« The Visit | Main | Chilly »
January 23, 2005
Interactive Writing
Since I've not been giving proper attention to my blog lately. Some of my time has spent in doing interactive writing at AncientWorlds. It helps strech my writing muscles, notably the fiction portion.
The following is a post I did for Brandubh Niall, a 3rd Century Bard in Ireland, my primary identity at AncientWorlds. The group in which we post our little ongoing story is the one called Crannog Niall.
Long have I been gone from Connacht, seeking solace in the alehouses of Tara, recounting epic tales of fabled wonders for a copper here or a horn of mead there. Not many tell a story like good ol' Brandubh, they said, with words as sweet as blackberry jam and a voice like a harp. Give him another horn, let's see what he'll come up with next! The bard's got a memory of a raven!
‘twas mead that helped me forget, though, the memories that scalded me like a cauldron, when times were happier. Forget my brother and childhood friend, Dubhglas, who died on the field of battle so many years ago. Forget my lost sister Arwen, who answered the call to Mananuan's realm a decade long gone. Forget my beloved Master, Eldrich, whose memory would not disburse no matter how much mead I drank.
“Sing a song for me, Bran,” I hear Eldrich saying. “Sing a song to ease the aches of my weary joints.” My companion, my friend. A father when I had none. A man I loved more than any woman. A man who does not leave me.
It's the reason I'm back in Connacht, here in the beautiful grove at the edge of Lough Mask. The grove where, as a child, I watched a man too small to be real disappear into the bush. The grove where I watched Eldrich raise his hands in seasonal observance, whispering words from a long-forgotten tongue, and saw spirits of the wood dashing across the clearing, swift as a stream, to commune with mortals and give thanks for life.
The dawn is only just sweeping her fingers across the sky, while the moon has already dipped her full face over the Western edge of the lake, unseen through the trees that still shadow the grove in dimness. There is no sound, not a peep from a single Twite even breaks the silence that seems to have heralded my arrival. It is indeed strange—as if the Grove had been awaiting me&mdashyet unnerving all at once.
“Go on, youngster, old Eldrich is tired. A serenade will put him right out”
A serenade? Whether it be the old Druid's spirit or simply my imagination, nothing will quiet him until I sing. Perhaps here, in this holy place he loved so much, he will finally go on to sleep and dream of the lands beyond.
“Sing 'Airmid' for us.”
I raise my head to the sky. 'Airmid' for certain. I pause, remembering the words.
'tweren't a bud as unopened
As Airmid, my Airmid
From over the sea she came
On the white foam in a shell
Sweet Airmid, my Airmid
Her hair white and glistening
With salt and spray, onto the shore,
Came Airmid, my Airmid
O Airmid, O Airmid
I was but a simple man
How was I to know you?
Blessed Airmid, my Airmid
You've gone and left me, girl
Took my soul, and left your ghost
No Airmid, my Airmid
O Airmid, O Airmid
My eyes are closed as I hold the final note, and I can hear my Master quieting, his breathing fading with the echo of the song. Gone, now, perhaps for good.
When next my eyes are open, a heavy fog has fallen over the grove, a mist seemingly tinted in color—I can scarce make out my own hand, much less the trees that surround me. It is mystical in nature, yet nothing I've witnessed before.
I smell sweet smells from the fog, indescribable scents that I can almost taste. It seems deceptive, yet not malicious. I reach for the dagger within my leggings, and although it is blunt and useless, I could still make a threatening enough prey.
“What news is this?” I cry out, not certain if anything within the mists can hear me. My voice is responded by a sound like multitudes of childlike giggling, and my own question, returned back to me in a chorus of tiny voices, “What news is this?” over and over again.
I know now, it is the Faery, and I crouch down and hold my dagger at arms length, knowing that its iron blade is proof enough against the beings, even if my mind will be mud in their hands. “What do you want of me?”
“...want of me?” echoes in return, with more laughing, as I back slowly toward the edge of the grove.
Then, I feel the sun's warmth on the back of my neck—the mists are suddenly vanishing around me. I turn, look, see the trees behind me as if nothing had occurred. I stand straight again, and hold my dagger closer to my body, when I realize I am not alone. There is, standing directly in front of me, someone with a harp on their back, a woman it seems, facing away from me and looking around.
I fall backward into the brush.
Posted by Bastique at January 23, 2005 10:15 PM