Teenager’s bedrooms were forbidding places. For Francis, the tiny quad space she had called her own for the past school-year was really no exception. An aftermath of books and papers littered every conceivable surface save for a single swath of bare floor cut through the center. A terra cotta bowl containing a sickly potted plant teetered precariously on the edge of a particle board desk, bowed beneath the constant weight of Lewis Spencer, Taliesin, and Robert Graves. The light bulb hadn’t been changed in months and with its baked-on coating of dust, did little to brighten the room.
With little rhyme or reason to the mess, it was strange that one book would stand out among them all. It did not sit in any particular place of honor nor was the damaged cover particularly compelling. Its plain leather bindings contained no gold-leaf in fancy script, no bright dyes, no artistic renderings. Deep wear and decay threatened its slowly curling corners and the tell-tale marks of water damage had yellowed the edges of unprotected pages. Still, the tattered book seemed the center-piece of all around it, as though by its mere presence in the reality of the room something was irrevocably different.
Franky sat silently at the desk, her feet lazily balancing on an oversized copy of Coleridge’s Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Without realizing it, over the past hour or so, her brow had begun to furrow, a small pinch appearing over her nose. Her mind had been occupied with thoughts of that very book well through lunch. In fact, it so distracted every waking moment that feigning a headache in order to be sent to her dorm for the afternoon became the only viable solution.
Something wasn’t right.
Books were nothing more than bound paper and cloth, their inked words just snapshots into moments of brilliant thought and discovery. Each was printed or penned to be quickly hidden away on shelves and in drawers. Biased ramblings, finely woven words, and masterful invectives came together to make what was ultimately a dead and meaningless object until another lifted it from its shelf and breathed vital breath into it once again.
But what of the dying tome slowing turning to dust on the edge of a school desk? How could it be said that this inanimate weight needed no other mind to give it life, that the words were the consistency of sheet music and its poetry fluid without interpretation. What of pages that were not truly pages, but thin, translucent, sheets through which spoke a living consciousness?
This really wasn’t helping. Maybe she just needed to get out more.
So much for the philosophies of a 16 year-old girl.
Frustrated, Franky tapped at the plastic Excedrin bottle in her hand. At this rate, she might as well go back to her Sharpie, filling duct-taped notebooks with angry rants for all the good it was doing her. Absently, she pulled the cell phone from her pocket and rifled through what few messages remained, the artificial blue light from the screen giving her pace face a deathly glow.
It looked like Mis was going to be late, Brianna was having some issue with the athletic supplies locker and if she acted now she could be the next 10 million dollar winner.
So why did she suddenly smell flowers?
The War of Words
Moderator: Student Council
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FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
-
FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
She blinked once.
Then again.
It was still there.
The chair creaked as it slowly righted from the steep angle it had been forced into. Carefully, Franky made it back into an upright position, her eyes riveted to the object in front of her.
It was a flower. A tiny, six-petal, white flower.
While the idea of something odd growing in her room was nothing new to her (lord knows she needed to clean behind those bookshelves more than once a year), the fact was that this particular growing thing was blooming from between the pages of the book, where she was certain nothing had been only a few minutes before.
Perfect, delicate, and curling out from between 300 pages of vellum, the little plant seemed almost comically on the run from the menace of a pressed flower book.
With one finger, she gingerly poked it. Nothing.
Franky carefully lifted the book, half expecting to see that it had rooted to the desk. When she discovered it hadn't, she cautiously examined each cracked edge and fraying binding, the flower bobbing weakly with each movement. Still nothing.
Sorely lacking in other ideas, she furiously chewed her lower lip before peeling back the heavy pages and laying the book open at the point of its living bookmark. Apparently, the flower was not only growing out of the book, it was, in fact, growing out of the very paper. Tiny, green, and purple roots formed wispy capillaries throughout the entire page. Bright-green leaves, embedded along the main stem, could be seen just breaking their buds before it reached the outer edge.
The young witch peered closer in the dim light, hastily switching her desk lamp on in an effort to make out what looked like patterns in the roots that laced through the page.
Not patterns….words.
She spit a lock of fuchsia hair out of her mouth. The words were jumbled and splashed across the page, some obviously in Gaelic, others in what might have been Latin, still more passages in unreadable languages. But there was some strange sense to the writing, a logical set up to it that she could feel tickling the edge of her mind.
Throwing the room into chaos she scrambled for several books at once; books on Celtic druid-bards and hidden poetry, Yeats and the Hanes Taliesin, the Cad Goddeu, and Latin Paleography. With grim determination she hunted through page after page of wordy analysis and academic rigor, gleaning out bits and pieces she hastily scrawled on pieces of Post-It notes stuck to her sleeves. The Tree Alphabet, the formula for disassembling druidic poetry into its hidden passages, rhyme counting charts, tables showing the relationships between magic syllables and the trees that represented them, and all manner of confusing Medieval Latin scripts and variations.
In two and a half hours, she had the first line.
The War of Words and the Fate of the Sons of Muirthemne
Then again.
It was still there.
The chair creaked as it slowly righted from the steep angle it had been forced into. Carefully, Franky made it back into an upright position, her eyes riveted to the object in front of her.
It was a flower. A tiny, six-petal, white flower.
While the idea of something odd growing in her room was nothing new to her (lord knows she needed to clean behind those bookshelves more than once a year), the fact was that this particular growing thing was blooming from between the pages of the book, where she was certain nothing had been only a few minutes before.
Perfect, delicate, and curling out from between 300 pages of vellum, the little plant seemed almost comically on the run from the menace of a pressed flower book.
With one finger, she gingerly poked it. Nothing.
Franky carefully lifted the book, half expecting to see that it had rooted to the desk. When she discovered it hadn't, she cautiously examined each cracked edge and fraying binding, the flower bobbing weakly with each movement. Still nothing.
Sorely lacking in other ideas, she furiously chewed her lower lip before peeling back the heavy pages and laying the book open at the point of its living bookmark. Apparently, the flower was not only growing out of the book, it was, in fact, growing out of the very paper. Tiny, green, and purple roots formed wispy capillaries throughout the entire page. Bright-green leaves, embedded along the main stem, could be seen just breaking their buds before it reached the outer edge.
The young witch peered closer in the dim light, hastily switching her desk lamp on in an effort to make out what looked like patterns in the roots that laced through the page.
Not patterns….words.
She spit a lock of fuchsia hair out of her mouth. The words were jumbled and splashed across the page, some obviously in Gaelic, others in what might have been Latin, still more passages in unreadable languages. But there was some strange sense to the writing, a logical set up to it that she could feel tickling the edge of her mind.
Throwing the room into chaos she scrambled for several books at once; books on Celtic druid-bards and hidden poetry, Yeats and the Hanes Taliesin, the Cad Goddeu, and Latin Paleography. With grim determination she hunted through page after page of wordy analysis and academic rigor, gleaning out bits and pieces she hastily scrawled on pieces of Post-It notes stuck to her sleeves. The Tree Alphabet, the formula for disassembling druidic poetry into its hidden passages, rhyme counting charts, tables showing the relationships between magic syllables and the trees that represented them, and all manner of confusing Medieval Latin scripts and variations.
In two and a half hours, she had the first line.
The War of Words and the Fate of the Sons of Muirthemne
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FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
Of all the trees that are in the wood, the Holly-Oak bears the crown. But in the time of the Trial in the Court of Vowels did men weep, and bewail their lot, and curse Muirthemne with many curses for introducing Tinne into the family of letters. For it was its body that tyrants saw as a model, its shape on which they enacted their vile engines.
She rubbed her eyes, carefully turning the brittle page. Piles of notes littered the desk and chair as Franky continued to deconstruct each section as she came to it.
The Holly-Oak, she knew that one; the eighth tree of the Tree Alphabet and sacred to many ancient cultures as the immortal Oak King. The Trial in the Court of Vowels…she pondered that one. It had something to do with ancient spellings and pronunciations of magic syllables; that vowels were the representations of natural law, but her caffeine-addled brain couldn’t seem to offer much more. And Tinne? The cross-shaped rune, the letter T, and T is for Trouble, trouble is about what she was going to be in…oh yeah trouble…right here in River City…with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool…
“GAH!!” With an unceremonious thud, Franky fruitlessly beat her forehead against the desk. Throwing her hands up over her head, she mumbled incoherently into the stacks of paper she had now managed to stick to her face.
“I give up, ok? Uncle! Uncle!....mmmmmph.”
Somewhere near the bed, her alarm clocked ticked away, oblivious. Slowly, hair tousled into her eyes and Post-It notes in her bangs, she looked up blearily from the desk.
2:59 am
“Unbelievable.” Plopping backwards into her chair, the pink-haired goth sagged.
‘Damn’, she thought,’ Twelve hours and the best I have is a tree, a literary guessing game, and the letter T.’
Careless of her thick make-up, she irritably scrubbed at her face. “It’s like the Sesame Street episode from hell.”
“Beth.”
Franky’s head shot up from her hands, eyes wide, ears perked. Someone had just spoken. Somewhere in the darkness of the room, she was sure she had heard a voice…..either that she was beginning to have auditory hallucinations, which was possible given the situation.
Her eyes scanned the books in the dim light of the desk lamp. She could barely contain the chill that swept through her as her panicked mind quickly sifted though defensive spells.
“Beth.”
The voice again. High and reedy sounding. The girl stood, nearly knocking over the precarious mess of books assembled in front of her. She turned, trying to take in as much of the room as she could at once.
“Who’s there?! Where are you?!” Her voice was beginning to quiver.
“Right where you left me.”
Franky froze where she stood, her gaze drifting up from the desk, to the books, to the terra cotta bowl and its single, sickly, inhabitant. The foot-tall plant now stood upright, two small, leafy, stalks on either side of the stem folded in the manner of arms, a seed pod and petals forming a strange head and face with neither eyes nor mouth. The plant swayed slightly, the movement obviously of its own will and not by means of a draft.
She stuttered uncontrollably, “W-w-w-w-what the f-f-f…”
The plant shifted, unsettling the loose soil of the bowl. “Please don’t start that again. It’s not helping.”
That was it. She was certain of it now. Francis Cross had officially lost her marbles.
“I…guh…feh….ugh…I mean….I-I-I’m Franky…umm…Francis. My name’s … not ….uhh…not Beth.”
She could swear she heard the damn thing sigh.
“I know your name, well-known in certain circles. Beth is the first letter of the alphabet. You should start there.”
Francis Cross promptly passed out.
She rubbed her eyes, carefully turning the brittle page. Piles of notes littered the desk and chair as Franky continued to deconstruct each section as she came to it.
The Holly-Oak, she knew that one; the eighth tree of the Tree Alphabet and sacred to many ancient cultures as the immortal Oak King. The Trial in the Court of Vowels…she pondered that one. It had something to do with ancient spellings and pronunciations of magic syllables; that vowels were the representations of natural law, but her caffeine-addled brain couldn’t seem to offer much more. And Tinne? The cross-shaped rune, the letter T, and T is for Trouble, trouble is about what she was going to be in…oh yeah trouble…right here in River City…with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool…
“GAH!!” With an unceremonious thud, Franky fruitlessly beat her forehead against the desk. Throwing her hands up over her head, she mumbled incoherently into the stacks of paper she had now managed to stick to her face.
“I give up, ok? Uncle! Uncle!....mmmmmph.”
Somewhere near the bed, her alarm clocked ticked away, oblivious. Slowly, hair tousled into her eyes and Post-It notes in her bangs, she looked up blearily from the desk.
2:59 am
“Unbelievable.” Plopping backwards into her chair, the pink-haired goth sagged.
‘Damn’, she thought,’ Twelve hours and the best I have is a tree, a literary guessing game, and the letter T.’
Careless of her thick make-up, she irritably scrubbed at her face. “It’s like the Sesame Street episode from hell.”
“Beth.”
Franky’s head shot up from her hands, eyes wide, ears perked. Someone had just spoken. Somewhere in the darkness of the room, she was sure she had heard a voice…..either that she was beginning to have auditory hallucinations, which was possible given the situation.
Her eyes scanned the books in the dim light of the desk lamp. She could barely contain the chill that swept through her as her panicked mind quickly sifted though defensive spells.
“Beth.”
The voice again. High and reedy sounding. The girl stood, nearly knocking over the precarious mess of books assembled in front of her. She turned, trying to take in as much of the room as she could at once.
“Who’s there?! Where are you?!” Her voice was beginning to quiver.
“Right where you left me.”
Franky froze where she stood, her gaze drifting up from the desk, to the books, to the terra cotta bowl and its single, sickly, inhabitant. The foot-tall plant now stood upright, two small, leafy, stalks on either side of the stem folded in the manner of arms, a seed pod and petals forming a strange head and face with neither eyes nor mouth. The plant swayed slightly, the movement obviously of its own will and not by means of a draft.
She stuttered uncontrollably, “W-w-w-w-what the f-f-f…”
The plant shifted, unsettling the loose soil of the bowl. “Please don’t start that again. It’s not helping.”
That was it. She was certain of it now. Francis Cross had officially lost her marbles.
“I…guh…feh….ugh…I mean….I-I-I’m Franky…umm…Francis. My name’s … not ….uhh…not Beth.”
She could swear she heard the damn thing sigh.
“I know your name, well-known in certain circles. Beth is the first letter of the alphabet. You should start there.”
Francis Cross promptly passed out.
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FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
It wasn’t until dust-grey rays of the early morning sun began their trek across the dorm room carpet did Franky realize she was awake. The smell of old coffee grounds and sneaker rubber, a scent native to carpet, assaulted her nostrils. She groaned and slowly, with several aching joint complaints, managed to pull herself into a sitting position. A cursory glance around the room revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Books everywhere? Check. Furniture in the right places? Check. CDs and stereo? Check. Possibly hallucinogenic plant in clay bowl not moving and talking? Check.
“Ugh.” She could feel the hair on the right side of her head sticking straight out, bits of carpet fiber and lint peppering her face like so much confetti.
“What a night.” She mumbled to no one in particular. “That was the dumbest nightmare I’ve ever had.”
Minutes later found her hauling several towels and a bag of bath products down the hallway and into the showers, the surly look on her face pre-empting any positive greetings. It look the better part of 45 minutes before she returned, clean and dressed, and still convinced that last night’s incident was little more than the effects of sleep deprivation mixed with occult texts and one too many late night screenings of Labyrinth.
Flopping onto her bed, Franky began digging though her backpack in preparation for the day. Her mental checklist ran out somewhere between Sister Moltar’s English paper being due and Dr. Merchant’s chemistry quiz. She did, however, find her missing box of Nag Champa incense wedged between Shakespeare and Intermediate Applied Chemistry. At least that explained why she kept getting flashbacks of Tsoo parlors every time she had to balance a formula. Unfortunately, this meant that her World History textbook was officially missing.
“Dammit.” She snapped, tossing the backpack on the floor and hopping to her feet. “Where the hell did I put it…”
Rummaging through the nearest stack of books, Franky didn’t bother to stop herself from cursing through each pile as books slid every which way.
“Under the bed.”
That voice.
Franky’s pink mopped head came bolt upright as she whirled around to face the desk.
She took a deep breath.
“No way.” She exhaled.
The plant, still imprisoned in the meager terra-cotta bowl, carefully rearranged itself; leaves for arms, seed-pod and petal head, stalk bent slightly to the side. The petals near the head flexed slightly.
“I don’t think I need to dignify that.”
“You’re talking.”
“Yes, we established that earlier this morning.”
“But….I….ummm….ok….Hi?”
The plant tilted marginally to the left. Franky, jaw still slack, slowly reached out for the desk chair and lowered herself into it.
“I…*cough*….Jesus…I mean, talking plant…ok…I’ve seen stranger things but… I’m sorry, you’ve been sitting on my desk for, like, six months. What made you able to talk? Did I do something I didn’t know? I mean, I realize things got a little hairy a few months ago with that Fly spell and the miniature bat wings but…”
“I could always speak.” The plant cut her off.
“You’re not one of those evil devouring plant things from…”
“No.”
“Uh…oh, ok. Well then…why now?”
The seed pod curled outward. “Now….I have something to tell you.”
“Ugh.” She could feel the hair on the right side of her head sticking straight out, bits of carpet fiber and lint peppering her face like so much confetti.
“What a night.” She mumbled to no one in particular. “That was the dumbest nightmare I’ve ever had.”
Minutes later found her hauling several towels and a bag of bath products down the hallway and into the showers, the surly look on her face pre-empting any positive greetings. It look the better part of 45 minutes before she returned, clean and dressed, and still convinced that last night’s incident was little more than the effects of sleep deprivation mixed with occult texts and one too many late night screenings of Labyrinth.
Flopping onto her bed, Franky began digging though her backpack in preparation for the day. Her mental checklist ran out somewhere between Sister Moltar’s English paper being due and Dr. Merchant’s chemistry quiz. She did, however, find her missing box of Nag Champa incense wedged between Shakespeare and Intermediate Applied Chemistry. At least that explained why she kept getting flashbacks of Tsoo parlors every time she had to balance a formula. Unfortunately, this meant that her World History textbook was officially missing.
“Dammit.” She snapped, tossing the backpack on the floor and hopping to her feet. “Where the hell did I put it…”
Rummaging through the nearest stack of books, Franky didn’t bother to stop herself from cursing through each pile as books slid every which way.
“Under the bed.”
That voice.
Franky’s pink mopped head came bolt upright as she whirled around to face the desk.
She took a deep breath.
“No way.” She exhaled.
The plant, still imprisoned in the meager terra-cotta bowl, carefully rearranged itself; leaves for arms, seed-pod and petal head, stalk bent slightly to the side. The petals near the head flexed slightly.
“I don’t think I need to dignify that.”
“You’re talking.”
“Yes, we established that earlier this morning.”
“But….I….ummm….ok….Hi?”
The plant tilted marginally to the left. Franky, jaw still slack, slowly reached out for the desk chair and lowered herself into it.
“I…*cough*….Jesus…I mean, talking plant…ok…I’ve seen stranger things but… I’m sorry, you’ve been sitting on my desk for, like, six months. What made you able to talk? Did I do something I didn’t know? I mean, I realize things got a little hairy a few months ago with that Fly spell and the miniature bat wings but…”
“I could always speak.” The plant cut her off.
“You’re not one of those evil devouring plant things from…”
“No.”
“Uh…oh, ok. Well then…why now?”
The seed pod curled outward. “Now….I have something to tell you.”
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FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
If anyone would have told Franky, two weeks ago, it would be the benevolence of a sickly, yellowing, plant that brought her deeper into the mysteries of magic, she would have laughed herself sick. It was more likely that she’d be entertaining an accusation that she simply rolled the wilting thing into her cigarettes, thus explaining her sudden “deeper understanding” of the text before her. It only made sense, given how she’d ended up at St. Joe’s in the first place but somehow the idea of burning a living thing to suit social tension didn’t sit well with her historical sensibilities. Besides, she doubted talking plants were highly rated for their hallucinogenic effects and anyway, she’d still managed to convince herself she’d quit.
Unfortunately, there was nothing she wanted more right now than a cigarette.
To hear the plant, now nicknamed Herb, tell it, you’d think Franky had spent the better half of her study time making paper animals with the Muppets for all the headway she was making. Then again, no one would hear the plant tell it anyway. It wasn’t long before it was revealed that Herb never spoke in the presence of anyone else. For that matter, it didn’t even utter so much as an irritable grunt whenever she was on her cell or at her computer and no amount of cajoling or threats made any difference.
She had finally started watering him again, however, and a little Windex to the dorm’s tiny windows had definitely perked him up. How she had even determined it *was* a him, in the first place, still wasn’t clear. But she wasn’t any further into the book than she had been three days ago. The dense lyrics and multi-lingual prose were proving to be harder than she had originally anticipated. Just as she thought she was beginning to understand a part of it, Herb would raise questions she hadn’t even considered or just flat out destroy her argument with a kind of in-depth analysis she couldn’t imagine the little weed possessed. Even though Herb insisted he was not a ‘weed’, Franky wasn’t entirely convinced. She wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to be, short of some kind of prairie grass come decorative landscaping. Sadly, a two-hour online search through botany websites hadn’t yielded anything useful.
It was late in the day when Franky finally dragged herself back to her room. Between her semi-permanent state of detention for the salad incident and cheer practice, she didn’t have much room left-over for late nights with a humorless house plant. Frankly, with the mounting number of incidents involving out-of-control vegetation in her life, she was starting to become sketchy around plants in general. The day before, Franky had found herself purposely avoiding vegetarian friends, lest she try to ensure that their food was, indeed, dead, with a single strike from a well aimed fork. Not something that goes well around that crowd, really. Lately, she’d even been taking lunch on the stone benches outside the library instead of out in the quad beneath the Wingra Tree.
Who knew, maybe that could talk too.
She looked blearily around her room, backpack slowly sliding to the floor with an exhausted thud. Toeing the door shut she wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked over at Herb.
“Honey…..I’m home.” Came her less-than-enthusiastic greeting.
“You’re late.”
“Yeah….well…..s’way it goes.”
“If you’re going to one day speak the Witch Willow tongue, you really must apply yourself more.”
“Pssshh…apply schmapply….you’re starting to sound like my teach…..wait…what was that?”
Franky stared across the room as dirty rays of the late afternoon sun filtered through the streaked window, forming a halo of airborne particles around the plant and bowl. Again, she thought she almost heard the plant sigh.
“Then sit down, Francis, and let me tell you the story as it was told to me. This is the story of the night the book came to be. The night the old magic was not lost.”
The Story of the Book: Part 1
Christmas Eve. The ruins of the old church were nearly impossible to distinguish from the fog. The grey haze hadn’t lifted in days and the denizens of the nearby Township regarded their sanctuary with terror. The haggard priest paid the fog little mind, pausing only momentarily to wipe the accumulated moisture from his brow. His destination, what remained of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart, sat at an odd angle from the ground. During the night, it had slid from its foundations nearly fifteen feet but had remained remarkably intact. He passed through the stilted entrance, beneath the ruined statues of saints, making his way swiftly from the narthex, across the sanctuary, and into the ambulatory. Thick roots and branches now covered what had once been even blocks and clean column lines, forcing the solid architecture into dangerous arches and precarious curves. Hidden behind a small pile of unremarkable stones was what had once been the door to a confessional. Its small wooden carvings scrubbed off by the corrosive magic of the invading Forest and the varnish already showing signs of surrender. A brief backward glance into the unseeing eyes of oblivious saints and he gave the door a shove.
The twisted tunnel, filled with tree roots and the fresh scent of earth, ran from the old confessional and entwined its way through more than twelve feet of rock and rubble, rolling and turning in a macabre maze. From time to time, strange chalk drawings of a spoked wheel marked a turn or adorned a slight flaw in the walls. The priest kept moving, the pain in his side was quickly becoming untenable. His hand came forward to steady his steps and came away from the wall slick and warm. He glanced down; it was a lot of blood.
The priest let out a sound almost like a growl; he had been hit worse than he had thought. The shrieking goblins and forest fae, now long since having vanished into the infernal fog, had caught him before he had meant them to. He suppressed a chill and kept moving.
Within the hour, the hearth fire on the far side of the chamber, which had once served as a church office, was giving a welcome glow to the cold stones. The carefully applied herbs to his side crunched and crinkled when he moved, but the priest finally sat back without a wince, the pain was nearly gone. He tilted his head to examine the small rolls of paper spread out on the table before him. They were spattered in blood and soil but were still readable and for that he thanked any god who cared to be listening. The room was silent all but for a heavy wooden clock, ticking its life away in the corner. Soon, the Forest would take that too, molding its sturdy boards and spinning gears into a chaotic image of its former self. Slowly, he unfurled the first of the rolls, laying them out carefully each in turn. It was a letter, or at least, what remained of one, and the tattered remains of a few torn manuscript pages. He squinted in the dim light trying to make out the words on the ruined paper.
I have been in many shapes, before I attained a congenial form.
I have been the vengeful blade of a sword, but never these words so gently heard.
I have been banished far, face upturned to shining star.
I have been a light in a lantern, but not left more than a year to burn.
I have been a bridge for passing, over three-score rivers and ten.
I have been a word in a book, and now I am that book again.
Unfortunately, there was nothing she wanted more right now than a cigarette.
To hear the plant, now nicknamed Herb, tell it, you’d think Franky had spent the better half of her study time making paper animals with the Muppets for all the headway she was making. Then again, no one would hear the plant tell it anyway. It wasn’t long before it was revealed that Herb never spoke in the presence of anyone else. For that matter, it didn’t even utter so much as an irritable grunt whenever she was on her cell or at her computer and no amount of cajoling or threats made any difference.
She had finally started watering him again, however, and a little Windex to the dorm’s tiny windows had definitely perked him up. How she had even determined it *was* a him, in the first place, still wasn’t clear. But she wasn’t any further into the book than she had been three days ago. The dense lyrics and multi-lingual prose were proving to be harder than she had originally anticipated. Just as she thought she was beginning to understand a part of it, Herb would raise questions she hadn’t even considered or just flat out destroy her argument with a kind of in-depth analysis she couldn’t imagine the little weed possessed. Even though Herb insisted he was not a ‘weed’, Franky wasn’t entirely convinced. She wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to be, short of some kind of prairie grass come decorative landscaping. Sadly, a two-hour online search through botany websites hadn’t yielded anything useful.
It was late in the day when Franky finally dragged herself back to her room. Between her semi-permanent state of detention for the salad incident and cheer practice, she didn’t have much room left-over for late nights with a humorless house plant. Frankly, with the mounting number of incidents involving out-of-control vegetation in her life, she was starting to become sketchy around plants in general. The day before, Franky had found herself purposely avoiding vegetarian friends, lest she try to ensure that their food was, indeed, dead, with a single strike from a well aimed fork. Not something that goes well around that crowd, really. Lately, she’d even been taking lunch on the stone benches outside the library instead of out in the quad beneath the Wingra Tree.
Who knew, maybe that could talk too.
She looked blearily around her room, backpack slowly sliding to the floor with an exhausted thud. Toeing the door shut she wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked over at Herb.
“Honey…..I’m home.” Came her less-than-enthusiastic greeting.
“You’re late.”
“Yeah….well…..s’way it goes.”
“If you’re going to one day speak the Witch Willow tongue, you really must apply yourself more.”
“Pssshh…apply schmapply….you’re starting to sound like my teach…..wait…what was that?”
Franky stared across the room as dirty rays of the late afternoon sun filtered through the streaked window, forming a halo of airborne particles around the plant and bowl. Again, she thought she almost heard the plant sigh.
“Then sit down, Francis, and let me tell you the story as it was told to me. This is the story of the night the book came to be. The night the old magic was not lost.”
The Story of the Book: Part 1
Christmas Eve. The ruins of the old church were nearly impossible to distinguish from the fog. The grey haze hadn’t lifted in days and the denizens of the nearby Township regarded their sanctuary with terror. The haggard priest paid the fog little mind, pausing only momentarily to wipe the accumulated moisture from his brow. His destination, what remained of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart, sat at an odd angle from the ground. During the night, it had slid from its foundations nearly fifteen feet but had remained remarkably intact. He passed through the stilted entrance, beneath the ruined statues of saints, making his way swiftly from the narthex, across the sanctuary, and into the ambulatory. Thick roots and branches now covered what had once been even blocks and clean column lines, forcing the solid architecture into dangerous arches and precarious curves. Hidden behind a small pile of unremarkable stones was what had once been the door to a confessional. Its small wooden carvings scrubbed off by the corrosive magic of the invading Forest and the varnish already showing signs of surrender. A brief backward glance into the unseeing eyes of oblivious saints and he gave the door a shove.
The twisted tunnel, filled with tree roots and the fresh scent of earth, ran from the old confessional and entwined its way through more than twelve feet of rock and rubble, rolling and turning in a macabre maze. From time to time, strange chalk drawings of a spoked wheel marked a turn or adorned a slight flaw in the walls. The priest kept moving, the pain in his side was quickly becoming untenable. His hand came forward to steady his steps and came away from the wall slick and warm. He glanced down; it was a lot of blood.
The priest let out a sound almost like a growl; he had been hit worse than he had thought. The shrieking goblins and forest fae, now long since having vanished into the infernal fog, had caught him before he had meant them to. He suppressed a chill and kept moving.
Within the hour, the hearth fire on the far side of the chamber, which had once served as a church office, was giving a welcome glow to the cold stones. The carefully applied herbs to his side crunched and crinkled when he moved, but the priest finally sat back without a wince, the pain was nearly gone. He tilted his head to examine the small rolls of paper spread out on the table before him. They were spattered in blood and soil but were still readable and for that he thanked any god who cared to be listening. The room was silent all but for a heavy wooden clock, ticking its life away in the corner. Soon, the Forest would take that too, molding its sturdy boards and spinning gears into a chaotic image of its former self. Slowly, he unfurled the first of the rolls, laying them out carefully each in turn. It was a letter, or at least, what remained of one, and the tattered remains of a few torn manuscript pages. He squinted in the dim light trying to make out the words on the ruined paper.
I have been in many shapes, before I attained a congenial form.
I have been the vengeful blade of a sword, but never these words so gently heard.
I have been banished far, face upturned to shining star.
I have been a light in a lantern, but not left more than a year to burn.
I have been a bridge for passing, over three-score rivers and ten.
I have been a word in a book, and now I am that book again.
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FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
She stared across the room from the foot of her bed as the plant paused to adjust the angle of its bowl.
“So…ok….wait a second. You’re saying that this book is some kind of piecemeal, Frankenstein, magic book that some priest stitched together while on the run from the Fae?”
Apparently satisfied with the bowl, the plant tilted back upwards.
“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. What he had found was not simply forgotten scraps of an irrelevant occult text, but the last living remnants of The Book by No Hand, the only known account of the War of Words. A book of secrets penned by the will of spirits that none had seen in over a thousand years. Thought destroyed, really, and nearly so. But I digress. And the priest wasn’t ‘on the run’ from the Fae, he was under attack by them. May I continue?”
Franky snorted. “Pfff….yeah sure. Go for it.”
The Story of the Book: Part 2 – De mal en pis
The priest’s name was Joshua, except of course that it wasn’t. He had changed his name years before, after his first run in with the Fae and their name magics; when he had first learned of the Book.
The trouble in his township all started with a wheat farmer named Amos. Amos’ entire life centered on his wheat fields and ironically, it was ultimately the wheat that killed him. For the last few years that anyone could remember in the small township, he had argued endlessly with his neighbor, one Evan Pritchard. The township was small, smaller than most and land was always in argument.
After two seasons of conflict over less than yard, Amos was the first to make that inevitable mistake. In the spring of that year he planted, not four feet too far left onto Pritchard land as he had intended, but four feet too far right, past the boundary that marked the beginning of the forest.
The leaf litter was barely noticeable, so I suppose that’s why he didn’t see it. But that simple mistake would be the end of Amos, his argument, and eventually, the entire town.
The fae that appeared didn’t trouble anyone until harvest, when the most prosperous crop Amos had ever seen was ready for the threshing floor.
He called himself Jack Sprat. A short, ugly little troll who was said to be most vain about his red-black hair and who had a habit of savoring the misfortune of others.
In return for the bounty of faerie soil, Jack Sprat demanded a tithe of the harvest. The township panicked; the faerie wheat was surely tainted and no one would buy from Amos. While Jack Sprat’s offer didn’t seem hard to accommodate, it was steep enough to mean the risk of starvation for his wife and children. Amos refused to tithe.
But the Geas had already come to pass and now that Jack Sprat had been denied his fair due, the township was doomed. The church was the first to fall to the Forest. One misty morning, roots and branches erupted from what was once solid stone and mortar. The main street and the bridge were the next to follow.
“So what does this have to do with the book?” she interrupted.
The plant paused mid-word. “Patience. It will come together in time.”
“Fine.”
“So…ok….wait a second. You’re saying that this book is some kind of piecemeal, Frankenstein, magic book that some priest stitched together while on the run from the Fae?”
Apparently satisfied with the bowl, the plant tilted back upwards.
“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. What he had found was not simply forgotten scraps of an irrelevant occult text, but the last living remnants of The Book by No Hand, the only known account of the War of Words. A book of secrets penned by the will of spirits that none had seen in over a thousand years. Thought destroyed, really, and nearly so. But I digress. And the priest wasn’t ‘on the run’ from the Fae, he was under attack by them. May I continue?”
Franky snorted. “Pfff….yeah sure. Go for it.”
The Story of the Book: Part 2 – De mal en pis
The priest’s name was Joshua, except of course that it wasn’t. He had changed his name years before, after his first run in with the Fae and their name magics; when he had first learned of the Book.
The trouble in his township all started with a wheat farmer named Amos. Amos’ entire life centered on his wheat fields and ironically, it was ultimately the wheat that killed him. For the last few years that anyone could remember in the small township, he had argued endlessly with his neighbor, one Evan Pritchard. The township was small, smaller than most and land was always in argument.
After two seasons of conflict over less than yard, Amos was the first to make that inevitable mistake. In the spring of that year he planted, not four feet too far left onto Pritchard land as he had intended, but four feet too far right, past the boundary that marked the beginning of the forest.
The leaf litter was barely noticeable, so I suppose that’s why he didn’t see it. But that simple mistake would be the end of Amos, his argument, and eventually, the entire town.
The fae that appeared didn’t trouble anyone until harvest, when the most prosperous crop Amos had ever seen was ready for the threshing floor.
He called himself Jack Sprat. A short, ugly little troll who was said to be most vain about his red-black hair and who had a habit of savoring the misfortune of others.
In return for the bounty of faerie soil, Jack Sprat demanded a tithe of the harvest. The township panicked; the faerie wheat was surely tainted and no one would buy from Amos. While Jack Sprat’s offer didn’t seem hard to accommodate, it was steep enough to mean the risk of starvation for his wife and children. Amos refused to tithe.
But the Geas had already come to pass and now that Jack Sprat had been denied his fair due, the township was doomed. The church was the first to fall to the Forest. One misty morning, roots and branches erupted from what was once solid stone and mortar. The main street and the bridge were the next to follow.
“So what does this have to do with the book?” she interrupted.
The plant paused mid-word. “Patience. It will come together in time.”
“Fine.”
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FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
“You see,” the plant continued, without pause, “Father Joshua was already well versed in the language of the occult..”
“You mean Latin.” Franky interrupted again.
“No, I mean he was an educated man when it came to things supernatural.”
The art of talking without the necessity to breathe made the oddly verbal plant even stranger to listen to.
“In those times, the land was filled with folk tales and stories. Ghosts forever searching for their missing bones, the devil riding endlessly on the night darkened roads, and witches who turned men into vermin. Why, even the Headless Horseman is a tale still told to this day. And Joshua knew them all. In fact, he knew of one such story that would hold the key to what was plaguing his dear town that day…”
One day, a vicious little troll, a squat greenish man, strong as a six-year-old horse, and with arms almost as long as tackle poles, comes to a farmer who has just taken a bit of land near a wooded glen and declares that he is the proper owner, and the farmer must quit forthwith. The farmer proposes an appeal to the law of the land, but the creature will have nothing to do with men’s law, which has never yet done him justice. There, he holds aloft what is a strange bit of leather and text and suggests that they should share the produce equally, as is the law of the book.
"Very well," says the farmer, "wilt thou take what grows above ground, or what grows beneath ground? Only, mind, thou must stick to what thou settles; I don’t want no back-reckonings after."
He arranges to take what grows above ground and the farmer, feeling prideful in his plans, promptly sets potatoes. Of course, when the troll comes at harvest time to claim his share he gets nothing but the leaves and twitch, and is in a sore frame of mind. At last, however, he agrees to take all that grows beneath ground for next season, whereupon the farmer sows wheat, and when the troll comes around in autumn, the man gets grain and straw, and naught is left for the troll but the stubble.
Of course, thinking himself a clever creation, the troll then insists that next year wheat should be sown again and that they should mow together, each taking what he mows. The farmer consults the local wise man. The wise man tells him that the troll is beholden to the magics that bind the law of the book and by that he must line the trolls field rise with thin iron rods, which wear down his strength in cutting and takes off the edge of his scythe. This the farmer does. So the troll stops to whet and the troll stops to rest, but the farmer mows steadily on until at last the troll throws down his scythe in despair and says, "Take this mucky land and all that’s on it; I won’t have no more to do with it."
And off he goes and never comes back to the farmer’s fields, at least not after his land. But the farmer had thwarted the laws of the book as surely as he had cheated the troll of his rightful land and harvest and the book took umbrage to this violation.
Not but a season had passed before the farmer began to notice something amiss with his house and family. Where saplings had once bent their thin trunks to the winds and storms of summer, now stood mighty oaks and elms. Where field stones had once dotted the gentle slopes of hill sides, now great boulders barred the horizon from view. In short order, a forest had begun to overtake his simple house and great beasts came at night to terrorize his wife and children.
In the end, the last the farmer was to hear before all he had was consumed by land and water, was the delighted cries of the troll, clutching the pale book while….
“Wait, wait, wait….ok, hang on….” Franky waved her hand in front of the plant in a futile attempt to secure its attention, “You’re telling me that way back in the long ago whatever, this priest lived in a town where a troll showed up to take some of a farmer’s harvest because he planted on the troll’s land. Such was the law in this book or something. But the farmer totally skeezed out on him, told him where to stick it, and then the troll got him back big time afterwards and everyone was all like ‘Oh, that evil troll! Woe is me’ and some crap. And it wasn’t even the first time it had happened?!”
The plant paused; unreadable.
Franky chewed her lip.
She began again, gesturing in wide arcs as though it would help. “Ok, seriously. People take fairie land…fairie shows up and says ‘I want payment because you used my land’…people say ‘Go suck on a bullfrog, troll-boy, it’s ours now’….fairie summarily screws over the people because well, they have the power over nature and people are dicks…and then the people are mad about it. Sounds to me like they were asking for it.”
After a few more uncomfortable moments the plant responded, albeit with a slightly more irritated tone.
“Yes…essentially. And before you ask me again what this has to do with the book, I’ll answer. Joshua knew that the ‘law of the land’ as men saw it was in truth, powerless. Though men saw themselves as masters of the world, their haughty interpretation of the Bible had convinced them as much, they knew almost nothing of the real law of the land; the law of nature and the code known by all things growing and green. It was this law, contained in the book, which gave the forest folk and fae the power of creation and destruction as well as held them accountable to its laws with absolute rules and unrelenting punishments. These boundaries and punishments were called the Geas, such as the iron rods in the tale. They were the price one paid to wield the power of the law.”
“Ok, so I think I follow you. Man is the master of industry. Fae is the master of nature. It’s pretty obvious through history these two don’t exactly get along, mostly because man thinks he’s the master of everything. But somewhere along the line, this conflict had gone on long enough that this Joshua guy found out not only about the “law”, but about the book it was written in. I’m guessing the next part of this is you telling me that ol’ Josh ran off and got his mitts on it while the town was being eaten by trees.”
“The Battle of Trees, yes.”
“Oh now hang on just a minute…you’re not saying that….oh holy shit.”
“You mean Latin.” Franky interrupted again.
“No, I mean he was an educated man when it came to things supernatural.”
The art of talking without the necessity to breathe made the oddly verbal plant even stranger to listen to.
“In those times, the land was filled with folk tales and stories. Ghosts forever searching for their missing bones, the devil riding endlessly on the night darkened roads, and witches who turned men into vermin. Why, even the Headless Horseman is a tale still told to this day. And Joshua knew them all. In fact, he knew of one such story that would hold the key to what was plaguing his dear town that day…”
One day, a vicious little troll, a squat greenish man, strong as a six-year-old horse, and with arms almost as long as tackle poles, comes to a farmer who has just taken a bit of land near a wooded glen and declares that he is the proper owner, and the farmer must quit forthwith. The farmer proposes an appeal to the law of the land, but the creature will have nothing to do with men’s law, which has never yet done him justice. There, he holds aloft what is a strange bit of leather and text and suggests that they should share the produce equally, as is the law of the book.
"Very well," says the farmer, "wilt thou take what grows above ground, or what grows beneath ground? Only, mind, thou must stick to what thou settles; I don’t want no back-reckonings after."
He arranges to take what grows above ground and the farmer, feeling prideful in his plans, promptly sets potatoes. Of course, when the troll comes at harvest time to claim his share he gets nothing but the leaves and twitch, and is in a sore frame of mind. At last, however, he agrees to take all that grows beneath ground for next season, whereupon the farmer sows wheat, and when the troll comes around in autumn, the man gets grain and straw, and naught is left for the troll but the stubble.
Of course, thinking himself a clever creation, the troll then insists that next year wheat should be sown again and that they should mow together, each taking what he mows. The farmer consults the local wise man. The wise man tells him that the troll is beholden to the magics that bind the law of the book and by that he must line the trolls field rise with thin iron rods, which wear down his strength in cutting and takes off the edge of his scythe. This the farmer does. So the troll stops to whet and the troll stops to rest, but the farmer mows steadily on until at last the troll throws down his scythe in despair and says, "Take this mucky land and all that’s on it; I won’t have no more to do with it."
And off he goes and never comes back to the farmer’s fields, at least not after his land. But the farmer had thwarted the laws of the book as surely as he had cheated the troll of his rightful land and harvest and the book took umbrage to this violation.
Not but a season had passed before the farmer began to notice something amiss with his house and family. Where saplings had once bent their thin trunks to the winds and storms of summer, now stood mighty oaks and elms. Where field stones had once dotted the gentle slopes of hill sides, now great boulders barred the horizon from view. In short order, a forest had begun to overtake his simple house and great beasts came at night to terrorize his wife and children.
In the end, the last the farmer was to hear before all he had was consumed by land and water, was the delighted cries of the troll, clutching the pale book while….
“Wait, wait, wait….ok, hang on….” Franky waved her hand in front of the plant in a futile attempt to secure its attention, “You’re telling me that way back in the long ago whatever, this priest lived in a town where a troll showed up to take some of a farmer’s harvest because he planted on the troll’s land. Such was the law in this book or something. But the farmer totally skeezed out on him, told him where to stick it, and then the troll got him back big time afterwards and everyone was all like ‘Oh, that evil troll! Woe is me’ and some crap. And it wasn’t even the first time it had happened?!”
The plant paused; unreadable.
Franky chewed her lip.
She began again, gesturing in wide arcs as though it would help. “Ok, seriously. People take fairie land…fairie shows up and says ‘I want payment because you used my land’…people say ‘Go suck on a bullfrog, troll-boy, it’s ours now’….fairie summarily screws over the people because well, they have the power over nature and people are dicks…and then the people are mad about it. Sounds to me like they were asking for it.”
After a few more uncomfortable moments the plant responded, albeit with a slightly more irritated tone.
“Yes…essentially. And before you ask me again what this has to do with the book, I’ll answer. Joshua knew that the ‘law of the land’ as men saw it was in truth, powerless. Though men saw themselves as masters of the world, their haughty interpretation of the Bible had convinced them as much, they knew almost nothing of the real law of the land; the law of nature and the code known by all things growing and green. It was this law, contained in the book, which gave the forest folk and fae the power of creation and destruction as well as held them accountable to its laws with absolute rules and unrelenting punishments. These boundaries and punishments were called the Geas, such as the iron rods in the tale. They were the price one paid to wield the power of the law.”
“Ok, so I think I follow you. Man is the master of industry. Fae is the master of nature. It’s pretty obvious through history these two don’t exactly get along, mostly because man thinks he’s the master of everything. But somewhere along the line, this conflict had gone on long enough that this Joshua guy found out not only about the “law”, but about the book it was written in. I’m guessing the next part of this is you telling me that ol’ Josh ran off and got his mitts on it while the town was being eaten by trees.”
“The Battle of Trees, yes.”
“Oh now hang on just a minute…you’re not saying that….oh holy shit.”
-
FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
Almost two weeks to the day of her abrupt realization, Franky found herself staring dejectedly into her coffee. The back-wall diner was crowded, but around the early afternoon, it always was. The elderly regular who had taken up residence next to her sniffled his way through a breakfast special, picking through eggs and toast in a manner that seemed far too refined for someone who apparently dined in hell four days a week.
Lacking her own ambition, Franky had long since abandoned the task of raising the warm mug, opping instead to simply bring her lips down to it rather than risk the effort. Hunched over the counter, she pulled a tube of purple lipstick from her pocket, idly twisting the container to smash the grape-colored glaze into the plastic cap.
She thought back to the first time she had seen the book. She’d been revisiting her old hometown, as she did every Halloween, paging through one of the few bookstores that remained open during Salamanca’s arguably most dangerous time of the year. However, according to the cantankerous bookseller, the Cabal had been causing an unusual amount of trouble the past few weeks. Ghost activity was high, the Tuatha were bellowing on the shores all night long….the pumpkins were restless.
At first it didn’t strike her as anything more or less than the ridiculous crap the Cabal usually pulled. Second rate mages with a first rate sense of the absurd, but the more she listened, the stranger the story got. From what Franky had pieced together it seemed that a local university student (or a tourist, depending on who you asked), apparently bent on getting a photograph of the infamous “Sally”, had rowed a flat-bottomed boat out into the lake. As any local could have told him, around six that evening, the fog bank rolled in, graying out everything within a hundred feet. The story diverged on a few key areas at this point. Either the young man had begun rowing for shore and soon lost his way or he saw an island in the fog he tried to make his way towards. In either case, as any local could tell you, it’s a bad idea to travel in the fog bank unless you know where you’re going.
But, being that there was a story at all, it would seem that the man survived the perilous trip and made it safely back to land. However, he returned telling everyone he knew, of seeing a large cave in the brick wall near the shoreline as he rowed back. Being that there were no shoreline caves in the wall near Salamanca, this was naturally met with concern. The excited descriptions of red-hatted witches standing protectively over the entrance with growling jack-o-lanterns didn’t help either. But he seemed sincere enough that a group from the university’s occult department decided to check it out.
As one might expect, they were never seen again.
Franky, figuring that the last part of the story was a bit of fanciful Halloween story-telling, headed over to the University. When she had lived in Salamanca, she had met one of the professors in the Religions department and had always gotten along well with him. For his part, Dr. R. W. Thackery, had always taken a kind interest in the young witch, even if he expressed near-constant disapproval with her hair color choices. But if anyone had gone to investigate strange goings-on involving witches and evil pumpkins, one of Salamanca’s foremost Croatoa experts certainly would have been involved.
She hadn’t expected to find Dr. Thackery’s office and lab in such a state of chaos. Piles of books and papers were strewn on desks, chairs, and floor alike. Chalk notes were scribbled from the blackboard, to the walls, and finally onto the lab’s black countertops. It took her almost fifteen minutes to finally find him, sitting on the floor leaning against the far wall, chalk still in hand and a distant look on his face.
“Dr. Thackery?”
He blinked twice before looking up, an uncharacteristic look of surprise on his face.
“Dr. Thackery, it’s me, Francis?”
“Oh! Francis.” He quickly pulled himself to his feet, busily brushing the dirt and dust from his shirt.
“It’s nice to see you. What brings you back here? More book shopping I take it?”
“Uh, I guess. What’s going on?” She motioned to the scattered mess.
His face went strangely blank as he scanned the room, his voice soft and disconnected.
“Oh, it’s just the trees. I can’t seem to convince them.”
Franky pursed her lips, worry beginning to furrow her forehead. “What?”
He brightened suddenly, but his eyes remained distant. “Oh! I have something for you.”
With that, the tall, angular academician strode past her, summarily dug through a pile, and re-emerged holding the book. That book. While this was not particularly strange (they traded books often), something was wrong. Something about the man and the book and the whole confounded situation was off somehow. Dr. Thackery may have been in the running for most absent-minded professor of the year, but this wasn’t like him.
Frankly, things hadn’t seemed right since then.
Franky glared down into the half-empty mug. It seemed she would be going spelunking tomorrow.
Lacking her own ambition, Franky had long since abandoned the task of raising the warm mug, opping instead to simply bring her lips down to it rather than risk the effort. Hunched over the counter, she pulled a tube of purple lipstick from her pocket, idly twisting the container to smash the grape-colored glaze into the plastic cap.
She thought back to the first time she had seen the book. She’d been revisiting her old hometown, as she did every Halloween, paging through one of the few bookstores that remained open during Salamanca’s arguably most dangerous time of the year. However, according to the cantankerous bookseller, the Cabal had been causing an unusual amount of trouble the past few weeks. Ghost activity was high, the Tuatha were bellowing on the shores all night long….the pumpkins were restless.
At first it didn’t strike her as anything more or less than the ridiculous crap the Cabal usually pulled. Second rate mages with a first rate sense of the absurd, but the more she listened, the stranger the story got. From what Franky had pieced together it seemed that a local university student (or a tourist, depending on who you asked), apparently bent on getting a photograph of the infamous “Sally”, had rowed a flat-bottomed boat out into the lake. As any local could have told him, around six that evening, the fog bank rolled in, graying out everything within a hundred feet. The story diverged on a few key areas at this point. Either the young man had begun rowing for shore and soon lost his way or he saw an island in the fog he tried to make his way towards. In either case, as any local could tell you, it’s a bad idea to travel in the fog bank unless you know where you’re going.
But, being that there was a story at all, it would seem that the man survived the perilous trip and made it safely back to land. However, he returned telling everyone he knew, of seeing a large cave in the brick wall near the shoreline as he rowed back. Being that there were no shoreline caves in the wall near Salamanca, this was naturally met with concern. The excited descriptions of red-hatted witches standing protectively over the entrance with growling jack-o-lanterns didn’t help either. But he seemed sincere enough that a group from the university’s occult department decided to check it out.
As one might expect, they were never seen again.
Franky, figuring that the last part of the story was a bit of fanciful Halloween story-telling, headed over to the University. When she had lived in Salamanca, she had met one of the professors in the Religions department and had always gotten along well with him. For his part, Dr. R. W. Thackery, had always taken a kind interest in the young witch, even if he expressed near-constant disapproval with her hair color choices. But if anyone had gone to investigate strange goings-on involving witches and evil pumpkins, one of Salamanca’s foremost Croatoa experts certainly would have been involved.
She hadn’t expected to find Dr. Thackery’s office and lab in such a state of chaos. Piles of books and papers were strewn on desks, chairs, and floor alike. Chalk notes were scribbled from the blackboard, to the walls, and finally onto the lab’s black countertops. It took her almost fifteen minutes to finally find him, sitting on the floor leaning against the far wall, chalk still in hand and a distant look on his face.
“Dr. Thackery?”
He blinked twice before looking up, an uncharacteristic look of surprise on his face.
“Dr. Thackery, it’s me, Francis?”
“Oh! Francis.” He quickly pulled himself to his feet, busily brushing the dirt and dust from his shirt.
“It’s nice to see you. What brings you back here? More book shopping I take it?”
“Uh, I guess. What’s going on?” She motioned to the scattered mess.
His face went strangely blank as he scanned the room, his voice soft and disconnected.
“Oh, it’s just the trees. I can’t seem to convince them.”
Franky pursed her lips, worry beginning to furrow her forehead. “What?”
He brightened suddenly, but his eyes remained distant. “Oh! I have something for you.”
With that, the tall, angular academician strode past her, summarily dug through a pile, and re-emerged holding the book. That book. While this was not particularly strange (they traded books often), something was wrong. Something about the man and the book and the whole confounded situation was off somehow. Dr. Thackery may have been in the running for most absent-minded professor of the year, but this wasn’t like him.
Frankly, things hadn’t seemed right since then.
Franky glared down into the half-empty mug. It seemed she would be going spelunking tomorrow.
-
FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
Francis was pretty sure that it was Henry David Thoreau who once said, “Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does not howl; it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling”, and at this rate, she was pretty sure he also deserved a special place in Hell.
Clad almost comically in a pair of worn combat boots, a tragic black and pink silk cocktail dress, and her constant; the battered witch hat, Franky made her way west down Salem Avenue. Completing the bizarre, but oddly appropriate, outfit was a hand-made wicker and branch broom tucked neatly under her arm as she kept up a brisk walk. Carefully avoiding grinning pumpkins, mystically animated and not, and helpless looking apparitions, it was only a little less than a half-mile from the Green Line to the shore of Salamanca’s infamous lake. Coughing whispers and hissing sibilants drifted through the mist, following the young witch to and from each dusty streetlight. The further she went, the louder the shrieks and cries of the wandering and the forgotten became. The cusp of All Hallow’s Eve was coming and she knew she didn’t have much time. Pausing long enough to dig through her equally tragic excuse for a backpack, Franky quickly pulled out a black zip-case before picking up the pace through the cobblestone streets of the old town.
This was a route she knew well enough; a few left turns through the row houses and a straight shot to the beach. Franky had never liked the beach. Her memories of overcast skies and dingy water along-side images of her perpetually good-humored father bouncing a ball off of her forehead never struck her as particularly pleasant, even if the times they represented were sorely missed.
She allowed herself an anxious sigh as her boots dropped down into the fine sands of the lake front. It didn’t look like the Tuatha were out in much force yet, so the strand was blessedly free of their irritating presence. The timing couldn’t have been better. Without pause, Franky quickly unzipped the leather case revealing what could barely pass for a wooden doll resting crookedly against the soft foam of the case’s interior. Its rounded wood face was macabre indeed; the eyes sunken and pulled tight in a sort of frozen grimace with a few porcelain chips the only remainder of eyes riveted to the deep sockets. The mouth, little more than a jagged, painted line, was uneven and slightly off center. What was meant to be hair on the pathetic visage was obviously made of animal fur nailed to the top of the head with rusty spikes, its patchy remains sticking out at odd angles. It appeared that, at some point, the doll had sported a brightly painted dress but all that remained now were a few faded brush-strokes of white and yellow.
Franky leaned down carefully to prop the doll’s rickety stick-legs into the sand, facing it out towards the lake. With equal care, she knelt down to hang a small bone tied with black ribbon on the right arm of the doll and on its left, a tiny wheel. As if in anticipation, a cool breeze began to drift in off the water.
She cleared her throat and with careful, practiced precision, began to make the arcane signs.
“Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
And so betwixt the two of them,
They licked the platter clean.
Jack ate all the lean.
Joan ate all the fat.
The bone they picked it clean,
Then gave it to the cat
Jack Sprat was wheeling,
His wife by the ditch.
The barrow turned over,
And in she did pitch.
Says Jack, "She'll be drowned!"
But Joan did reply,
"I don't think I shall,
For the ditch is quite dry."
A few tense moments passed, the lake breeze dying down to a passing chill. Franky waited, white-knuckled fingers clutching the costume-worthy broom in grim determination. There was a slight pop, followed soon by another. The tiny arms of the doll, weak with age and weather, slowly flexed upward and then forward, folding impossibly at the doll’s front in a kind of primitive hand-clasp. The tiny legs quivered for a moment before pulling free of the sand as the little wooden homunculus began a jerky, unbalanced totter down the shoreline.
Franky followed silently after, carefully sweeping away the tiny tracks, as well as her own, with the broom. The cave apparently wasn’t far away.
Clad almost comically in a pair of worn combat boots, a tragic black and pink silk cocktail dress, and her constant; the battered witch hat, Franky made her way west down Salem Avenue. Completing the bizarre, but oddly appropriate, outfit was a hand-made wicker and branch broom tucked neatly under her arm as she kept up a brisk walk. Carefully avoiding grinning pumpkins, mystically animated and not, and helpless looking apparitions, it was only a little less than a half-mile from the Green Line to the shore of Salamanca’s infamous lake. Coughing whispers and hissing sibilants drifted through the mist, following the young witch to and from each dusty streetlight. The further she went, the louder the shrieks and cries of the wandering and the forgotten became. The cusp of All Hallow’s Eve was coming and she knew she didn’t have much time. Pausing long enough to dig through her equally tragic excuse for a backpack, Franky quickly pulled out a black zip-case before picking up the pace through the cobblestone streets of the old town.
This was a route she knew well enough; a few left turns through the row houses and a straight shot to the beach. Franky had never liked the beach. Her memories of overcast skies and dingy water along-side images of her perpetually good-humored father bouncing a ball off of her forehead never struck her as particularly pleasant, even if the times they represented were sorely missed.
She allowed herself an anxious sigh as her boots dropped down into the fine sands of the lake front. It didn’t look like the Tuatha were out in much force yet, so the strand was blessedly free of their irritating presence. The timing couldn’t have been better. Without pause, Franky quickly unzipped the leather case revealing what could barely pass for a wooden doll resting crookedly against the soft foam of the case’s interior. Its rounded wood face was macabre indeed; the eyes sunken and pulled tight in a sort of frozen grimace with a few porcelain chips the only remainder of eyes riveted to the deep sockets. The mouth, little more than a jagged, painted line, was uneven and slightly off center. What was meant to be hair on the pathetic visage was obviously made of animal fur nailed to the top of the head with rusty spikes, its patchy remains sticking out at odd angles. It appeared that, at some point, the doll had sported a brightly painted dress but all that remained now were a few faded brush-strokes of white and yellow.
Franky leaned down carefully to prop the doll’s rickety stick-legs into the sand, facing it out towards the lake. With equal care, she knelt down to hang a small bone tied with black ribbon on the right arm of the doll and on its left, a tiny wheel. As if in anticipation, a cool breeze began to drift in off the water.
She cleared her throat and with careful, practiced precision, began to make the arcane signs.
“Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
And so betwixt the two of them,
They licked the platter clean.
Jack ate all the lean.
Joan ate all the fat.
The bone they picked it clean,
Then gave it to the cat
Jack Sprat was wheeling,
His wife by the ditch.
The barrow turned over,
And in she did pitch.
Says Jack, "She'll be drowned!"
But Joan did reply,
"I don't think I shall,
For the ditch is quite dry."
A few tense moments passed, the lake breeze dying down to a passing chill. Franky waited, white-knuckled fingers clutching the costume-worthy broom in grim determination. There was a slight pop, followed soon by another. The tiny arms of the doll, weak with age and weather, slowly flexed upward and then forward, folding impossibly at the doll’s front in a kind of primitive hand-clasp. The tiny legs quivered for a moment before pulling free of the sand as the little wooden homunculus began a jerky, unbalanced totter down the shoreline.
Franky followed silently after, carefully sweeping away the tiny tracks, as well as her own, with the broom. The cave apparently wasn’t far away.
-
FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
It was bigger than she had expected. The cavern mouth formed an oblong arch the better part of 12 feet across from end to end and rose to a little over 7 feet at the apex. The broken face of rock crumbling around the edges was none too inviting, but it seemed stable enough. The beach in this area was completely deserted and looked as though it had been for some time. Regardless, Franky noticed a small bit of spray-painted graffiti adorning the far side of the cave opening. In large, block, red letters it read: Fair Verona.
She stepped past the tiny doll, now standing motionless in the sand. The plant’s words from weeks prior still haunted her. Who knows how many hours of lost sleep she had endured, the legend of the Battle of Trees running through her mind over and over and over again.
There were two versions of the Battle of Trees, one known by almost everyone and the other less so.
The better-known version told the story of the Welsh druid-warrior, Gwydion and how he became involved in the battle called Câd Goddeu, The Battle of Trees, or likely better named Câd Achren -- Achren being one of the many names for the underworld ruled by Arawn, the Lord of the Dead. Scholars were often at odds about what the Câd Goddeu was truly about. Even Dr. Thackery didn’t agree with his colleagues on the causes of the battle – he believed that it was a raid on the lands of the dead during which Gwydion intended to bring back the three most magical creatures (the dog, the stag, and lapwing bird) for use my men, which he felt the Lord of the Dead was unfairly withholding from humanity.
Though the poem that tells about the battle itself was written by the druid-bard Taliesin, it describes the great magic by which Gwydion called the trees to life, each according to its greatest strength, and sent them into battle to fight for humanity against the forces of darkness and death.
If you ask a tree, though, you will get a different version of the story.
By the green things' reckoning, the Battle of Trees began thousands upon thousands of centuries ago, and has been waged again and again throughout the history of the world. For millennia before the coming of Man, the trees and plants had fought against a barren existence. They had waged war against death, battled against nothingness, to bring a living world into the great expanse. All this they had done, because they had been given the Law. Yes, a law given to lowly flowers and stalwart trees, and not to thinking men. The law by which all things become possible. Trees never forget these things, they must remember them, so that the law is forever preserved when the lines are drawn once again. Their memories are then surpassed only by those of earth...memories often hidden in the deep places of stone and rock.
Franky hesitated at the entrance of the lake-side cave. A part of her, the logical part, told her that this was all a silly game and that the time for childish things – following fairy-tales by exploring foggy lakes and abandoned caves—had passed. Bedtime stories were simply that and the appearance of a talking plant in her life was no more spectacular than the appearance of a giant ghost-ship in Talos Island or aliens from other dimensions appearing through portals in a super-scientist’s basement. These things happen.
She didn’t get to be 12 again. Magic like this...couldn’t really exist.
Her face downcast to the lakeshore, she toed the sand into little piles at her feet. The book was heavy in her backpack, along with the other bits and bobs of magic she had remembered to bring along. She wished she felt as though she was on the cusp of a great understanding, that to step into that desolate cave was the next great summit on her journey, but the precipice that she stood at felt only of empty teenage dreams and false hopes. Even the little broken doll had stopped here.
There was nothing in that cave but fish bones and blow flies.
Francis stared into the inky mist of the cavern, chewing her bottom lip raw. She should just go back to school, drink some tea, and forget this trip to Wonderland.
What a thing it was then, when she stepped into the darkness.
"Sure-hoofed is my steed in the day of battle:
The high sprigs of alder are on thy hand:
Bran by the branch thou bearest
Has Amathaon the good prevailed."
~ Câd Goddeu
She stepped past the tiny doll, now standing motionless in the sand. The plant’s words from weeks prior still haunted her. Who knows how many hours of lost sleep she had endured, the legend of the Battle of Trees running through her mind over and over and over again.
There were two versions of the Battle of Trees, one known by almost everyone and the other less so.
The better-known version told the story of the Welsh druid-warrior, Gwydion and how he became involved in the battle called Câd Goddeu, The Battle of Trees, or likely better named Câd Achren -- Achren being one of the many names for the underworld ruled by Arawn, the Lord of the Dead. Scholars were often at odds about what the Câd Goddeu was truly about. Even Dr. Thackery didn’t agree with his colleagues on the causes of the battle – he believed that it was a raid on the lands of the dead during which Gwydion intended to bring back the three most magical creatures (the dog, the stag, and lapwing bird) for use my men, which he felt the Lord of the Dead was unfairly withholding from humanity.
Though the poem that tells about the battle itself was written by the druid-bard Taliesin, it describes the great magic by which Gwydion called the trees to life, each according to its greatest strength, and sent them into battle to fight for humanity against the forces of darkness and death.
If you ask a tree, though, you will get a different version of the story.
By the green things' reckoning, the Battle of Trees began thousands upon thousands of centuries ago, and has been waged again and again throughout the history of the world. For millennia before the coming of Man, the trees and plants had fought against a barren existence. They had waged war against death, battled against nothingness, to bring a living world into the great expanse. All this they had done, because they had been given the Law. Yes, a law given to lowly flowers and stalwart trees, and not to thinking men. The law by which all things become possible. Trees never forget these things, they must remember them, so that the law is forever preserved when the lines are drawn once again. Their memories are then surpassed only by those of earth...memories often hidden in the deep places of stone and rock.
Franky hesitated at the entrance of the lake-side cave. A part of her, the logical part, told her that this was all a silly game and that the time for childish things – following fairy-tales by exploring foggy lakes and abandoned caves—had passed. Bedtime stories were simply that and the appearance of a talking plant in her life was no more spectacular than the appearance of a giant ghost-ship in Talos Island or aliens from other dimensions appearing through portals in a super-scientist’s basement. These things happen.
She didn’t get to be 12 again. Magic like this...couldn’t really exist.
Her face downcast to the lakeshore, she toed the sand into little piles at her feet. The book was heavy in her backpack, along with the other bits and bobs of magic she had remembered to bring along. She wished she felt as though she was on the cusp of a great understanding, that to step into that desolate cave was the next great summit on her journey, but the precipice that she stood at felt only of empty teenage dreams and false hopes. Even the little broken doll had stopped here.
There was nothing in that cave but fish bones and blow flies.
Francis stared into the inky mist of the cavern, chewing her bottom lip raw. She should just go back to school, drink some tea, and forget this trip to Wonderland.
What a thing it was then, when she stepped into the darkness.
"Sure-hoofed is my steed in the day of battle:
The high sprigs of alder are on thy hand:
Bran by the branch thou bearest
Has Amathaon the good prevailed."
~ Câd Goddeu
-
FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
Re: The War of Words
Some say that those who read the holiest books of the world are reading fairy tales. But regardless of what the reader’s actual beliefs are about the literal truth of scriptures, these books offer insight into a fascinating characteristic of human nature many fail to notice. That every hero gets it wrong. From Moses to Abraham, Beowulf and Achilles, from Arjuna to the Apostles; they are flawed and fallible. When they discover this, then is their greatest learning.
Francis couldn’t help consider the doubts that flooded her mind as she took tentative steps through the bleak passageway. Her simple Light spell, centered around her hands, reached barely ten feet into the palpable darkness, illuminating the ridged expanse of sandy floor and jagged walls. A few scattered shells and the remains of an unlucky fish were the only signs that life has ever known this forbidding space. Behind her, the rhythmic slurp and crash of the shoreline waves echoed back and forth. The air was surprisingly warm for the time of year but hung heavy with the stench of algae and decay.
Within minutes, it was difficult to tell how far she had gone, but soon the light of the cave mouth was no longer visible over her shoulder and the sand floor had given way to sharp rocks and uneven sedimentary layers. The broom she had brought was unceremoniously shifted to hook into her backpack straps as the dimmer light began to require the use of both hands to manage the illuminating spell. She paused, taking deep breaths to calm her nerves, as the passage began to narrow. Not one to be typically afflicted by bouts of claustrophobia, Franky still felt the need to reassure herself that this was not as bad of an idea as it seemed.
She listened, but there were no sounds to hear. She wiped at her lips, doing her best to ignore the taste of sweat and anxiety. As she continued, she was less and less sure her trip down the rabbit hole would lead anywhere positive.
Her foot knocked into something caught in the ruins of the cave floor.
With a shout and a stumble, she managed to remain on her feet, whirling side-ways and catching the water-slick wall for support. Irritated and ill at ease, the young witch turned around to stomp the offending article into dust.
She stopped short at the sight. It was a bone. The long bone of a leg unmistakable, with a polished smooth surface browned with the tell-tale marks of age and wear. Franky felt her breath catch, an uncomfortable ball in her throat. With a measure of reluctance, she leaned forward slowly, dipping her spell-lit hands towards the ground.
This cave was not merely the last resting place of unfortunate fish and snails, but a graveyard of a far greater secret. Human bones littered the floor, spread from one end to the other in haphazard piles. Her eyes went wide, trying desperately to breathe as she stared back into the unseeing eyes of cracked and broken skulls. A scream died in the young girl’s throat as she took in the image before her, twisting and turning herself in circles. Among the bones there lay a number of tattered bits of clothing. Witches’ hats and cloaks, brooches and tarnished rings, all had come to rest across the forms of the fallen, as though violently thrown from the bodies of those who had once owned them. Several of the hats, surely once a deep crimson color, had grayed and washed-out to a dull, defeated red, their gold buckles tarnished with filth.
She shouldn’t be here. No living thing belonged in this place. This was nothing and nowhere, but a dead end.
Franky managed to keep her wits about her long enough not to reflexively stagger backwards, risking a fall into the macabre mess. Picking her feet up, she gingerly picked a path towards the far wall and to a clearing where few bones poked out of the ground. As she moved, she noticed several splatters of what looked like rotting vegetable matter stuck to hands and hats. Apparently the tale of the red witches and jack-o-lanterns wasn’t entirely untrue. But these people hadn’t been watching over this cave in the flesh for….years.
Something in her backpack moved.
Francis couldn’t help consider the doubts that flooded her mind as she took tentative steps through the bleak passageway. Her simple Light spell, centered around her hands, reached barely ten feet into the palpable darkness, illuminating the ridged expanse of sandy floor and jagged walls. A few scattered shells and the remains of an unlucky fish were the only signs that life has ever known this forbidding space. Behind her, the rhythmic slurp and crash of the shoreline waves echoed back and forth. The air was surprisingly warm for the time of year but hung heavy with the stench of algae and decay.
Within minutes, it was difficult to tell how far she had gone, but soon the light of the cave mouth was no longer visible over her shoulder and the sand floor had given way to sharp rocks and uneven sedimentary layers. The broom she had brought was unceremoniously shifted to hook into her backpack straps as the dimmer light began to require the use of both hands to manage the illuminating spell. She paused, taking deep breaths to calm her nerves, as the passage began to narrow. Not one to be typically afflicted by bouts of claustrophobia, Franky still felt the need to reassure herself that this was not as bad of an idea as it seemed.
She listened, but there were no sounds to hear. She wiped at her lips, doing her best to ignore the taste of sweat and anxiety. As she continued, she was less and less sure her trip down the rabbit hole would lead anywhere positive.
Her foot knocked into something caught in the ruins of the cave floor.
With a shout and a stumble, she managed to remain on her feet, whirling side-ways and catching the water-slick wall for support. Irritated and ill at ease, the young witch turned around to stomp the offending article into dust.
She stopped short at the sight. It was a bone. The long bone of a leg unmistakable, with a polished smooth surface browned with the tell-tale marks of age and wear. Franky felt her breath catch, an uncomfortable ball in her throat. With a measure of reluctance, she leaned forward slowly, dipping her spell-lit hands towards the ground.
This cave was not merely the last resting place of unfortunate fish and snails, but a graveyard of a far greater secret. Human bones littered the floor, spread from one end to the other in haphazard piles. Her eyes went wide, trying desperately to breathe as she stared back into the unseeing eyes of cracked and broken skulls. A scream died in the young girl’s throat as she took in the image before her, twisting and turning herself in circles. Among the bones there lay a number of tattered bits of clothing. Witches’ hats and cloaks, brooches and tarnished rings, all had come to rest across the forms of the fallen, as though violently thrown from the bodies of those who had once owned them. Several of the hats, surely once a deep crimson color, had grayed and washed-out to a dull, defeated red, their gold buckles tarnished with filth.
She shouldn’t be here. No living thing belonged in this place. This was nothing and nowhere, but a dead end.
Franky managed to keep her wits about her long enough not to reflexively stagger backwards, risking a fall into the macabre mess. Picking her feet up, she gingerly picked a path towards the far wall and to a clearing where few bones poked out of the ground. As she moved, she noticed several splatters of what looked like rotting vegetable matter stuck to hands and hats. Apparently the tale of the red witches and jack-o-lanterns wasn’t entirely untrue. But these people hadn’t been watching over this cave in the flesh for….years.
Something in her backpack moved.