Reflections, Lessons Over A Year of Writing–Seriously

The world of writing is a big old labyrinth without a map, guidebook, rules … logic (sometimes), you get the point. So here is one writer’s pause and reflection over a year’s worth of world crafting.

Last year I upped my game a bit in the writing world. I worked hard on the lessons flash/short story form teach about construction and took more chances on submissions. This paid off. I had twenty-two submissions over the calendar year of 2017 with three-and-one-half (I’ll explain in a moment) accepted for publication. The half comes from being asked to expand on a pitch and write a test draft, which ultimately didn’t make it in. Alright, so the three-ish doesn’t sound that great … but compare to that 2016 when I had thirty-nine submissions with only three acceptances. This increase was due to several factors. One, by working with a writers group I got better at the core craft. The stories I am churning out now are stronger and more focused thanks to their feedback and support. Two, I have gotten better at selecting the markets I was sending to instead of the scatter-shot of the first year. Three, luck. Never discount luck when submitting.

Alright, now anyone who knows me is well aware I like a meatier story. Novel length is where my plotting side goes to. Applying the lessons of short story format I have found it a bit easier to approach newer ideas on formation, and editing is a touch easier. But this is simple improvement that happens with time … let’s get into the nitty gritty in no real order of importance.

Lesson One: there is a story in everything! Some are flashes, some are shorts, and some are too large to be contained. The trick is realizing when you’re shoe-horning a big scope tale into a flash and instead of cramming, let it breathe! This year I grew frustrated with a short story that I have been trying to get out into the world for about two years. Every time it comes back. I asked my writers group to no-holds barred give it a rending and let me know what was triggering the rejections. The verdict came back from my trusted readers: There is more than one story in here–either cut back to one or expand on this other one. I scratched my head for MONTHS over this feedback as I couldn’t decide what to do. Then … Christmas came, and on the Eve at the stroke of midnight I lost my beloved silvermuzzled border collie, Ashenpaw. In my grief I wrote another story of an angel dog, joining Ion’s “Chain Lightning” … and it dawned on me. There IS more to this story. A whole lot more. 2018’s project is now to forge a full novel out of my vision of what happens when our beloved dogs pass on.

AshandIonAngels

Ion and Ashenpaw, the real inspiration behind the Ethereal Dogs Project, my WIP

Lesson Two: a writers group is invaluable. Writing is a grueling and lonely craft. Suffering the lows together helps. In the shorter format acceptance percentages average close to 1% or LESS. That means you are bound to see a lot of rejections even if you rock! This can be for many reasons: wrong tone for their collection, another story like it, editor had a bad day etc. Could have nothing to do with your skills. So you have to be able to gauge how you’re really doing. A good group will share success and failures, give honest and valued feedback, and ultimately teach you to start finding your writing self. Not every piece of feedback will work for you. 😉 Not everyone is Hemingway or King … which leads me to three.

Lesson Three: there is a lot of information on How To … out there, you CAN’T follow it all. So don’t! Learning how to critically evaluate these tidbits is important. But we can’t (and shouldn’t) all write like Hemingway! What makes for great King suspense/horror doesn’t work so great for Tolkien fantasy fans. The key is finding the elements you like to read and want in your stories then learn how to implement them. Good beta-readers in a writing group are awesome for this. You’ll be able to see what come across and what trips them up. You will also find loads of articles out there about adverbs/adjectives, ellipsis, dream sequences, prologues, dialog tags (said vs bookisms)–I could go on for an Illiad length saga. The point is everyone has an opinion. You won’t be able to satisfy everyone, nor should you try. Learn the basic rules, then learn how to stylistically break them. Good fiction isn’t written with pristine grammar. After all, in common English we break the rules all over the place. A grammar correct book can be boring. The key is to present your work in a way that the prose doesn’t get in the way of itself–see, I don’t mean free reign to do whatever you want, the result must be clear to readers. Again, betas who know you will help here. I’m not everyone’s cup of coffee in that I tend toward the purple-prose end. But this is my natural writer’s voice. In revisions I catch the areas that nag, but leave the rest because it suits my work. Style is something that comes with time. You can’t force it. Let it come.

Lesson Four: writing frequently helps, especially when you let the pressure off yourself. Do a fun short challenge. Use a random prompt and see what comes out of it. In a writers group do raw challenges with little clean-up time before posting to see what comes naturally. You learn a LOT by doing this. What comes to you first? How do you build a story (character, setting, threat)? What elements are you good at? What elements do you struggle with? These tidbits will aid you in identifying what your strengths are weaknesses are. Some writers are great at dialog, some are great at beginnings, some at endings, or actions sequences, or non-action scene buildings … etc. Use excercises like this to learn who you are as a writing. You can take these dabblings and expand them later if you love the idea.

Lesson Five: be fearless in your own space. Don’t restrict yourself. You have an idea? Explore it. You don’t have to show anyone if you don’t want. But you never know what comes from just exploring. A simple meandering story can turn onto a path you never would have thought of and spark a whole new adventure. Every page is a blank map of a world, don’t be afraid to simply wander for a bit. Editing is where you refocus after the discovery.

Lesson Six: be YOU. If you have a story to tell, tell it. Get it onto the proverbial page anyway you can, however long it takes. Don’t let anyone tell you not to. And if they do–they aren’t your audience. Writing takes bravery when we share our visions with the world. This isn’t easy, but if the story isn’t what you wanted to say it won’t come across right, from the heart. Keep your convictions. To me there is an older audience out there seeking animal-centric stories. I will write it, they will come.

Remember–there is no map, this journey is yours. Take the step, and the one after, and the one after that … see you on the road!

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The Harpening

One would think that living in a shire surrounded by the next generation of elite story-tellers would be captivating. Well, life in the shire of Coarrunn is boring as watching moss grow on a fallen log. I’ve been here now for a couple years learning my bardic skills from Master Bard Ais from sun-up to sun-down. Nothing but sit your fuzzy rear here and listen.

We’re bards! We’re supposed to tell!

“Ealaidh.” Seinn, an adolescent wolf several years older than me, ruffled the hair between my ears as he joined me by the river. “Aren’t you supposed to be listening to Ais’s lecture on the Bones of Lore.”

I mock-yawned and smirked. “Makes me snore.”

“This isn’t rhyming class.”

With a toothy grin, I replied, “Why all the sass?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re such a pain.”

“I can’t complain.”

Tweaking my ear, he couldn’t help a little grin. “That cheeky-nature of yours is going to get you into trouble.”

I wrapped my arms around my legs and sighed. “I just want to do something besides listen all day. We’re minstrels-in-training, shouldn’t we be playing instruments, singing, and stuff?”

Seinn adjusted the red scarf around his neck, a nervous habit of his. “Well, yeah, eventually. I mean, I am, but you won’t for a few more turns of the seasons.”

I shot bolt upright. “What? A few more … what will I be doing in all that time … listening to snore-fests?”

“Fraid so. It’s what the novice whelps do. Now, let’s go.” He turned and trudged off.

I lingered by the rippling stream, finding its voice more interesting than my tutor’s. The sensation of a glare burning at my back stirred me to my footpaws. I kicked a pebble and the water swallowed my offering. Grimly, I embraced my fate and followed Seinn back towards the shire.

We passed by the glade where his harping class was about to start. The wolf offered me a hard glare and pointed over the hill to where Ais would be lecturing. With my shoulders rolled forward, I padded on … until I heard the paws of my fellow slan on the strings.

The tinkling beauty called me. Scampering through the brush I edged to the backside of the class to watch as row after row of older novice bards plucked dutifully in echo of the Master Harpist at the front. The lure pulled me, my footpaws nearly dancing, toward an empty harp at the back of the group.

My paws itched, a sensation so dire that if I didn’t touch the strings to make them sing I would cease to exist. The world lived suspended in those strings and playing them released it.

The first touch, tentative, but it brought forth a delicate cascade of sound. My heart leapt. I slid onto the seat and listened to the tune as played by the Master. Fingers shifted, already knowing the way. The moment the silence fell, I repeated the simple tune with the others. Stopping at the end felt like clogging a river. But I listened again. This time more notes than what I had heard poured through. They didn’t stop at the end of the passage.

EalaidhHarpOdeStone

Behind my closed eyes, the glade dissolved to be replaced by a mighty star-fall and a celestial river of brilliant lights. Rich blues, purples, and pinks danced in the void. Around me will-o-wisps flickered in brilliant sequences. A speckled beast dove through the celestial waters, one of the mighty dragon-kin. She arched her head and extended her frill releasing a mighty roar that shook the heavens.

A paw grasped my shoulder. I opened my eyes to find the Master Harpist staring at me in awe, a strange twitch to the corner of his eye. “Young one, you should not be playing yet. You have yet to master your powers.”

I withdrew my claws from the strings and folded my paws pleadingly. “But, I must play … ”

He extended a paw over the class, drawing my attention to it. Every student, even Seinn sat slack-jawed staring at the glimmering images projected in the air around me … my celestial river! “You must release them from your enchantment, whelp.” He knelt before me, gazing into my eyes. “In all my years, I have never seen one of such raw power. No, you must be careful and learn slowly or you may convince a beast that something is there when it is not. Or lead them to be lost to the past.”

I stared at the strings, glimpsing the other bards trapped in my image fog. “I … I don’t know how.”

The Master Harpist heaved a sigh. “And that proves my point. You, most of all, must refrain until Ais has tempered your abilities. For now, I want you to mimic what I play.” He carefully plucked out a sequence.

When he finished, I played it. The moment I struck the last note, the bards all blinked and the dreamy expression faded. Seinn stared at me, confusion in his unblinking gaze.

The Master Harpist took my paws and folded them in my lap. “Now, you don’t touch another harp, understand?”

I couldn’t even nod. The lingering sensation of completeness called to me to touch the strings. The instrument itself promised power sweet and alluring. Without even knowing it I had enchanted a dozen other bards-in-training into an enthralled image fog.

My claw drifted toward a string. The Master Harpist pushed it back away. “There’s another class you should be in right now. Your time will come, whelp. But it is most definitely not now. Off with you before you steal my students again.”

Dutifully I left, over my shoulder I watched planning my next chance to play. At least I was no longer bored.

Shadow of Doubt

Shadow of Doubt

samhainsidhewyvern

I reached out and caught the leaf drifting down from the branches. A true masterpiece on a once living canvas. Red tips blazed at the end of the brilliant yellow center. The shrill cry of a sidh-wyvern caught my ear. I glanced up into the shivering autumn leaves and spied her unusual markings.

“What are you looking at, Ealaidh?” Seirm, my bard-in-training charge, flicked his stoat ears in the direction I was gazing.

I ruffled his headfur. “Tis the turning of summer to autumn. Surely you know about the lords of the seasons.”

He chuckled and flared out his short tail. “Of course I know the myth.”

“Myth?” Raising an eyebrow I cocked my head. “Surely you mean myths?”

He stared at me blankly.

“By the multitude of gods, what lazy tailed bard taught you? Oh never mind, it doesn’t matter. Sit. Learn as you should have been taught.” We settled on a fallen log dappled with lichen. The earthy scent filled my nostrils, that damp odor of deceased plants returning to the dirt that gave rise to it. Cycles.

“Seirm, my young bard—”

“I’m seventy-three.”

“My young bard.” I eyed him back into silence. “The seasons did not always turn. Ages ago, not long after the first tribes began the tell of time through Taliesin’s gift of music, Cernunnos turned to Io’s children. The earth had grown weary of supporting constant abundance. So in his great wisdom Cernunnos selected four special sidh-wyverns and gifted them with the power over the weather.”

“Yes. Everyone has heard the legends. But how can something so tiny effect the whole climate? They’re the size of hawks, that’s ridiculous.”

“You are not alone in thinking so. When first they were gifted, one of them suffered greatly under the burden of her task, even into the second year.”

The summer sun cast Muthadh’s shadow long as she stretched her scalloped wings over the hillside amongst the ghosts of shivering leaves. The hawk-sized sidh-wyvern let her translucent back frill tuck in tight as she wrapped her tail around her. Purple and orange scales hardly hid her among the ash tree’s bright green. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

“We are dragon-kin.” She swallowed, hugging the swaying branch with her clawed wings. “What a shameful jest. What am I compared to my larger cousins? A wisp to be blown on the wind?”

A distant cry shattered the air, Muthadh held her breath and spread out her wings prepared to bolt. But for what? She knew that boastful shriek, as did any who roamed the wood in the grip of summer. Luisreadh, the sidh-wyvern whose magic reigned over the season of prosperity. It was his breath that opened the flowers faces to the sun. The current of his wings that spread their pollen through the glades. His cry that summoned the heat of the blazing sun down on the earth.

Muthadh had woken. Luisreadh’s season … was supposed to be ending. Her claws gripped the branch as her eyes locked on her silhouette spilling on the ground. Thin, wiry, substanceless. She whimpered at her shadow of doubt. Green leaves buffeted her. Leaves that were her task to paint as vibrantly as Luisreadh painted the flowers. A warm breeze blew through the wood. Winds that were her task to whip into gales and strip the growth away. The sun winked through the canopy. The same sun it was her task to pull lower into the sky to let land to rest, if she could but summon the courage.

Memories of last year’s attempt paralyzed her. Last year … in what was to be the first turn of the seasons. She bowed her head and whimpered at her failure.

Autumn’s first day was today … and its bringer clung to the branch like a stubborn leaf. When she had opened her eyes on this day and seen the beauty Luisreadh had spread throughout the land, a lump grew in her throat. How could she wilt his beloved blooms? How could she rot this vibrant land? How could she possibly outshine the splendor of the sidh-wyvern of summer?

She spied him winging into the trees, Luisreadh swept through the branches screeching out his pride at his own work. His bright green scales splotched with all the colors of the blooms. Bright rows of spikes lined his back as he undulated through his domain. The spark in his eye lanced Muthadh’s heart. He wasn’t ready to relinquish. For the second time, autumn could not possibly come.

Her shadow shivered up from below, cast over Luisreadh’s masterworks. The shadow mocked her, she swore she saw it narrowing its eyes and laughing up at her. Coward! It whispered. Uninspired fool. Yours is the season of death. Who would ever embrace you? It’s no wonder that no one even missed your failed contribution last year. Crawl into a tree hollow and cry like again! It’s all that is left to you.

She tucked her head beneath a wing and stifled a sob. The gleam of bright blue sparked before her. She opened her eyes to gaze upon on will-o-wisp floating in the folds of her wing. The morpheous sprite floated down to the tree limb, brushing against the bark. “Listen …”

Muthadh bent down and pressed her ear close to the limb.

“Listen …” The wisp evaporated.

weary … rest … The limbs spoke to her in creaks and groans.

She snapped up her head. “You … you would suffer if I did not take over for Luisreadh?”

weary …

“But, you don’t understand. I would be killing you.”

sleep, not death … through winter … spring reawakens … without rest—as if to show her a leaf crisped on the twig and fell to the ground.

“Have you told Luisreadh?”

yes … he bids us to sprout eternal … we are not the evergreen …

Her frill crept up to full, flowing in the breeze between her spines. She watched the reigner of summer soaring on his breeze, oblivious to the cries echoing in the wood. He remained ignorant to the needs of the land. A snarl parted her scaly muzzle. Turning to the shadow of her doubt on the ground she glared hard at it. “Your pointless weight will not ground me. I am the reigner of autumn! This season does not come without my bidding. It is time.” She stroked the tree limb with her wing. “The land needs sleep.”

Throwing her head back, Muthadh released her harsh rasp. Her wings spread and slammed down against the warm current. A cold, crisp bite followed and enveloped her in a spinning frenzy. The skies overhead darkened, leaden with heavy rain clouds as a thunderclap echoed through the valley.

“Luisreadh! Summer has come to a close, the harbinger of autumn has awakened. Bow down and surrender.” She hovered above the tree grove, rain pelting her scales.

A brightly mottled arrow of sidh-wyvern flesh shot up from the canopy. Luisreadh led with his talons and a piercing scream. “I am not finished! I will never fall to you!”

“Spirited words.” She snapped her wing and rose out of his way. Enthusiastic as always, Luisreadh overshot and struggled to pull around and face her. “You know this is how it must be. The land calls to you, but you ignore it. Heed its cries, let it rest.”

Hotheaded Luisreadh bared his fangs. “You challenge me for the mantle? I would have thought last year when I beat you into submission you would have learned. You are not worthy!”

She cringed, the scar on her wing still tugged. But the pain had another effect. She wouldn’t let him win again. Autumn must come, even if he refused to heed the cry of the land. Rising toward him in the growing gale littered with shredding leaves she beat her wings, arching her talons. The chill in the air faded his colors. Each beat of his wings lost power as she stole the mantle from him.

His face lined with shock a moment before she collided with him, entangling him with her talons. He struggled, only to blink up at her. Muthadh carried him lower into the canopy, heading toward his favorite oak tree. “What … what are you doing?” His voice was barely a whisper in her gale.

“Laying you to rest for the turn of the seasons.” She gently nestled him into the crook of the tree, nudging his tail in.

The defeated summer sidh-wyvern’s eyes already were closing where he would sleep three seasons through. “But … why … I beat you into the hillside last year … left you broken.”

She breathed onto the oak leaves and they turned a brilliant array of reds and golds. “I already beat one opponent today. What need have I to prove to another?” A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds casting Muthadh’s shadow against the oak tree. Luisreadh’s eyes blinked back open as the shadow cringed.

Muthadh spread her wings and shot into the heavens, riding the rising gale with each pulse. Beneath her the world turned from one brilliant palette of colors to another of true beauty. The beautiful palette of change as autumn fell upon the land for the first time.

Out of the canopy Muthadh soared, wreathed in will-o-wisps.

Seirm jolted as the sidh-wyvern shot in a tight spiral over our heads and up into the leaden skies.

Placing a paw on his shoulder, I chuckled. “First time you’ve seen a myth, lad? Been around the bard camp too long. Welcome to the real world where there are creatures who truly command their surroundings. Take care to mind them. Especially the harbinger that prepares the earth for the winter sleep … she bares death on her wings.”

Bridging Seasons

journeysthrougha-brass-quill

Bridging Seasons

Something pressed against my arm. I jerked awake with the rude realization I must have nodded off. A whelp tugged on my tunic sleeve. “Gorach, can I ask you a question?”

I squeaked a yawn and stretched. A wild breeze scattered a rainbow of flower petals in the sunlight-dappled clearing. A shift of my footpaws in the patch of clover disrupted several swallowtail butterflies. After I followed their wayward path, I glanced down into the curious bear cubs eyes. “I will answer if I can.”

He rocked back and forth on his footpaws. “But you’re a bard. You know everything.”

I ruffled his headfur, a smile wrinkled his muzzle in response. “Flattery is sweet, but never let any bard tell you such nonsense. That all-knowing is useless pander.” This reminder of my station in the world seemed an ironic consequence of my unscheduled nap. A quick glance over the clearing revealed the Slan whelp’s kin tending to some bee hives. “Now, what would you like to know?”

“Well, why is it that winter and spring and … and autumn are such harsh changes, but spring into summer seems so easy?”

“Perceptive, aren’t we. And a fair question that holds quite the story. You chose the right bard for your query.”

“I did?” When I patted the ground he sat down.

Waving a paw to the forest, I smiled. “This very turn of the spring to summer I witnessed the two lords of the seasons. Their relationship is unique among the four. Would you like to hear about Cinnich and Luisreadh?” The whelp nodded. “Have you ever glimpsed the sidh-wyverns who bring the turnings?” To this he shook his head. I pointed to the colorful little sidh-wyverns flitting about the trees in their mischievous ways. “Each season is brought on by one specific sidh-wyvern. Unlike the common ones you see here, these four are only awake during their season. They only cross paths at the time of the turnings. Muthadh of the autumn wilts the splendor of Luisreadh’s summer. Rhew buries Muthadh’s colorful palette. Cinnich wakens to melt away the blankets of snow brought on by Rhew. As with many things in nature, it is a cycle. However, one change is unique … and this is the story.”

Cinnich hovered above the glade, delicate flowers stretched their faces up toward her. The fern-like fronds unfurling from her head twitched at the marvels abounding. But in her eyes beamed not pride, sorrow tinged her expression. The days grew long, the sun approaching its zenith. The harbinger of spring knew what this entailed.

Her time in the waking world drew to a close. Her time to paint the world in pastel floral dwindled.

A cry in the distance drew her gaze. Like an arrow, the vibrant green sidh-wyvern shot across the sky. His red dappled scales caught the sunlight and shimmered.

Cinnich gazed at the lacy floral surrounding her and let a bitter smile play on her lips. At last she snapped her wings and rose into the azure sky, swirling around Luisreadh. A scattering of petals floated on the breeze.

He flushed brighter as they locked gazes, talons entangling in flight. “You mossy beauty, you! Look at this glorious blanket of color you have laid out for me. Tell me how am I to be expected to improve on this?”

“It will be a shame to miss out on your colorful masterwork.” Flapping her wings, she tucked her head to her chest and tried to hold on to the mantle, fought to maintain her bright colors. “I hear at your bidding the flowers bloom as boldly as your scales.”

Luisreadh nudged her cheek. “You do this to me every year. Flattering me, I swear you hope that I will let you reign longer.” Even as he spoke he watched her blush, confirming his words. “Fierce beauty. Victor over the winter’s biting cold. How can I possibly not be moved by your splendor?” His tail wrapped around hers, his thorny vine entwined with her rose petal tail.

Cinnichand Luisreadh

“It is the way of things … when one rises, the others must sleep. My time is over, though I am not yet weary.”

“So, why should you sleep without one last act of beauty? Come, not every mantle need be passed over a battle.” He uncoiled from her and darted down through the forest with a wild shriek.

Cinnich dove, the flowers and fern fronds decorating her scales unfurled to their fullest. Through the branches the sidh-wyverns danced and sang. Behind them trees and flowers alike deepened their hues. Life sprang froth from the ground in abundance in a tangle of colors and shapes. The sidh-wyverns raced through glade after glade trading off leads in a playful game of tag.

Spiraling up into the heavens, they left a cascade of petals in the twisting breeze. With locked gazes they entwined tails and bowed to one another. Cinnich tucked her head beneath Luisreadh’s chin. “Thank you, lord of the summer-wind, for one last dance in the sun.”

The colors of Luisreadh’s scales intensified even as Cinnich’s faded. “The thanks goes to you for preparing the way for me, my mossy beauty. I shall take great care of your creations.”

Within his talons, she grew limp. He clutched her safe to him, taking her weight on his broad wings. Carefully he glided down into the forest and tucked her slumbering form in the hollow of a willow tree. “Rest, until the turnings come to you again.”

Unable to contain himself, the whelp clapped his paws. “No wonder! They’re in love!”

Gorach nodded. “Spring and summer complement one another. The seasons that build one upon the other. Luisreadh and Cinnich are both prideful beasts, but they recognize the palettes they both use. Deep in their hearts they admire the skill.”

“Do they have whelps?”

She laughed. “No. You see the lords of the seasons are eternal spirits. Given that, Cernunnos saw no need for them to … uhh … procreate.”

The whelp lowered his muzzle to his chest and muttered, “That’s kinda sad. They can only see each other for such a short time and not be able to be a ma and da.”

“One doesn’t need to be a ma or da to have offspring.” Gorach gestured out over the field. Bumblebees landed on the flowers, tugging them down as they collected pollen. Butterflies danced on the breezes, fluttering between the bright flowers. Blooms wilted from the trees, promising fruit later in the heat of the summer sun. “Every year both Cinnich and Luisreadh give birth to countless miracles. That is their legacy. Eons ago they recognized their duty to bring forth diversity from the soil. Every summer he builds on what she began. Harmony.”

The whelp leaned forward to get a closer look at a bee. His eyes followed the insect’s erratic path. “The whole world should be like them.”

Gripping the sword hilt at her side, Gorach gazed into the drifting summer clouds. “Would that it were.”

The Healer’s Moon

journeysthrougha-brass-quill

Healer’s Moon

The eyes of every slan stared out across the snow-riddled fields locked in the solid shadows of the night. Paws gripped the tree roots that formed the door frame of the great hall as the slan ignored the late winter chill seeping into their gathering. Soon. Any moment now it would come. Several bards of various ranks held their instruments at the ready.

Kenaz

The kenaz is a pendant worn by Travelers that both marks them as Taliesin’s select followers, and allows them to summon whatever instrument the bard desires.

Ealaidh gripped the kenaz nestled in the small of her neck. In the tense silence, her breath danced in frosted clouds. The cadence of her heartbeat a slip jig. She came up on her tip paws. The sky behind the hill lightened, turning lavender. Three more measures of the slip jig throbbed against her ribs and then … the bright crest broke from the shadows. The moon’s silver aura announced her rise into the heavens.

The silence shattered into a wild fray. Music rose into the air. Ealaidh summoned a fiddle from her kenaz and joined in the dance. Mulled wine from a kettle over the golden flames in the large hearth passed from paw to paw in communal cups. No matter how well a beast sang, every voice joined in the chorus.

Neath the moon we raise our voice

Neath the moon we sing til morning!

In the night we seek her grace

Restore all who call your glory!

Dance on two until the four

Dance as once we were created!

Gift of health, we are restored

As our magic is awakened!

In the sky the radiant full moon rose, a gleaming eye gazing down on Healer’s Moon celebration. A celebration that would last until the sun banished the night.

For over an hour, the wine flowed and the music rang. Ealaidh lowered her fiddle and drifted to the door. Her ears rode high, straining out into the night. She studied her paws. Late. It should have happened by now. The two onto the four. Why had none in the great hall shifted? This was the proper night, the night of the healer’s moon restoration.

She glanced over her shoulder into the throng. No one watched as she slipped out into the night and pressed her paw against the ode-stone. Closing her eyes, she felt the warmth of the current spread into her. She tugged thread after thread of her fellow Travelers, the last time they had sung to the stones left an essence of where they were. None were near Arainrhod’s Loch, except the one. Suthainn.

“He can’t do this alone.” Ealaidh swallowed and gazed to the east. Through the trees the moonlight shimmered on the loch’s surface. Turning back to the gathering in the great hall her heart squeezed in her chest. The warm light beckoned her. “No … ” she gazed back at the distant loch, “another Traveler is needed there. They have plenty of bards to make merry this night.”

She slipped away through the brush as fast as her footpaws could carry her over the hill. At last she broke into the clearing. Suthainn, a robust mangan, looked up from the edge of the pond and wrinkled his nose. “Ealaidh? What in the stars has brought you here?”

Ealaidh panted to catch her breath. “I came to help.”

“You?” The bear laughed. “Go back to chasing the bottom of mulled wine cups! Every Traveler knows that’s your place in the ceremony.”

“I heard the words of Briollag.” Ealaidh pointed at the hoarfrosted trees. “Spring cannot come without the Healer’s Moon power. I know this ritual requires a lot of power. You will need to draw off the current of another.”

The beads on Suthainn’s open vest rattled as he shot straighter. “Yes, one such as Briollag himself. Not a newly fledged Traveler. Now, go.”

“I’ve been emanated. I’m a full Traveler!”

“Within your first decade, Ealaidh.” He gripped the staff so tight his claws splintered it. “You’re not strong enough to take this.”

“I’ve survived my first one-hundred mortal years, and I lived to bear my kenaz.” She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know how strong I am. Besides, you don’t have a choice. No one else is close enough.”

He grumbled to himself before eyeing her. “Listen, young blood. You’re but a whelp in my eyes. Besides, why would I trust one who vanished for a decade?”

Ealaidh stiffened.

Suthainn gestured with a massive paw. “I am no fool. I know why you came here tonight. You wanted to see if offering yourself for the Healer’s Moon would erase the scars you refuse to tell the circle about.”

Her paw brushed subconsciously at the hidden marks around her wrists. She swore she could feel the burn of the scarred flesh around her neck. Healed now, long since healed and buried in the growth of her fur. But still the other Travelers whispered, why? She lowered her eyes.

“The shift will never heal wounds inflicted by magic. Not even the Healer’s Moon can do that, Ealaidh.”

Tears stung her eyes. The leaden weight of her courage and false hope she had fostered threatened to crush her. Her shoulders fell. “I … I don’t care. That’s not why I came. I came … I came because it must be done. For the sake of all slankind.” She shivered. Coming here was such a small gesture, but it was a start.

“Ealaidh—”

“No!” She dashed past him, her footpaws bogging down in the loch’s bank. “Do it! You need a channel and the moon is nearly past her proper height. Start, Suthainn. If it kills me … ” The chill water lapping at her shins drove spikes into her. “If it kills me, so be it!”

His eyes revealed their whites. He hesitated a moment before leveling his staff over her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Penance. She sank down into the water. Her teeth chattered a reel.

Suthainn widened his stance. “Arainrhod, goddess of the moon. Heal and Restore us this night.” He threw back his head and launched into a wordless song. A trail of golden light flowed around Ealaidh and joined the ribbons of magic flowing from Suthainn. They mingled together and rippled out into the still waters of Arainrhod’s Loch. The moon’s eye gleamed down on the them. Gold and silver lights streamed together and stretched into the night sky.

healersmoon

Suthainn and Ealaidh threw their heads back. Wreathed in the aura their forms grew and changed. Suthainn morphed into a larger, four pawed version of himself. His clothes vanished into his fur. Ealaidh discarded her fox form and shifted into an immense dire wolf crouched on all fours at the water’s edge. The aura encapsulated her. She glowed as the power channeled through her from the loch into the ancient Traveler. The current rushed through her flesh, threatening to erode her. She widened her stance and braced herself.

Primitive howls and roars broke out over the land. Every slan  had shifted through the power of the moon’s current.

The torrent of magic raced through both Travelers. All would be restored under the light of the moon … all but two. Suthainn grimaced on the bank’s edge, his head dipped lower beneath the strain. Still in the water, Ealaidh’s eyes were slivers as she forced her gaze up into the moonlight. She snarled in defiance. The ritual price had a price. She would pay it.

All of it.

Rearing back on her hindlegs, she laid her forepaws on Suthainn’s shoulders. The light around her strengthened, her haunches shuddered, but she remained. The bear gawked as his aura faded, Ealaidh’s stance shorting the draw into herself.

“No, Ealaidh! Stop!”

His cry did nothing more than to stiffen her resolve. She raised her own voice into the night. A lament that shook the bear’s heart to the core the moment before the ritual completed. Both slan toppled into the slush.

Still in their primal forms, Suthainn dragged himself up to hover over Ealaidh’s mud caked body. Her eyes cracked open and a slight smile pulled on her grimaced lips. “Well … ” she panted, “ … it’s a start … ”

He rested a paw against her chest, searching for the beat of her heart. “How … how did you withstand that? Briollag and I both struggle to share the load. You have only been emanated for seven years now.”

She shifted a paw and winced. “Eight. But … I don’t expect mine to be counted. So much … such a turbulent time … who was I to be remembered?”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t be this strong, Ealaidh! By the gods, what have you done?”

Ealaidh shivered, ripples raced across the water. “Not me … Can you … can you get me out of here? Cold.”

Gently, Suthainn scruffed Ealaidh and dragged her limp body up the bank. He nudged her tail close to lock in warmth and laid his bulk beside her. “The sunrise will shift us back. Don’t waste your strength.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she mumbled.

Their breath mingled in the moonlight in icy clouds. Suthainn tracked the moon’s journey through a few constellations before he edged a paw against her cheek. “Ealaidh, you always were a strange one. From the day that the circle learned Taliesin had picked you we all wondered ahy. This endless road erodes the spirit. You were soft and full of joy. We saw a brilliant bard, but not a resilient Traveler. ”

She flicked an ice crusted ear. “I once heard a wise beast tell … being a Traveler gives one access to all the knowledge collected in the world. But it does not make one omniscient.”

Suthainn arched his head back and blinked. “I thought you weren’t listening!”

Her laugh was little more than a forced breath. “ … surprise … oh wise one … ” She curled tighter, frosted fur crackling. “Do me a favor … don’t tell anyone about this … all right? Let them believe … I was irresponsible … by golden hearth … drinking mulled wine … by the gods, mulled wine.” A whimper escaped her.

“Come on. That hearth sounds nice about now.” Suthainn forced his head under her and worked her bulk onto his shoulders. He lumbered through the snow toward the distant golden doorway. “Ealaidh, I’ve been the healer bard for ages now. Many ages longer than you have lived. I must tell you, time has taught me that some wounds can never be healed.”

She could have been a slain hart across his back for all her stillness and lack of warmth. For a moment he thought she was once more asleep. “That depends,” she sighed, “on what one seeks. Tonight I found what I sought … even against reason.”

His ear twitched, uncertain if he had heard the wind or if the exhausted Traveler mumbled …

there will never be forgiveness, only endless blood tithes.

 

The Blind Division

journeysthrougha-brass-quill

Blind Division

 I know why you have come, human. I know why you stand here reeling in confusion. An ill-wind blows across your world. You wish to ask, how did this happen? You ask how could an ancient creature like myself possibly comprehend … oh, but I do. Perhaps more deeply than you can imagine. All I ask is shelve the human ego for a moment and listen to the truth I tell, of the gravest mistake the slan ever made. There is no easy way to tell this, but I will try.

blinddivisions

The slan once were a single race, the god Cernunnos bestowed his gift on all our kind, despite the lowly animals we originated from. Mangan, brucach, faol, radan, and cugar, we lived side-by-side in mixed shires sharing the magic we were god-blessed with. Magic ran in our veins. Every slan who drew breath shifted into their ancient form at will. That was precisely where the names of our kinds came from. The faol, like myself, could transform into a dire-wolf. The act of shifting healed wounds. A highly useful skill full of strength and stamina. For eons we basked in the benefits of our gift, our peaceful culture thrived.

That was until fate lashed out and a shadow darkened the land. On the nights of the full moon a ravenous beast tore through shires and dragged off innocent slan, from whelps to elderly. For ten years shire-folk lived in fear of this menace stalking in the dark, aware it was at least one, if not more, of their own. In the heart of a shire Uachdaran called out to his fellow faol that mingling with the other sects of the slan is what brought this accursed punishment. Magic, he decreed, was uncontrollable and a danger to all.

Most didn’t give his youthful ignorance a second thought, especially once the attacks ceased and peace returned to the lands. But Uachdaran did not back away from his belief. He beat his breast in every shire, and gradually faol flocked to him. The once-few grew into an army driven by fear of the ‘feral’ side of our race. Before long he abandoned the forested valleys and took his followers into the craggy hills. Walls of stone, he demanded, would keep them safe from the influence of the ‘feral’ magic. Within the walls of the first city, populated only by faol, he invoked a harsh ritual. All who wished his protection must subject themselves to the thorn of the yellow rose. Once a slan is pricked the poison prevents magic, even shifting, for a full mooncycle. Cycle after cycle, his followers bound rose stems to their arms to prove their devotion. A sea of flowery yellow pennants twisted the wills of thousands.

In the shadow of his impenetrable city, others took up a similar cry until there were segregated cities of ‘rose pledged’ folk. Cities of solely brucach, or mangan. The land of Caledonia closed up behind walls of division where the ‘feral’ were treated with suspicion.

The fear of their ‘wild’ cousins manifested into a raging fire. Driven into a frenzy by the war drums of the self-declared nobility, who claimed to be protecting their followers, the battles began. Armored squads trampled and burned shires. Folk were dragged into the city walls and bound with thorns. Those who refused to be bound were slain. Bards and druids entered the cities at their peril. Attempts to ease the fear only resulted in torture, paws and jaws broken, bodies bound in thorns cast down like scree on the mountain to a long and lingering death. Most hid to protect the vast collected knowledge, leaving many shires to fend for themselves.

Through the spark of one panicked voice, a war spanned generations. Only shires veiled by the magic of defiant bards and druids evaded the painful fate as our race lost our blessing to the tongue of fear. Pierced by the thorns, the youth behind stone walls grew up never knowing what they truly were. Their suppressed gift became a horror story whispered by the hearth … the truth of the deadly decade buried and forgotten. All the collective heard was that a shifted slan is nothing more than a feral mindless beast. They gazed upon carvings on the walls of their proud armies slaying shifted beasts, never aware that the dire-wolf on the end of the lance was one their own kind. Kin murdered kin in a glorified procession of cleansing.

What a shameful lie. The shift steals none of our sense. But I tell you what can, fear. The tongue of an unchecked paranoid individual convinced there is a reason to hate can do more damage than any shifted beast ever has … and that is why, effectively, the race of slan is now extinct.

Here I am, centuries later, an immortal Traveler, burdened to keep the history and watch it ever repeat, again and again.

The world bows as one voice treats opinion as fact and drowns out all other reason. One paranoid voice drums up hatred without stopping to listen to anything but confirming echoes. One vengeful voice builds a wall against an imaginary threat, blindly dividing the world into countless shards.

I have witnessed civil war before. I have seen it eliminate a once thriving culture. Seen it destroy magic … and now, I hear the cadence of the war drums building again. The blind division born of ignorant fear, and already the panicked stand with stones in their hands ready to stack them.

Open your eyes! Please, I beg of you! This has happened before, in your time, not just mine. The candles are already blowing out, the light is dwindling. Rekindle the flame of true understanding, quell the hysteria that kills innocents. Only knowledge can banish the boogeyman before the vile whispers drive your blade into the heart of your brother, before you wall up your sister.

Once the poison of hysteria takes root, there is no going back.

So wake up, before it is too late. The entire human race is too precious to lose.

gorachillusionary

Symbols that Build, Symbols that Break

journeysthrougha-brass-quill

BardicSummons

“When you look what do you see? … don’t fear to look deeper.” ~Ealaidh

Welcome back.

I just finished the most amusing discussion with my human friend about symbols. We’ve all heard that old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, likewise a symbol can embody complex ideals.

Take the kenaz for example:

Kenaz

This rune is vital to the slannic bards. Displayed on necklaces, it tells others that we serve our race as lore-keepers, judges, and entertainers. Even the material the pendant is made from is significant. A novice bard’s is made from leather. A master bard’s, carved from wood. If one is a Traveler, or a true-master bard selected by the god Taliesin, the kenaz is comprised of a special metallic stone imbued with special properties.

What special properties, you ask? Well, all a Traveler need do is think of an instrument and the kenaz becomes it. Whether you want a drum, a tin-whistle, a harp… or even in modern times, yes–an electric guitar. It’s a convenient way of ensuring we aren’t burden by an veritable orchestra of instruments.

You can imagine, wandering on footpaw that would become quite heavy.

There is a danger to wearing the kenaz as well. For when everyone knows that you are a source of logic and reason, you quickly become a target during upheaval. There was a time when we Travelers had little choice but to cast a guise over our runes for our very survival.

Like my experience with the mixtured nature of symbols, my human friend reflected on a story of a man who became defined by them. She has been recording some lost chapters of his life for the world to come to know the core of this man.

From his birth, Erik hid his face behind a mask.

PhantomMask

He had every reason, for despite his extraordinary gifts, he was disfigured and the world was reviled his monstrous face. But his spirit craved beauty. He collected things that fascinated him. He accumulated the most astonishing skills to build devices and buildings that left onlookers in awe.

None of it mattered. The world only saw the mask– the monster beneath.

Weary of humanity’s game and heartsick after the loss of his greatest treasure, Erik exiled himself and tried to begin a-new. Only in America he found that his strange mask was not the only barrier.

Here he was an immigrant! Though he may have brought a meager fortune with him, the shine of the coin mattered nothing. He was an immigrant to be confined to the Bowery ward for that reason above any other.

This new world underestimated his ambition to create. Fettered by society’s bias Erik put his boundless spirit into one goal–sharing his visions with the world through his architecture.

Against the odds he earned enough to commission the one thing he would need to show the elite he was a gentlemen. His signet ring.

ErikSignetSilverOnline

The silver compass: a tool gifted to him by his stone-mason mentor. The most prized possession of an architect essential for creating master works.

The quill: the writing utensil that documented his other passion, music.

And of course his one and only initial: E. For Erik possessed no sir-name. Despite this, he claimed the status of a gentleman by his own merit.

Mask and signet. Shield and pennant. Sometimes they protect us, sometimes they define us. Sometimes they endanger or even fight us!

For Erik, his symbols have been all of these… if you like to read his story, my human friend has been recording it here: Nightingale’s Odyssey

Until next time, my friends.

We ever remember

journeysthrougha-brass-quill

EalaidhCampfire

We’ve been waiting for you. Come sit by the bonfire for a spell. I bid you welcome.” Ealaidh, the Traveler, reclines on her elbow, her fingers tap a rhythm on her knee. The fox’s half-closed eyes idly watch the silhouettes celebrating in joyous abandon as you join in.

An eerie whistle from inside the heated wood carries above the chattering of the gathered shire. Shadows distort the features of the excited slan. Young and old, the generations gather in a cacophony that mirrored all of life. The shire-beasts of all kinds dance around you without a thought of the morrow.

Ealaidh swallows a mouthful of mulled wine before offering a mug to you. “Drink deep, for tomorrow the road beckons onward, and nothing is promised in the hidden bends.”

A little wildcat whelp skips up to the fire. The flames illuminate her a brilliant orange. Her father ambles behind, leaves tangled in his fur and the gleam of sweat on his fur.

Her bright eyes turn the fox’s way. “Da, there’s the true-master bard right there. Do you think she’ll tell tonight?”

He shrugs. “Little one, our shire has a bard. You’ve heard lots of stories.”

The whelp shakes her head and tumbles down into the grass before the reclining Ealaidh. “Yes Da, we’ve heard lotsa stories, but they say that she shows them.”

Ealaidh winks.

Is it true? Can you make air art?”

The bard laughs and tussles the whelp’s hair. “Air art. What a fanciful description of my skill, young one.”

Can you?”

Paint illusions of the tales of old? Why yes. That is my gift. And on this magical night when the veil has thinned between realms you have but to request of me. I, as a Traveler, am ever at your service.”

Ealaidh bows her head in servitude sending the whelp into a fit of laughter into her paws. “Da, she bowed to me.”

He takes a seat beside you. His daughter plops into the hollow and nestles in. A moment later his wife snuggles in beside them. Slan by slan the entire shire gather in the reach of the fire, drawn by the promise of something to behold. The illusionary talents of their legendary guest. Ealaidh did not miss the glint of firelight off the local bard’s runic necklace. No malice in his eyes, only awe.

Ealaidh rose into a seated position. Addressing the gregarious whelp, she sets her mug aside. “Well, what tale would you like to hear?”

The wildcat’s ears twist as she chews on a claw. “How did all this get here?”

Her father’s paws smooth down her fur. “You know the shire’s story, sweetie.”

Not here.” She points at the ground.

Ealaidh holds a paw up. “I know what she means. A broad vision for such a wee-little beastie. But if she wishes to know how the world came to be, then this eve she shall learn. And not some vague summary … but from the deities themselves.”

Her eyes open wide. “You’ve met the gods and goddesses?”

I have stood within their realm, many of the bardic circle have.” She brings her paws together. “Sgath herself shared with me the beginning. If you will journey with me, look …”

In the spaces between the flames the shimmer of images dance at Ealaidh’s bidding.

In the beginning there were deities.

Their immaterial realm was of pure magic and the deities were the divine masters. At a mere thought anything could be created … or destroyed. Each god or goddess had their own unique talents. No one was ruler over any other. For mortals it is the most splendid of dreams to have ones every whim at their fingertips.

Yet, forever is a long time. A long time with nothing tangible to show for it. Even the deities were not immune to the grind of time. In their realm … everything was transient.

Sgath painted with shadows, unsatisfied with her efforts. There was no substance in these creations.

Belenus leaned over her shoulder, running his fingers down the dark fabric of her tunic. “I know what you need, Sgath. Light always adds depth to the shadows.” With that he spread his arms wide and a great ball of light blazed.

There is no point to this.” She waved her work away in a wisp of darkness. “In all these eons what have any of us done that has remained?”

He winked. “Made little gods and goddesses. Is that what you need? I would be willing to fulfill your every desire.”

She pushed his face away.

Well, if not me, then perhaps another. Tannus has been a tempest lately, perhaps he would be sufficient to quell your desire.”

I am not in the mood. There are enough of us wandering around and creating dreams and mischief. Perhaps … we need something different to watch. Something besides one another.”

Addanc, the great serpent, reared up to his full height and hissed. “Forgive me, I could not help but be drawn by the heat of Sgath’s plight. I agree that perhaps we have squandered our gifts for too long. Alone, we can do no more than fashion wispy visions. But together, perhaps we can make something that lasts. Not here. Not within our plain. I propose we try our magic in another.”

Belenus eyed the serpent. “What are you thinking?”

It is not myself alone, others have spoken as well. Tired of twisting mere clouds to their whims. They wish to try something more permanent beyond our borders. A plain where we can set things in motion and watch what happens.”

Sgath chuckled. “I hear a little of Io’s ego in those words.”

Yes.” Addanc’s tongue ticked his fangs. “He is among those impatiently waiting. It is agreed, without the light,” he looked to Belenus, “and the dark,” he now eyed Sgath, “there is nothing. It would be hopeless. What say you?”

Belenus and Sgath could not see where there would be harm in trying. After all, what was created could be destroyed.

They summoned Aerten and asked her to hold open a portal to another plain.

Nothing. It was a great void.

Belenus chuckled. “Sgath, you should like this place. It’s your favorite color.”

Ahhh, but what is dark with light?”

With a smile he brought forth a ball of light and threw it into the void. On its journey, sparks shot off in all directions. The sun and the stars took up their place.

Addanc slithered through the portal carrying clouds in his coils. Sliding his massive body into a ball, he bit his own tail. He squeezed the clouds into a vast mass beneath. Three times three he slithered around the ball. When at last he loosened his grip the entire surface was awash in waves. A brilliant ball shining blue in the star strewn sky. His tail whipped the earth and it spun on its axis, carried in a great circle around the sun.

Tannus eyed the creation and shook his head. “This will not work, Addanc. Unless all can swim as you. And I daresay that was not how Cernunnos nor Io saw it.”

You have an idea how to improve it?” panted the serpent. “Have at it, Windbag.”

Without another word Tannus blew a mighty wind upon the earth. Clouds drifted up into the sky carrying moisture with them. Dry land emerged from the depths. Over his shoulder the rest of the deities gazed down at this raw potential with hungry eyes.

Morgay and Amaethon leapt down onto the land. Together they danced. Where their feet touched the ground plants shot up. Magog took immense handfuls of land and pushed them up into mountain ranges. In the valleys left behind Latis scooped up water to fill the lakes and rivers.

Sgath peered down at this beautiful landscape and admired it in the light of the sun. However, when it turned to the darkness, not even her eyes could see. She beckoned Arainrhod to her side. “My soft-hearted daughter. Would you be so kind as to watch over the earth in the night?”

Arainrhod embraced her mother and drifted down into the night sky. Her silvery hair cast a glow onto the dark land. Now the terrain played out in soft light and shadow.

Both Cernunnos and Io reached out over the land.

Stand back, scaley one!” Cernunnos tipped his horned head to shadow the earth. “I will show you how this is done!” All manner of wild beasts sprung forth from the land. Beasts that roved on all fours, or swam in the waters, or flew through the sky. Unicorns and gryphons, even the mighty horiequine roamed the world.”

You call that life?” Io snorted, the scales on his snout twisting in disdain. “Watch this.” Concentrating hard, he flexed his claws until from the mountains burst forth creatures in his likeness. Dragons. Dragons of various colors, and even some smaller kin.

For a time the deities watched the world turn. They watched the creatures bounding after one another in the battle for life. All the while Cernunnos and Io made jests about one anothers contribution. Io flicked his claws in frustration and from a rocky cairn the geilt crawled forth. He had traded the dragons vast size and made them smaller, walking on their hind limbs. The geilt were wiser, forging great fortresses of stone in their mountain outcrops.

Cernunnos scowled at this new development. The dragons had already been dominating his own creatures. Many dragons had destroyed entire valleys with their natural talents. So he put forth a challenge to his own creations. Five beasts mastered his call by working together. A wolf, a wildcat, a badger, a bear, and a rat. When his horns touched their heads the beasts rose up onto their hind legs and become the first slan. They grew plentiful on the earth, settling in shires nestled in the forested lands. Guardians, he had called them. To watch over the world.

Taliesin had witnessed all this transpire. There was no force that would keep him from playing with the other deities hard work. In the shape of a bright blue wren he flitted about, spying on the geilt, whispering into the ears of the slan. And in time he knew what he would give to the world.

For all the gifts that we have given to this mortal plain, this Earth, they do not remember from one to the next. Cernunnos, Io, your creations are lovely, but they live in the moment. They keep not a memory of the days before.”

You cannot change that,” Io huffed. “Besides, it wouldn’t matter.”

Ahh, but it does. And since you have slighted me, your children will be slower to learn this lesson. They will have the slan to thank. Just watch.”

From the branch of a tree, the little blue wren sang. His music drifted to the ears of a slannic youth. Some bent to his will, and answered his call.

The first bard was forged.

Came song, came story, came history. Or else none would know these words or see these visions.

The deities gazed down upon the Earth watching how each day played out. Their fingers nudging at their whim. Fate is just the will of a bored god or goddess. It has been so since the dawn of time, and with their hunger for entertainment will remain so until the very end.

The shimmering outlines vanish into the night as Ealaidh lapses into silence. Shire-beasts star with wide eyes at the radiating light of the fire.

At long last, the shire’s bard places his paws over his heart and bows his head. “By the immortal words.”

Ealaidh twists her ears back and closes her eyes. She returns his gesture and completes, “We ever remember.”

She opens her eyes and looks to you. “So tell me, how did you think the world was made?”