase him away. Even though she was an intelligent girl, and usually quite observant, she never quite noticed that he had always been distant from her in spirit, and now he was distancing himself from her in body as well. For she had definitely, completely, irrevocably fallen in love with him.

Her heart still fluttered something terrible whenever she saw him – even from a distance. The slightest hint of a smile in her direction would fill her with a sense of hope and wonder. She dreamed of running her hands through his hair at night, and during the day she constantly strained to hear the sound of his voice. She would do anything to spend more time with him. Anything.

She had lost him, somehow, and she needed to try to get him back. Perhaps it was her turn to woo him – but how?

After a while, she noticed that the maids who brought him his drinks and food spent more time in the same room with him than she did. While they set his table with lunch or tea things, he sat at his chair and waited. He would often say a few words to them, and smile at them when they came and went. It was more than she got from him, and it gave her an idea.

She called all the household staff together and gave them strict instructions. Whenever Hal asked for something, they would give it to her and she would give it to him. Whenever he rang for a servant, they would send for her and she would answer him. If he would not see her as his wife, than he would see her as his maid. She would not force him to spend any more time with her than he would his other servants. She would merely do what they do – she had watched them closely and knew how to lay out his things, then politely ask if he wanted anything else. She had never been a servant before, but for him she would learn.

Hal wasn’t sure what strange game she had started playing with him. Every time he rang for a servant his wife appeared. Every time he asked for tea or lunch it was Eglantine who brought it to him. She was very respectful, very efficient, very good at doing the job of a servant. At times it was hard to remember that she was a wealthy gentleman’s daughter and the wife of a duke. He tried to ask her why she was doing it, but she never answered him – just asked if there was anything else he wanted. He often felt he should ask her to stop doing it – it wasn’t her job or fitting for her station, but she was usually gone by the time he had plucked up the courage to say something about it.

After a month or so of this new regime, Eglantine brought in a simple little change. As she would lay out his tea things or lunch on the table, she would ask him a question. Something small. Something about his day, or things that interested him. He would answer, and she would comment on his answer – just briefly – before taking her leave of him like a good servant.

As the weeks wore on, the little conversations they would have as she laid out his things slowly grew longer. If there was one thing Eglantine could do, and do well, it was listen well and hold her own in a discussion on any matter. When Hal had wooed her, he had done what he did with most women – pretended to be interested in the things women usually talk about. Now, though, he was coming to realise he could talk to her about anything. She would listen, she would understand what he was talking about and she would be genuinely interested.

Genuinely interested. No woman he had ever spoken to before was genuinely interested about his hunting or his business. They would listen for a while with a bored expression on their faces before moving on to something more… womanly. He had never realised that a woman could talk with a man about such a wide range of subjects, but then he had only ever known women who were so beautiful that most men were more interested in looking at them than talking to them.

He began to look forward to his little conversations with Eglantine. He would never admit it to himself, but he started to like the fact that she would come to answer his bells, and he looked forward to seeing her come into the room and ask what he wanted.

Her voice probably hadn’t changed, but it didn’t seem quite so annoying and squeaky any more. Her face definitely hadn’t change, but he had grown used to it – used to seeing it every day – and he didn’t mind it quite so much. In fact, after a while, he would actually smile when she came into the room. He didn’t notice he was doing it, but she did, and it lifted her heart. He also didn’t notice he was spending just a little bit more time with her during his occasional visits at night, but she noticed that, too.

She still had no natural grace or beauty, but now there was something about her that made him feel… He wasn’t sure how he felt. He only knew that the things that used to annoy him now simply made him smile. They were quirks, not faults, and seeing them was like coming home at the end of a long day.

After some time he noticed he was drinking far more tea than usual, just because he wanted her to come. So one day he rang the bell asked Eglantine to bring two cups of tea. When she came, he asked her to sit down and drink with him. They sat together and chatted for what seemed like hours, and when she left to go he felt like she had left too soon.

For the rest of that day, Eglantine felt like she was floating on air. She had done it. It had taking much time and patience and persistence, but she had wooed her husband. There was still more work to be done, but she now knew she had a chance – she could win this. She could win him.

The next day some of Hal’s old friends came to visit him.

Eglantine had hoped Hal would call her in to introduce her – she had never met any of his friends, but he didn’t. He never rang the bell once. After a time, she saw one of the maids bringing tea things to his sitting room. When she stopped the maid to ask why she hadn’t been called, the pretty young girl said Hal had found her that morning and given her a list of things he would want that day, and when he would want them. The maid looked away, embarrassed, as she told Eglantine that Hal had specifically stated that the maid had to bring him every thing, and the maid alone.

Wounded, but defiant, Eglantine took the tea things from the young maid and went to open the door. When she got there, though, she could hear Hal and his young friends laughing and talking. She paused for a while to listen to what they said, and wished she had let the maid bring Hal and his friends the tea after all.

You see, they were talking about her, and what they were saying was very unpleasant. Hal’s friends were joking and laughing about how much they pitied him for being forced to marry the ugliest girl in town. She waited for him to defend her, but instead he said:

“You get used to her after a while.”

Then, one of his friends laughed and said, “Yes, and I’ll bet all that money doesn’t hurt either.”

She heard Hal reply: “Well, that is why I married her. I had to get some money somehow, and it was either marry Eglantine or sell this house. This house is very important to me.”

“Obviously,” replied another one of his friends, and they all laughed.

Eglantine very quietly put the tray of tea things down on a table against the wall. She walked to the kitchen where she told the maid to go bring her master his tea, then asked the cook to wrap up some food – some cheese and bread and a little dried meat.

When the cook had wrapped her food up in a neat package, she went to her room and packed a bag. She put in it her sensible, travelling clothes and as much money as she could find. She didn’t see the need to take anything else – she wasn’t really sure where she was going, but she imagined no one would notice if her clothes were as dowdy as her face.

Quietly, without going back to see Hal, she picked up her bag and her parcel of food and walked out of the house – the big, beautiful house that was so important to Hal. The house she had started to see as a home, but which she now saw was nothing of the sort.

One of the groundskeepers looked up as she walked passed him, down the driveway.

“Goin’ on a trip, miss? Should I fetch the coach for you?”

“No, thank you. I’m going my own way. I’ll get there on my own,” she said.

As she was about to pass him, though, she couldn’t help but notice the plant he was tending to was a sweet briar rose – an eglantine. She picked off a wilting bloom – one that looked as miserable as she felt.

“Give this to the duke when you have a chance,” she told the groundskeeper. It was the closest she felt like saying goodbye to this man she had loved so completely, and who had hurt her so very, very badly.

To Be Continued...

Eglantine, Part One

2008-07-29T03:37:00.000-07:00

Eglantine

“Tell me a story.”
“All right. Do you have a favourite?”
“Tell me a new story.”
“A new story?”
“Please?”
“O.K. What kind of story would you like? A Romance? An Adventure?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? What, you want a story that’s a Romance and an Adventure?”
“Yes, please.”
“O.K. You get into bed, and I’ll see what I can do.”

There once lived a very wealthy gentleman who had three beautiful daughters… and one daughter who was definitely not beautiful. It seemed as though all of the womanly graces one could ever hope for in a beautiful young lady had been given to three of his four children, and the other one had completely missed out.

Rose and Lilly, the oldest two daughters, were tall (but not too tall), slender (but not too thin) and elegant. They had hair like spun gold, eyes like clear emerald and skin like a porcelain doll. Hyacinth, the youngest daughter, was small (but not too small), plump and curvy (but not at all fat) and spritely. She had dark, raven coloured hair that shined like the starry night sky, beautiful brown eyes that seemed almost golden in certain kinds of light, and a rosy complexion that blushed beautifully whenever she was exited.

All three moved with a natural kind of grace that made every gesture seem like part of a dance. They all spoke with beautiful, musical voices that seemed to hang in the air like distant bells, and laughed a gentle, glorious kind of laugh that reminded people of the lark at dawn.

Eglantine, the second youngest daughter, was too tall, too thin and gangly. She had hair like wilted straw, which was prone to becoming so messy that she had to hold it back in a tight bun to keep it from looking like a bird’s nest. Her skin was a sort of pale, muddy colour that was much closer to clay than porcelain, and blotched instead of blushing. Her eyes, although kind and caring, were the colour of grey dishwater. Far from having the grace of a dancer, she moved with all the natural grace of a farmer’s wife carting a sack of potatoes – and, indeed, she had the kind of figure that bore an uncanny resemblance to a sack of potatoes: all lumpy and shapeless.

What was worse than her looks, however, was her voice. It was not beautiful and musical, it was squeaky and annoying. She had the kind of voice that young boys sometimes put on when they are pretending to be annoying housewives. Her laughter sounded more like a wounded hyena or a braying donkey than the lark in the morning. It was the kind of laugh that made people grimace and wince.

No, Eglantine was not beautiful. Even if you met her on her own and had never seen her sisters, you would probably think she was somewhat ugly. Next to her sisters, however, she seemed positively hideous. Very few people could believe they had the same mother and father.

Eglantine didn’t like to think she was ugly, but she new she wasn’t beautiful. She knew young men would never fawn over her like they fawned over her sisters. She knew most people only spoke to her at all because they wanted to get closer to one of the other girls. She also knew that, once the other three married and left home, she would probably never receive another visitor again, and only be invited to parties for the sake of her widowed father.

These thoughts didn’t make her happy, but she was resigned to her fate. She realised there was nothing she could do about it, and figured she may as well just get on with whatever life she could get. Her sisters had tried to use make-up and clothes to maker her look, well, at least plain (pretty was out of the question), but it never did much good. The very most she could manage was “not really all that ugly”. Since that was all she could manage, she figured it would have to do.

Sure enough, as soon as they came of age the three beautiful daughters were snapped up by three handsome young gentlemen. They left to start their new lives, and Eglantine stayed behind to look after her father. She never complained, although she secretly wished she could find someone – anyone – who wouldn’t care if she wasn’t beautiful, and she felt a pang of jealousy every time one of her sisters announced that she was pregnant. Deep inside, Eglantine feared she would never have any children, and it pained her so.

Now, Eglantine was as sweet as the flower after which she was named. Everyone who took the time to get to know her realised that she was kind and thoughtful. She was a clever girl, who could always talk about interesting things if she was given the chance. All four of the sisters were intelligent girls and good conversationalists, but Eglantine seemed particularly interested in everything, and could talk about whatever interested the person she talked to as if it also interested her.

Whenever they went to parties, Eglantine was never really left alone. While the younger men always flocked to her sisters, the older men who were friends of their father would often find themselves talking to Eglantine. Once they got used to her voice, they realised she was a much better listener than most of the other women they knew (especially their own daughters), and they liked having a young girl who could talk with them about hunting, horses and politics.

Her father, in particular, was very fond of Eglantine. He knew she was a very sweet girl, and it pained him to think she would turn into an old maid. As much as he would have loved to keep her with him in his old age, he wanted what was best for her. As far as he knew, that meant finding her a husband so she could have a family of her own.

So, he decided to double her dowry. He made it known that any man who married his daughter would become very wealthy indeed as a result, and that a generous gift would be given upon the birth of any children she might have. This made Eglantine decidedly more popular with single men… sort of. They would meet her at a party, or find a way to be introduced to her, but most could never really see themselves wooing the girl, let alone marrying her. They certainly couldn’t see themselves fathering her children. They didn’t need the money quite that badly.

Then, one day, a young man came along who needed the money very badly indeed.

He was a young duke named Hal, and his father (the duke before him) had been something of a big spender. When he died he left Hal with a great debt and little chance of paying it. If Hal didn’t find some money soon, he would have to sell the house and lands that had been in his family for generations.

When he heard about the large dowry, with the promise of more money for children, it seemed like the answer to his prayers. So he had to marry an ugly girl? Surely it was a sacrifice he could make for the sake of his family home?

He heard Eglantine and her father would be at a party being thrown by a baron he knew, and he decided it would be the perfect opportunity to meet the girl. When he arrived, he asked one of the other guests to point her out to him. At first, he couldn’t see her; she was surrounded by a group of older men (friends of her fathers). This made him think she couldn’t possibly be as ugly as the rumours said. If she were really ugly, surely she wouldn’t be surrounded by men?

He straightened his back, fixed a dashing smile on his face and walked over to the group.

When he first saw her, he felt a strange sense of despair. She was not monstrously hideous, or even terribly ugly, but she was ugly enough. She was ugly enough to make him a joke amongst all of his friends if he married her. She was ugly enough to make him feel sorry for anyone who had to look at her everyday. She was ugly enough to be the kind of woman he would usually ignore.

You see, Hal was a very handsome man. Very handsome indeed. He was as handsome as Eglantine’s sisters were beautiful. He was, in fact, far more handsome than the handsome young men her sisters had married. And, as a very handsome young man, he had always dreamed of marrying a very beautiful young woman.

When he saw that Eglantine was not even remotely beautiful, he felt cheated – as if a very precious dream had been crushed.

“Think of the money,” he told himself, “Think of the family home.”

Right at that moment, one of the old men asked Eglantine a question. It was a joking question, and she laughed for a moment before answering.

When Hal heard her bray of a laugh, and heard her annoying, squeaking voice, he wondered how he could ever stand listening to her speak for the rest of his life.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” he thought to himself, “And she’ll die before you do.”

He hid his wince and laughed with the other men. He had a nice, rich laugh that sounded warm and friendly – even when he was faking it. Eglantine couldn’t help but look up when she heard it, and she instantly noticed how handsome he looked.

Handsome and kind, she thought. There was something in the lines of his face that looked like he was always laughing and smiling. He smiled at her then – a dazzling, drop dead gorgeous smile that made her knees feel weak. She had seen men smile at her sisters like that, but never at her. It was so beautiful and dazzling that she didn’t even notice it was forced – that he didn’t really mean it.

Hal stayed with the group of men who were talking with her for most of the party, and towards the end of the evening he even plucked up the courage to ask her for a dance. It was not the first time a man had asked to dance with her, but usually they were trying to get closer to one of her sisters. Even the few men who had cast a look her way since her father had doubled her dowry had never really danced with her. They were always looking over at one of the other women in the party. Hal looked at her often, and smiled that dazzling smile. It was a smile he knew women found charming, and it melted Eglantine’s heart completely.

To be Continued

What works, my countrymen, in hand?

2008-07-10T16:47:00.000-07:00

The title of this entry is a line from Shakespeare's Coriolanus. If you've never read/seen it, you should - it's a corker of a play.

Anyway, this blog is essentially for me to get some of my creative writing urges out of my system.

Yes, it's one of the many, many, many blogs taking advantage of the self-publishing aspect of the Internet.

It's so terribly cliché I feel like hanging my head in sheer embarrassment.