"Four Legs and a Tale (Part III)"

Joel is incensed when his sister returns with the oaf from the manor. “You said you were going for the reeve!” He glares venomously at Kev, who stares dumbly the scene before him. Joel sits with Sian’s head in his lap, stroking the long flaxen curls as he would a horse’s mane. He’s been bathing the manhorse’s brow with a rag damped from the waterskin, but when Roanne asks if it’s helped, the boy shakes his head. “I think the arrow was poisoned,” he says. He glares more heatedly at Kev. “You’ll be useless!”

“No more than you,” Kev retorts, finally finding his voice. He ventures closer, squinting in the dim light. Joel has kept the fire going, but after the bright sun outdoors, the cave is shadowy and apt to play tricks on the eyes. “Is that … is it … What is it?”

“We’ve named him Sian,” Roanne says, staying close to Kev’s side.

“Someone tried to kill him,” Joel adds, indignantly.

“What is he?”

Joel makes a disgusted sound. Roanne keeps her tone calm though she’s inclined to cuff her brother’s ear. Kev isn’t really an oaf, but he isn’t Lirosi, either, and Joel has learned to mistrust anyone descended from the marauders. “He’s hurt, pierced by an arrow,” she says. She leaves Kev to kneel at the manhorse’s side. His flanks rise and fall too quickly, his chest moving in shallow time with his breathing. His tawny hide is dark with sweat, his chiseled face flushed with fever. She looks to the wound in his hip. It’s seeping, and she notes with alarm that the hide around the head is blistering. She meets Joel’s worried eyes. “Are you sure it’s poisoned?”

He answers, whispering. “Would a fever come so fast if it wasn’t?”

She bites her lip, looking again at the blistering around the wound. Whoever shot Sian surely meant to kill him. Her gaze drifts back to his face. So handsome, so innocent. Why would anyone want to hurt him, let alone make him die slowly? “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses.

“We have to remove the arrow.”

She and Joel start as one. They’ve forgotten Kev’s presence, but his is the voice, cracking and splintering, that urges them to action. He produces a knife and kneels beside Joel, who snorts with derisive laughter. Roanne recognizes the blade as Kev’s little toy knife, the one he uses to clean his fingernails since it’s good for nothing else. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s barbed,” Kev says, peering closely at the arrowhead. The greater part of it is buried in the manhorse’s flesh, but deliberately jagged points are visible where it joins the broken shaft. “We’ll have to cut it out.”

Joel snorts again. “With that?”

“Just a tiny cut,” Kev insists. “To widen the hole.”

“That pitiful thing won’t cut porridge,” Joel says, scornfully.

“Let him try,” Roanne snaps at her brother. He scowls, but he relents. Kev studies the arrowhead, assessing the task before he commits. Roanne watches, grateful that she’s decided to trust him. His moppy brown hair falls over his forehead; he brushes it back with the hand holding the knife and almost pokes himself in the eye. Joel scoffs. The manhorse stirs feebly at the sound, surprising Kev. It’s as if he hasn’t realized that Sian is alive. Fearful that he’ll change his mind, Roanne grasps his wrist. “Do it,” she whispers. “Please.”

Swallowing nerves, Kev nods. “Hold his head,” he tells Joel.

“I’m already holding his head.”

“Joel, just do what he says.”

“But—oh, fine.” Her brother leans forward and cradles the blond head in his arms. Kev also bends, his own head obscuring Roanne’s view. She busies herself tearing strips from her shirt to blot the bleeding once the arrow is free; she must first remove her tunic, so she turns away though Kev won’t be watching. The manhorse makes a plaintive, wrenching sound in his throat; and she hears his hooves scrabble at the dirt floor. Kev swears vigorously, Joel grunts with the effort of holding Sian still—he’s only eight years old and hasn’t the strength to restrain a full grown man—and when Roanne has straightened her tunic in place, she finds Kev kneeling astride the manhorse, digging at the wound as if his knife was a spoon. Sian screams, kicking his hind legs, and with a triumphant yelp, Kev brandishes the barbed arrowhead in a bloody fist. In the next breath, he cries out in pain.

“Oaf,” Joel spits, struggling valiantly to calm the manhorse.

“It’s burning!” Kev cries. “My hand is burning!”

Roanne springs forward, knocking him from his seat on the manhorse’s flank and driving his open palm into the cool soft earth. She scrubs it back and forth to get the worst of the poison off his skin; when he finally stops yelling, she soaks a strip of her shirt from the waterskin and binds the hand herself, tenderly, hoping he won’t be scarred. His breath comes hard, in quick little sobs, but when Roanne meets his eyes, he manages a watery smile.

“Better?” she asks.

“Fuck,” he replies.

“Smear on some of this.” The unguent jar lands with a thump from where Joel has tossed it. Sian has gone quiet, more or less; he whimpers in his fever sleep and all four legs jerk now and then, one at a time. Blood oozes from the open wound on his hip, staining his coat the colour of sunset.

“Help him,” Kev tells Roanne.

“Are you all right?” she asks first.

He nods, shaken but honest. “Go.”

The wound is blistered and bloody; Kev’s feeble little blade ground some meat while digging out the arrowhead. The cut is tiny, but the hole is deep and red. She fears it will need stitches. She flushes the wound with water, then applies more unguent and seals it all with the bandages made from her shirt. Joel offers to stay while she fetches Mam’s needle kit.

“I’ll stay,” Kev says. “I won’t be missed for a while.”

“You go with Roanne,” Joel says. He’s not about to let a fool from the manor mind his charge; it’s in his face as much as his voice, and when his sister considers this, she decides it will be better to have Kev accompany her to the camp. Mam can look at his hand, for one thing, and maybe offer some unwitting advice for tending the manhorse’s fever. The tricky bit will be explaining to her mother what happened to her shirt.

 

* * *

“What happened to you?” is the first thing she hears when she ducks inside the family tent. Mam is crouching by the fire pit, stirring up coals before she lays the cook stone atop them. She’s making bread and minding the younger children whose mothers are at their chores—everyone helps where they can, for the good of the tribe. Roanne’s mother makes the best flatbread and has boundless patience with little children, so she is excused from beating rugs and milking goats. She always has a smile for Kev despite his marauding blood. Roanne takes full advantage of this to avoid answering the first question.

“Kev burned his hand. Will you look at it?”

Mam straightens instantly. “Let me see.” She doesn’t ask why the boy has come to her rather than be tended at the manor; her daughter is less welcome there than Kev is at the Lirosi encampment.

Kev hesitates. “It’s stopped hurting,” he says, skittishly.

“She’s not going to hurt you worse,” Roanne scolds.

Mam reaches for the boy’s bandaged hand. “I suppose I should ask how it happened.” She gives her daughter a dark look. “I’m sure it has something to do with the state of your shirt.”

“I made bandages from it,” Roanne says. She cranes her neck to watch Mam unwrapping the strip of homespun linen. “We didn’t need them all,” she adds when it seems her mother might ask.

Mam makes an absent-minded noise as Kev’s burned palm is bared. Roanne turns to scout out the needle kit while her mother is occupied; she only manages a few steps toward the inner curtain when she’s called back by Kev’s startled squeak.

“It was burned, I swear!”

      Eyes wide, Roanne peers around her mother’s flank. “It’s not burned now,” Mam says in an odd voice. She glances sharply at Roanne. “Tell me what happened.”

Roanne thinks fast. “I made him scrub it in the dirt.”

“Why would you do that, child?” Mam’s black eyes snare Kev. “How did you hurt your hand?”

He’s speechless; no help at all. Roanne can hardly blame him. She didn’t expect this, either. The fuss he’d made in the cave had given every sign that he was really truly scorched. His hand is grubby as usual, his skin pink and perfect underneath the grime. Mam suddenly notices something else.

“Where is your brother?”

The children trade glances. Mam abruptly jerks on Kev’s arm, demanding attention, obedience—anything, Roanne realizes, to quell a rising fear. “We left him outside,” Kev says, telling only a bit of the truth.

It’s not enough for Mam. Lips pursed, she inspects the hand caught in her grip as if she is willing Kev’s future into it. She closes her fist and looks him in the eye. “You have touched a dark object,” she says, bluntly. “Roanne, where is Joel?”

“He’s fine, Mam. Why do you say Kev touched a dark object?”

“Will you lie to me and say he did not?” Mam glares violence at the manor boy. “Speak up! What was it? What did you touch?”

Kev trembles, unable to free either his hand or his gaze. Lirosi women are feared by those who know no better—and by some who do. They have the gift of inner sight, it is said, and Roanne is often dismayed by her mother’s talent for guessing what her children choose to keep from her.

“It was a … an … a-arrowhead,” Kev stammers.

“We found it in the wood,” Roanne hastily adds. “He picked it up and started yelling.”

Mam lets Kev go and begins herding the younger children outdoors. She calls for Lidia; when the younger woman answers, she is told to watch the little ones. Mam collects her shawl. “Show me,” she commands, fixing her eyes on Kev because Roanne is halfway immune to them.

 

To be continued …

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

Greys of Shade

There’s a change in plan with the angels. I may have been wrong in accepting that Cristal was going to tell the story. It started out okay with her narrating, but somewhere along the line it went sideways and I’ve been unable to get it back on track. I hate when this happens. Not only is it a confidence-rattler, it’s frustrating as heck and only serves to stress me out. Seeking a fix has made my head hurt. I’ve driven Ter as nuts with it as I’ve driven myself. I set it aside for a weekend (but couldn’t stop fretting about it), and came thissssss close to bagging the project entirely … especially when another voice popped up with another story, shoot me now … but a possibility occurred to me on the walk home last night and now I’m pumped again. 

I’m going to switch the perspective to tell the story through Shade. Ironic, considering that he introduced the concept in the first place, and proof that one should follow the initial prompt and not over-think it. Over-thinking will often lead in a willfully wrong direction. 

Anyway, in considering his perspective, I’ve struck a goldmine of information about him, his place in this world, his role in the “other” world, and how he fits into Cristal’s world. I’m seeing dimensions to his character that I couldn’t grasp in hers. I’m intrigued, if not yet in love, and it’s looking like fun again. 

Soooo, after taking this long weekend off to celebrate my birthday, I’m on vacation for two weeks. A writing holiday? You better you bet.

Steampunk Rampant

These are not the people I work with - honest!
I "borrowed" this pic off the Internet

I spend a lot of time in the sci-fi/fantasy section of the local bookstore. Ter can visit the magazine rack, the cooking section, the new releases section, the biography and history sections and the kids’ section, and return to find that I’ve reached the authors whose surnames start with the letter H. I pick up a lot of books, scan the back covers, study the artwork, maybe read the first few paragraphs, and then return them to the shelf. I’m not sure what prompts me to start reading in earnest. It’s one of the great mysteries in my life.

Apparently steampunk has been around for years, but has only recently become popular in the mainstream – or at least in the sci-fi/fantasy section. I don’t get it. I wish that I did. I think that I should, given that it’s usually set in the Victorian era and features magic, otherworldly critters and the ubiquitous star-crossed romance. Back in the day, I was deeply inspired by the Victorian age. My vampires flourished in that setting, as did just about everyone else’s. I love the clothes, the culture, the trappings and even, to some degree, the science. It was, after all, the time of great industrial advancement and of literature, come to that. H.G. Wells and Jules Verne were probably the original steampunk authors. Not that I read either of them, because I didn’t. But I saw The Time Machine and The Island of Dr. Moreau at the movies and thought they were pretty cool.

So now works of steampunk fiction are sprouting on the shelves beside urban fantasy, high fantasy and science fiction. There’s a whole fashion industry based on the genre, and there’s a steampunk convention held somewhere in Victoria every year. I guess that’s only proper, given that the city is named for the applicable Queen. Last year, a gang from my office attended an absinthe tasting party at the Union Club and I might have gone, except that you had to wear steampunk duds and are you kidding? I have problems pulling together business casual. Corsets, bustles, goggles and ray guns are not in my repertoire – and if they were, it would be for private entertainment only. I saw the photographs, though, and the group looked absolutely authentic. They were having a ball into the bargain—and the pics were taken before the tasting.

Eventually, I’ll succumb and read a steampunk novel, just to see if I’ve gaffed and may be missing out on something ultra-fabulous. I doubt I will ever write one, though, and that may be my first hint. If the best writers write what they want to read, then I’m unlikely to go there … but I’ve also learned never to say “never”.

Mother Nature is a Libra

Ter and I recently caught a cool documentary called “Orbit” – about the Earth’s annual journey around the sun and how three things affect our planet: the orbit itself, the rotation of the Earth on its axis, and the tilt of the Earth on its axis. I paid more attention in Grade 10 science than I thought, because I actually understood what the presenters were saying about how the weather works, how (and why) the seasons occur, and all manner of other nifty-neater tidbits that I’ve filed away to wow people at social occasions down the road.

The episode about the tilt was the most fascinating because it focused on extreme weather phenomena like tornadoes and monsoons, explaining how and why they happen. There is so much going on to keep the world balanced while we merrily blaze along unbalancing everything. I’m not so hip on the Book of Genesis these days, but I do appreciate the intricate design and mechanics of our world within its galaxy within the greater universe. It’s miraculous no matter who/what you think is in charge of it all, and we are indeed arrogant little gnats to think so much of our combined intellect and expertise. Yeah. Right. The planet is smarter than we are. It’s trying, always trying, to compensate for our intelligence. It’s all about balancing the positive and negative energies that sustain us and we haven’t got a frigging clue. We don’t.

My vocabulary is too small to express my awe at how precarious is our position in space. Down to the tiniest molecule, nature seeks to keep the physical scales aligned and thus keep the world habitable. Actually, the same thing is happening within our own bodies, but we’ve been deafened to the innate wisdom that can tell us what we require to be healthy. There is a movement toward healing through balancing internal energies—or is it a return to those methods? because holistic therapies have been around for millennia compared to the relatively recent forms of “conventional” medicine. It makes you wonder which is actually the alternative in the field.

Admittedly, I’m no expert and I’m not dependent on my intelligence, but I am learning to ride the rhythm of the world both outside and within myself. I’ve known for a while that the planet is ill because we’re robbing it of the resources it needs to stay healthy, therefore its attempts to regain that critical balance are becoming more violent. I’m trying to apply the same principle to my own carbon-based unit, else I’d still be eating sandwiches and sticky buns. Some days are better than others, but I am practicing awareness of myself and my environment. Earth is a marvelous, magical place. Doesn’t it make sense to keep it that way?

Beautiful!

"Summer Shower"

They sat together on the porch at midnight, sipping wine and listening to the rain while a single tealight in its little glass cup bravely flared against the darkness.

She put her goblet aside and descended the stairs to test the shower’s strength. Within seconds, she was drenched. “Come down here and kiss me,” she said.

He shrugged and obliged.

They couldn’t decide what they enjoyed more: kissing in the rain, laughing and kissing in the rain, or the kiss itself. So they kept doing it until the swath of headlights cut across them in the liquid gloom and their teenaged daughter got out of the car. Hurrying past them to get in out of the rain, she scolded:

“Geez, will you two grow up?”

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

Art is Made

I occasionally drop into Chuck Wendig’s blog over at www.terribleminds.com; he’s a novelist, screenwriter, and author with whose work I am completely unfamiliar, but one day Erin Morgenstern mentioned one of his posts and I clicked on the link. I don’t recall the subject at the time, but I wound up adding him to my Favourites and once in a while, I am prompted to visit.

A few weeks ago, I discovered Chuck’s take on a debate over “art happens” versus “art is made”. (see it here). I guess many people (probably critics or other “experts” on creativity who think they are but are not, in fact, themselves creative) believe that art simply happens. Once upon a time, I might have agreed with that, but Mr. Wendig argued so colourfully to the contrary that I had to ponder it before making up my mind for sure. 

 

His point is that inspiration happens and from that art is made. It’s gratifying when the flow is smooth and time ceases to exist in its throes, but making art is work. It takes thought and effort to get that inspired notion off the ground. It’s totally worth it, of course, but art does not spontaneously happen. The magic is in the idea: where it comes from, what inspires it, and how it manifests. I admit, I’m more in love with dreaming than doing. I envision scenes and hear conversations all the time. Getting around to transcribing them, however … boy, I can expend more energy avoiding the computer than it would take me to do the work. 

 

True, if you love what you’re doing, then it isn’t work – and I love to write. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s just too darned hard.

"Four Legs and a Tale (Part II)"

He dreams. A stable. The warmth and smell of horses. Flickering darkness. Fair hair blending with straw, silken strands splayed over the rough wheaten weave. Brown eyes in stark contrast to the hair, and a breezy smile accompanied by laughter as free and infectious as the smile. He dreams of a hand over her mouth (his hand?) and a spearing sense of alarm. Behind him, a towering shadow, looming rage, a single word:

Mine.

Then, nothing.

The children have returned. Joel tends a small fire built of dry moss and twigs. Roanne has brought water. She presents the skin on seeing him awake. He takes it, studying his own hand as his fingers close on the vessel. A large hand. A strong hand. The same hand from the dream.

He drinks until his belly cramps and Roanne signs for him to stop. She’s brought a sack of oddities—apples, bread and hard cheese, and a jar of vile-smelling unguent that she rubs over his wounded hip. Her touch pains him, but when he sidles away, Joel reassures him. The children’s eyes are dark, so dark, dark as the eyes of the straw-coloured hair, but their manes are black. No relation, surely. And no means to communicate if there was.

Still, he tries.

“What am I doing here?”

The words feel thick and awkward on his tongue. They are not the lyrical song of the children’s banter. Four legs or two, he is still a stranger among them. Still … a fugitive?

He thinks back to the meadow, to the archers who fired on him from the clifftop. Were they mounted? He can’t even recall their numbers. Just the hail of arrows driving him to run, and the lightning strike of one piercing his flesh.

The children are talking to him and to each other. Roanne puts the pack in his hands, preparing to take her brother back to camp. Before they are missed. Sian nods, but is suddenly loath to let them go. The boy’s laugh charms him. The girl’s liquid eyes and fluid touch … they remind him of the straw-coloured dream.

He busies himself with the arrow still protruding from his hip. Roanne’s unguent has helped to ease the pain, but the head is barbed and he dares not yank it free. His golden hide is thin and fragile, more sensitive than his human skin. Fearing a tear and infection, he abandons the notion of removing the arrow.

The fever comes on him in the night. The children return the next day to find the manhorse restless in his nest of moss, his skin flushed and limbs twitching. His brow is hot to Roanne’s touch and it’s clear to her that the arrow wound is festering, just as he had feared.

“We could fetch Mam,” Joel suggests.

Roanne shakes her head. If Mam comes, she’ll ask why the children chose to hide the manhorse, and Roanne has no answer—except that Da might decide to tell someone outside the camp. Bounties are offered for unusual prizes. Much of their livelihood comes from such sources; Roanne knows that the manhorse will fetch a staggering price even if he isn’t being hunted.

She wonders if the reeve at the manor might be able to help. If she might be trusted.

“You can’t go there!” Joel argues. “Our kind aren’t welcome at the manor. The lord will make a servant of you!”

Or worse. Roanne remembers her sister Norra, who went up to the manor and came back with a belly. Her father sent her back, but the lord refused her. Norra disappeared soon after. Roanne doesn’t want to follow Norra’s fate, but she might find a way to creep into the yard and coax the reeve into helping. She must do something; Sian is feverish and fretful. And so beautiful. She must find a way to save him.

 

* * *

The manor sits near a hill, in a rolling green valley lush with fruit trees and sprawling meadows. Roanne and her brother often play near the stream that runs through the grounds and waters the orchard. Occasionally, she accompanies Da when he is summoned to tend an ailing horse. The lord is particular about his horses; word is that he treasures them above all things. All things, that is, except his lady.

Roanne has no care to meet the lord. She follows the stream to the orchard and pauses to fill her basket with apples. Summer is almost over and there’s a chill in the air. She loves the scent of fresh-pressed apples, especially tangy on a frosty sunny day. The press is housed in an outbuilding off the stableyard—the apple pulp is mixed with feed for the horses, so close proximity is an asset. It could be dangerous for a little Lirosi girl, though. Sure enough, as Roanne peers around the woodpile, the lord leads a party of riders into the yard at a gallop.

He’s a fine man, mounted on a finer steed, but Mam doesn’t like him. Mam is not alone—her ten-year-old daughter senses something cold and unyielding in him. With her heart beating in her throat, Roanne watches him dismount. He throws the reins to a groom and strides toward the manor house, barking orders as he goes. The rest of his party trails, laughing and ignorant of his mood, after him.

A jab in the ribs makes her jump. Whirling, she meets Kev’s mischievous green eyes. “What are you doing out of the wood, Roanne?”

She brandishes the basket full of apples. “I came to ask for cider.”

Kev narrows his gaze on the fruit. “Those aren’t wild apples.”

She shoves him to make him shut up. He’s twelve years old and she has a mad infatuation with him, but he treats her like she’s simple. It doesn’t occur to her that he’s remembered her name. He’s not usually good with them, but he’s never forgotten hers. Between the taunts and pranks, it’s all she can do to keep her good humour. She wishes he wasn’t so cute. He’d be easier to dislike if he wasn’t so cute.

He endures the shove and snatches at her basket. “I’ll take you in,” he offers.

The cider press smells of raw apples. Huge stone wheels mash the fruit to pulp and the juice runs down a narrow channel into the barrel. Kev is horrible; he likes to slurp straight from the mouth of the channel, which makes Roanne wrinkle her nose in disgust. But he knows the cider-maker, so she resigns herself to trying in secret for an existing jug—if she gets any cider at all. She’s not worried about that; she’s worried that she’ll miss the reeve and the manhorse might die.

Can she tell Kev? He’s chattering at the bony youth working the press, her apple basket hooked over his forearm. The youth gives her a sullen look, but takes the basket and tumbles the apples into the press. Kev is such a  bother, but he lives at the manor and he knows the reeve. She hits him a lot, but he knows her. Roanne’s chances are better if she can recruit an ally on the inside.

The stones grind the apples to mush. They make too much noise to talk over unless you shout, so Kev is shouting. His voice squeaks and cracks like breaking ice and Roanne wants to laugh because he’s trying to sound important. The youth working the press ignores him. Kev gives up and fetches an empty jug. “Hold it to the channel mouth,” he tells Roanne, and she obeys.

The juice trickles merrily into the jug, a cloudy amber ribbon flecked with bits of pulp. Joel will like that; he likes to chew his cider, but Mam says he just can’t keep his jaws from moving for even an instant.

The bony youth is half-Lirosi, but looks like a marauder, fair-skinned and light-eyed. He knows enough of his mother’s tongue to get his point across. “These aren’t wild apples,” he observes, letting Roanne know that he’s on to her.

“I’m taking it up to the house,” she replies, boldly.

“Did Mistress Reeve send you?”

Roanne nods. Kev stands with his mouth half-open, disbelief plain on his face. To stop him from betraying her, she quickly adds, “Kev offered to walk with me.”

His mouth falls all the way open before he can snap it shut, which he does as soon as the youth looks to him for confirmation. “That’s right,” he says, his voice leaping higher than a girl’s.

“I don’t know why the reeve would send a Lirosi girl to fetch up cider, but I guess it’s not my concern,” the youth remarks. He helps the last of the juice along the channel with a wooden spade.

“Lord Derrick has guests,” Roanne says.

“Lord Derrick’s guests won’t be drinking cider.”

“The ladies might.”

This earns a derisive laugh. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Roanne is about to ask what he means by that, but Kev grabs her arm more forcefully than he needs to. “Let’s go, before Mistress Reeve comes looking for us.”

“You’re welcome,” the youth calls after them. He mutters something under his breath, probably a spell against the Lirosi taint—some people think Roanne’s folk bring bad luck, but the bad luck actually came with the marauders who drove them into the wood—then Kev drags her into the yard and demands to know why she wants to get him into trouble.

“I don’t,” she says. “You can stay here if you want.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, trotting alongside her.

“I’m taking this cider up to the house.”

“Roanne, Mistress Reeve didn’t send you to fetch cider for Lord Derrick’s guests. What are you up to?”

She pauses, considering. Kev moves in front of her, his sparkly green eyes suddenly serious. She wants to trust him, but he has such a big mouth and he’s always telling her things that he hears about the manor; not secrets, exactly, but things that she shouldn’t know, so what’s to stop him from spreading stories about her? The manhorse is precious. She can’t risk him becoming a novelty, and if Lord Derrick hears about him, a novelty is what he will become.

Or worse.

She doesn’t know why she thinks this, but she thinks it nonetheless.

“Tell me,” Kev says, urgently.

She grabs him by the hand. “Come with me.”

 

To be continued …

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

Live From the Ocean Room ...

… it’s Friday morning! And a gorgeous one it is, too, given that I spent most of Wednesday night and yesterday laid flat with the worst migraine I’ve endured since May the 8^th. There is nothing like 24 hours of pounding, nauseous darkness to make you grateful for a new day. Ironically, the headache struck just as “Glutenous Maximus” went up and the day after I’d been happily telling the gang at work how they’ve pretty well ceased since I went gluten-free. Less is truly more, however; rare as they’ve become, the severity has been shocking in its intensity. Ter had to type my email to the office yesterday because I couldn’t even sit up without wanting to barf – I lay curled on the sofa with my eyes closed while she wrote on my behalf. She’s the best friend in the world.

But enough of that. The headache is pretty much gone, I’m on a legitimate day off and I have plans to write. I intended to tackle the angels once more because I’ve been struggling with them; the story is coming so slowly that I have fallen into the trap of second-guessing every scene and have therefore rewritten the most recent one at least three times. I don’t know what the problem is. Could be that it’s a new world and I have no idea what I’m doing with it, but I suspect it’s more (or less) than that. I’ve simply been unable to immerse myself in the story. Starting something new takes real commitment and I’ve just not been there. I watched a cool documentary about Agatha Christie a few weeks back. She`s a great source for writerly quotes and this one stayed with me:

“All a writer needs is chair, a table, a typewriter and some peace.”

Without complaining, the peace part is missing. I live in a world full of distractions that prove particularly tempting when I’m embarking on a brand new project. So, when contemplating what I would attack today, Ter suggested that I let go of the struggle and write whatever the heck I want. I thought I wanted to write the angels, but what I really want is a cup of Persian apple tea and that was my first hint. The hopeless knot in the novel has managed to unravel itself and the story has regained traction, so back to Castasia go I. And today I’m happy to be there.

And here.

Glutinous Maximus

Phase Two of my gluten-free existence began this week, with the freezer purge I was emotionally unprepared to do six months ago. It’s one thing to decide not to bring naughty nummies into the house. It’s quite another to discard one’s existing supply.

Phase One began last Easter. I had been chronically suffering from a growing list of minor maladies that included joint aches, mood swings, a sluggish thought process, lethargy, and headaches. The headaches were the worst. I blamed them on chocolate and hormones, but when the bi-weekly migraines became a series of week-long events, Ter took action. She was led to a magazine article about wheat allergies and when she checked the symptoms against mine, she ticked every darned box. By then I was so miserable that I’d try anything. I’d already given up chocolate (to no real avail); no sacrifice could surpass that one on the martyrdom scale. I stopped knowingly consuming anything containing wheat, barley, or rye, and almost immediately began to feel better.

My headaches ceased. My ears unplugged. My thought processor quit grinding and began to operate smoothly. I (mostly) quit dozing at my desk. My joint aches virtually disappeared. So did my second spare tire! Yikes, who knew that giving up sticky buns would be so beneficial?

Not buying new sticky buns was no problem. Tossing the buns in my stash was going to be more difficult. I looked at the collection of full freezer bags and wanted to cry. Taking pity on me, Ter suggested we do it another day.

That day did not happen until this past weekend, but I must have been ready for it. Ter handed me each bag, I checked the contents, closed my eyes, ground my teeth, and discarded. Then I hauled the whole weighty sack down to the garbage and nearly threw my back out getting it into the dumpster. The freezer now has an echo – and more room for ice cream!

Plus, I’m eating chocolate again J

Phase Three is looming and while I have no idea how I’ll get through the fall and winter holidays, I will get through them because I must get through them if I want to maintain the status quo. The greatest loss will be my wee sister’s killer mincemeat tarts. She bakes them for me every Christmas and this year … augh, I’ll whine about that when the time comes.

Happy

“At school I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. I was told I didn’t understand the assignment, so I told them they didn’t understand life.” – John Lennon

George was my favourite Beatle, but I admired John for his honesty, his humanity, and his perspicacity.

Recently, my father asked me if I am happy. Without missing a beat, I said, “Yes.”

He looked a bit dubious that I had understood so gently added, “Because you’re not living the traditional feminine life.”

To which I replied, “I think that’s why I’m happy.”

We both laughed, but maybe I wasn’t kidding. I don’t know if I would be as happy in the traditional feminine role of wife and mother as I am right now – but it’s certainly possible. Happy as I am with this unforeseen gig, my plan is to stay that way. That’s not to say my life must remain the same. It means that I intend to be happy no matter where my journey takes me.

Of course, it’s not all blissfully sublime. Truth is, everyone’s life sucks at some point. That’s the way life rolls.

Stormy Weather singer Lena Horne once said, “It’s not the load; it’s the way you carry it.”

I’m lucky. Really lucky. I live in a country where I am free to live, think, write, say and believe what I choose. I can afford rent, food and car payments. I have a good job and lots of time to pursue my passion. I’m healthy and still have all my teeth. I should be happy with such good fortune. But I know of many people in the same situation (or better) who are unhappy.

What’s with that?

Banal platitudes drive me crazy, but there is one that really does work for me: count your blessings. Be grateful for what you have because, sure as shootin’, everyone has something for which to be grateful. Life itself is a gift, if you look at it that way.

“There is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way.”

So said the Buddah. Happiness is often misinterpreted and I may be doing the very thing myself. When I tell my father that I’m happy, I mean that I am content and at peace with the moment. It isn’t the case every moment – life ain’t designed that way and neither am I – but overall, my life is good and I’m happy living it. There are occasions of both delirious joy and deepest despair, all part of the spectrum, but I think I’ve grasped the point that Lennon, Horne and Buddah were trying to make.

“Happy” isn’t a target or a destination. It’s not wealth or marriage or being mortgage-free (though it is driving a cool car while listening to Duran Duran). “Happy” is a state of mind … and it’s possible for everyone.

I’m lucky. I’m grateful. I’m happy.

In that order.

Female

No matter how many versions of the Arthurian legend I encounter, I cannot make myself like Guinevere. “Camelot” (the musical), “Excalibur”, “King Arthur”, “Camelot” (the TV series that died after one season) – in every one of them, the Queen bugs the hell out of me. She’s either simpering or smug, and while Arthur himself was best portrayed by Clive Owen, even the King can be difficult to respect because he’s more in love with his round table knights than he is with his wife. I watched “Camelot” (the musical) on the weekend and much as I love the music and the scenery and the costumes and even the story … augh. I wanted to smack the Queen, punch out Lancelot, and shake the King until his pearly whites rattled. Was it the writing or the acting? The characters are the stuff of legend, so how could it be them?

Except that, in “Excalibur”, “King Arthur”, and “Camelot” (the TV series that died after one season), I generally feel the same – about Guinevere, at least. I like my knights on the tarnished side so Lancelot does nothing for me, hence I don’t see why she falls for him when Arthur is much more interesting … if you can get him to stop talking to Merlin’s ghost and being so darned idealistic all the time. Richard Harris didn’t have much to work with in the musical, truth be told. Clive Owen put way more grit and savvy into his King Arthur – and Ioan Gruffud’s Lancelot had an appealing ragged edge as well. But Guinevere? She was no mooning milksop when Keira Knightley played her, and I still disliked her.

So. Do I expect more from female characters than I do from male? Tough one. I can’t tell if it’s the way I was raised, the culture in which I was raised, my hardwired chromosomal response to other women, or me seeing in them what I dislike in myself, but I seem to be way less forgiving with females than I am with males. I take more care when I’m writing them, especially in the first person. I like them to be smart and a little sassy, but there’s fine line between confident and pushy. They must stand up to their men without hysteria or henpecking, and they must also know how to stand down without caving. I myself am a smartmouth, so I have to watch that my girls don’t overdo the sass because it gets annoying and I do not want to annoy the audience. Children can get away with it to a point, but even then, Lucius’s daughter Aurelia, who began as an opinionated eight-year-old, is now, at twelve, being schooled in the finer points of diplomacy and artful conduct … though she still blurts her mind in safe company. Despite being more natural for me, writing women is hard work. My guys can be rat bastards and still be appealing, but my girls … yeah, just like in the real world, more is expected of them. They don’t always oblige – I have one or two real peaches in the orchard – but I do worry more about them being likeable than I do their male counterparts. I don’t think it’s a reflection on me; I think they themselves want to be accepted and are therefore more aware of their behaviour. A few of them don’t care. A few others are completely unaware. Many are truly caught between duty and devotion. Most of them are just trying to survive. Gee, they sound like real women!

But I still don’t get Guinevere.

“Four Legs and a Tale (Part I)”

He wakes in the shade of a sheer cliff, a drop so severe that it will surely kill anyone who falls from the precipice. The grass is warm and damp beneath his cheek. The sky overhead is a pristine cerulean, devoid of clouds. A thin line of forest stretches across the horizon, on the far side of a meadow strewn with buttercups. It looks close but isn’t. He lies in the cliff’s cool shadow, trying to remember.

Where am I? How did I get here?

He presses his hands to the soft moist earth and pushes himself to his knees. His arms are muscular but shaky; he tries to rise too quickly and stumbles, collapsing once more to the grass. The scent is green and sweet, so very sweet. Breathing deeply, he tries again to stand.

This time, he succeeds. Wobbly but upright, he stands in the shade of the cliff and tries a cautious step. His legs tangle; he staggers, stumbles again, catches himself, and tumbles back to the ground. Dazed and dazzled, he has the strangest thought.

My hind legs are dragging.

Hind legs??

He turns his head. In so doing, his gaze dips and he sights a pair of forelegs, slender and golden, where his own legs should be. They move when he wills himself to stand, as if they belong to him. He stares in horror at the blond hooves in place of feet and toes. Then he braves a look behind. Mortified, he sees a sleek expanse of horseflesh, rounded quarters and elegant hind legs, all tawny gold and finished with a thick flaxen tail.

He looks at his hands. Human hands; a man’s hands. He has a man’s body, chest and arms and shoulders … and he has a horse’s body, legs and rump and glossy muscle. Half-man, half-horse.

Panic threatens. He was not born this way; he knows it for a fact. Or does he? A tentative step betrays him. He is graceful, fluid. If only he could remember …

He steps again. All four feet engage, mincing with his trepidation. His … hooves? step lightly on the soft meadow grass. They leave circular marks rather than footprints. A nervous peek reveals a white sock on his near hind hoof.

I was not born this way!

He crosses the line between sun and shade. His shadow leaps ahead, taking shape on a vibrant green canvas. Head, chest and shoulders, a man. Back, rump and legs, a horse.

It cannot be! I was not born this way!

He has no time to think. As the sunlight gilds him in its grasp, a wild howl shatters the tranquil air. He shies when an arrow slices past his shoulder, then he is running, galloping, tripping as his feet collide and cross over. He plunges desperately ahead as another arrow whistles past. Run; hide—flee to the forest as fast as you can!

His legs obey. They cease to work at cross purposes and establish the flying rhythm of a full gallop, carrying him in a flurry of arrows into the open field.

He realizes his mistake in a hail of stabbing rain; he dodges and pivots, shies and zigzags to avoid being struck. There is a notable lull between bouts. He quickly learns to run flat out when the showers wane. Then he veers toward the forest.

He is so bent on escape that he forgets, for a moment, his deformity. A stinging pain reminds him. His far hind leg buckles; he stumbles, shifts his weight to three legs, and lunges wildly toward the trees. He is well out of range but hurtles blindly, breathing hard through his mouth, dragging his wounded leg. The leg itself proves unharmed; the arrow is stuck at his hip, protruding at an angle that claims he was almost safe before he was struck. The archers were positioned above him, on the lip of the cliff. He has no idea how many there were. He is frantically certain that they numbered in the dozens … but if that were so, he would have been killed outright, and much sooner.

The forest welcomes him with cooling shelter. He picks his way deeper into the wood, half-aware that he scents water and must try to find it. Fire burns in his hip. Pausing, he turns to get a better look at the injury.

The arrow shaft is long, the pointed head buried in his flesh. He recalls—how?—that punctures should not be pulled free but left for knowing hands to remove. Twisting at the waist, he reaches back, takes the shaft in his fist, steadies it, inhales, and snaps it near the head. The offending weapon is now a finger’s length and less likely to snag. The pain, however, is not diminished and he fears to remove the arrowhead. He runs a hand over his own golden back. He is broad and strong, beautifully formed … if he dares to accept that the glossy muscled expanse belongs to him.

The panicked denial sounds less certain this time.

I was not born this way …

He finds a quiet thicket floored in moss and fallen leaves. Now he can hear water as well as smell it, but fright has exhausted him. He would fall to the earth but for his injured hip … and the curious knowledge that he must not sleep. He can rest, but he must not sleep.

He looks down at his forelegs. Long and delicate, they are as strong and flawless as the rest of his equine body. Whoever did this to him has been kind in that regard. His arms and chest and shoulders are equally fine—is this also a kindness, or was his nemesis forced to oblige a handsome man with a handsome infirmity?

Perhaps ‘infirmity’ is the wrong word. His changed form spared him certain death on the green. Without the speed of a fleet young horse, he could not have outrun the attack. He glances again at the arrow protruding from his hip. There is little blood; what seeps from the wound turns his golden coat ruddy. He should find that water and bathe his hurt.

The merry gurgle leads him to a shallow stream winding through a rocky bed. The water is so clear that he can see the pebbles as if through glass. They are grey, black and white, in sharp contrast to the vibrant greens of the foliage on its banks. He gingerly tests the depth with a forehoof. The water is cold. It barely reaches his fetlock.

When he looks up, he meets the astonished gaze of a child. Dark-haired, dark-eyed and open-mouthed, it’s a boy clad in patchwork wool and rough linen. His dun complexion marks him Lirosi, of the folk driven from their homes and forced to live as outlaws in their own land. The manhorse instinctively recoils though the stream divides him from the lad. Before a word can be uttered, a second child joins the boy on the bank. This one is a girl, older by a few years, not yet a woman. She carries a fistful of berry-laden branches broken from a nearby bush. When she sees the manhorse, she instantly proffers her prize.

He realizes that she believes him to be the keeper of the forest. He almost laughs. The boy continues to gape, but the girl is less surprised than friendly. Perhaps the berries are a peace offering. Perhaps she thinks he is hungry. What he is, is wounded.

He shifts to the side, showing the broken shaft stuck in his hip. The boy erupts into an excited string of incoherent babble. The manhorse is lost to interpret. The girl replies in kind, but softly and more calmly. Though she addresses the boy, her liquid dark eyes remain steady across the stream.

Then she steps toward the water.

He retreats in a hurry, spurred by unknown terrors. Her darkness alternately repels and intrigues him. His fairness appears to affect the boy one way and the girl in the latter.

She speaks directly to him. One word, meaningless.

“Roanne.”

He stares at her. She repeats herself, tapping her own chest with a grubby fingertip. Then she points to the boy. “Joel.” The manhorse understands, but cannot return the favour.

I don’t know my name.

He looks helplessly at the girl, at Roanne. His initial retreat has given her pause, but his angst, so visible in his face, encourages her to cross the stream.

The boy calls a warning; the manhorse knows by the tone rather than the words. Roanne ignores him. Age gives her authority. She moves confidently but gently, one hand softly outstretched. The manhorse steps toward her without deciding to do so. She smiles, beckoning. She is lovely as her brother is lovely, with dark flashing eyes and a mane of wild black curls. Her olive skin is brown from the sun, her smile more vividly white because of it.

She crosses the stream without splashing. The boy, following, is not so graceful. He jabbers at Roanne, who barely heeds him. Her doe eyes remain on the manhorse, studying, admiring … wondering.

The manhorse wonders in kind. He knows of the native wood-dwellers (though he does not know how), and while his instinct is to flee, he stands rooted to the spot. When she steps within reach, he braces, but she does not touch his human flesh. She lays her hand on the horse’s flat shoulder and runs it lightly over the contoured muscle of wither and back. He turns his head to watch her, admitting to himself that her touch is a comfort.

She taps herself once more. “Roanne,” she says. Her brows arch inquiringly.

He nods. “Roanne,” he echoes.

The effort earns a grin before she nods expectantly to him. He cannot answer to make her understand, so he shrugs and shakes his head, feeling yet again the hollow sense of loss and not belonging.

She shouts. Startled, the manhorse shies as a sudden weight lands squarely on his back. The boy has decided to ride.

The manhorse decides otherwise. He bucks. Thin, sinewy arms slip under his and clamp themselves tightly across his chest. The boy holds on, laughing gleefully. Roanne scolds him less ardently than she could. The manhorse’s hurt cautions against violent movement—especially as his buck was clumsy and ineffective. Having hind legs will take some time to become second nature to him.

“Sian,” the girl decides.

Boy and manhorse stare at her. She beams, pleased at her deduction. Her hand is firm when she pats the manhorse’s equine flank. “Sian,” she says again. The manhorse understands that this, for now, is his name.

They walk together, the manhorse and the girl, the boy riding proudly on the manhorse’s back. They pick their way through the misty wood, their heads dappled with green filtered sun. She walks at his shoulder, hands at her sides. The boy continues to hold him, wiry arms snug and lithe body warm against his back. No one speaks. Their language is foreign to him and he doesn’t know what he would say in any case.

Who am I?

Why am I?

The arrowhead burns in his hip. He struggles gamely on, lifting his feet in a delicate, deerlike manner. His hind legs occasionally fail him; he finds that they cooperate if he ignores them. Not forgets, but ignores.

He becomes aware that the boy—Joel?—is riding him. A posture initially thought to defend against the tangling of hooves turns out to be gentle guidance. Pressure of a knee, the touch of a hand; he follows the prompts without thought, mincing alongside Roanne.

Brother and sister begin to converse in low, lyrical tones. The pace slows. If Sian had a horse’s ears, they would prick forward, alert to the sounds of encampment.

Roanne stops.

Joel leans back, away from Sian’s muscular torso. The manhorse stops as if on command. His injured hip prevents the hoof from resting solidly on the forest floor; his leg is cocked, his weight borne on three.

The children exchange thoughtful looks. Sian frowns, suspicious. He would demand an explanation from them if he could; he is an adult compared to their youth and would take the lead if only he was able.

Roanne motions to her brother, then turns back the way they’ve come. Joel applies pressure to Sian’s left, turning him to follow.

She runs this time, darting effortlessly through the bush. Sian is not so agile. His hind legs tangle and he falls to his knees. Joel grabs hard about his neck and manages to keep his seat. The boy emits a whoop in his excitement. Roanne dashes back to ensure he is unhurt.

A brief babble follows. Sian regains his feet but the far hind will no longer bear weight. He must limp, hobbling and dragging the leg in his wake. Joel obligingly dismounts and sprints ahead, disappearing through a screen of trees. Roanne lays a hand on Sian’s wither and murmurs to him. Her tone is gentle, encouraging. He follows her in her brother’s direction and emerges from the wood before a roughhewn rocky mouth. Already the boy is exploring the cave, clearing brush to create a path inside. Sian understands at once. He is to hide here and await their return. They want no others to know of his existence. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He walks carefully, lame leg dragging, into the cave. It’s dry. Musty with animal smells and littered with forest debris. No water. Sian is too tired, in too much pain, too frightened, to care. He watches the children collect enough moss and dry fern to create a fragrant nest, and collapses gratefully onto it.

Perhaps when he wakes, he will be whole—and a man—again.

To be continued …

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig