George Joy’s Guide to Faerytale Creatures, No 10: Nightmare Shadows

During the period following the First Coming of the Dark Warrior, a strange phenomenon struck Europe.  Slowly, successively, people in different towns and villages suffered the most terrible nightmares - each one much the same in that it featured the shadowy figure of that dread soldier.  

Reports came in from far and wide of a sensation of a presence as people, from low born peasants in villages, to lords and ladies and kings, tried to get to sleep.  And then, once asleep, they dreamed of being tormented by that shadow, that reminded them so of the Dark Warrior who had so recently stalked their world.  Some believed that he had raped them, some believed that he had convinced them to kill a loved one, some that he had destroyed their favourite toy - all had their own chilling experience.

After the phantom passed and reports of it dried up, it was initially seen as a good thing - the Dark Warrior had finally left to let them be.  But then he returned.  

After the Second Coming, of course, there were no dreams.  And some call this a good thing, others a bad.  That, perhaps if we are haunted, we are safe - and that a lull means only one thing - that the Dark Warrior is scheming to return...

George Joy’s Guide to Faerytale Creatures, No 9: Firebrands

Now believed to be extinct, Firebrands were small creatures that travellers of all kinds would take on long journeys both to help keep them company and to light their fires for them.  The creatures would travel in a pouch swinging from their owner’s belt or in the top pocket of their coat or shirt - their heads invariably poking out the top in order to look around.

They were created and given as gifts by the warring wizard, Mars, to those who, like him and Mercury, travelled following the First War of This World.  Indeed, it is often said that the one held by Mercury helped create weapons during the next war - in particular, the Underearth’s Dragons.

The creatures themselves were like newts in appearance with long bodies and tails bordered by four short legs, each with their own individual pattern of white, black, red, orange and yellow stripes running from nose to tail.  When commanded, and only when commanded, they would breath fire until the object they were told to aim at (generally kindling) took up that fire.

It is believed they became extinct as each would either die at the same time as their owner or crawl into his or her mouth so as to be buried with them.  

And that is all that can be said, more or less.  Another creature lost way back in the mysterious mists of time.

250 Words: Customise your drink

Thus commanded the sign on the wall of the coffee house.  It was directly underneath a no smoking sign, which seemed an odd partnership to me at the time but isn’t really important now.  Although that latter order I could live with.  What was I supposed to do to appease the first demand?  I’d already bought and started my small white Americano and I had entered Gormenghast.  I couldn’t very well march back to the counter and say, “Oh I forgot, can I customise my drink?”  And I had nothing with me.  You can’t customise a drink with a book, a notepad and a pencil.  If anything, the staff should have forced me into selecting customisation condiments.  Or at least offered .  Customise my drink?  As if my life wasn’t complicated enough without these inane orders.  I’d a train to catch for one thing.  And I was concerned about the power Steerpike was gathering about him.  Horrid little upstart.  And I was with him all the way when he escaped the kitchen and scaled the ancient walls.  Now I feel quite bad for any respect I felt for him.  He wouldn’t customise his drink on demand.  He’d dispatch with his swordstick or plot to slowly bring down these tin coffee gods and end all their demands.  Customise my drink?  Whatever happened to free choice and the customer always being right?  I’ll have my coffee how it comes, thank you very much…. actually, I did choose to add  milk, didn’t I?

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn (40): The Era of Animal Help, No 9: A Penny Drops

The Merlungh appeared slowly from the lake, piece by piece, before taking the salmon out of the water to examine it.  Her eyes kept flicking up at me, though, examining me as well.

"A fine, big specimen, human," she informed me.  "And these salmon aren't too bad either," she added, making me feel a little nervous right from the off.  "Whatever work you want me to do, I hope we can have some fun along the way."  There was eyebrow movement at choice moments.

"Indeed... and, yes," I began uneasily, I wasn't used to this sort of talk, whatever sort it was.  "It's a unicorn, actually, the work, I mean; a mare that I've been trying to capture and tame her for some time." 

The moment I said unicorn there was a change in her face.  I'm not sure if it was a scowl or a look of pity, or of fear or surprise.  Or a knowing look as I gave her a brief unicorn 101.  I’m sure now it was the latter.  She knew just how doomed I was.

"Sure, I can help with that.  For these beauties I could do a lot more."  Then that look returned again, or a variation of it, and she asked slowly, "Why is she so important anyway?  Why all the effort?  Shouldn't you be spending your time on a more womanly shape?"

"I'd rather not go into all that with a stranger," I replied shirtily.

"Very well," the Merlungh said raising her eyebrows a little and beaming again, "Shall we get going?  Why don't you show me the clearing?"

We waded through the surf, the Merlungh’s large, flat and webbed feet becoming visible, and walked up the beach, our clothes and bodies drying off quickly in the sun.   When we were half way up the beach, she, half a pace or so behind me until now, caught up and nudged my arm with her hand.  "We forgot to shake on it," she said brightly. “And my name is Victoria by the way."  I told her mine, shook her hand and we started over, walking and talking about our different lives.

Victoria was my age and had been coming onto land to see and ride horses ("and a unicorn on a couple of occasions") since childhood, had been taming them since 15.  "Never a unicorn, though; it should be an interesting challenge," she told me with relish.  I told her of myself - my job, my family, this endless quest - but I was careful not to answer her previous questions.

After a while, Victoria asked about John, who had been sitting in my shirt pocket the whole time, just as he did every week during the era of animal help.  I told her how we had met and how he helped me out.  She was extremely intrigued and asked, "May I hold him for a bit?"  I agreed, of course, and John seemed more than happy to ride on this lake creature's shoulder for a while, quickly moving from my pocket, up to my shoulder and along my arm, crossing over at her hand. 

And so I walked a few yards ahead while Victoria and John became better acquainted.  We journeyed like this for about five minutes before I realised Victoria's footsteps and the sound of her breathing had ceased.  The day had been so peaceful and still I guess I must have tuned out of our merry ensemble and into the birdsong all around us, both distant and near. 

I turned quickly to find the pair missing.  "What the-?" I thought and immediately started to walk back along the track to try and find where they had left it.  I did, quite quickly - Merlungh tracks were difficult to miss, they step quite heavily on land, less used to the lack of friction from air. 

They had started slowly before speeding up, possibly because they had heard me coming or maybe they had realised the need to act fast, that they didn't have time to dawdle.  Whatever; ultimately they didn't move fast enough.

The tracks took me to a place where a circle of trees formed a natural shelter surrounded by bushes with a depth of up to five metres of bushes and enclosed overhead like a small vaulted room.  I found the entrance and crept incredibly quietly along a winding path that formed part of a maze.  I didn’t worry about this defence and just kept following the Merlungh tracks that were now partially covered by a set of unicorn tracks. 

Not far from the end of the path I saw them.  Through a 'door' that acted like a frame I could see the Merlungh sitting cross-legged and conversing with the unicorn‘s head, neck and front feet.  I didn't see John at first as I was focused only on the two flapping heads.  Then I dropped my head a little and saw the little sneak perched on the unicorn's front hoof.  A hoof I hadn't noticed was missing a piece and had been since that day I cooked the porridge.

And it all quickly became clear as the world tumbled down around me.  I could see it all, every attempt I thought I had made, had thought I'd set up myself, had been staged.  So much had happened out of sight or partially out of sight - Salazar charging her with his snakes, the Magical Mole transporting her about the forest - all just smoke and mirrors.  Each set-piece no doubt arranged in meetings the like of which I was now witnessing.

The mouse must have been a separate entity, the magic not being strong enough for a psychic link, only a cohort.  Hence their plan had now fallen in.  When I had jokingly suggested the Haunted Lake, the mouse had panicked and thought only of the Great Lake and spiralled into setting up something unplanned before he could stop himself.  (Or herself, or itself).  Which led to this impromptu meet-up, presumably a way to make last minute changes in an emergency.

What I couldn't quite understand, though, was Victoria's change of heart.  She had been, genuinely I guess, willing to help, even if she had also tried to steer me away altogether.  Yet here she was, a quick word-in-her-ear later, helping to plotline and direct another play.

*

I stood staring for only a few seconds before the unicorn looked up and saw me, John melting instantly back into her foot and to make it whole again, the spell broken.  Victoria gave me a look as if to say "I told you so," or "it's impossible, stop trying" before seeing the hurt in my face and mouthing, "Sorry."

And that is when I turned my tail and walked away, not wanting to listen, not wanting to hear, just wanting to get away from what I saw as deceit.  If we were to play, I wanted it to be on my terms.

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn (39): The Era of Animal Help, No 8: To Employ A Merlungh

The whole Merlungh episode started at home one evening when John told me about the other lake.  I'd had a dark moment and suggested summoning something from the haunted lake.  Thinking I was being serious the mouse quickly set himself and the Subbuteo ball into motion and told me of another lake known as the Great Lake.

This lake, John informed me, was very different from its forest brother.  Sunshine rather than semi-darkness reigned above it during the day, its body of water was perfectly clear in every sense rather than dark, murky and misty.  It was six times the size, too, and much deeper, some saying there is no true bottom.  Certainly there are numerous villages in its depths the little white mouse said.

Most importantly for us, the Great Lake was teeming with life of all sorts and sizes.  From the smallest of fish to mermaids and men, giant pikes and, John told me, water unicorns.  For us, however, John suggested the Merlungh (before telling me anything of them, though, he spent some time explaining the pronunciation and how the ‘gh’ ending is formed with a click at the back of the mouth). 

The Merlungh are the semi-land based cousins of the Mermaids and men.  Part man, part fish creatures blessed with lungs as well as gills (the Great Lake Merpeople have only gills; legend and Disney would suggest others do, however, have lungs).  The other main difference to the mermaids and men is the legs that allow them to live their lives partially out of the water, albeit not entirely, as their skin, particularly the scale-covered parts, is prone to dry out and rip apart if just one night is spent out of the water.  As such they always sleep underwater.

At one time the Merlungh lived as much in the forest as under water (except during the night, of course) living on squirrels as well as fish.  That was until something happened that made them stop coming out so much. 

When John told me how a Merlungh might be able to help I couldn't quite believe these lake folk had never been mentioned before.  You see the Merlungh are famous both in the lake and out of it as sea- and horse tamers of great repute.  Within the lake they, and other creatures, use seahorses (specimens somewhat larger than are found in the sea I should think) for transport.  Both there and on land the Merlungh have been employed for hundreds of years to tame the wild.  John told me that nowadays when they do come to the surface it is generally to tame horses for humans, who travel great distances for their services, or to train the next generation in the art.

*

Cut to the next Saturday and I was on the edge of the Great Lake taking its splendour in.  It seemed to rest in its own enormous bowl within the forest.  All around its circumference (on all four sides) great tree infested hills rose up, a blue sky and white clouds hovering above.  Where I stood there was a small pebbled beach.  I could see a few others but mostly the slopes ended in the lake.

I walked down the beach, carrying a large container within which were three large salmon on ice.  This was the only freshwater fish unavailable to them (that they desired to eat - Piranhas weren't available to them and for this they were grateful) and, as such, was an accepted form of payment for their services.  I waded out until the water was up to my thighs and placed the salmon on the lake's bottom, the ice peacefully melting and drifting away as I made my vigil.

One soggy half hour's wait later she appeared.  First a head covered in auburn hair, falling half way down her back in one long plait.  Due to this tying back I could see the gills on either side of her neck, looking like three nasty cuts.  The water ran off this hair like off a duck's back and onto broad square shoulders, a simple shirt clinging to them as it did her chest, more muscular than curvaceous.  I knew then she could be my girl.  Years of training on land had made their mark.  This top half had skin like mine or yours but much better and clearer thanks to a lifetime of watering.

Her bottom half, when it appeared, was a little different.  It went unclothed for one thing.  Probably because of the scales that seemed to act like trousers - her sex could not be determined between the legs and no crack appeared round the back, only smooth scale-covered bumps.  (A little later I read George Joy and found my trouser thought wasn't too far from the truth).

She eyed me up and down before squatting down and picking up the salmon to inspect that.  Once done she put it back down and stood once more.  “We meet well, human.  A fine large meaty specimen this is,” she told me in a slightly flirtatious way.  She gave me another scan and nodded to herself, “I’m pleased they sent me.”  I probably turned a little white from embarrassment but a deal was certainly forged.

250 Words: Jesus jealousy

She glides through the room and no one can touch her.  Effortlessly she talks, smiles, laughs and turns every man to mush.

I have loved her ever since she pushed me from a wall and held my hand when ice-skating, as mad as that might sound.

I live for moments in her presence, stealing glances of her when she is deep in thought, displaying that beautiful far away look that she has.

I spend our time apart dreaming and planning.

Bur for her affections I have a rival who is always between me and her.  And how I would like to be Him.

Round her neck He swings and instantly I want to be Jesus.  He gets much closer to her than I ever could.

He can feel her heart beat and listen to every breath, bringing His in line.

And He can glide across her breasts, gaining an unrivalled view.

And she looks at Him with eyes full of love.

I want to be Jesus so I could win her over by teaching wisely and with amazing miracles: producing tap wine for her parties, and a plethora of food.  Maybe return relations from the dead…

But could I step up and complete the mission by taking the pain of the cross?  Nails in my hands and feet, a broken back, blood running down my forehead and blinding my eyes?  Maybe not; maybe being Jesus would be too much of a burden.

But to be that much closer to her…

George Joy’s Guide to Faerytale Creatures, No 8: Frozen Water Imps

Frozen Water Imps, more commonly known as Frozimps, are so called more because of legend than because of any similarity to or relationship they have with River Imps, or Rivimps (in the same way that Sea Imps, or Seamps, are connected erroneously with Rivimps). 

Various theories exist that explain why and how Rivimps ended up living on frozen water high up in the hills and mountains.  Across the world cultures connect it with their own Great Flood myth, seeing Rivimps as having been displaced (and presumably altered, in line with the creation of Seamps) by the flood, settling in their new home. 

Others see Frozimps as being refugees from either the Dark Warrior’s Second Coming or other Rivimps, abandoning their river homes for the safer mountain tops, with some never returning.  Further, some say that wizards took them to their place of safety, altering them so that they would survive.  The Frozimp and Rivimp’s own chronicles, however, show this to be untru (see below).

Another couple of theories (one a ridiculous modern take on the other) sees them as Rivimps displaced by Rockles or Ötzi the Iceman. 

As for the Frozimp’s own creation story - this no human has been able to establish, that part of their chronicles is a closely guarded secret.

Though it is possible that some or all of the above things happened to Rivimps, or that Frozimps and Rivimps could well be related to a common ancestor, their only real link would seem to be via the rivers that connect and unite their communities.  Frozimps, after all, though they live in some similar ways to Rivimps and are similarly built, they have lungs, not gills, feet, not flippers, and are actually really tiny, hairy people.

Frozimps live in networks of ice caves dug into mountain glaciers and compacted hilltop snows.  Much like Mountain Elves and Dwarves, these are made of tunnels that open out into great community halls and have smaller homes situated to the sides.  They have hairy bodies to help keep them warm over which they wear clothes made from animal hides and leaves to help keep them warmer still, and dry too.  The same materials are used within their tunnels, homes and halls as insulation.

Living high up away from most natural resources, all Frozimp communities have established trading links with the Rivimps that live in the rivers that start on their mountain.  Some Frozimps mine for precious stones near the surface and also trade any flowers and plants they can gather that Rivimps cannot.  They are also fantastic craftspeople and will make clothes and other items from river materials that are superior to that which Rivimps can manage.

Another advantage for Rivimps is that Frozimps have always acted as lookouts for danger from their mountaintops- during the Second Coming of the Dark Warrior, they forewarned Rivimps across Europe and Asia, allowing them to get to safety before the Shadows drew over (thus destroying at least one of the above creation stories).  Because of this, Frozimps and Rivimps will always be connected, even if not in the way many argue that they are. 

George Joy’s Guide to Faerytale Creatures, No 7: Warrior Wolves

Warrior wolves, so named for their connections with the Dark Warrior, live mainly in the lands that warrior conquered, seemingly still bound by its borders.  Indeed, every part of their nature seems connected with the warrior from the underworld.  Their first sightings on earth coming alongside his and a vast change in their appearance occurred after a rumoured spat with him.

In appearance, they have fur, often described as being of the purest black, that is often matted, and solidly dull red eyes.  Warrior wolves walk as if their legs are deformed, although this apparent disability seems to evaporate when they hunt.  All this is in stark contrast to accounts from the Dark Warrior’s conquered lands where these predators were described as having bright, glinting, scarlet eyes with fur, though matt, not matted, and were always lithe, moving always with menace.  The changes are widely believed to be a punishment inflicted by the Dark Warrior himself for a crime unknown.

Other legends relating to the Dark Warrior have been noted elsewhere (most notably the idea that they were once some kind of reverse werewolves) countless times and are so well known that I shall not bother repeating them here.

Like all wolves they live and hunt in packs.  In their case they live within forests and hunt, mainly deer, both under and out of tree cover.  Their hunting technique, however, is what really sets them apart from other wolves and yet further cements the relationship to their old master.  Their method is to approach herds of deer (or occasionally sheep and even cows) in a triangular formation, either sneaking up or overrunning their prey before turning inwards to finish off any hapless creature unfortunate enough to find themselves within this triangle of darkness.

Warrior wolves are ferocious beasts, ripping prey apart quite forcefully to gain legs and ribs to take back to the pack, however many within their territories claim they have some good inside them it just has no outlet.

250 Words: "Fireworks crossing across the blue sky"

On the way to the fireworks display we see the odd rocket launched into the sky.  You turn to me and say, "Remember our fireworks?"  And I smile, thinking back to the period after we first had sex, a time we christened, in part sarcastically.

An era of random, frenzied explosions with, more often than not, non-events and total flops.  In short, an age of experimentation as we slowly explored each other, and ourselves, to find a more comfortable groove we could lie in together.  As well as a method of our own to ensure success.

I reply, "Yeah, I remember."  We look back in fondness at those excitable youths shagging under Che Guevara or Athena Man, remembering the start of the journey that led us to where we are today.

And sometimes I kind of miss those fireworks.  That exciting element of the unknown rues the routine we now employ.  Like how I sometimes long for the anarchy of childhood over this life of work.

Later we stand, watch the display above the lake, our faces lit by the colours: resembling aliens one second, then sea creatures the next.  As each one rises and blossoms into a flurry of sparks (and sometimes a pleasing crackle) it also disappears into smoke drifting away almost unseen.

And, yeah, like the display we never used to know what was coming next.  But as sweet as those single, isolated fireworks were, we now weave an intricate worked pattern within a full bedroom display.

---

The song the title comes from.

#gaimanstory

It wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat.  

The cat, with its accusing eyes and stares.  

The cat that sat on his chest, its claws that always slightly dug in, but seeming now to be going in deeper than ever.  

Rather than a friendly, comforting reassurance of normality, he felt now that they were a part of that stare, an attempt by the cat to control or dictate his next action.  

It had started with the murder, continued with the lie, the inability to concentrate at work, the dropping of his lunch, the missing of his train stop and the long walk home forgetting to buy the ingredients for dinner but would end with the cat.  

That growing confusion within him would have to spill out with a confession.  He would have to tell his wife it was he and not the cat that had murdered her favourite sweater.

The one that was hell to hug, itchy and scratchy to him but comforting and warm to her.  He didn’t like the pattern or the colour either.  That morning he finally decided he had had enough and killed it.  Partially buried it in a cat litter shallow grave.  Before getting a slow burning case of the Jiminy Crickets.

And so it wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat.  But especially his conscience.

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn (38): The Era of Animal Help, No 7: Untitled/Some Brief Friends

Over the weeks we worked with a lot of different creatures to try and capture my unicorn.  A full menagerie of animal help was on hand.  Had always been, I just hadn’t known of it or how to harness it.   With John on hand as my wing man I was flying high, having a go at plan after plan.  We tried all sorts, even attempted to find a wizard on a series of hikes with Schnizzelwort.

After failing to lure out any tree spirits (I think only burning a tree down would have got us anywhere) we sought the help of a tribe of Aborelfs.  Being tree dwelling folk they used their home as a platform to work from.  I led the unicorn out of the clearing with the old trail of oats trick and into a fairly dense patch of tress.  Once she was in position the elves went into action.  Their assault consisted of Aborelves shooting down from above on bungee-action vine-made ropes.  At first one at a time and then in pairs and then performing more and more intricate, choreographed to perfection, moves, sometimes as many as seven Aborelves appearing to make wild grabs at the unicorn that only ever met thin air.  The unicorn dodged and ducked every move, her eyes closed in concentration the whole time.  To begin with she just side stepped each attempt to abduct her.  Then she started to slide along the ground away from the groping elves before mixing these plans with kneeling and lying down until the elves finally grew tired and gave in.

Inspired by this display we tried out the skills a creeping vine could offer us.  This may not sound like an animal but the creeping vine is very much a living creature rather than a plant.  They feel their way around the forest like a mammoth snake, only laying roots into the earth to feed and drink from it.  In the spring they hibernate to flower and spread their seed.  And we could talk to it as well. 

Where we were concerned the vine agreed to try and tie up the unicorn for easy transportation without harm.  It didn’t quite work, of course.  The vine managed to sneak up on the unicorn and wrap itself around her but a firm grip it could not gain.  I’m not sure if it was just because it was such a hot day or if it was the unicorn’s cunning but she certainly became very sweaty and the creeping vine just kept slipping away and it never secured the unicorn.

Another week we worked with a Smeldt, a disgusting creature who created noxious gases on request.  She tried to anaesthetise the unicorn so I could transport her away.  The wind refused to play ball at first, however, and John was knocked out before it started to help us out.  But there was nothing doing.  The unicorn simply stood blowing raspberries in imitation. 

Not sure I really want to mention the Wangstur or his big pole with which he tried to poke the unicorn into submission.  She could not be stirred.  Or the calamity and farce that was the Ganroid’s attempt to overwhelm and herd her with forest sheep.  A sort of part sheep, part goat, I think, hybrid that could certainly move and shake, could butt and cajole the unicorn a little but ultimately did nothing.  Couldn’t even move her out of the clearing.

What I would like to talk about is the Chaos Monkey.  Malstromb was his name and it was a slightly last ditch effort and a very confusing experience.  Just talking to him was weird.  He spoke in this really weird and erratic style that was difficult to follow.  If it wasn’t bad enough that each word was said in various tones and at different speeds, he would disrupt sentences by splicing in random words.  Just plain strange.  With a little translation from John I discovered that he would create pure chaos by conjuring up random spells until he emerged victorious. 

The monkey entered the clearing with an heir of majesty.  The unicorn nodded a hello and waited.  They stood opposite each other like sumo wrestlers, the unicorn waiting for the Chaos Monkey to begin.  He started by making the rest of the forest spin around the clearing until it was just a green and brown blur.  Then he opened with the ultimate chaos operation: jam.  The unicorn was suddenly covered in it.  She shrugged her shoulders and Malstromb turned the clearing into a sinking sand pit.  The unicorn sank too far and the monkey apologised , creating an instant and short-lived snowstorm then making the rest of the forest spin.  Then all manner of things began to happen, each one very quickly.  So quickly I couldn’t possibly tell you everything and certainly not in order.  The unicorn’s legs turned to liquorice allsorts (stacks of the round coconut ones), we were in a desert, under the sea, in space, hovering hundreds of feet above the earth, I saw lions, dolphins, giant insects, elephants, dogs and gerbils appear in the clearing, the unicorn was in cage a couple of times but the monkey kept on,

What I would like to talk about is the Chaos Monkey.  I would love to be able to tell you about how he tried to help us but I cannot.  (Just talking to Mallstromb was weird.  He spoke in this really weird and erratic style that was difficult to follow.  If it wasn’t bad enough that each word was said in various tones and at different speeds, he would disrupt sentences by splicing in random words.  Just plain strange).  Chaos is quite confusing and very difficult to follow.  Mallstromb trained in the far north of Sweden (Lord only knows how a monkey from South America gets to even know about Sweden let alone go there to learn about the creation of pure chaos) and had since moved to the forest to reside as a hermit monk type of a character, waiting only for people to employ his services. 

Which we did and, with a little translation from John, discovered that these services would entail Mallstromb creating pure chaos by conjuring up random spells until he emerged victorious.  This idea seemed a little sketchy and directionless to me.  And so it turned out.

Mallstromb entered the clearing at the hottest point of the afternoon with an heir of majesty.  He was a master of a chaos, after all, and not many monkeys, or people, can say that.  The unicorn nodded a hello and waited.  They stood opposite each other like sumo wrestlers, the unicorn waiting for the Chaos Monkey to begin.  He started by making the rest of the forest spin around the clearing until it was just a green and brown blur. 

Once he did I’m not entirely sure what went on it all happened so quickly with many, many things happening at once.  I do remember jam, pixies, lions, dolphins, the clearing turning into a desert and being under water and toasters, horns, ships, coconuts, and all manner of odd objects appearing and the unicorn morphed and changed too.  Her legs turned into liquorice allsorts (stacks of the round coconut ones), she became a frog, a cat, her tail turned into a snake at one point, and she was even in a dungeon and a cage and a prison. 

Eventually Mallstromb worked into his final crescendo.  Trees flew, thunder clapped, the winds roared and whirred around us, water came down fast, flooding the clearing, lightning hit nearby trees and made the water on them hiss angrily.  Yet the unicorn, knee deep in water, stood staring, still as if waiting for Mallstromb to start.  Sleet and hail came in before a tornado encircled the pair of them.

And then it just stopped.  Everything was as it was before.  “Un-monk-flapp-fish-able!” I heard Mallstromb exclaim; and then he disappeared. 

On the way home I started ruminating upon the whole matter.  Mallstromb had seemed to miss the entire point of the exercise.  Instead it was just like a huge show had been put on to try and distract me.  And that was when I first became suspicious.  Just for a second or two I saw some light before banishing it to the back of my mind.  It took my experience with a Merlungh to find the truth.

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn (37): The Era of Animal Help, No 6: Schnizzelwort (Part Three)

"We shall mesmerise her, my boy, make her so fixated she will come to you no matter what.  To mesmerise, that is the key - do to her what she has done to you.  And thus you shall tame her."

Schnizzelwort gathered the ingredients while we were not there as, "it will take days to find them all."  I was to help him make the potion the following week when myself and John would get (or bring in my case) the last ingredients ourselves.

In the meantime, Schnizzelwort assembled together "Roses and lavender to attract her senses," which "were easy to find although I did need my sense of smell to rediscover the route, my memory has been deteriorated by inactivity more than I thought.  Emma's garden has taken over her house in the most beautiful way, though."  From near there he also found, “fruits to tempt her to then taste.”

Next he went after the "alcohol and special grass that will stupefy those senses in one way as well as help them focus in another, slightly funny, way." 

"These were more difficult to find, young friend, for they had to be forest brand.  These were not items I could ask you to bring along."  Thankfully.  I wouldn't even know where to start to get marijuana.  "But find them I did - right in the deepest heart of the forest."  He produced a flagon of strong smelling spirits and some dried out plants.

"Which leaves only the hair of a baby mammal to help capture that focused attention," the Helfenschwein produced a few tufts from behind his back, "and those items that signify the target herself and whatever you wish to mesmerise her with."  He focused on the mouse, "John, you look like a forest mouse, so you should know where to look for unicorn hair."  He didn't need asking twice and quickly scampered away. 

"I trust you brought a lock of your own hair, cut at mid afternoon tea, as I asked."  I confirmed by producing it.  Schnizzelwort then looked at for a moment as if studying me and trying to work something out for sure, before announcing, almost darkly, "Yes, I'm sure your blood and piss will do."

A little later John had returned with three long strands of silver hair and Schnizzelwort began to boil up a mixture of first the roses, lavender, forest fruits, alcohol, 'magic' leaves and baby mammal fur, all the while urging the help of various spirits.

Finally we reached the part where we assigned who the potion was for - adding the unicorn hair - and then - to signify me, or so I thought - I bled into the pot before adding my hair and taking a whiz in it.

Two and a half hours later and we lay in wait.  I held a small bowl filled with the potion and had a bucket of oats ready.  (Schnizzelwort, having spent weeks of talking it all up, had suddenly become less confident in his magic, and suggested we use some to help lure the unicorn).

On her arrival, I snuck up behind the unicorn holding the bowl out, the wind and Schnizzelwort ready with the oats, behind me, willing me on.

Before I reached the unicorn, the smell of the potion had started to attract her - the roses and lavender penetrating her nostrils and making her turn to see from where the smell was emanating.  As she did the fruit fragrances came forth - wild apples and blackberries, raspberry, strawberry, blackcurrant and pear each in turn drawing her nearer.  Her tongue lolled out as her mouth dropped into the bowl.

There was no hesitation about it.  Just straight in and lapping it up.  In fact she was so quick that my arms had to quickly strain to avoid a drop.  And soon it was gone.  She gagged a little, presumably as she saw through the initial smell sensations and tasted the less savoury ingredients. 

And then her head stayed down.  It was vital she looked at me within a minute and I was worried she would stall or do something.  “She is just a little stunned,” a voice whispered in my head, “nudge her up.”  I moved the bowl back up to where it had started and the unicorn’s head followed, continuing after I stopped until she looked me full in the face.  Her eyes suddenly filed with wonder as if she had never before seen a human and, now that she had, she was to follow it always.  Quite a difference to my scaring her the first time we met.  Rather, she was amazed.

“Now take the oats and lead her from here,” Schnizzelwort said out loud this time, “and good luck!”  I took the oats, thanked him, and began to walk to the van.

I walked, half backwards, the mesmerised unicorn staring at my eyes the whole time.  So I began to guide her with them, trying to maintain eye contact, flicking them in the directions we were to go.  I went very slowly and carefully, checking the way quickly every ten seconds or so.  But I soon began to concentrate harder and harder on the eye contact because every time I broke it she whimpered.  Trying harder and harder, and going slower, feeling with my feet for lumps and divots.  I was so careful, so very careful.  You wouldn’t believe how cautious I was.  And yet the inevitable still occurred.  I tripped on a root that I somehow had missed.  The bucket went flying through the air, some of the contents landing on the unicorn’s face.  An absent minded and automatic flick of the tongue and she was chewing and as she chewed the fixation faded until I could only watch as she came to her senses and trotted away.

250 Words: Last December

It all passed so quickly, and in such a haze, that I can’t quite remember what happened between us last December.  Though I know that at the end you were unnaturally cold, and that, for me, it was for no reason, none at all.  You were just distant from me all of a sudden.  Yet still in touch and still able to touch.  Especially that final night.

The root was in conversation, I can see that now: a new lack of communication.  We had stopped talking in bed and barely at all over breakfast or tea.  And we no longer reminisced, like our past had ceased to matter.  The rot had set in and it was only a matter of time before the end appeared.  But it was all so fast, so confusing.  To me everything seemed fine and I missed every sign because when you held me I felt we were invincible.

And then you dropped me.  No argument, no discussion.  I had just stopped being right for you, your new face told me.  It was like you put on a mask for it because a part of you didn’t want to.  That traitorous fool dropped me into fog and left me with a mountain of questions that cannot be answered.

Last December left me winded and lost.  Unable to carry on because I cannot see what went wrong.  I just know that the house is half empty and littered with the signs of the fallout after you left.

George Joy's Guide to Faerytale Creatures, No 6: The Kit's Coty Cat

Running from the Pilgrim's Way up onto the North Downs near Aylesford, Kent, is a path lined with, and covered by, trees.  The path climbs steeply towards Kit's Coty village and past the ancient monument that lends the village its name.  The group of four stones (three standing on the ground in an open square with a fourth supported by them) can be accessed through a gap in the foliage.  Now fenced off, these stones were a popular nineteenth century spot for graffiti.

Many legends surround these stones but only one is relevant for this collection and that is the cat local people say guards the entrance to the field Kit's Coty House stands in.  And whether real or an apparition, the stories surrounding it are fascinating.

The large cat, most resembling a lioness, is said by most to be the ghost of the pet of the local King Catigern, whose tomb the stones are thought to be.  The legend runs that Catigern was defeated by the Jutish King Horsa in personal combat during a larger battle in 455AD.  His cat, probably bred from lions imported by the Romans, appears at night and stands guard over her master's tomb, hoping to avenge his death.  It seeks Jutish blood in its victims and slakes its thirst from it.  It is said that when enough is drunk, Catigern will return with his troops and reclaim his land.  Until then the cat keeps guard and watches over the ghostly re-enactments of the battle believed to take place in the field inhabited by Kit's Coty House.

This story is, of course, almost certainly complete rubbish and based on a misunderstanding of the tomb's age.  It is, in fact, much older than the 5th century and is the remains of a Neolithic long barrow such as that seen in West Kennet, and dates to 3-4000BC.  Likely the cat does connect with the Roman era, having been transported for sport in British amphitheatres, and escaped to find itself on the North Downs, its spirit lingering on, pining, perhaps, for its African home. 

A less popular suggestion connects the cat (or a series of related cats) with a handful of similar murders around the local villages and in Maidstone.  As a collection they are too far spaced to have been the committed by the same person but, intrepid researchers claim, they were all unsolved and suspected to have been attacks too ferocious for a human but not a beast. 

Connected with this theory is some debate over whether the Kit's Coty cat is a real, living, beast with a bloodline running back at least 150 years or a ghost.  The former would seem ridiculous as there would surely be too many of these great cats to go unnoticed.  Yet there are those who believe a community of large cats are out there and go searching for them often.  No tracks have ever been found and the idea of a ghost cat therefore resonates, whether a murderer, an avenger or a seeker of a way home. 

Whatever the truth, it is certain that, many people have seen a large cat sitting up straight in the small gap that leads to Kit's Coty House.

George Joy’s Guide to Faery Tale Creatures, No 5: Gobettes

Goblins can be nasty, vicious creatures full of hatred and mischief.  Gobettes (pronounced in a similar way to how Gollum pronounces his name), on the other hand, are much different.

Always seen in small groups they appear at times of human stress to help ‘deserving’ people out.  Each of these patrol-like groups of five to seven belong to a larger community who live in secret serving an area inhabited by humans.  Estimates suggest there is a Gobette collective for every six thousand people.  How large these communities are is unknown as one has never been studied as a whole.  Gobettes have been spotted entering caves and trunks of trees, as well as disappearing under bridges and into molehills and the burrows of various creatures.  Nobody knows where they come from or how they live.  Only what they do.

What they do can range from the spectacular to the quiet and almost mundane.  They have pulled people out of pits and wells, for instance, and fought off wolves.  They have also talked people out of committing suicide, murder and arson.

Sometimes, though, it is much smaller things.  Old and lonely people frequently talk of the groups of Gobette visitors who sit cross-legged and listen to the tales of their lives with eager eyes.  And overworked and overstressed housewives of the help received from time to time by Gobette helpers.

Many people make the mistake, based mainly on names, that all Goblins are male and Gobettes female and that, like bulls and cows or rams and ewes, are the same species.  This, of course, is not true.  Female Goblins are never seen because they are hideously oppressed, prisoners in their own home.  Gobettes are more ambiguous, however.

Gobette groups are believed to generally contain members of both sexes but no one is sure because they all wear the same loose clothing and, of course, because nothing is known of their private lives.  These clothes are long, grey smocks that do not seem to inhibit their actions at all.  Rather they run and fight often.  A Gobette’s skin is leathery and a pale blue in colour.  They have thin, wispy hair and their feet are always shoed in leather sandals showing them to have three toes, and middle of which is the big toe.

And that is all that is known.  A remarkable and kind creature that seems to be almost omniscient and omnipresent.

250 Words: Episodes in the life of Edwinski (3) First kill

His first kill was the last to go so badly.  Nerves had got the better of Edwinski and nerves don't make for good shooting.  What should have been a clean kill was a bloody mess and Edwinski sat over the unfortunate, his blood-stained shirt sleeves rolled up; and shook uncontrollably, waiting for the target to bleed out.

The scientist tried to ask Edwinski to finish it.  Not that it would’ve done any good as neither could speak the other's language and the rookie had only been issued with two rounds, one of which had caused the scene, and he had clean forgotten the knives concealed on his lower leg and in his jacket pocket.  He could only sit in shock at the mistake made and wait to ensure his mission was ultimately fulfilled.  Edwinski had learned the hard way that practice can't always make perfect.  All the wolves killed in his youth, the perfect scores on the range and the full marks in role play meant nothing now.

Edwinski knew he would not make the same mistake twice (or once, officially, as he was already creating a cover story in the back of his head).  He wouldn’t risk himself like this again; in the approach to every kill from then on Edwinski carried the scene in his head as a reminder to steady his nerves. 

This shot to his ego had hit him hard, though, and Edwinski did not stop shaking until well after his quarry had ceased to be.

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn (36): The Animal Help Era, No 5: Schnizzelwort (Part Two)

The Helfenschwein reached up a hand (he had human-type hands rather than front hooves) before picking John up and gently placing the ‘helfen’ maus on his leaf.  He then stood, with some effort, and walked toward the magical waterfall.  As he approached the water began to gush out while Schinezzelwort levitated in order to shower the mud away. 

Once done, the water stopped completely and a plain brown, wizard’s style, robe appeared on Schnizzelwort’s body.  I’d like to say it hung elegantly down to his trotters but, in actual fact, it seemed to be clinging to the pig’s body for dear life.  Especially in the midriff area, and, as a consequence, only came down to his knees. 

Then Schnizzelwort floated across the mud pool towards myself and John and spoke for the first time: “Good day to you gentlemen and what can I do for you today?”

He sounded much posher than I had expected.  I’d been imagining a German accent but expecting Somerset. 

By the time he had finished speaking he was standing next to me, coming up to my shoulders.  As I explained my quest -cum-hobby he sat down, again with some effort, and beckoned me to sit down opposite.  John jumped up onto my back and came to rest on my shoulder.

“Quite a task you have set for yourself, young man,” Schnizzelwort informed me when I was done, “My master, a wizard named Astrid, tried for some time to tame a dragon.  It drove her a little mad, I’m sorry to report.  But only a little,” he smiled, “You seem stronger stock, though, my boy, much stronger to have gone on so long as you have.”

I thanked him and asked if there was any way he might be able to help.  “Possibly, maybe, I’m sure I could have done once.  A wonderful potion I could have made - to mesmerise, I think.  Easily I dare say.  But, alas, I am no longer able to help even myself.”  Schnizzelwort looked down and drummed his fingers wistfully on his stomach.  “I need all fours,” his hands turned very briefly to trotters, “to sniff out the constituents and my lazy bump prohibits such activity.  I would use magic but on myself it is forbidden.  Even now with my master long gone.  My apologies to you, young sirs.”

“Then I will help you also,” I told him firmly.

“Ein Helfermann, eh?” he said thoughtfully, “And how would one help me, prey tell?”

“Isn’t it obvious - an exercise regime!  Your diet,” I indicated the oak trees, “is probably healthy enough - you just eat too much of it and need to work some of it off.”

“Hmph,” was all Schnizzelwort could muster at first and he took quite a bit of convincing but convince him I did.  Ultimately he wanted to help himself and I think he was desperate to be helpful again as well, to have some sort of point to his life again.  Retirement just didn’t suit him.

I started to come out every morning and evening for a short run and to do some sit-ups with Schnizzelwort.  Gradually we did more and more until he was ready to also try a little sport.  For this we cleared Astrid’s garden, as Schnizzelwort called it, and first kicked a ball about before knocking a shuttlecock back and forth and finally, by playing Swingball™.  On the weekends we would go on a hike about the forest.  This meant I got to see the ancient wizard stones (unfortunately only wizards were allowed to use these), the haunted lake, the wizard’s council, and to explore the ruined houses of the other forest wizards.

It took two months to knock Schnizzelwort into shape and not once did I see the unicorn.  Everyday I thought of her and of abandoning Schnizzelwort to get back to my crackpot schemes.  John kept telling me of more animals that could help - trying to tempt me back to her.  Schnizzelwort, though, would talk the talk of the potion, what would go in it and how we would use it and this helped me keep true to my word and help the pig, ultimately to help myself.

Until, finally, the Helfenschwein’s hands became trotters, his robes (now not so full and seemingly longer) disappeared and he went down on all fours, proclaiming, “I can do it again!  I can walk au naturel!  It is marvellous, simply marvellous!  Thank you, thank you so much.  Now; let us begin!”

Attempts to Capture and Tame a Unicorn (35): The Animal Help Era, No 4: Schnizzelwort (Part One)

S…C…H…N…I…Z…Z…E…L…W…O…R…T.  It took John a good minute to spell it out as I sat watching and logging the letters.  But what is one of those, I asked.  And off he went again.  A…< end of word > (I added this tile mainly as a labour saving device and because I was too dumb to be able to separate words as I went along; I got some work experience drone to design it - it was the only good piece of work she did)…H…E…L…F…E…N…S…C…H…W…E…I…N.

“A helper pig?!” I blurted out, perhaps a little too incredulously.   How could a pig help?  Over the course of an evening the tiny white mouse explained.

At one time there had been many wizards in the forest - hence the ancient wizard stones (sinks of magic used primarily for travel, large-scale communal magic and time control) Salazar had mentioned.  They had lived alone in little stone houses - each in its own clearing, John told me.  And close by each of these houses was a mud hole kept wet mainly by magic.  And there lived the local wizard’s Helfenschwein,. 

These helper pigs were trained at a centre in the Black Forest and dispatched to wizards mainly in Europe and Asia in the Medieval period and then throughout the world as it expanded with the discovery of the New World until the centre shut down as the wizards left and the practice died out.  Exactly how they had helped was then a wizard mystery but most were sure the Helfenschwein sniffed out and gathered ingredients for their masters.  Or maybe they were just housekeepers or research staff.  One way or another, John and I hoped to find out.

It was the times of crisis that caused the wizards to slowly leave the unicorn’s forest, mainly fleeing north (though some went to more tropical climes).  Some of the Helfenschwein were left behind, suddenly seen by many as more of a luxury than a necessity, and, for the last forty years only one has been left.  A German Landrace called Schnizzelwort.

John wasn’t sure how exactly the Helfenschwein would be able to help - just that he probably would.  John the mouse it was who led me to this pig one Saturday morning.  Through a murky part of the forest that looked unkempt somehow, like it had once been kept in good order.  Like my hair a bit: vaguely neat but always with shaggy bits sticking out here and there against the natural grain. 

Then we hit what had once been a clearing.  Younger and smaller trees grew less densely among long grasses and John nodded at me to confirm the stone wreckage barely visible among a mass of brambles was an old wizard dwelling.  That of Schnizzelwort’s master.

Ten seconds later and we were there.  A great mud pool with a shallow layer of water covering it could be seen inside a grove of oak trees.  The pool was being topped up by a small trickling waterfall; the water materialising out of thin air. 

Schnizzelwort the Helfenschwein lay sleeping as we approached.  A great mass of pig, bloated from several lifetime’s worth of retirement, he had pushed the water under and around him away to create a small wall of mud that circled him, clinging to his skin. 

John obliged by climbing onto a floating leaf and used his tail to power his little boat toward the helpful pig.  Upon mooring he climbed the sleeping hulk and walked to the ears, crawling under the floppy pink ears and gently squeaking until Schnizzelwort’s eyes opened and our fun began.

250 Words: I am a warning

After receiving a fortune cookie message reading: "It may be that your sole purpose 
in life is simply to serve as a warning to others."

I am a warning, a hindrance to all.  Like a burning statue bearing witness and
helpfully passing on information, I stand naked, revealing the scars of my mistakes.  I serve humanity from a mound of earth in the middle of a roundabout at the
crossroads of life, advising on the paths people should take to avoid such pitfalls as
I entered on my way here so that they might arrive where they would like to be.  A bit
like a guidance counsellor, but with a degree from the University of Hard-Knocks.

It's a tiring job and I like to end each shift by relaxing in a soothing bath filled with
essential oils and minerals to cool my skin a bit after a long day’s burning.  The
dead bits soon flake away and I become new again.  Then I tend to sit down and
watch the good old goggle box or surf upon that Information Super Highway (well,
I do a round robin  and check a dozen or so sites for changes: I especially like the
wikipedia home page).

Sometimes I get out and catch a film or sit in the corner of, or outside, some
restaurant and enjoy a relaxing meal, watching those around me and wondering if
my life experiences can help them.

But what I really enjoy is the liquid refreshment that can accompany all of these
leisure pursuits and at any time of the year.  The hot brown drink from the pot.  Tea:
perfect for any situation.

George Joy’s Guide to Faery Tale Creatures, No 4: The Book Worms

The Book Worms have run the libraries of the wizards for centuries, though few outside wizard circles have seen either these fountains of wisdom or the book keepers themselves.  Even the sites of these libraries is disputed.  Many say they are within hills such as Glastonbury Tor and Silbury Hill.  Others that they were there but were moved to earthworks below the keeps of castles such as at Dover.  Yet more believe they were always at such strongholds, citing Tintagel while some say they are in far more out of the way, or even abandoned, places such as Skara Brae.

And that's just in Britain.  Arguments rage throughout the world as to where these libraries are; or were.

What it is not disputed is the existence and history of the librarians.  They were created by magic to do the bidding of the magical world and in that sense they are very much a slave species.  And, like the Helfenschwein and the Orks, they do not care, only knowing how to get on with life.

It was the work of the wizarding couple, Claire and Phillip that created the race.  They were part of a group of wizards who had set up the very first wizarding library in the early days of magic at a location that is still, of course, a closely guarded secret.  Though wizards were still in their infancy, they had already accrued a mass of literature that desperately needed a place to live.  The purpose of it was not just to store all wizard texts, espeicially the oldest, most rare, sacred and dangerous, but all also to keep a record of the wizard’s history.

These purposes they felt were too time-consuming for themselves and, at the time, beyond the Helfenschwein, whom they saw as simple home-help.  And so Phillip and Claire came up with the idea of taking worms from the ground and transforming them into creatures designed to do the aforementioned tasks.  The reasoning being that they could live in the ground, out of the way of all life forms the wizards felt should not know of these book safe houses.

They took five worms, enlarged them and gave them arms and legs.  This gave them a strange and gangly appearance, their heads able to bend either forward or right over to look down at humans.  It also gave them a tail that follows them around, forever dragging behind.

The Book Worms live close by their libraries in tunnels that connect to a secret underground staff entrance.  Each has its own sand nest where it retreats each night to rest and recuperate, living off the nutrients found in the soil that is fertilised from above by wizards. 

Each morning they go to the place their life is devoted to, here socialising with other Book Worms, helping to build a strong team.  While at work, they help wizards with enquiries, conserve the manuscripts and, of course, write the wizard chronicles.

Every library is said to have a small, separate staff who devote their time to this.  These tireless folk pour over the wizard press, and call out for eye witness testimony in order to write a full and unbiased account of the goings-on outside. 

Book Worms reproduce once in their lifetime.  This occurs about three quarters of the way through their life when they will lay an egg which they also fertilise.  The rest of the Book Worm's life is then partly devoted to training their offspring to replace them.  As such the Book Worm population neither meaningfully grows or depletes.

George Joy’s Guide to Faery Tale Creatures, No 3: Rockles

Rockles are the spirits of the mountains.  Believed to be ancient yet wily beings who live within the rock itself, occasionally exiting their homes and taking on another form to walk the mountain range.

Rarely seen, they were believed for centuries and by many to be the hallucinations of climbers dizzy from a lack of oxygen.  Photographs and films have since destroyed that theory.

Of the Rockles' life inside the mountains nothing is known.  Arguably.  Infamously, there is François Bernard's account of his trip into the Alps.  This talks about great halls of peaceful contemplation devoted to lifetimes of philosophising.  But it is universally believed to be lies and so can be found under the banner of fiction in libraries and bookshops.

Not a lot more is known of a Rockle's life outside of their mountain homes.  Only really the form taken - that of a rock 'man,' much like The Thing of Fantastic 4 fame, albeit much leaner, usually reaching 7 feet in height.  Rockles are seen in this form at heights of more than 4000 metres, meaning they can be found in parts of the Alps, Andes, Himalayas and Rocky Mountains. 

Here they stroll around the mountain tops and across glaciers alone, approaching no one, human or animal.  Sometimes they will be seen sitting and taking in the views across and down valleys like an animated Rodin’s Thinker, and, occasionally, within caves.  They have been seen melting into and out of the mountain side in order to assume this form or their mysterious other.  This 'melting' into the rock is what has led people to believe they exist within mountain ranges as spirits.  Some think they may exist in all rock everywhere but can only (or are only allowed to) assume their other form at high altitude.

Various theories surround their activities outside of the mountains.  Some follow the same line of thought as Bernard of philosophising spirits spending time in isolation to clear the mind.  Others see it as a rite of passage, the adolescent Rockle having to bridge childhood and adulthood on some sort of mission in the outside world.  This comes from the belief that no Rockle has ever been seen twice.  Something that is hard to prove, though, as all Rockles look extremely similar and are rarely seen. 

Dick Harrelson thought the Rockles left the mountains simply to travel to other Rockle communities, a theory much derided by those who believe Rockles are not imprisoned by mountains or their ranges. 

Humans have frequently tried to make contact with Rockles.  American teams once tried to find them by blasting into the Rockies while Buddhists in Mongolia have tried to approaching on numerous occasions.  Only François Bernard has ever claimed any degree of success in making contact through speech.  Many, though, have said they have got within touching distance.  Whatever the truth of Rockles, until humans can make contact, these spirits of the mountains will forever be a mystery.

250 Words: A conversation

"Here, try this on; seems to be ready. 

“What do you think He will do?  I don't want to leave our home, there’s virtually

nothing beyond those gates.  Just wilderness, the complete opposite to inside"

"I know, it’s creepy out there but don't worry, I am sure we won't be banished.  And

we both ate it.  We're in this together, remember.  Whatever He does to one of us He

will have to do to the other. 

“There, how does it look?"

"Fine; I think.  I can’t imagine He will send us away, I am sure He won’t but… I can‘t

get the idea out of my head.  He only asked us for one thing..."

"Relax.  He loves us.  And He surely doesn’t want to be the first fascist: nothing but

commands and punishments.  Plus we aren’t dead so he must have lied to us about

that fruit.”

"Yeah, and He created that crawling creep.  Surely He will see that and cut us some

slack."

"Mmm; and sealed our fate, probably, by telling us not to do something. 

“Nah, He'll be fair, you'll see.  You can't keep people innocent forever."

"And not everything is simply black or white, good or evil.  Perhaps nothing."

"Indeed.  We can see everything in between now.  Like butterflies breaking through

the chrysalis to fly free and fully formed."

"Will He see it like that, though?  Or see only broken trust?"

"Of course not; not someone who created so much beauty.

"Here He comes now.  You'll see..."