The occasional observations of Carolyn Kephart, writer

Friday, July 04, 2008

Russia With Relish

5:07 PM PDT, July 4, 2008

While browsing about in the local Blockbuster last week in search of surprises, I chanced upon Russian Ark, set entirely in the Winter Palace of Catherine the Great, now the Hermitage Museum of St. Petersburg, and "filmed using a single 90-minute Steadicam sequence shot," according to Wikipedia, which I consulted immediately after viewing. The camera meanders and gyrates far too quickly through many splendid chambers and several periods of expensively costumed history, guided by an oft-flummoxed and frequently exasperating old man dressed in circa 1830s garb. Thanks to Wiki, I learned that the gentleman was the Marquis de Custine, and that Russian Ark had portrayed him with an injustice that, now that I'm better informed, seems almost criminal.

You can find anything on the Internet, and I soon located Astolphe de Custine's two-volume travel journal, La Russie en 1839. Since I've visited St. Petersburg and the Hermitage, love most things French and relish well-told anecdotes, I found de Custine unputdownable. Far from being the clueless buffoon of Russian Ark, the Marquis comes across as a man of great cultivation, discretion and ironic charm. Many of his observations struck me as having particular relevance for our own time, like this one that describes France during the Revolution, yet seems only too well suited to the current state of arts and letters:

"La lutte entre le bien et le mal soutient l'intérêt du drame de la vie; mais quand le triomphe du crime est assuré, la monotonie rend l'existence accablante, et l'ennui ouvre la porte de l'enfer."

("The battle between good and evil sustains interest in the drama of life; but when the triumph of crime is assured, monotony renders existence unbearable, and boredom opens the gates of Hell.")

CK

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Idling with Edith

6:14 PM PDT, March 25, 2008

Now that ABNA's laid to rest I've been clearing my palate via Project Gutenberg, reading whatever strikes my airy fancy. In the past few days I've read Sheridan LeFanu's Carmilla, a vampire tale contemporary with Bram Stoker's Dracula; the unsparingly frank memoirs of the Countess Palatine Elizabeth, who was sister-in-law to Louis XIV; some of Robert E. Howard's endearingly overwrought Conan yarns; French accounts (all approving) of life in harems; and Lady Betty Across the Water, a formulaic but delightfully fizzy romance involving a young English aristocrat coping with us Yankee barbarians at the turn of the 20th century.

The last story led me to Eliot Gregory's Worldly Ways and Byways, a collection of American essays written for the Idler, a magazine similar to our own Vanity Fair, during the year 1897. Gregory's observations combine upper-crust anecdotery with Puritanical carpings in an oddly charming way, and I was much diverted by descriptions of life in the last throes of the Gilded Age; but what struck me most was a passage from the essay "Living on Your Friends," describing the idle young men of good family who spend their lives cadging free dinners, yacht cruises, opera tickets and other necessities of life:

"So far, I have spoken of this class in the masculine, which is an error, as the art is successfully practised by the weaker sex, with this shade of difference. As an unmarried woman is in less general demand, she is apt to attach herself to one dear friend, always sure to be a lady in possession of fine country and city houses and other appurtenances of wealth, often of inferior social standing; so that there is give and take, the guest rendering real service to an ambitious hostess. The feminine aspirant need not be handsome. On the contrary, an agreeable plainness is much more acceptable, serving as a foil. But she must be excellent in all games, from golf to piquet, and willing to play as often and as long as required. She must also cheerfully go in to dinner with the blue ribbon bore of the evening, only asked on account of his pretty wife (by the bye, why is it that Beauty is so often flanked by the Beast?), and sit between him and the “second prize” bore. These two worthies would have been the portion of the hostess fifteen years ago; she would have considered it her duty to absorb them and prevent her other guests suffering. Mais nous avons changé tout cela. The lady of the house now thinks first of amusing herself, and arranges to sit between two favorites."

This paragraph so perfectly describes Lily Bart from Edith Wharton's House of Mirth that I can't help but think it inspired the novel, which came out in 1905. All the smart set read the Idler back then, and Wharton was so much a part of that heirarchy that its social complexities finally drove her to a nervous breakdown.

Lily's problem was, of course, being far too handsome.

CK

Friday, January 11, 2008

Sweetness

10:31 AM PST, January 11, 2008

(Click here for short fiction and book chapters.)

I've always loved those black and white movies from the 30s and 40s where men wear hats and women wear gloves, and where dead bodies, if they're around at all, are never shown.

One of my favorite moments in It's A Wonderful Life happens early on, when Mary (Donna Reed) receives a letter at the prom, then instantly turns to the people at her table and asks, in the most winningly natural tone, "May I?" before opening the envelope.

James M. Barrie best defined the essence of this compelling quality, charm: "It's a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it, you don't need to have anything else; and if you don't have it, it doesn't much matter what else you have."

When I think of charm in a man, I remember Humphrey Bogart's rare, boyish, dazzling smile.

CK

Saturday, January 05, 2008

This Sense Most Essential

4:58 PM PST, January 5, 2008

(For more of my writing, visit here.)

Alfred Stevens (1823-1906), The Myopic Woman (1903)

For sheer utter torment that teaches a lesson, a speck of grit under a contact lens can really be an eye-opener.

I have extreme congenital myopia, near-sightedness so bad that without glasses and contact lenses life’s one big blur. If you sat three feet away from me and grinned your widest, I wouldn’t be able to gauge your facial expression with my naked eyes. It amazes me that people can wake up in the morning and actually see the world around them clearly from the get-go.

Back in the days when my condition wasn’t correctable, history suffered—the emperor Nero, whose well-documented affliction made him paranoid to the point of insanity, is a notable example. Even when remedies came along, rulers didn’t use them since use implied weakness, and thus Louis XVI, though expert at the meticulous craft of locksmithing (he could focus to a couple of inches, as I can), had no way of judging the expressions on the faces of his courtiers or the citoyens, with disastrous results; it didn’t help that his wife Marie Antoinette was blind to all save her flatterers. Robert B. Edgerton, writing about the Crimean War in his book Death or Glory, notes that “Eyeglasses were worn by a few officers at this time, but many hopelessly near-sighted officers were so vain that they chose to do without them”—certainly an enhancement to calamity. In the present day it’s by no means unusual, so I hear, for near-sighted members of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) to forego their wonted eyewear during re-enactments no matter what; I can only imagine how many tent-ropes get tripped over.

I’d probably have been a very different, no doubt happier person had I been born with perfect vision, but time has made me a counter of blessings. Bad sight beats none at all, and a childhood as Four Eyes made me fulfill the stereotype to the hilt, giving me the infinite world of books in return. As the old song has it, wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.


CK

Thursday, January 03, 2008

If Beauty Is Difficult, Then...

5:36 PM PST, January 3, 2008

One of the first phrases I learned long ago when taking classical Greek was Plato's Χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά, beauty is difficult. Those words mean more to me the longer I live, and I considered them yet again on this first day of yet another new year.

If beauty -- meaning the search for it, and the understanding of it, and the love for it -- is indeed difficult, does that mean that the reverse is true as well, and that ugly is easy?

Absolutely. 


If you write, as I do, try writing something really disgusting sometime. Plumb your seamiest depths and just have at it. You'll be astonished, perhaps frightened, at how effortless it is, how the words gush like a burst sewer onto the page. Your gorge will be rising in no time, and you'll turn away shuddering at the wrong you did to your soul. If you don't, I pity you with all my heart.

CK

Friday, December 07, 2007

Breathless

9:04 PM PST, December 7, 2007
The hammer fell at Sotheby's New York and the tiny Guennol Lioness (see my previous entry) sold for a whopping 57.2 million USD, the highest price ever paid for a sculpture in recorded history. Given her diminutive size, that's about 16.3 million an inch, and worth every nickel. The buyer's name is not yet disclosed, but I'm looking forward to finding out the identity of that modern-day Sardanapalus.
On to something less staggering, but just as breathtaking in its way.

Sir William Russell Flint seems to have spent his working life surrounded by beautiful women in pronounced states of undress. Even if watercolor was a less recent medium than it is, Flint would still be considered one of its greatest exponents today. His pictures shimmer, and no effect seems beyond his powers. I love the man. Here's just one reason out of hundreds why:

During the Italian Renaissance that this picture evokes with such cool deliberation, no artist would have thought of doing a portrait of his model. Models impersonated goddesses, the Virgin Mary or allegories, and the portrait, especially in profile, was reserved for ladies of social position who would never have dreamed of revealing so much flesh, nor probably could have possessed it to such a luscious degree. Flint did his best work after World War II, and this picture captures all the chic, slightly reticent elegance of Fifties England.

Flint seldom ever painted portraits, or men for that matter; he seems to have been an artistic pasha, serenely enjoying and depicting the lush carnality that filled his studio. Watercolor perfectly captures the evanescent, floating-world quality of the subject shown here -- the provoking contrast of flawless skin barely yet sumptuously clad, luminous blues and ivories, the regal pose and the delicately rendered, ironically ordinary face. Flint specialized in such offhand bravura, and all of his works never fail to temper the sensuous with just the right amount of distance. Lots of them can be found at this site.


 CK

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Wonder, Going Once...

11:25 PM PST, November 28, 2007


Ladies and gentlemen, define 'priceless.' I present the Guennol Lioness, to be auctioned at Sotheby's very soon (December 8) in what promises to be a paddle-waving frenzy of heavy hitters in the art world.

The Lioness has haunted my imagination ever since I first encountered her many years ago in a book about the art of the ancient Near East. I'll never forget how stunned I felt at the sight of those merciless elegant contours and juts, feral with a terrible touch of humanity; I know my gasp was audible. I'd thought her bigger--Ozymandian proportions would have worked perfectly--but even at three and a half inches tall she's massive. I'm almost glad she doesn't have legs, since they might have diminished her breathtaking force (historians have theorized that the limbs were made of precious metal and therefore stolen, leaving the remains intact and unvalued--yet another of fate's piquant ironies). Drilled into the back of her exquisitely savage skull are holes by which she could hang around the neck of some lucky purple-robed satrap.

Despite her admittedly cool resemblance to a video-game anthromonster, the Lioness had her birth in Babylonia at about the time the wheel was invented, five thousand years ago. The crown jewel of a dazzling private collection, she's expected to realize anywhere from 14 to 18 million dollars, which seems more than reasonable to me considering what too much junk fetches nowadays, and the proceeds will be donated to charity.

Is it any wonder I have hope for mankind, when it creates things like this? 


CK 

Friday, October 05, 2007

The Unicorn and the Cash Cow: A Fable

9:13 AM PDT, October 5, 2007

Since these comments of mine were received favorably on the Amazon.com fantasy discussion thread "CAPPING OFF THE LONG-RUNNING, UNREMITTING, OVERWORKED SERIES" (caps NOT mine), I will include them here, for diversion's sake. No particular author is singled out, my observations are strictly general, etc.:

Writer creates unicorn, who has many interesting adventures. Readers flock to marvel at this new and fascinating creature.

Unicorn, fattened by adulation, morphs into cash cow.

Cash cow begins meandering aimlessly, tolerated by the faithful but an irritation to those who believe the purpose of the cow is to be eaten, digested and done with, next unicorn please.

Cash cow continues to meander and becomes an irritation to the faithful, some of whom consider seeking another unicorn.

Unicorn is ultimately remembered only as a cash cow, save by a few of the remaining faithful who recall its glorious early days with a nostalgic sigh.

CK

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Short Fiction: REGENERATED

One of my early short stories, first published in Quantum Muse. Information about my other writing can be found here. Happy reading!


Cela always hoped she’d find Jorgen again someday…but was this really Jorgen?

Regenerated

No one ever really got to know a rashak, and Cela had never made an attempt. She patched them up and they paid her if they had money, giving exactly what her services were worth, neither more nor less. However much agony they might be in, they never showed it. Their flat wide-mouthed saurian faces remained stonily impassive even when the pain ebbed, and their gratitude was equally effusive.

Irksome though the rashaka were, Cela could not help being impressed by at least some their traits. True, they were almost pathologically inscrutable. Vowed to stern and unforgiving gods, they lived in continual self-denial. They had no written language, little if any spirit of inquiry, and more than a few disgusting habits. But none were better fighters, formed for war and the hunt, tireless in strength and highly resistant to wounds thanks to their massive, manlike physiques and scaly hide; their uncannily keen senses and formidable stamina were legendary. Their loyalty, when they chose to bestow it, was beyond question or reproach. They were also never violent unless goaded, a trait which was not generally known nor entirely believed by humankind, most of whom made every effort to avoid them. Cela's lack of prejudice was atypical, and thus she and Koth had met.

She had been out in the far hills one day, foraging for rare herbs and enjoying the last of hot high summer, when she discovered a rashak male finishing up a battle with a rout of drabbs, the vicious near-men who roamed that lawless part of the land. Stupid and weak, drabbs never hunted save in packs; yet for even four of them to consider themselves the match for a rashak was a foolish, fatal error. Still, by the time the last drabb fell, the rashak was covered in blood―the almost black blood of his race. As Cela watched, he dropped to his knees without a sound save a slight hiss, and shut his eyes, his head bent, his great shoulders drooping, his thick tapering tail motionlessly curled behind him. Cela realized that he was either calling on his gods for strength, or resigning himself to death. When she approached, he barely seemed to notice her, save for a momentary flaring of his nostril-slits that in a single breath determined that she was human and female―and a healer, from the aromatic herbs she carried. But then he drew another breath and caught it, and his shoulders straightened and his eyes opened very fast, fixing on hers. Startled by the stare, Cela controlled her dislike of his reptilian features, looking away as she reached for her satchel's clasp.

"I intend no harm. Permit me to aid you," she said to him, speaking the formal tongue that united all the rashak tribes. She knew only a few phrases, and spoke them badly―there were gutturals and clicks that she would never get right―but still he understood, and shook his head as he looked away.

"You should leave. Just go." He had replied in the common tongue, rasping and hoarse but almost without accent, quite as if that were his native language―unusual, since rashaka usually bothered to learn only the rudiments, and let gestures and grunts fill in for the rest.

"Payment isn't necessary," Cela said with a touch of impatience, knowing it could only be lack of money that made him refuse her help. Warriors of his kind spent every copper they had on their gear, and his was, she noted, of the highest quality, and rather more showy than rashaka tended to favor. She did not say more, since it would be a waste of words.

He hesitated yet again. "I need water. And food."

Cela was provided with both, and gave him what she had. As she set about healing him, he ate and drank with undisguised greed that made clear how long he had gone without, and why the drabbs had managed to inflict such damage. Taking a little jar of salve from her satchel, Cela anointed the rashak's lacerated skin―or rather his scaly hard hide, rough and cold under her fingers. Soon he was close to whole again, and his powers of regrowth would do the rest.

"Good work," he said, glancing at his arm, that had been cut to the bone. "I've seen few better."

"I thank my teachers," Cela replied, a little startled by the extravagance of the compliment.

His opaque eyes scanned her with an attention that rashaka seldom deigned to confer upon a mere human. "It hasn't made you rich."

Cela glanced down at her mannish near-rags with a shrug. It had been a very long time since she had cared about her looks, but to hear a rashak comment on them was...strange. "That salve costs a fortune to make," she said, staring at the now-empty little jar.

The information didn't seem to impress him. "I'm called Koth."

Rashaka never gave their names away lightly either, and at least initially used the first four of them. "Greetings, Koth," Cela replied, looking hard at him now.

"Greetings, Lady Celandra. And thank you." At her wide-eyed shock he gave the closest thing a rashak had to a smile. "You don't recognize me." Standing with only a little difficulty now, moving from corpse to corpse, with practiced brutality he wrenched off their long greasy scalps, which were worth money. One of the drabbs wore a jewel that had probably cost its original owner her life; this Koth appropriated with a hard tug, snapping the chain. For some time the rashak stared at the sunlit blue spark in his hard razor-nailed palm. "Take it," he finally rasped, holding the gem out to Cela. "You always said these were your favorites."

Cela's fingers closed around the jewel as her attention fixed on Koth's flat face, and its stare so widely spaced that it seemed to look clear past her.

"You used to tell me that my eyes were brighter," she replied, fighting to keep her voice calm.

He inclined his head in a way she remembered from someplace far, someplace deep in the past. "Yes. I said that."

She felt her grip on the gem loosen. "But―I had thought Transformation was a fraud."

"It exists." His opaque gaze flicked. "Hard to find, costly to buy, and not easy to survive."

Cela remembered the rest of the hearsay, and spoke it dry-mouthed. "Nor is there any going back. It cannot be reversed."

His broad, thick-muscled shoulders barely shrugged, and he made no answer.

For a long time she could only stare at him, stunned by the change, trying and failing to find the man she had loved. "But Jorgen ... why?"

"The name is Koth." His thick-lidded eyes flashed coldly. "Human flesh is weak in too many ways. I knew I could be stronger. Much stronger."

Ah, but he was ugly―that toad's head with its recessive planes and mottled scales and wide, lipless mouth. Unable to make any form of reply, Cela turned her full attention to putting her healing items away, and finding a bit of leather lacing to hang the gem around her neck. After a very long silence Koth spoke again.

"This place isn't safe for you." Another hesitation. "You are alone."

Cela wanted to say that she had been alone since he had left her, that she never dreamed they would meet again; that she was overjoyed, furious, and appalled to the depths of her soul. But far too much had changed, and she merely nodded a reply. For Koth, it was enough.

Since that time on they had been together, and from a strictly survival viewpoint it worked very well. Koth put himself in continual danger, and Cela coped with the consequences, across endless reaches of lucrative terrain. Cela's memories merged into the present and momentarily fixed on Koth, who continued to sit in the meditative trance that prefaced every fight, communing with his adopted gods. She sighed, inwardly as always. Over the month they had spent together, she had realized hour by hour that whatever she once loved in Jorgen had burned to dust. The present moment found them in yet another breathtaking landscape they would only hunt in and hurry through, where in another time they would have lain down in the sweet grass and...she bit her lip lest the sigh escape her as she turned away again, locking her attention elsewhere until the murmur of Koth's reptilian blur startled her more than a scream.

"I'm sorry."

Her attention never wavered from the mists now hovering up from the meadow beneath their safe spur of rock. She was required to keep watch, sitting absolutely immobile, during Koth's period of meditation. Silence was also expected, but this time she had to reply, whispering through frozen lips.

"Sorry for what, Koth?"

She fought to keep her voice calm, and to quiet her heart that was beating all but audibly. What she had waited so long to hear might be on the point of being said.

He hissed faint irritated regret. "That dagger was a bargain. I should have bought it."

Cela's emotions silently collapsed within her. Focusing again on the lovely curling tendrils of opalescent mist in the gold-grassed, pond-dotted valley below them, she noted those spirals that were most likely to jet suddenly upward and twist themselves into translucent, delicate, appallingly murderous gloamrippers. Night was coming on and several of the monsters were now taking shape, elegantly slim and feral, seeking to feed on whatever they might find, with a ravenous preference for flesh. Once they were killed, which would take some time and considerable risk, their hearts would fetch a high price. Automatically Cela forgot how beautiful the creatures were.

"There," she whispered, barely indicating the now fully-formed 'rippers as she spoke. Koth stared where she pointed, blinked acknowledgment, then rose and made his soundless half-slithering way down the hill to the ponds without a single word or backward look.

***

Life was all about death, anymore.

"Seven hearts. Not bad."

To Koth's flat sibilant observation Cela nodded. Koth had been badly damaged during the fight―wounded almost to death, something Cela never really got used to despite its frequency. Nevertheless, she had yet again managed with all her skill to heal him, save this time for a missing part of his tail; but it would grow back within a few days and look the same as ever. The two were now camped and finishing the evening meal. Koth was feeding on some fish that might have been fresh a few days before, a chance find on the lake's margin. As Cela sat across from him prudently upwind, washing her dried rations down with lukewarm pond water and celebratory last swigs of sour wine, she once again reflected, too tired for rancor, on the luxury that used to be a regular part of her life, and how sweet that life had been once Jorgen had found his way into it. But all fires died eventually. They blazed, they devoured, they were satisfied and they died. What was left never looked anything close to what it had been in life.

"Cold?"

Koth was actually looking at her. He seldom did, unless it was to express the only emotion he seemed to possess in any degree, irritation. Usually they sat well apart from each other, and Koth's gaze focused someplace too distant for Cela to ever hope to find. His flat hooded eyes in his lizard face were unreadable, as always, but he threw a handful of branches on the fire and the flames leapt to warmer life.

"You were shivering. Can't have you catching a chill."

No, they could definitely not have that. If Cela fell sick, it would decrease her effectiveness. With a half-shrug of thanks she finished her meal, and then reassessed the days earnings with greater, less gain-related attention. Gloamripper hearts were like jewels; once taken from the body, they hardened and shone. Crowded in the palm of Cela's hand they shimmered within, changing color from green to dawn-orange to gold. She would have liked to keep one for its beauty, but that was out of the question; they were simply too valuable. Koth would insist on an even split of the proceeds of the sale, but Cela's wants were few and she would inevitably give Koth most of her share, which he would accept without protest, thanking her with his usual word or two.

Cela felt a small ironic smile lift her mouth-corners as she studied the shimmering little lumps, dead flesh animated by a semblance of life. Fires might blaze and die, but the light of the gems would never go out; they were in their own way immortal.

She heard Koth's voice, a warning rasp. "Don't lose them."

Without replying, she returned the hearts to the pouch, and the pouch to her inner pocket, and looked over to her companion, now re-settling into meditation. Watching him, knowing she could do so completely unnoticed, she permitted herself the futile indulgence of recalling the past.

It had been a very short time to her, that single year with Jorgen, so sweet it had seemed as if all of existence was light caught in a prism and refined to its purest. It had begun in the dead of winter, a spark floating amid the snowflakes. The wars had just ended, and he was a wounded hero; out of charity she had taken him into her house and made him well again. Everything about them seemed to balance: a lord's untimely widow, and the younger son of nobody; she studious and retiring, he brash and heedless, brimming with charm. It was only natural that she should fall deeply in love with him, and to her amazement he had seemed to reciprocate in full. Never during their seeming infinity of bliss had it ever occurred to Cela that she was part of Jorgen's life only as an hour is to a day, and that she might be for the moment noontide in all its warmth, but there had been a dawn before her, and sunset was to come, and then another day, with fresh pleasures and adventures. For her, time had stalled at a brilliant height, and the only things that changed were her emotions, that shifted from shock, to rage, to agony as Jorgen gradually sought fresh distractions, both carnal and combative. When he had suddenly become fascinated with the sternly ascetic way of the rashaka, Cela had almost been relieved. Never could she have envisaged how far he would take that admiration.

He at last left entirely, and time for Cela became a long weary walk down a blank corridor filled with fog. She had not been rich despite her rank, and the gifts she had heaped on Jorgen, garnering the less thanks the more she gave, had impoverished her. Forsaking the home that now seemed unbearably empty, she wandered as an itinerant healer, aiding and learning as she sought word of Jorgen. Although often in need, she never asked payment, accepting whatever was given no matter how small the amount; and unlike many healers she willingly helped all races, from human as she was, to rashak, which was far from that. Thus she and Jorgen had met again, only he wasn't Jorgen anymore. He was Koth, whose blood would run cold until the day he died.

Perhaps the thing she missed most was the laughter. During the time of fire, she and Jorgen had always joked, teased, traded wits, and so often their play had led to passion. Made bold by the drink, she decided to coax a spark. Reaching as his back was turned, she put her hand on Koth's shoulder, lightly moving up his neck. He no longer had ears, but she tickled the place one of them would have been, and called him a few of the hundred little names she had once used with him.

He shook her off instantly, his voice a snapped hiss. "Stop it."

The shock amazed her. The suddenness of it, the clear implication that if she ever tried anything like that again, all would be over between them...she moved back to her place, staring into the faltering fire, feeling her features stiffening to a mask as if she had thrust her face into the flames. Rashaka only mated in a once-yearly obedience to instinct, vent to vent. She'd been stupid yet again.

Wordlessly turning away, she began her usual preparations for sleep. She knew that as she undressed and washed and performed her other necessary tasks, Koth would be looking on with complete indifference if he bothered to look at all. Her beauty, which she had taken pains to revive for his sake, made no more impression on him than the sight of a corpse many days dead. "Good night," she said once she had lain down, her face to the stars, feeling the little sparks torment her eyes until they blurred.

Usually Koth replied more or less at once, with no particular interest, to Cela's words that always ended the day, but this time he was silent awhile before his voice hissed in its hoarse undertone.

"Celandra. Just because I do not choose to remember never means that I forget."

Had he struck her or said something tender, Cela could not have been more shocked; yet as almost always, Koth's flat black eyes held no emotion that she could read. The reflection of the campfire gleamed in them, but they had no light of their own. Once again, he was merely making a statement, and clearly neither wished nor expected an answer; and he got none.

Sleepless, Cela at last looked across the waning flames at the immobile form outlined by the darkness. Koth lay with his back to her, asleep on the bare stone, his rasping breath slow and regular. His big manlike body was perfectly muscled, its symmetries striking, and it would stay that way long past the limit of a human lifetime, its vigor undiminished. But what did Koth live for? The hunt and the kill and the loot; money and weaponry and the honing of his fighting skills. He had allies, but no friends, and no real kinship with his foster race. No beauty moved him, nor horror. He ate the most loathsome refuse and the rarest delicacies with equal indifference. It was not a life for a being fully human, with warm deep feelings and gifts to give the world, capacities for joy and wonder, and few years left to savor them. Since their reunion, she had followed Koth wherever he led, trying to find any trace of Jorgen; tonight she had given up the search. The night air's chill seemed to emanate from her soul, and she trembled in her meager blanket.

Finally, she had told herself the truth. Tomorrow, after she and Koth returned to the settlement and sold the gloamripper hearts, she would quietly depart and find her way back to the city she had called her home. He would perhaps search for her a day or so, maybe even make inquiries, but that would be the extent of his concern. They would never see each other again.

Reaching for the pouch that held the gloamripper hearts, Cela once again poured them into her palm and watched their shifting exquisite glow. Returning the hearts to the pouch all save one, she leaned to the fire and dropped it into the center of the blaze, as a sacrifice to several gods who so far had ignored her. Never before had she been so rash and wasteful, but she was at last beyond caring. Then she quietly got up and circled the waning flames that separated her from Koth, lying down next to him as close as she dared, studying the rise and fall of his broad muscle-laden shoulders and back in the last of the light.

"Goodbye, Jorgen," she whispered soundlessly. Emotions of every kind mixed within her, canceling each other out, forming a flat, numb weariness. Lightly she ran her hand over his unconscious outline, tracing but not daring to touch...

With a movement too fast to even startle her, Koth rolled over and caught her in his arms. He was still asleep, his eyes shut, but his breath came fast. He clutched her body to his, grinding her tender flesh against his stone-sharp scales.

All he wanted was her warmth. She knew that, and she gave him what she had, fighting not to shiver as he drained her heat and made it his. The only thing that mattered was that she was in his embrace for the first time since he had left her as a human. Jorgen may have become Koth, but when Cela shut her eyes and willed away the pain she felt herself transmogrified, returned to a joy thought forever lost; and as she thrilled with the heat of remembrance, Koth wrapped her ever closer, exactly as Jorgen had once done with his goddess, his adored, his diamond star.

I will leave you, she thought. But not yet, for reasons he chose not to remember. Turning her head, she took a last look at the ashes of the fire where the gloamripper heart gleamed and shimmered like the miracle it was, and fell asleep.

END


Copyright © 2010 by Carolyn Kephart

First published in Quantum Muse


Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.


Other stories on this blog:

The Kind Gods https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/2022/01/short-fiction-kind-gods.html
Last Laughter   https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/2022/01/short-fiction-last-laughter.html
Everafter Acres  https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/2022/01/short-fiction-everafter-acres.html
Regenerated  https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/2022/01/short-fiction-regenerated.html

Visit the author's website at carolynkephart.com 
for first chapters of her books and more.


Carolyn Kephart's publications:

Wysard and Lord Brother, Parts One and Two of the Ryel Saga duology, acclaimed epic fantasy
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic, combining the duology in a single volume
Queen of Time, contemporary magic realism that takes the Faust legend in new directions
At the Core of the Happy Apple: A Mystery Solved, an essay on the inner workings of the popular 1970s Fisher Price wobble toy
PenTangle: Five Pointed Fables, a collection of short stories previously published in ezines

Short Fiction: THE KIND GODS

One of my early short fantasy works, first published in Bewildering Stories. 
(Information about my other writing can be found here. Happy reading!)

 Did the old gods really die?
A warrior seeks answers at the burial-mound of his greatest enemy.

The Kind Gods

They rode light, for these had long been times of peace, yet still they rode armed from old habit, in steel-studded leather many times mended, battered greaves over scuffed boots, vambraces scored from years of sword-blows. Still, the metal gleamed, and the tough hide was supple, and from a distance they seemed young men, straight and easy in the saddle. Only a closer look would note their greyed hair, and faces as weathered as their gear.

Emerging from the forest, the four soldiers entered a wide field where tall pale grasses glowed in the crisp light of a fine fall afternoon. In the midst of the field rose an abrupt little hill, their destination. They had been friends since boyhood, and later comrades in war, always ready with a jest to lighten harsh odds or to add more merriment to a victory; but their mood this day was quiet. One of them began a song that the others joined in, and its cadences meshed with the jingling of harness, the clinking of steel, the grass-softened thud of cantering hooves―not a full-throated war-cry, but the kind of ballad sung after a battle around embered fires of quiet camps, meant to soothe wounds and weariness and sorrow.

They halted at the foot of the hillock, and the leader of the company dismounted with grace only a little stiff, moving with just a hint of a limp as he began to climb the slight slope. His companions hastened to aid him, but he waved away their help. For a moment he was silent, looking from one comrade’s face to the next; and then he smiled faintly as he turned to gaze around him at the field, ending at the mound’s rise. “Rest awhile. I won’t be long.”

He turned and went alone upward, his breath laboring harder with every step he took. When he at last reached the summit, he removed his helm as he slowly fell to his knees, his chest heaving awhile before he ungloved to caress the grass with a battle-scarred hand.

I told you I’d return,” he said, and his damp gray braids brushed the grass as he bowed his head in greeting. “I didn’t think it’d take me thirty years. Remember when all this field was flat? Perfect for a fight it was. Many an arrowhead and blade-shard they struck that wrought this mound at my order, for your sake.”

He lifted his eyes and squinted far, over the wide meadow and into the past. Memory made him grimace, sharpening his face’s lines and seams, as his fingers slid over a deep crease in his brow. “It was almost me under this earth, not you. I’ve never fought that hard before or since. The bards still sing of you and me, when the priests aren’t around to stop them.”

He took a flask from his belt, removed its stopper and lifted it to the sun now slipping down toward the trees, murmuring words of ancient prayer. Then he poured a drop of its contents on the ground.

Here. Drink with me. It can’t harm you.”

His thoughts drifted to the day of that battle, when he and all his friends were alive and young and strong, fighting to the death for a world in peril. Slitting his eyes against the keen radiance of the cloudless sunset, he again saw the field’s tall grasses trampled into blood-muck, churning and darkening with battle, heard the stray sweet birdsongs twisted into clamors and yells. Again he heard the shouts, and the clash of swords. His heart raced, awakening his body’s sickness, and he clenched his teeth to quiet a groan of pain lest his men hear. A slight sip of the flask eased him, and he was able to speak again, although haltingly.

I don’t have long. I’m rotting inside. My sons wish me gone, and I’m going—but I’m dreading it. In my prime I never feared dying, but it’s different now. There’s a new god now since you and I fought, that’s killed off all the ones you and I knew. There’s a new heaven too, but no one fights or drinks there; all they do is sing. The new hell’s all torture, and that’s where most people end up, it seems. Not much to look forward to, either way.”

He sighed, and murmured an oath now obsolete. “It’s a better world now, but I don’t belong in it. You were lucky, to die while the old gods still lived. I’ve broken all of the new god’s laws in my time, and I won’t be up in the clouds howling hymns, oh no. I’ll be deep in what those smooth-faced priests call the Pit, frying in flames. And you’ll never get your revenge…”

As he said those last words a long fierce growl of thunder seemed to make indignant answer, strange in a cool autumn sky without a single cloud. The thane blinked, for though the potion in the flask was strong, he knew he hadn’t taken enough of it to mislead his senses. After a long moment he put his hand to the ground again as if testing for a heartbeat, his scarred fingers trembling.

Did they die indeed, the old gods?” he whispered. “Tell me.”

Something lightly tapped his shoulder as soon as he spoke, and he looked around to find a fallen leaf in the grass, red as blood, shaped like a spear-head. No wind had blown it there. He took it up by the stem, and it quivered in his fingers as his heartbeat quickened until he barely had breath to speak again.

I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his eyes on the last of the sun now vanishing amid the grasses. “I’ve missed the world we had. The gods that forgave us…”

All the wounds he had known in all his life seemed to ache anew, and he shivered. But then the sharp air of the oncoming night seemed to warm around him, and some unseen presence bade him turn around. There in the deep blue of the cloudless sky he saw the full moon rising like a great shield of gold, dented by countless blows; and he understood.

A long while he watched the radiant orb as he listened to the voices of his friends, who waited for him at the foot of the mound.

Soon, lads,” he whispered. “Soon.” And he lifted high the silver flask in honor of his buried enemy before drinking it empty.

***

As night came on, the old warrior’s lieutenant climbed the barrow, and found his lord lying as if asleep. Seeking a pulse, he found none; and taking up the flask he scented what it had held, and nodded in resignation. He called the others to the mound’s top, and they came with lighted torches to bear witness to the thane’s passing.

The new god was kind to him,” one of them said at last, who had been his lord’s messenger during the wars. “A quiet death, without suffering. He deserved it.”

The lieutenant gently placed the red leaf on the thane’s unbreathing breast, and spoke in a voice unsteadied by sorrow, and by anger too. “No. He should have died fighting sword against sword with he that lies below, while he was young. While the old gods yet lived.”

The thane’s standard-bearer bowed his head in assent, and his reply was bitter. “We all should have.”

A long silence followed those words. But then youngest of the three, who had been the chief’s squire since boyhood and whose hair was not yet wholly gray, made a swift silencing gesture. “Wait. Listen.”

The noise came again: a faint rattling, very close.

A viper,” the lieutenant said, scanning the grass as he drew his dagger.

The standard-bearer shook his head. “No. It’s…under the ground.”

Each man froze, listening to the strange rippling clatter deep in the barrow, and the squire spoke again, barely a whisper. “Bones…”

It sounded like a skeleton slowing coming to life. The thane’s body lay motionless and silent, but the red leaf twitched as two muffled voices issued from deep within the mound, both of them taut and harsh with anger; both the voices of young men in the prime of their strength. Then the clash of edged steel mingled with the curses and taunts and yells, and the noise went on for the space of several breaths before ebbing into the darkness.

Slowly the thane’s men looked around at one another, at first in disbelief, then in wonder, then in joy. All that night they kept vigil with their lord, their eyes and weaponry glinting by moonlight and firelight as they recalled his deeds with glad laughter, and drank to the gods still among them.

***

The mound was opened in days to come, so that the old warrior might be laid to rest next to his enemy, as he had wished. The priests noted in their chronicles that within the crypt was found a trove of precious goods, and the remains of a tall well-shaped warrior clad in magnificent armor, his skull still covered with skeins of long yellow hair. But only the bards told of how all the treasures seemed disordered and scattered, and how the skeleton seemed to be rising, clutching its great sword two-handed as if parrying a hard slash, and how it seemed to grin in fierce delight.

The thane’s men restored the treasures to their places, and reverently arrayed the remains so they lay at rest once more. As they covered their lord’s body with a rich grave-cloth, they observed that his lips seemed to shape a smile at the last; and they smiled as well.

When the tomb was sealed once more, the priests of the new god placed a solemn curse upon the barrow and the land about it, and no one dared come near the place thereafter. In time, forest claimed the grass, and thicket grew to cover the grave; but old believers knew that ever afterward on the first full moon of autumn, one might hear the wild din of battle, buried deep beneath the thorn-clad mound.

End


Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Carolyn Kephart

First published in Bewildering Stories


With thanks to the musical group Fleet Foxes for their 2008 ‘Tiger Mountain Peasant Song,’ which inspired this story.

The cover design features a reconstruction of the Sutton Hoo burial mask, c. 600-700 CE.


Other stories on this blog:

Last Laughter  https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/short-fiction-last-laughter.html
Everafter Acres  https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/short-fiction-everafter-acres.html
Regenerated  https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/short-fiction-regenerated.html
The Heart's Desire  https://carolynkephart.blogspot.com/short-fiction-hearts-desire.html

Visit the author's website at carolynkephart.com 
for first chapters of her books and more.


Carolyn Kephart's publications:

Wysard and Lord Brother, Parts One and Two of the Ryel Saga duology, acclaimed epic fantasy
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic, combining the duology in a single volume
Queen of Time, contemporary magic realism that takes the Faust legend in new directions
At the Core of the Happy Apple: A Mystery Solved, an essay on the inner workings of the popular 1970s Fisher Price wobble toy
PenTangle: Five Pointed Fables, a collection of short stories previously published in ezines


Short Fiction: LAST LAUGHTER

 One of my early short fantasy stories, first published in 
Silver Blade Fantasy Quarterly.
(Information about my other writing can be found here. Happy reading!)

A cautionary tale about a wicked court jester and his comeuppance. 

Last Laughter

He was a troublesome fool, whose unbridled tongue and vicious tricks went unchecked because they amused the King. Whenever his behavior became simply too appalling, the jester took care to re-ingratiate himself with all manner of silly japes and tumblings and blandishments, but it was well known that he wore a mail shirt under his motley to ward off vengeful stabs, and amulets to avert curses.

Keeping on the jester’s good side was a prudent measure in a court full of idlers constantly seeking to work mischief on one another out of simple ennui, forming little cells and circles of self-interest that continually jerked apart in loathing or merged in cooing accord, isolating and ostracizing. Amid these inimical orbs the jester bounced and skipped, prodding and tickling and puncturing as the whim took him. Although his magic was of the lowest kind, it was effective enough to be exceedingly troublesome and embarrassing, and the wiser spheres took care to roll well aside at his approach. Only the Thaumaturge Royal, who made it a point to be in a class by himself, looked upon the fool with icy indifference, and stood his ground immovably.

The Countess had always avoided the fool whenever possible, but that was becoming ever more difficult since her growing friendship with the King. She had been of the Queen’s retinue, chosen for her pleasant voice and tranquil manner to read aloud to Her Majesty during that lady’s last illness, and the two women had grown close thanks to their shared love of books and the harmony of their tastes. After the Queen’s untimely death, the Countess had only wished to retire to her lands and grieve, but the King persuaded her, or rather all but commanded her, to remain at court. He was a young man, good to look upon, active in all the sports befitting a gentleman, and of sound intelligence; but he was also wild and given to bad company, which had caused the Queen great chagrin. The King for all his faults had loved his mother dearly, and his sorrow and remorse were solaced by the Countess’s gentle conversation, which naturally soon turned to books.

The Countess was as reclusive as the King was riotous, but she genuinely admired him for many reasons, and knew that her esteem was reciprocated. Nevertheless, she was even more aware of the fool’s resentment, which inspired her with an emotion she was too proud to call fear. The fool enjoyed flaunting his power, and often hinted that he was the baseborn son of a great lord he chose not to name, which caused understandable uneasiness among some of the court. Others, the Countess among them, preferred to believe that the King had plucked him from the gutter. True, the fool had some polish, but it was a very thin gloss like the sheen on a fly; and like a fly he seemed to delight in annoying her.

“Sweet lady, in truth his majesty seems to like you perhaps too well,” he said to her one day as she sat reading in the park. She had heard him at her back, the combined jingling of bells and chain mail; had seen his cap’s spiky shadow fall over her book, darkening the sweet spring afternoon. He leapt uninvited on her quiet bench, squatting apishly, grinning witlessly; but his eyes sparkled more than was safe. “The court’s marked the way you and he constantly wander off alone to the library, where no one else ever goes and where I hear there’s a very large and comfortable couch.” As he said the last words, he suggestively dangled his bauble.

Although the implication disgusted her, the Countess kept her wonted calm, her face its habitual, unreadable mask save perhaps for a hint of flush. The jester’s position on the bench brought his exaggerated codpiece directly into her line of sight, and she had been keeping her eyes well averted. “You know as well as I, fool, that His Majesty’s wedding to the Princess is only two months away.”

She put a sharp contemptuous emphasis on his title, but he only shrugged, sending his bells bobbing. “True, true, but in the meantime people will talk, won’t they? They’re already talking, you know.”

“Let them say whatever they please,” the Countess replied, candidly and coolly meeting the jester’s glittering stare. “His Majesty and I converse about books, nothing more.”

The jester goggled, waggling his eyebrows luridly. “Books! Why, books are full of bad things, naughty things. That’s why I never read ‘em. Neither should you.” And with a swat of his bauble he knocked the volume from the Countess’ lap, sending it into the nearby pond.

Although the book had been valuable, it was not priceless, and keeping one’s temper was of far more worth at such a time as this. “His Majesty and I discuss literature,” the Countess said, very clearly enunciating the last word. “Literature, and history, and philosophy now and then.”

The fool gave a doltish gasp, eyes wide with terror transparently feigned. “Oh, but that’s far worse! He’ll think thoughts too big for his head, and they’ll crack his skull. Regicide’s a bad thing, sweet lady. Have a care.”

The Countess looked him straight in the eye, unblinking. “You’re not very amusing just now, fool.”

He grinned ear to ear, batting his lashes. “And you’re not very pretty, but you never are. The King likes my antics far more than he likes your books, sweet lady…your books or your looks.”

Stung by the insult, the Countess recoiled. “His Majesty’s taste in reading is far more choice than your jests,” she said through set lips.

The fool’s eyes narrowed. They were an odd toad-color, greenish gray. “He never liked reading until you caught his eye. How did you manage it, I wonder?” His gaze slitted as his head tilted. “Were you using magic, Countess? I’d never have dreamt it of you.”

Almost everyone in the court studied magic, but very few had any proficiency, and what little they knew was confined to practical jokes more or less tasteless. Serious Art was the province of the Thaumaturge Royal, who deeply resented any infringement on his expertise. Besides, using magic to influence the mind of the King was a capital offense, and the very idea made the Countess feel cold despite the day’s warmth. Could this trifling, spiteful creature actually imagine…actually intend…

The fool could read masks as well as faces, and gave a silly little simper as he shrugged disarmingly. “Oh, now, now. No harm meant. I’m only an idiot, after all. Right?” During the silence that followed, he sat properly on the bench and removed his cap, flicking at the bells, watching them jiggle.

The Countess studied him more closely than she had ever wished to before. This was the first time she had ever seen him in a sober mood, let alone without his fool’s cap. Far from being laughably malformed, he was slender and well-shaped, of lithe middle height that made his frequent acrobatics effortless. Nor was he comically hideous, as was the general rule for his kind; indeed, one might be disposed to call his sharp mobile features good-looking, save for the indelible marks of constant debauchery and the unrelenting strain of having to always amuse. His tousled sandy hair made him seem boyish; in truth, he was barely thirty, the same age as the King.

She had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth his weedy hair. “Perhaps you’re not quite as bad as you seem.”

He nodded with a child’s righteous solemnity. “I can assure you I’m not.” But suddenly his eyes glittered again, and he winked. “Then again, I wouldn’t be too sure.” Pointing his bauble, he flicked at her skirt. “I do believe that’s a bug, your ladyship.”

She looked down, and gasped. Not only had he ripped a ruffle’s delicate lace, but red ants and cockroaches were crawling all over her gown. As the Countess leapt up and began frantically shaking them off, the fool jammed his cap back on his head and cartwheeled away, hooting and gibbering.

The next day when she went to the palace library at the appointed hour, the Countess was astonished to find the jester there, addressing the King in tones so low she could not make out a word. When they finally noticed her, the jester winked, smirked and gave a far too elaborate bow, while the King stared at her in a way that first confused her, then chilled her clear to the heart.

Ignoring the jester, she addressed his master. “Sire, is something amiss?”

To her question the King only motioned to the door. “Go. And let this be the last I see of you.”

She stared from he that she’d considered a friend to his grinning favorite, and lifted her chin, calm with rage. “Sire, what did this…this poisonous buffoon say to turn you against me? I demand to know.”

The King’s eyes were those of a complete, coldly furious stranger. “Demand? I’m not surprised you presume to issue orders. You’ve been using enchantment to gain my favor, and who knows how far you might have taken your trickery. Consider yourself under arrest. I’ve given order to the Thaumaturge to put you to the question—go to your apartments quietly, or I’ll have my guards drag you to the dungeons.”

Stunned with confused horror, the Countess remembered the many times they had conversed, she and the King, and how pleasant it had always been; how inquiring and engaging he had never failed to be. It had been one of the great joys of her life, the only thing that had made the court bearable. She clasped her hands, hard enough to bruise her fingers. “Sire, I have no skill in magic, none. I swear it! I…”

The King gave a disgusted shrug and turned his back on her, and the fool brayed with laughter. The Countess felt all her body go blank clear to the eyes, and when she could see once more she found she had fled the room and was leaning against the wall of the corridor, sliding downward, strengthless. But a sudden stalwart arm raised her upright, and she heard a calm, very distinct voice close to her ear, deep and steady.

“There, there. You have nothing to fear from me, Countess. I give you my word.”

She knew the voice, but it came as a shock almost as great as the one she’d just endured. Lifting her gaze from the speaker’s dashing black and silver garb that blended knight with mage, she stared into the cool dark eyes of the Thaumaturge Royal. She had always been on civil terms with this man, whose powers of the Art were the kingdom’s safeguard, but he moved in military circles and they seldom met. He was said to join wry humor with absolute ruthlessness. Putting her hopes on the former, she fought to answer. “Then you aren’t going to torture me?”

The question seemed to faintly shock him. “Countess, please. The very idea.” He motioned her to silence, and led her further down the corridor to a little windowed recess, offering her a chair that she sank into gratefully. He remained standing, and momentarily lifted a hand in an arcane warding gesture, ensuring private conversation before bending to continue. “The King and his fool were utterly unaware that I was present and heard everything.” He gave a discreet cough. “I was disguised as the gargoyle paperweight. Security reasons prohibit me from further disclosure, but the fool’s slanders were beyond preposterous.” The mage paused again, eyeing her keenly. “You’re too pale, Countess. Drink this.”

With a trembling hand she accepted the silver goblet that he materialized and offered, drank the delicious elixir it held, and felt blessed calm well outward from her newly-soothed spirit. “Then you don’t believe I used magic against His Majesty.”

The Thaumaturge barely disguised a snort. “Of course not. You’re incapable. That wasn’t meant as an insult, your ladyship; it’s just that you’re as clear as glass. I can read right into you, and I have to say it’s very entertaining.”

“Then you know I did nothing wrong,” she whispered. “We only talked of books.”

The mage again coughed discreetly. “I’m well aware of that, your ladyship, for often in the guise of the dragon inkwell I used to listen to your conversations.” At her shocked expression he again held up his hand. “Security reasons only, I assure you. I must say I was in constant suspense lest His Majesty dip a pen into me, but otherwise the experience was always delightful. I’ve never heard such good talk anywhere in this detestable place, and no one could possibly reproach either of you in any way regarding the subject matter.”

The Countess felt herself coloring hot at this admission despite her relief. “Perhaps your wondrous powers might have been better employed than by eavesdropping, my lord mage.”

The Thaumaturge was quite unmoved by the reproach. “I’d been biding my time, watching to see just how far the zany would go.” He took the silver cup from her hand, noting with satisfaction that it was empty before vanishing it. “He’s gone very far indeed, and has no intention of stopping. His ambitions are beyond his capacity, and they’ll be thwarted. I’ll make sure of it.”

With a helpless sigh the Countess turned to the window. Spring was in every bud, but all her heart was winter. “His Majesty wouldn’t listen to me. He didn’t care. Suddenly I was…nothing.”

At the Countess’s slow, numb phrases, the court mage hesitated a long moment. “I would do you any service possible, your ladyship. Believe that. But the jester, for all his cheap trickery and low sleights, possesses a greater power than any magic—the power to make the King believe that white is black. None of all my strength of Art can change that.” His lips quirked with rancor. “It’s rather trying, really.”

The Countess blinked at the tears stinging her eyes. “Then there is no help.”

The Thaumaturge lifted a steel-pauldroned shoulder, noiselessly. “As long as the jester holds sway, His Majesty will never again trust you. I strongly advise departing the court before you’re banished…or worse.” He hesitated as the Countess turned to him in shocked amazement, then spoke very quietly, his gaze steadily meeting hers. “You know you never really belonged here, your ladyship. Trust me, you’ll be far better off away. You and I have seldom conversed at any length, but I’ll take this opportunity to inform you that I enjoy books very much, and that my taste is quite probably better than His Majesty’s. Farewell.”

He clasped her cold hands for an instant, warming them with his Art; bent over them in soldierly respect, and then took his leave in a silent billowing of black. Only much later did the Countess observe that on one of her fingers was a splendid jeweled ring where none had been before.

She was no longer permitted access to the King after that, and the fool bounded away giggling whenever she approached him. Heeding the Thaumaturge’s advice, the Countess quietly retired to her peaceful manse deep in the country. Now and again she would receive messages from some of her acquaintance, recounting the jester’s ever more outrageous antics. When she learned that the King’s marriage to the princess had been broken off, the Countess did not need to ask who had instigated the rupture; and she gave the court little or no thought thereafter. She had learned to cherish her new life, there amid the quiet. Now and again she felt lonely, for she had no one now with whom to talk of books; but the King no longer figured in her feelings, save for the occasional random pang. She kept the Thaumaturge’s gift on her finger, and gazed upon it often.

One afternoon as she was taking a rest from her latest reading, leaning at her library window to admire her flourishing summer garden, her ring suddenly sparkled, and in another moment a letter materialized on the broad stone of the casement-sill—a square missive of rich black paper and pure silver ink, boldly and elegantly penned, and addressed to her. Astonished, she reached for it cautiously, examined it awhile, and then broke the seal with greatest care. The message, to her surprise and pleasure, was from the court mage.

“Most well-remembered and much-regretted ladyship:

“Forgive this intrusion upon your retreat, but I thought you might be diverted by an amusing occurrence yesternight involving the King’s fool. His Majesty’s favored companions were assembled at the drinking bout which ends every evening nowadays, whereat the jester, in that sportive fashion which endears him to so many, indecently mimicked several of the most notable ladies of the court, to shouts of merriment and approbation. Needless to say, the ladies in question were not present, but I joined the company in the guise of a tankard. I regret to divulge that the fool did not spare you in his mirth, and at one point remarked that the look on your face when the King scorned you in the library made him almost die laughing. I quivered with indignation, my emotion perhaps unsteadied by the strong ale that filled me to the brim; but I managed to control myself, and my outburst went unnoticed.

“Midnight sounded, the revels broke up, and the jester staggered back to his rooms, where he cast off his motley and his mail and went to bed, no sooner there than snoring. A little before dawn, however, he was awakened by a strange sensation, a scurrying underneath him like that of snakes, or rats. Startled, he attempted to rise, but the bed held him fast; and then the entire mattress came alive, all its feathers rustling with mischievous energy until they broke free and burst through the sheets, tickling the poor zany’s naked skin without mercy in every place imaginable and unmentionable.

“The bed continues to confine the fool, whose incessant laughter, now quite mirthless, gives him no chance to eat or drink or perform any other necessary action. At present he can barely speak, which some consider a blessing; but you can well imagine that matters are becoming urgent, not to mention by now somewhat noisome.

“The King is sifting the court for the perpetrator, and I have been called upon to put many to the question, which is certainly diverting in its way; but whoever conceived the spell seems disinclined to end it, and I am oddly unable to discover the wrongdoer. His Majesty asked me if you might be involved, and I rather curtly assured him to the contrary.

“Still…it could it be, Countess, that you have more magic within you than you’ve any idea, and that a simple word of yours might deliver the jester from his torment. I will be glad to discuss this possibility with you as soon as you wish—preferably in your manse’s library, which I hear is a very fine one.

“I hope you have kept well, Countess, and have now and again remembered kindly

“Your constant friend,

Cyril Dagleish Dacier,

Thaumaturge in Ordinary.

P.S.: You might at this time consider turning around and addressing a few words to the vase on your desk, which has taken the liberty of replacing its fading roses with fresh orchids.”


End


Visit the author's website at  carolynkephart.com for 
first chapters of her novels, reviews, and more.


Carolyn Kephart's publications:

Wysard  and  Lord Brother, Parts One and Two of the Ryel Saga duology, acclaimed  epic fantasy (available at Amazon)

The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic, combining the duology in a single volume (available at Amazon)

Queen of Time, contemporary magic realism that takes the Faust legend in new  directions (available at Amazon)

At the Core of the Happy Apple: A Mystery Solved, an essay on the inner workings  of the popular 1970s Fisher Price wobble toy  (available at Amazon)

PenTangle: Five Pointed Fables, a collection of short stories previously published in  ezines (available at Smashwords and its associate vendors)