SPOOKABLES!!

beware beware

of things out there

that creep and thrill

your blood to chill

 

a slanted eye

a scary smile

a booming “BOO”

hearts pound a mile

 

trick or treat

you may be meat

for hungry ghosts

you’re beans on toast

 

behind a mask

is no disguise

ghouls hunt by scent

not by their eyes

 

a foggy night

flickering light

what’s that, a head?

the taste of dread 

 

candy sweet

on vampire’s tongue

if you don’t run

you’ll soon be gone 

 

hollow laughter

trailing after

running blind

don’t look behind 

 

on Halloween

it’s safe to say

where’er you go

you will be prey

BOO!

 

 

Dracula Doesn't Sparkle

you would think ...

All summer, I’ve been eagerly anticipating Jonathan Rhys Meyers taking a turn as the count in NBC’s new series “Dracula”. With him in the title role, and with vampires desperately in need of salvation on the heels of the “Twilight” travesty, I thought, how can it lose?

Then I saw the premier episode on Friday night. Ter and I stayed up for it, in fact. I admit, I was horribly distracted through most of it (too much caffeine perhaps?), so will be rerunning it on demand before episode 2 the end of the week, but my overall impression is that Meyers is the sole reason for giving it a shot. He is, as expected, breathtaking, although I wonder why his character is pretending to be American when one of his most seductive features is his English accent. He slips back into it when he’s with Renfield, but in company, his voice completely lacks the timbre and charisma you’d think he needs to seduce his victims. Okay, that he needs to seduce me.

There were a lot of people in the first episode, and a lot of twisty turns that would have confused me even if I hadn’t already been distracted, hence my resolve to give it a second chance. I did catch a couple if things that piqued my interest – Mina is studying to be a doctor with Abraham van Helsing as her professor, and van Helsing himself appears to be allied with Dracula against the Order of the Dragon (a gang of witch hunters with a history as long as the Count’s). An uneasy alliance, to be sure, but a surprising one that warrants further study.

Oh, and animated fight scenes are cheesy unless you put out the big bucks for a crew at Industrial Light and Magic, so the duel between Dracula and one of the Dragon dudes (I forget which one) left me flat and resentful. It was so obviously computer-generated that I felt like I was watching a video game, which is something I will never do willingly. It’s understood that the industry aims at a demographic where I am no longer included, but still, if you’re going to slip animation into a live-action show, make it seamless so you can fool the oldies in the audience.

I love vampires and Dracula is the granddaddy of them all. Here is a chance to pay him due homage, so I am hopeful that the show gets better as it goes. I’ll give it a few more weeks before I decide for sure whether it’s worth my time.

At least he doesn’t literally sparkle, either.

Hockey Night in Victoria

Forty-eight hours after traversing the heavens with Sarah Brightman, Ter and I walked into the same arena but a different world. It was cold, for one thing. And bright. And loud. And it smelled rather a lot like testosterone, both in the stands and on the ice. The Kelowna Rockets were in town for back-to-back games with the Victoria Royals, and we were there to cheer on the home team for the second match.

The set was touted as a battle for first place in the Western Hockey League’s BC division and the Royals were on a win streak at home. Kelowna won Friday’s game, 4-1. They won Saturday’s as well, 2-1 in a shootout. My Flyer karma preceded me, so now the Rockets are in front and the Royals are runners-up.

We had a good time, though. Live hockey games are not for fans who want to watch the game undisturbed, that’s for sure. There was more going on in the stands than on the ice: Marty the Marmot banged his drum; pizza and potato chips were doled out to fans in select sections; there was the local “dance for your dinner” promo where randomly selected spectators competed for audience approval and a gift certificate at a local eatery. Royals t-shirts were bazooka’d into the crowd, more gift cards were handed out to winners of “where’s the doughnut?” (Tim Horton’s) and “who has a BMO Master Card?” (Ter wondered if her government purchasing card would be accepted, but she didn’t test the theory), and all the while, 44 strapping young bucks on skates duked it out for top spot in the division.

There were penalties for delay of game (the stupidest call ever invented), roughing, and an actual pair of fighting majors; the Rockets scored first, Victoria tied it in the second, and there was enough board-crunching to elicit the occasional audible wince from the crowd. The game itself, however, was surprisingly so-so. The Royals were half a pace off the beat despite lobbing more shots at the Kelowna goalie – our seats were in the opposing end zone so we got a good look at a lot of missed chances in the guise of fine saves. I was most impressed by #18 for Victoria; a little guy named Brandon McGee, who tried to make something happen on every shift. I kept hoping he’d pop the winning goal, but it was not to be. At least they got a point for pushing the game to OT and a shootout. As fans, we were treated to everything a grown-up game has to offer … except the outrageous ticket prices!

Space Opera

Sarah swag:
the obligatory program, tickets and a signed lithograph

If Sting is a god, then Sarah Brightman is a goddess. She continually surpasses mortal expectation and has made me believe in heaven.

Ter and I saw her perform on the space-themed “Dreamchaser” tour on Thursday and we are still reeling. I’m unsure where to begin, so I’ll start with the obvious: the voice. Be it known here and now that I do not appreciate opera at all, especially the eardrum-shredding shrill of a soprano … yet Sarah is most definitely a soprano. She hits (and holds, by the gods) notes that don’t even exist, but she does it with a crystal purity that sends my spine into paroxysms of pleasure rather than spasms of angst against the flight instinct. By the same token, she can tap into the phenomenal power required to push out the richer, more resonant notes of pieces like “Nessun Dorma” or “Figlio Perduto” and make them sound like silk.

She’s considered to be a classical crossover artist. Classically trained, she can sing pretty much anything. She was the original Christine Daaé in “Phantom of the Opera”, the title track of which is a signature piece of her show. I love it best of all, but I think the climactic high note makes Ter wince. Sarah’s style is perfectly suited to performing some of the best pumped-up operatic chestnuts I’ve ever encountered, a hybrid of classical, pop, and New Age that never fails to send me straight into Right Brain. We started collecting her albums a few years ago – Ter was unconsciously aware of her for years previous, but I first paid serious attention when streaming the New Age vocal channel at www.sky.fm; almost daily a piece called “In Paradisum” was played and the vocal on it sucked me out of my chair and into an alternate reality ablaze with life and colour. It turned out to be Sarah Brightman. My office tea fairy and good buddy, Treena, was way ahead of the curve and already a fan; she had most of Sarah’s albums and was happy to lend me “Eden”, which opens with “In Paradisum”. Our CD library grew like a hothouse flower after that, and Sarah’s concert DVDs will soon outnumber those in our Def Leppard collection.

Then there’s the performance artist. Everything she does is on a grand—dare I say operatic?— scale. Her numerous costumes are glamorous – something like eight changes last week – and the light show on this tour is nothing short of spectacular. Her soaring voice, the swelling music, and the increasingly intense light flooding the arena were too much for some folks, I guess, but not for me. I wanted to be overwhelmed, to be swept away by the complete sensory experience, and boy, did she deliver.

She opened with “Angel”, the first single off her new album, and when the first heartbeat struck, I was gone. She doesn’t even have to form words; she can simply peal like a pristine silver bell and I will burst into tears. Gone. Done. Wrecked. Mortified. But really, when you’re sitting in the dark and everyone else is caught in the same spell, no one notices that you’re sniffling out loud. So I gave up and let the tears roll unhindered as the show flowed from one magical piece to another. Once in a while I’d glance at Ter, whose eyes were incandescent every time I looked. We’d nudge each other on occasion, thrilled at the opening notes of a particular favourite, but for the most part, we were content to be completely blown away. I actually forgot to breathe at times and forgot to blink at others. Mostly, I was road kill. Thoroughly mesmerized. And so deeply, profoundly grateful to be in the presence of such precise and powerful talent. This woman is clearly following her bliss and I was privileged to share a tiny part it with her.

When this tour is done, she’ll be in training to become an astronaut. She’s going to the international space station, a childhood dream of hers being to visit the stars. I hope she sings when she’s there. If ever a voice was meant to be heard in space, it belongs to Sarah Brightman.

* * *

I’ve inserted links to each of the songs underlined in this post – if you haven’t heard her sing and want a sample, click on any of the titles and close your eyes. Naturally, she won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but she figures prominently in my creative process and for that I am eternally grateful.

“Four Legs and a Tale (Part XI)”

 

 

He still has four legs and a tail, but his memory is better. He recalls confronting Alarice while the children scurried to foil her. It appears that Joel was successful, for the woman is dead, and Alarice was not, for the manhorse is still alive. Groggy, but alive.

With the help of eager hands, he gets his legs beneath him and heaves himself upright. Roanne is the first to embrace him, throwing her arms about him and pushing her face against his chest. She’s been crying; her face is hot and wet, and she explodes into sobs when he puts his arms around her. Joel is misty, too, beaming defiantly and sprinkling agitated pats over Sian’s shoulder to draw attention from his uncharacteristically moist eyes. Sian lays his cheek on Roanne’s hair. Holding her is a greater relief than a pleasure, though a greater pleasure than relief is blooming where the dark orb had struck. He must learn to speak Lirosi, he thinks—and is startled by the laughter that erupts as he thinks it.

“You speak Lirosi very well,” Joel commends him, patting even more frantically at his shoulder.

“Too well,” the man growls. Sian knows him from the stable, where in the past he has been encountered tending Derrick’s horses. Norra’s father, he remembers with a pang. He lost her before he was able to pledge himself to her family.

“Why did you wait until now?” Roanne asks him.

“I didn’t know I knew.”

Joel scoffs. “Now you’re talking like Kev.”

Sian smiles as Roanne aims a backhanded slap at her brother, who jumps nimbly beyond her range. The gesture disrupts their embrace, further broken by her father’s deliberate removal of her from the manhorse’s arms.

“I’ll take you to Lord Derrick.”

Sian disagrees. “I’ll go on my own—and I’ll take Alarice with me.”

“You can’t go alone,” Roanne protests. “Da, he can’t. Joel and I have to tell the lord what happened. Mam, tell Da.”

The woman has been a watchful ghost since Sian’s recovery—and perhaps even earlier than that. She seems disinclined to tell her husband anything, since he seems the sort who can’t be told very much, but she does make a small motion with her head that indicates mild support for her daughter’s argument.

They load Alarice across Sian’s back and leave the cave for good. The manhorse is flanked by Kev on one side and the children’s father on the other, each engaged in steadying the body as he gingerly picks his way downhill. The far hind leg continues to aggravate him and his gait is stilted, slowing their progress. It makes the pace easier for Joel to match. Though his mother offers to carry him, he adamantly refuses on the basis of being too old for such mollycoddling. This inspires the one genuine smile Sian has seen her allow herself.

She walks in silence at his near shoulder. Joel has also refused to hold her hand, choosing to run a few steps ahead rather than suffer a third maternal indignity. Roanne is on Sian’s right. He has quickly grown accustomed to her hand on his wither and misses it now. With Da so close behind, she seems reluctant to display too much affection.

He wants to ask after Norra. He remembers nothing beyond the revelation of Alarice’s jealousy. In the next instant, he realizes something else. The shock halts him in mid-step.

The children’s father clicks his tongue as if Sian is all horse. Roanne chides him. “Da, he’s a man as well.”

Her mother speaks for the first time. “A man has pride, child. You don’t speak of him as if he’s dumb.”

Joel retraces his few steps and searches Sian’s face to explain the delay. “What is it?” he asks.

Sian pretends not to hear. He resumes walking, but with every step the load on his back weighs heavier and heavier, until his very heart labours to beat. He finds it curious that he has no impulse to weep, for he has good cause to do so. The puzzle occupies his mind for the rest of the journey, a welcome distraction from fearing reunion with his brother.

 

* * *

 

The odd little group sends the manor house into a fluster as soon as they are sighted. An entire Lirosi family is unusual enough; that family accompanied by a creature known only in legend, and who carries their lady’s body on his back, incites all sorts of hysteria. Da immediately calls for the reeve, but someone has gone straight to Lord Derrick himself. Roanne hovers close to Kev in the chaos, trusting him to interpret for her. He takes her by the hand. She senses him finding a similar comfort in her presence as she finds in his, and is glad for the boldness in his gesture. “It’ll be all right,” he whispers. His voice is reassuringly steady.

Sian asks Da to relieve his back of Lady Alarice’s weight. Da obliges in terse silence. Sian speaks again and beckons with both hands. Softening a little, Da surrenders the lady just as Lord Derrick arrives like a brusque north wind.

He is so appalled that he does not notice the hooves where Blais’s boots should be. All he sees is his wife draped, limp and pallid, in her lover’s arms. “What …” he swallows, barely able to choke out two words, “… happened?”

“Her magic turned on her,” Blais replies. His voice is flat, devoid of inflection or emotion. His face reflects his voice. He has not seen his brother in … he does not recall how long, but it seems a lifetime since their last heated exchange.

Derrick continues to stare at Alarice, either ignoring or oblivious to the others. “I am free,” he murmurs. His eyes close, and he sways as if his legs are about to buckle. Da steps forward to offer a hand, but the lord regains his composure before contact can be made. Eyes open once more, he meets his younger brother’s steady blue gaze and attempts to defend himself. “She bewitched me, Blais.”

“She bewitched us all,” Blais retorts, bitterly. He deliberately drops the lady. Lord Derrick’s gaze falls with her and his eyes grow impossibly round when she lands at his brother’s blond hooves. He stammers in disbelief, unable to grasp what cannot be true.

“How … what … she didn’t … she couldn’t …”

Blais is uncommonly cool in the face of Derrick’s uncharacteristic babbling. “She is, as she has always been, yours, big brother. Do with her as you see fit.”

“Wait!” Lord Derrick lunges to stop Blais from turning. His hand closes on the manhorse’s arm; Blais jerks free with a hiss, lifting his forefeet from the ground. Derrick quickly retreats from striking range of the hooves. His mind cannot grasp what his eyes insist on showing him. He fixes on his brother’s face, but even then, he barely recognizes the man behind it. Blais was fiery and impetuous, always quicker to argue than see sense. This creature is cold by comparison; cold and remote as his little brother never was. “What’s happened to you? You must tell me; I must know!”

“Isn’t it obvious what’s happened to me? I was never her lover, Derrick. I never looked twice at her, and she could not bear it.”

“So she did this?”

“I was in love with another girl—”

“The horse girl,” Derrick sneers, remembering.

“The daughter of these good people,” Blais says sharply, nodding respectfully to the man and woman standing with Kev and their children to one side. “Alarice tracked us to the stable—”

“ ‘Tracked’ you?”

Some of the familiar fire sparks in Blais’s eyes. “How else could she have discovered us? She didn’t like horses. She didn’t hang about the stable for the pleasure of their company. I’m telling you, she tracked us—tracked me—and when she found me with Norra, she vowed to part us as vengeance to her jealousy. She didn’t love you, Derrick. She didn’t love me, either. Alarice loved no one but herself.”

Derrick’s jaw is set like stone. “She made a fool of me.”

“You made a fool of you. I worshipped my big brother. I didn’t always agree with you, but I worshipped you nonetheless. I would never have done what she let you believe I had done, the things you accused me of doing. If you had given me credit for half the wits I gave you, nothing Alarice said would have mattered.”

“Does it matter now?” Derrick asks. “She’s dead. The truth is out.”

Blais wearily shakes his head. “The truth was the truth while she lived. You chose to accept the lie, so yes, what she said does matter.” He studies his brother’s solemn face. “What happened to Norra?”

Derrick is immediately offended. “I sent her back to her parents. ‘These good people’,” he amends, with an edge to his tone as he jerks his head toward her family. “By the way, they believed far worse of you than I did.”

“That may be, but they have helped me today.”

“So you’ll go with them?”

“If they will have me. I don’t fit in your world anymore—if I ever did. Any hope I had of being restored has died with the one who made me; and are you not the least bit curious about how she died?”

“You said her magic turned on her.”

Blais turns to display the wound on his hip. “She bespelled an arrowhead and aimed to kill.”

“Then why are you not dead?” Derrick inquires, coldly.

It’s a fair question; one that Blais cannot readily answer. Then he smiles. “The children saved me.”

Derrick snorts disdainfully. “The horse people.”

“The bravest, kindest people I have ever known,” Blais declares. He motions with his head to the children. Joel dashes forward and gleefully springs aboard the manhorse’s back, throwing his arms around Blais and burying his face in his blond hair. Roanne is more cautious but no less loving when she comes abreast of him and slips her hand into his.

 

To be continued …

 

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

How Goes It, Will?

 

 

Yesterday was the final day of Shakespeare’s “first folios” exhibit at the UVic Legacy Art Gallery – located a paltry two blocks from the office. Four folios under glass, each with a write-up to give meaning to the visual. Ter and I meant to go last weekend, but our plans were waylaid and the event fell off our radar. If a co-worker hadn’t reminded me this afternoon, I would have missed seeing them. Even if you don’t like Shakespeare, as a writer, one must pay due homage. Fortunately, I love Shakespeare.

 

However, I admit I am unfamiliar with more than the titles of the bulk of his work. Of his entire output, I’ve actually seen four plays (and on film rather than live, my bad): Romeo and Juliet, The Taming of the Shrew, Hamlet, and Othello; but, like most folks, I am aware of so much more – too many to mention here. The folios exhibit only served to remind me that I have but scratched the surface of his genius. Fortunately, his plays are still produced and performed at every turn, on TV, at the beach, at the playhouse, on Youtube, on DVD and Blu-Ray. I reckon at some point we’ll see Hamlet talking to himself as a hologram.

 

So how can I say I love him when I hardly know him? Gee, can he being the most prolific, most famous, most revered and respected writer of all time have anything to do with it? His stuff has endured. Ironically, he was likely not as respected in his heyday as he is now – plays were naught but cheap entertainment and playwrights a gang of penniless charlatans in search of wealthy patrons to supplement their habit. I know what I’d have had to put out to get someone to support me … not that there were many (if any) female writers in Will’s time. Heck, we weren’t even allowed to play a female role on stage!

 

But back to the exhibit. Wow. I took some time from work and hiked over, grateful in the end that the display is so small, as I was able to knock it off in twenty-five minutes. Two of the folios are actually owned by the Legislative Library here in Victoria!?! Each was opened to a relevant page but the print is so small that I couldn’t get close enough to read without concussing myself on the glass. No matter. It was enough to learn that Charles I owned a copy of the first folio at some point (not the one I saw, but one in the 1632 print run) and had scribbled notes in the margins while languishing in prison. And a fair number of copies of the third folio, while awaiting binding, were destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666, which makes copies of them extremely rare. Who knew?

 

If I stood and stared for long enough, my mind – as with the dialogue when spoken – began to interpret the words so that they made sense. I still can’t fathom why, in the 17^th century, the letter “s” was printed as “f”; it really does confuse things. And might have caused me a moment’s embarrassment had I laughed out loud over “Richard the Fecund” in the second folio’s table of contents. Just looking at the tiny print and the absurd spelling of so many words was humbling. So much of our daily vernacular was sprung from those pages. They say he had a vocabulary of over 8,000 words. I have no idea if that’s good or not, but it sure sounds impressive. However many words he had at his command, he made the most poetic use of them. He had an enviable grip on emotional manipulation of the audience, that’s for sure!

Sleepy Hollow

With Halloween lurking, it’s time to spook things up a bit. I’ll start by raving with confidence about my new favourite show – an updated version of Sleepy Hollow executive-produced by the writer-geniuses behind the rebooted Star Trek films. I watched the first episode, loved it, made Ter watch it on demand, she loved it, and now we’re both hooked. Count us among the loyal followers known collectively as “Sleepy Heads”. 

Normally, I’d say nothing. I have a habit of flipping out over things that the rest of the world doesn’t get, ergo any TV show in which I see potential will disappear in six weeks or less. In the days of Twin Peaks, NBC tried a forensic crime drama called Unsub that was simply too far ahead of its time and thus did not last. Ter and I were on board from the first episode, which is especially ironic since we watch none of the series so popular nowadays, most of which owe their success to that sick little show being the first of their kind: FBI forensics team investigates murder scenes and builds a profile of the killer, who is then hunted down and brought to justice. Sound familiar? It’s all the rage ... now. 

About ten years ago, a new spin on Tarzan was attempted. Sure, it was kinda hokey, but it was harmless fun and Travis Fimmell was yummy in the title loincloth. It should at least have played out its first season, but no, it was axed after six episodes. 

Sleepy Hollow, however, has already been signed to a second season, so either the rest of the TV viewing public is finally getting up to speed, or my standards are dropping. In any event, the actor playing Ichabod Crane – a comely fellow named Tom Mison – is simply superb, as is Nicole Beharie in the female lead. Their rapport developed quickly and is part of the fun in watching, but there’s other creepily cool stuff in the plot: witches and demons and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, all trying to bust through and destroy the world as per the Book of Revelation. It’s such a good show that we were vexed when the local station re-ran the pilot instead of a new episode this week, doubtless trying to snag those folks who are hearing about it from other people and going, “Sleepy what?” (Actually, it was to excuse regular viewers who care about the World Series – Fox is broadcasting the baseball finals, which means we’re screwed for next Monday, as well.) 

So if you missed it on the first round, now is your chance to find it on demand and get caught up before November 4. I dare you not to fall in love with Ichabod and his buttery British accent!

Auto Biography VII

"Judging a Character by His Wheels"

humble pie 2000

A horrifying development in my current short story. One of the sexiest characters I have ever written is driving a plastic Mustang. How can that be? Where did I go wrong? No one is perfect, but a plastic Mustang??? Kill me now.

I was barreling happily along, watching the story unfold as I typed. Feeling pretty good about it, too, as I attempt to apply some advice that Nicole posted over at The Paper Teapot a couple of weeks ago: “Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.—John Steinbeck.” She followed up with a bunch of his quotes which I will address anon, given that I loved every one of them, but at this point I was merely forging ahead with no end in sight.

I get through the first scene: the morning after with Cristal and her mystery lover. Then the second scene, still that morning. Then the third, where they must part and she realizes that he drove her home in her car the previous night. It made sense to me, so I went with it. Then the fourth and fifth scenes poured out and in the sixth scene, she spies him in the rearview mirror driving a … something. I couldn’t see what it was. I know it’s not the black Jeep; that belongs in another story. I was getting hung up on the details, though, and that directly countered Steinbeck’s advice, so I typed in “(his car)” and kept going.

Then I walked into the village, paying particular attention to the vehicles around me in hope that one would strike a chord. And, much to my chagrin, one did.

Since I am such a car fiend, I try to populate my stories with vehicles I myself would like to drive. I am also a Mustang snob. My wee sister, who drives a 2006, is constantly subjected to my scorn on the purity of the breed and how Ford totally missed when they tried to recreate the classic body style using modern technology—kind of like George Lucas continually reworking (and re-releasing) Star Wars because CDI is so much better now than what he had to work with in the 1970s. Because you can doesn’t always mean you should. (Good advice, Ru; maybe you should take it when you think of revamping some of your old writing!) So imagine my surprise when a shiny black convertible cruised along my sightline and it was no stretch to picture Cristal’s lover behind the wheel. Then I recognized the make and model, and my hair buzzed out like I’d been Tasered. Augh! A black plastic Mustang! Oh, noooooooo! Say it isn’t so! What does that say about the character? He’s supposed to be a hero, a real Joe Cool, a worthy recipient of my protagonist’s heart. Well, I’ll tell you … in truth I fear he’s a bit of a bad boy and Cristal might be in for some trouble with him, in which case the fake Pony is probably a righteous choice for him.

I want to warn Cristal that he may be bad news, but I’m just the scribe. She is trying to convince herself that she should feel something for him, given how intimate she has already been with him, so I have no idea how this is going to end. Well, I hope. I’ll have to keep writing and see …

Two Girls in Sneakers

We shook up the feng shui at home, yesterday. Ter’s been unable to sleep in her room for much of the past year because the neighbours’ 50-inch TV is situated below her bedroom, and since they are the loudest people we have ever lived with—ironic, given the stringent reference checks we went through specifically asking how noisy we are—it became easier (once we thought of it) to move her into my room rather than fight with them about it. It meant juggling a few cumbersome pieces of furniture. For two women in their fifties, losing approximately half a pound of muscle per year and each coping with her own particular brand of structural damage, it presented a daunting challenge. So daunting, in fact, that I began to suspect Ter of dawdling as the day wore on and we were still out and about on errands, with the challenge and our regularly scheduled laundry day still before us.

At three in the afternoon, however, we threw in the first load of laundry and got down to it. First task: shifting my computer desk, which weighs a ton and doesn’t bend around corners. Yep, it was heavy, but we did it. Negotiated it out one door, paused for breath. Hauled it a short way down the hall, paused for breath. Angled it through a second door and congratulated ourselves on not blowing out a vertebra. In comparison, the bed was easy, except for the staple that bit Ter when she gripped the boxspring in a delicate place. Three bookcases followed (one to the hallway and two to the new writing room), then my dresser was repositioned and Ter was able to bring in her night table and get her sleeping space in order. Yay, us!

Hooking up my computer and the stereo took a tad more finesse. I couldn’t remember how to connect the speakers though I had only just disconnected them, so I had to call in Ter. She also had to help with the peripherals on my writing rig, pushing the keyboard cord up through the back of the desk so I could grab it from above and plug it into the PC. That was one of the more comical moments, her pushing the wimpy cord up and me unable to grasp it from the top with my right hand. “Can you get it higher?” I asked, at which she crept forward a bit and promptly bumped her head against the keyboard tray. I felt the cord’s end brush the tips of my ring and little fingers but couldn’t bend them to catch it (they have false joints and don’t always go where I want them). “No!” I gasped, half-impaled on the desktop, “this is my three-fingered hand; move it to the left!” At which we both nearly collapsed into giggles. Three hours later, the whole project was done.

We work so well as a team, bouncing ideas off each other, giving and taking as required, discussing and debating, trying one thing then deciding on another and having everything fall into place better than we had imagined. We learned, by moving twice in two years, that a room will tell you where things ought to be placed; you start with a plan and end up with what works best. We moved into this suite believing that each in her own space would be beneficial for us both; thanks to the self-absorbed folks below us, it’s proved not to be the case—at least, not for now. Now, the room-that-was-once-mine is designated for sleeping only; there’s no technology at all save for the evil clock-radio, and the boom box that plays new age white noise during the night … and the feeling in the room is already calmer and more peaceful. I found that strange, given that my energy alone occupied it until yesterday. I’d half-expected to feel as if something’s been taken away, but if something has, I can’t say what it might be. The space is large enough to accommodate each of our personalities without clashing. In fact, I think Ter’s brought a serenity that my red-and-gold “Lannister pad” lacked. She’s much happier now that she knows she can spend the whole night in her own bed instead of starting on the sofa and relocating when the TV goes off downstairs.

And I still have a room in which I can write undisturbed. Win-win!

We have been a team since 1984. Over three decades, we have accomplished great things. I still recall her leaning against the wall outside our new apartment in 1993, having just hefted a Xerox box full of books up 56 spiraled stairs. She was panting a little, flushed and glowing as only a fair-skinned Finn can make attractive, when she looked at me and grinned. “If this doesn’t prove we’re possibility thinkers, nothing will!”

Thirty years later, whenever we pull off a coup like we pulled off yesterday, I am reminded of the birthday card she gave me in 2005. I don’t remember what we had conquered that year, but she was pumped about something when she wrote the card: “This is the perfect card for us! Look what we’ve been able to accomplish this year. Just imagine what we can do in the next year! Are you up for it?”

There’s nothing two girls in sneakers can’t do.

“Four Legs and a Tale (Part X)”

Sian is unprepared, but not surprised, especially when her method becomes clear. Kev is with her. By asking for him at the hut, Roanne unwittingly revealed the way to find their hiding place. Kev sees the girl on Sian’s far side and blurts a few heartfelt words in Lirosi. Sian does not need to speak the language to understand an apology. Standing at his shoulder, Roanne assures Kev that he is forgiven. Joel, for once, is in agreement.

Alarice ignores the children. Her brown eyes roam Sian from head to tail. “I had to be sure it was really you,” she says, softly.

Sian is silent and wary. She sounds sincere—and she may well be, having successfully run him to ground. His main concern is to protect the children; he would be willing to talk if he had something to say, but he left off speaking to Alarice after she put herself between him and his brother.

She sees her husband’s name cross his mind. “Derrick has been distraught since you disappeared. Every day, he leads the search party and comes home despondent.”

Sian can’t imagine that. Derrick is moody, but disinclined to wallowing. He is more likely to come home in a shivering temper than deepening despair—and Sian has no doubt that he has tried more than once to wring the truth from his wife.

A disturbing thought occurs. He looks toward his sutured hip with a sudden, savage understanding. His widened eyes find Alarice once more. She meets them with an icy smile. “I’d rather that he find you dead,” she says.

“ ‘Dead’?” he echoes, horribly amused. He spreads his hands to encompass his altered form. “Like this?”

“Dead is dead,” Alarice replies. “If I cannot have you, my beautiful Blais, I’ll see that no one can.”

Before she is finished speaking, she is calling the power she used to fool Derrick into wedding her; the same power she used to make her own brother vanish and later turned on Blais. The air thickens about her, blurring her features. A cold wind swirls through the cave. Kev is rigid with terror and deaf to the sound of his name. Joel calls to him, but Alarice’s rising magic has him immobilized. Roanne moves instead. Sian swings to shield her with his quarters, but even as he means to protect her, he realizes that Alarice will not stop at killing him. She will take the children, too. She must, if she hopes to preserve her secret.

Sian decides. He has no weapon but his hooves and his strength; against dark magic, his effort may be wasted. As he charges the sorceress, the children scatter. Alarice throws up her hands, her voice raised in pagan entreaty. The muscle stiffens in Sian’s legs, in his chest and back and shoulders. Each stride becomes as ponderous as running through honey, slow and sticky. In contrast, she is as quick as a lizard’s tongue. A dark sparkling orb blinks into her palm. She flings it at Sian. It strikes him full in the chest and sends him high on his hind legs, front hooves flailing. A girl screams. He rears impossibly high, teetering on his hooves, twisting to catch his balance, and falls heavily backward. His chest is numb. Beneath the skin and muscle and bone, his heart is ominously still. 

* * * 

Roanne knocks Kev from his feet. They spill together, rolling with the force of her assault, from the cave’s entrance. She cannot think of Sian. She can only hope that between them, she and the manhorse have sufficiently distracted Lady Alarice. If they have not, then Joel is dead and she must face the witch alone.

She knows what she must do. Kev grabs at her ankle. She screams at him to let her go. He holds on, yelling that she’ll be killed. She doesn’t care. Her brother is in there with Lady Alarice; she has to go, she has to try—

Inside the cave, Joel looses an agonized howl. Roanne kicks Kev in the face and scrambles free when his grip gives on her ankle. Behind her, she hears Da shout in alarm and thinks here too late as she lunges through the cave’s rocky maw.

The feeble fire has gone out. Roanne cannot pause to let her eyes adjust; she races blindly and promptly trips over something she knows must be a body. Horror springs from not knowing whose it is. “Joel!” she cries in a panic. “Joel, where are you?”

“Here,” he says, from a little way to the side.

She peers hard in that direction. Shapes are forming in the gloom; she spies her brother’s face, pale and serious in its corona of blacker-than-black curls. “You screamed.”

“I had to touch the arrow,” he replies, matter-of-factly.

Her eye moves reluctantly to the thing that tripped her. Faint light glimmers in pale hair and glows on moon-coloured silk. Lady Alarice is sprawled on the dirt floor, impaled on her own poisoned shaft. Tears spring unbidden to Roanne’s eyes. She and Sian have succeeded. Joel was able to dig up the magicked arrow while the witch was distracted.

“How?” Kev wants to know. He and the children’s parents crowd in the cave entrance. Sunlight flows around them, floating Lady Alarice in a benign white pool.

“Magic destroys the one who calls it,” Joel says, solemnly.

“But she used it on others.”

For once, Roanne’s brother tries to be patient with the manor oaf. “You don’t use magic on yourself, Kev.”

Roanne’s throat aches. Beyond the pool where Lady Alarice lies, the manhorse is a motionless tangle of golden limbs and flaxen curls removed from the reach of the light. She cannot bring herself to venture closer, yet she cannot make herself look away. All she can do is sit and stare and wait for the tears to take her.

Da is demanding answers from Joel, who behaves as if he slays witches with their own magic every day. Kev hunkers at Roanne’s side and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Roanne. I thought she was going to kill you and I … well, I mean … I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t, you know … ” He trails off when he sees that she isn’t listening. He looks at Joel instead. “It was her along, wasn’t it? It wasn’t Lord Derrick at all, was it?”

Joel shakes his head. He quickly hops up to get in the way when Da steps toward the manhorse’s body. Roanne is roused as well. Without regaining her feet, she throws herself between Sian and her father. “He saved us,” she declares, daring Da to do any of the hundred things she fears Da might do.

His tone is firm. “Let me by, child.”

Joel signs reassurance. He’s told Da all he knows—which is probably more than Roanne knows, given her brother’s possession of the sight—and all Da wants is to get a better look at the creature who sacrificed himself for Da’s children.

Roanne steps aside, but she can’t look behind. She can’t bear to see him dead and cold. It’s easier to look at Lady Alarice. She was always cold. Now she’s just dead.

She hears a voice remarkably like her own though she’s unaware of speaking. “He was Lord Derrick’s brother.”

“Da knows that, Roanne,” Joel whispers. “Kev told him.”

She looks at Kev, who is still hunkered where she had been sitting. Smiling is out of place in this moment, so the smile he offers is a weak one. Roanne feels an answering smile, just as weak, on her own lips. When she gets past the grief of losing Sian, she’ll think about Kev’s intention and realize that he feels as deeply for her as she feels for him. Maybe between them, and with Mam’s help, they might persuade Da to let them marry. They won’t be old enough to wed for some years, of course, but they’ll need that long to bring her father around.

The first tear falls. It trickles silently over Roanne’s cheek and settles in the corner of her smile for Kev. She is startled from shedding a second by a jubilant shout from her brother. “Roanne, Sian is moving! He’s moving!” 

To be continued …

 

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

Auto Biography VI

“Black Jeep”

He drives a black Jeep, a hardtop Renegade or Rubicon that resembles the thousand other black hardtop Jeeps cruising around town. I don’t know the year; Jeeps look pretty much the same no matter how old they may be. His has chunky tires and an impressive stereo—I hear Pearl Jam playing when heʼs idling at a stoplight.

He has curly dark hair and the lanky grace of a hockey player, slightly at odds with solid ground but a guaranteed swan on the ice. Heʼs handsome, of course, with bright dark eyes and an irrepressible grin. No slave to fashion, heʼs usually in jeans and a button t-shirt. His style hints at a love of the outdoors, of hiking in the wilderness or windsurfing along the sea coast. Heʼs a nature boy, tricky to capture and trickier to tame, but like all wild creatures, if you are quiet and bide your time, he will come.

I donʼt know who he is, but I want to find out, so Iʼll be quiet and bide my time, and one day, he will come.

Feed a Cold

... sniffle ... sniffle ...

Why is it called a cold when the only thing "cold" about it is the menthol effect of the Vaporub smeared under my stuffy nose?

My head is full of wet cement, my skin is fevered, my eyes and nose are dripping like wonky faucets, and my chest is smoking like a peat fire. It started on Sunday with the ominous scratchy throat. By Monday I was in full-blown sniffling self-pity, and am only slightly more miserable today than I will be tomorrow.

So why is it called a cold? And why can’t somebody cure it? I don’t get sick that often, otherwise I’d be tougher about a stupid little virus … you’d think.

Nights are the worst—and why is that??? Why do the symptoms return with a vengeance when the sun sets? I’m too hot, I’m too cold, I can’t breathe, my throat hurts, whine whine whine …

I will happily, however, tout the healing properties of green tea, won ton soup, chicken soup, and my wonderful Ter, who has supplied me with everything designed to help me feel less like death warmed over. The one thing she couldn’t make happen was a Flyer win last night—they lost at home to Vancouver, and while I snagged 4 pool points from the 3-2 score, I still wanted to shoot myself.

Wah.

Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo?

More care to stay than will to go ...

Romeo and Juliet are like vampires: a permanent fixture in popular consciousness who lie dormant for a while then, when the cycle comes full circle, are revived once more. The latest version of Shakespeare’s homage to star-crossed love is adapted by Downton Abbey’s Julian Fellowes and produced in part by Swarovski Entertainment—the crystal people. Ter and I saw it on the weekend and yep, it’s a gem.

I’m a big Shakespeare fan, but not such a snob that I have issues with a writer tweaking the lingo. “Adaptation” suggests that a script will differ somewhat from the original, and what tinkering Fellowes did with the dialogue worked fine for me. The scenery was stunning, the plot true to form, and the lovers were indeed young enough if not to be actual teens then to be taken for them.

My benchmark production is Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 version with Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey—that film boiled over with the tangled emotions of new love blooming amid ancestral hate. This one fell a little sort in that regard despite some serious smouldering by the fabulously hot-tempered Tybalt and the poetic portrayal of Romeo himself. The kid who played him made this movie more than a pretty bauble. He was Romeo: the sweet, ardent, honorable fool of Fortune. The guy who played Friar Laurence was equally good.

No complaint about anyone else, either. They all wielded Will’s words with relative ease. No society ever spoke in iambic pentameter, so it was refreshing to hear the iconic lines delivered with an everyday rhythm that made them sound natural. The one thing I would change—and Ter didn’t notice it, so I may be picking nits—was an overused soundtrack. There were scenes where the music was unnecessary and even, so I thought, intrusive. That said, this is easily the most beautiful version of the story I’ve ever seen, and I’m watching for more of Douglas Booth (Romeo) in future.

Zeffirelli’s masterpiece still trumps them all, and Baz Luhrmann’s modern-day version with Leonardo diCaprio and Clare Danes sits firmly in second place, but for sheer gorgeousness as well as a decent effort, this one is a hair more than too flattering sweet to be substantial.